War Without Garlands: Operation Barbarossa 1941-1942

‘Flucht nach Vorn’

Flucht nach Vorn (the desperate German rush against Moscow’s defences) was predicated on the belief that Soviet forces were verging on collapse. Von Bock was reminded by General Halder, ‘we must understand that things are going much worse for the enemy than for us and that these battles are less a question of strategic command than a question of energy.’⁽¹⁾ It was not energy driving soldiers, more a desire to conclude the campaign. Unaware of the true situation, they instinctively felt a ‘decision’ achieved in front of Moscow or the capture of the city itself would bring a form of respite, a lull in the fighting, at minimum some shelter, at best the end of the war. ‘Moscow’ became the dominant theme of Feldpost, diaries and unit accounts. Time and distance was measured in terms of proximity to the city.

Von Bock lamented on 21 November, ‘the whole attack is too thin and has no depth’. Unit symbols on his ‘green table’ belied the true situation; the ratio of forces was no more unfavourable than before, except ‘some companies have only 20 and 30 men left’. He accepted ‘heavy officer losses and the over-exertion of the units in conjunction with the cold give a quite different picture’. Alois Kellner, a despatch rider journeying between divisions near Naro-Fominsk, about 70km from Moscow, saw the picture only too clearly. ‘The frozen bodies of Landser were stacked next to the roads like timber,’ he said. These grisly constructions, ‘shaped like huts, might include between 60 and 70 bodies, frozen stiff’.⁽²⁾ Officer losses were especially high. ‘Many second lieutenants are leading battalions,’ von Bock recorded, ‘one first lieutenant was leading a regiment’ (a weak brigade of three battalions).⁽³⁾

Panzer commander Karl Rupp remembered, ‘our last push was through wooded terrain’. He was advancing with the 5th Panzer Division some 20–25km from Moscow.

They passed a Moscow tram stop on the city route. At night they could see Flak engaging German aircraft over the city.⁽⁴⁾

Panzer thrusts were in reality probing raids. Progress was characterised by a series of short, confused, hotly contested meeting engagements with the enemy. Both protagonists had scant knowledge of the overall situation. Gerd Habedanck, waiting with infantrymen securing a wintry forest road, ‘suddenly heard tracked vehicles driving towards them at frantic speed from the rear’. Three Soviet T-34s abruptly rushed by, spraying up snow from the back. ‘Behind each turret,’ said Habedanck, ‘lay a barely identifiable group of spectre-like Soviet infantrymen, who had jumped onto the back of the tanks hoping to break through to Moscow.’ They pressed tightly up against each other, heads burrowed down into brown greatcoats, to secure protection against the wind. A flurry of wild shooting broke out and two of the Russians toppled from the tanks into the road. ‘Then the last tank drove into a shell crater where it was struck by an anti-tank shell,’ reported the correspondent. ‘It managed to get out and then disappeared down a small wooded track, streaming smoke as it went.’ Shortly after, a thick black pall of smoke began to rise above the tree-tops. A PzKpfwIII then clattered into an ambush position at the edge of the wood. Its first victim was a Russian armoured car travelling toward Moscow, which received a direct hit and was bulldozed from the road. On examination it was discovered there was only 476km on its speedometer. This brand-new vehicle had barely been delivered to the city.⁽⁵⁾

These skirmishes fought in the wooded areas on the outskirts of Moscow were conducted with pitiless ferocity. Much was at stake. Peter Pechel, a forward artillery observer riding with a column of nine tanks moving toward Volokolamsk, 60km from Moscow, had a ‘queasy stomach and difficulty breathing’. The rest of his crew felt the same. ‘Are we going to get it today?’ he considered.

Some T-34 and not so new BT tank types belonging to M. E. Katukov’s 1st Guards Tank Brigade were operating in the same area. They had been ordered to set ambushes along the same highway, with an infantry and anti-aircraft battalion in support. The infantry were already partially surrounded. ‘Four of the [German] tanks crawled along the highway’ and ‘were set on fire’ by two hidden T-34s, said Katukov.

‘All hell breaks loose,’ observed Pechel as the Panzer column came under fire from several directions. Intent on manoeuvring behind the enemy, the Panzer Keil had unluckily placed themselves directly in front of the Russian anti-tank positions. ‘The lead tank is on fire,’ said Pechel, and then ‘the tank in front of me takes a direct hit on the turret hatch’. With no chance of returning fire, Pechel’s tank was hit next.

Only two others scrambled from the smouldering wreck. Looking around, Pechel saw five tanks already hit and burning with wounded and dead crews scattered alongside. The entire right side of their Panzer had been shot away by the T-34’s 76mm shell. ‘My arm and thigh begin to hurt,’ he said. ‘There is blood on my face which sticks to my eyes.’ His broken right hand flapped uselessly from his wrist and soon developed a blue tinge from the −14° temperature outside the tank. Pechel slipped into shock as the carnage carried on around him. ‘Those who have already been wounded once are being hit a second and third time,’ he said. Crackling incoming fire became interspersed with the whimpering from the wounded.

Russian counter-attackers swarmed through the woods alongside Pechel, who began to consider his possible fate.

Russian soldiers did not differentiate between black SS uniforms and Panzer crews. Any uniform bearing the ‘death’s-head’ insignia at the collar (which Panzer troops might also wear) was inviting retribution ‘When you’re so young, and have been at war since the age of 19, you really haven’t had much of a life. I don’t want to die,’ reflected Pechel, contemplating suicide.⁽⁶⁾ At this moment German reinforcements coming up behind his initial probing attack crashed into the Russian positions. He was recovered and transported to the rear for treatment.

Katukov’s two T-34s covered the fighting retreat of the Russian infantry. German soldiers clambered atop one of the tanks shouting to the Russians inside to surrender. The sister T-34 observing this threatening development ‘used his machine gun,’ said Katukov, ‘to clean the enemy off his friend’s tank’. Fire was returned from the other tank, which scythed through more enemy infantry who had meanwhile attempted the same.⁽⁷⁾

Despite the technical superiority of the T-34, they and inferior Russian models continued to endure fearful losses. Mortally wounded tank driver Ivan Kolosow wrote a final letter to his wife Warja at the end of October, revealing, ‘I am the last of three tank drivers [from his platoon] still alive’. Seriously wounded, he regretfully wrote, ‘we will never see each other again.’ Nurse Nina Vishnevskaya, a medical orderly with a Soviet tank battalion, recalled fearsome burns and the hard physical effort required to pull injured crews from their confined fighting compartments. ‘It’s very difficult to drag a man, especially a turret gunner, out from the hatch.’ She described the emotional trauma of caring for the hideously mutilated crewmen.

Russian resistance in German eyes alternated between the fanatical and the bizarre. An infantry officer with 7th Panzer Division, breaking into fortified villages near the Lama river, described ‘resistance of such bitter intensity, it can only be seriously comprehended by those who had been through it themselves’. During these Panzergruppe 3 battles in the third week of November, ‘Red Army soldiers continued to shoot from blazing houses even when their clothes were on fire.’⁽⁹⁾ Such intense fighting was costing the Germans their best NCOs, the very men who led from the front in order to keep the lesser-motivated going. Feldwebel Karl Fuch’s vulnerable Czech 38,T light Panzer was finally knocked out near Klin in an unequal skirmish with Russian tanks on 21 November. He was killed. A photograph taken by his comrades examining the destroyed tank reveal its 37mm gun bent in several places like a toy. Frau Fuchs received the death notice from Leutnant Reinhardt, his company commander. It read: ‘I hope it will be a small consolation for you when I tell you that your husband gave his life so that our Fatherland might live.’ This was probably scant compensation. ‘We commiserate and are saddened that fate did not allow Karl to see his little daughter,’ wrote the Leutnant. He was not to know that the child that had been born after his father left for the front was in fact a son. Reinhardt had doubtless written countless similar death notices. Feldwebel Fuchs’s only child had been five months old nine days before.⁽¹⁰⁾

Towards the end of November the division’s Panzergrenadiers observed Alsatian dogs loping toward their armoured half-tracks with strange packages attached to their flanks and back, secured by wide leather girths. They opened fire immediately. Each dog appeared to trail a wire like an extended leash. These lines ran to Russian foxholes. The animals were trained to duck under vehicles or jump inside the fighting compartments. Red Army soldiers looking on would yank the line to arm the detonator mechanically which would then explode on contact with a surface. The German regimental commander had briefed his men to be wary of such tactics but in reality had already dismissed the bizarre warning as ‘the usual latrine rumours’. He commented, ‘One could never know or indeed imagine what new bestial methods the Russians would dream up next.’ A virtual ‘hare-shoot’ followed, reported another witness, ‘there were no checks on opening fire and a great many dogs were shot’. When the advance continued, the regimental commander’s radio operator counted 42 ‘mine dogs’ pathetically scattered about in the snow. ‘I did not hear of a single case in our attack area when this Red Army trick worked,’ added the regimental commander.

Three days after this incident the Panzergrenadier regiment had reached the Kalinin–Klin–Moscow road with the ‘Von Rothenberg’ Panzer regiment in support. That afternoon, they were attacked by Russian cavalry, an epic scene from a bygone age. Oberstleutnant von der Leye, the officer in charge, was a keen rider and wistfully regarded the oncoming riders with some regret. He was the third commander appointed since the beginning of the campaign and had no intention of taking any chances. ‘Must we shoot at them?’ asked a machine gunner alongside. He nodded in the affirmative. A storm of fire descended on the charging cavalry, cut to pieces in the co-ordinated fire of their modern Panzer counterparts. The advance continued on and it soon became apparent that the enemy for once was retreating steadily, not even torching the villages they vacated.⁽¹¹⁾

At dusk on 27 November, Kampfgruppe ‘Von Manteuffel’ reached the Astrezowo–Jakowlewo area, 4km north-west of a bridge spanning the Moscow–Volga canal. A raid was ordered to capture it intact. The canal was the last defence obstacle before the city itself. Roads marked on maps would not be used, to avoid the likelihood of bumping into Russian resupply convoys. Von Manteuffel approached the bridge, detouring through surrounding woodland and bypassing villages en route. Engineer troops equipped with motorised saws were at the head of the column to cut pathways through the trees sufficiently wide for Panzers, half-tracks and heavy weapons to transit. Dismounted infantrymen moved either side of the column for security as it snaked its way through forest areas. Once clear, they accelerated along icy paths and across snow-covered fields toward the south-east. Shortly before darkness, the head of the column penetrated thick woods and came out in the village of Astrezowo.

No German troops were allowed to approach the wooded outlets on the Yakhroma town side for fear of compromising the raid. The battle group commander moved forward to the heights above the town where he was able to discern the iron girder bridge, the objective, silhouetted north of the town in the gathering winter dusk. Many of his officers and men, acutely aware of the vital significance of this bridge for any future advance, urged its immediate capture by coup de main, while it was still intact. Von Manteuffel refused to be drawn piecemeal. Equipment and additional units were still arriving and the Panzers would require more fuel if they were to be able to range around the sizeable bridgehead needed on the other bank. Orders were given for a dawn attack. They were meticulously briefed because few men had actually seen the objective. As one soldier remarked, ‘we had not been able to see the approach terrain to the bridge so the commander painted a precise picture of the ground and axis of advance’. This was so accurate that ‘despite pitch darkness not one foot was out of place during the pre-planned move to the bridge’. Villagers in Astrezowo were rounded up and locked away in a few houses as a security measure. Fires were strictly monitored as also orders for opening fire in the event of an unexpected enemy appearance. They were now set to go.

At 02.00 hours on 28 November a selected company of volunteers under Oberleutnant Reineck stealthily overpowered the guards on the bridge, and crossed without a shot being fired. The Moscow–Volga Canal was a deep stonework construction with steep sides which cut through the wintry landscape like a vivid scar. There was a road along both sides and a railway line on the eastern edge. Breathless German infantrymen were soon scaling the steep slopes of the high ground on the east bank, carrying or towing heavy weapons and ammunition. Enemy foxholes on the far side were reached and penetrated. As the first Russians came forward with their hands raised to surrender, they were shot down by their own men behind.

A Panzer group under Hauptmann Schroeder clattered across to the other side and the bridgehead swiftly began to take shape. Pandemonium resulted when a Russian armoured train appeared on the railway line and a group of several Russian T-34s began to attack German infantry digging in on the east side. A German Panzer company shot the armoured train into a flaming wreck. Smoke poured into the sky now growing lighter with the dawn and swirled about at ground level, smudging the snow. Very quickly three T-34s were hit, motionless and burning. At this moment a taxi cab drove incongruously onto the bridge and its surprised occupants were taken prisoner by the headquarters staff of Regiment 6. Inside was a Soviet officer with written orders and maps for the defence of the canal. Von Manteuffel remarked, ‘He was amazed to be told to get out because he had no idea we had already broken through the canal defensive positions and that the bridge was in our hands.’

Complete surprise had been achieved. Nobody in the town of Yakhroma realised anything was wrong. At about 07.00 hours, workers poured into the factories and even at 08.00 the huge bread factory was at work. When it became lighter, realisation dawned what was going on and the town’s noisy bustle resumed as the factories closed. Yakhroma’s citizens – such as 19-year-old Valentina Igorowna Belikowa – had previously ‘dug tank ditches so that the Panzers would not get through’. It was already too late. She said:

Von Manteuffel, the battle group commander, strode across the Yakhroma bridge, grim-faced and seemingly oblivious to the shouted cries of congratulations from his men. They appreciated the significance of their achievement. Indeed, Generalfeldmarschall von Bock, on hearing the news, wrote, ‘I had been preoccupied with the idea for days; its execution might bring about the collapse of Moscow’s entire north-eastern front provided we simultaneously kept the advance by Fourth Army’s northern wing going… But,’ he added, ‘that is not yet assured,’ hence Manteuffel’s grave expression. His men had driven a wedge across the canal, forming a bridgehead within ideal defensive terrain on the other side. Transmissions picked up on his own radio net confirmed his own worse fears. ‘I realised,’ he said, ‘that apparently there were no worthwhile combat units quickly following up, to exploit this surprising success.’

First Soviet Shock Army, one of three armies building up for the proposed counter-offensive, had its concentration area nearby. It had yet to be identified by German forces. Von Bock noted in his diary later that day, ‘I was given further cause to consider when, toward evening, Panzergruppe 3 reported heavy attacks against the bridgehead at Yakhroma.’ He ordered the bridgehead to be held ‘at all costs’ but with ‘no unnecessary casualties’. Von Manteuffel, meanwhile, began to piece together a troubling intelligence picture. An ominous report from a recently shot-down Russian pilot disclosed that the roads leading from the capital, over which he had just flown, ‘were completely filled with marching Russian columns’; and they were heading his way.⁽¹²⁾

On the same day, 2nd Panzer Division came to a virtual standstill 30km south at Krassnaya Polyana, 18km north of Moscow. to their right was General Hoepner’s Panzergruppe 4 with 11th and 5th Panzer, the 2nd SS Division ‘Das Reich’ and 10th Panzer Division groups all probing and stretching fingers out to Moscow, but unable to grasp a hold. They were battering their way head-on into the minefields and fiercely defended earthworks ringing the city. Behind and in echelon were the 23rd, 106th and 35th Infantry Divisions seeking to move either side of the 2nd Panzer Division in support. Von Kluge’s Fourth Army northern flank was likewise making hesitant progress. Hoepner’s Panzer battle groups were stretched so thinly they were barely able to maintain contact. Second Panzer Army, meanwhile, was enlarging its substantial bulge south of Tula.

A thrust north to Kashira was drawing swarms of Soviet cavalry and tanks upon the doggedly advancing, but now vulnerable, 17th Panzer Division. A decision point had been reached. Army Group Centre was poised to ‘do or die’. As von Bock, its commander, expressed it: ‘If we do not succeed in bringing about the collapse of Moscow’s north-western front in a few days, the attack will have to be called off.’ He was emphatic in his resolve not ‘to provoke a second Verdun’.⁽¹³⁾ This was the direction from which pressure was to be applied. The focus of the advance now began to shift south of 7th Panzer Division as the fingers of the laboriously advancing Panzer division battle groups scraped at the outer defensive crust north-west of Moscow.

The frozen offensive

At the end of November there were indications that the cold snap was coming to an end. Although frost, fog and some snow continued, temperatures rose to 0°C. This appeared to offer some physical respite. Meteorological statistics stretching as far back as the 19th century gave no reason to expect heavy snow and extreme low temperatures before mid-December. Until now, weather conditions had resembled the worst one might anticipate on an exercise during a bad winter in the Berlin area. Difficulties were encountered because of the lack of winter training. Units generally occupied warm barracks in such weather, sallying out to train for only short periods. On 1 December temperatures plummeted. The 2nd dawned sunny and clear but with temperatures at −20°C. A north-west European winter began now to give way to the merciless embrace of its Asian variant. Until this point OKW Kriegstagebuch (war diary) entries had referred only to frost and snow in its daily weather summaries, with occasional reference to comparable western European extremes. Now it was different. Temperatures slipped to −25°C on 4 December and then −35°C and −38°C on subsequent days. ‘General Winter’ had entered the field.

By the light of a freezing moon, which had already risen by 17.00 hours on 1 December, armoured half-tracks of the 6th Panzer Division infantry regiment combat group began to crawl forward laboriously through frozen snow. Ahead, their objectives were the villages of Ipleura and Swistuela, north-east of Moscow. Vehicle after vehicle began to break down in the freezing conditions. Before long, 15 had fallen by the wayside, left behind with skeleton and watchful crews. Most of the soldiers had already spent three complete nights in the open in conditions for which they were totally unprepared. The Division Supply Officer (1b) had already noticed that ‘the lack of fat [in their rations] is having a detrimental effect upon the soldiers’ body resistance’. They had received barely two days’ equivalent (60 grams) over the previous 10 days. The last PzKpfwIV heavy tank in Panzer Regiment 11 also broke down that day in temperatures of −22°C.⁽¹⁾

Soldiers require a substantial calorific intake to fight in these temperatures, otherwise they become increasingly lethargic. This, combined with living unprotected in the open, sapped physical and mental resilience. Winter clothes had still to be issued. The 98th Infantry Division had received only ‘some winter coats and some gloves’, and these had been set aside for drivers. ‘It was like a drop of water on a hot stove,’ commented one witness.⁽²⁾ Winter warfare clothing layers need constant adjustment to control body temperature when undergoing strenuous tasks. Sweat clogs the airspace in material with moisture, reducing its insulating qualities. Perspiration when it evaporates chills the body and can cause freezing in extreme conditions.

Lethargic and tired soldiers tend not to take the trouble to adjust their clothing or regulate layers. The normal reaction is to add more clothing, which compounds the problem. During combat or when marching, soldiers perspire, get wet and then chill. At the end of November the 2nd Panzer Division anti-tank battalion received only a partial issue of winter clothing, enough for only one greatcoat per gun crew.⁽³⁾ Fighting ability decreases with temperature and slows the rate of operations. After it drops below a bearable point, survival replaces the previous combat imperative. Organised manoeuvre involving combined activity becomes correspondingly difficult. Even today, NATO armies with high-tech lightweight ‘breathable’ and layered clothing reduce training activity at temperatures below −25° and virtually cease at −35°C, when survival is declared the paramount consideration. Training stops, snow holes are dug, mobility is reduced or troops return to accommodation. Conditions in front of Moscow began to vary between these two parameters, both judged unacceptable for operations other than war today. German soldiers possessed little to combat the cold. Their Russian counterparts were more fortunate, receiving padded clothing, ear muffs, gloves and felt boots. Zhukov pointed out, ‘by the middle of November our soldiers were a great deal more comfortable than enemy troops, who wrapped themselves in warm clothes confiscated from local residents.’⁽⁴⁾ Oberleutnant Ekkehard Maurer, serving with the German 32nd Infantry Division, declared:

Inexperience in such sub-Arctic conditions was lethal. The body can lose liquid at an exceptional rate in freezing temperatures. Soldiers bundled themselves up in as many layers of clothing and materials they could find and became dehydrated, not imagining such conditions might exist aside from hot and humid weather. Infantry officer Heinrich Haape ‘had gathered together an assortment of clothing,’ he said, ‘that kept me reasonably warm’. On his feet he wore outsize boots with two pairs of woollen socks wrapped in flannelette. The soles were padded with newspaper. He wore two pairs of ‘long john’ woollen underpants, two warm shirts, a sleeveless pullover, a summer uniform temperate overcoat and, over all this, ‘a special prize’ – a loose leather greatcoat. His hands were protected by an inner layer of woollen gloves, with leather gloves on the outside, and he wore two woollen caps. String was tied around his wrists to prevent the wind blowing up his sleeves. Any violent movement by the non-acclimatised German soldiers resulted in a bath of perspiration. Liquid was further lost breathing in cold air which, on being heated to body temperature inside the lungs, absorbs large amounts of moisture which is then expelled as body fluids. Soldiers ate snow because there was rarely time or opportunity to boil it: 17 times the volume of snow is required to produce an equivalent volume of water. Body ‘cores’ became chilled taking in snow, which often initiated diarrhoea.

Dysentery was an Ostfront affliction caused by poor food, unhygienic conditions and lice bites, and was a death sentence in certain conditions. Leutnant Heinrich Haape, a medical officer intent on keeping his men in the line, recognised ‘these poor fellows’ who, despite being badly weakened, attempted to keep up with their comrades as best they could. ‘If they exposed themselves more than three or four times a day to the demands of nature,’ he said, ‘they lost more body warmth than they could afford to lose.’ Soiled clothing might cause frostbite and death. A crude remedy was instituted:

All these afflictions impaired fitness. Considerable energy was burned simply struggling through deep snow, burdened with heavy weights. An inadequately protected and exhausted man might freeze to death in his sleep. Unfit soldiers were more susceptible to cold injuries and frostbite. The latter occurs when blood supply to chilled areas of the body diminishes. Dehydration and the adrenaline surges that frightened soldiers experience in combat inhibit blood flow. All these conditions applied to the inadequately equipped German soldiers advancing on Moscow. ‘People seemed to go grey overnight,’ commented infantry soldier Harald Henry. ‘Our best strength was murdered here on these snow fields,’ he wrote in front of Moscow at the beginning of December.⁽⁷⁾

If the chilling process is brief, only minor damage occurs to flesh tissue, sometimes termed ‘frost-nip’. Complete constriction leads to a discolouring of flesh and, if not treated, tissue damage resulting in gangrene. This might, at worst case, necessitate amputation. A steady trickle of such casualties began to occur. The 3rd Battery of Artillery Regiment 98 recorded, ‘Ten men were passed on to the field hospital’ on 8 December, ‘including four men with second-degree frostbite’.⁽⁸⁾ It was infinitely worse for the infantry forward. Walter Neustifter, a machine gunner, claimed ‘most soldiers froze to death in temperatures under −30°C; they were not shot, simply frozen’. Icicles, he graphically described, would form around nasal passages, and ‘fingers!’ (he demonstrated with a sharp tap of the hand) ‘would drop off! Real shitty!’⁽⁹⁾

Arctic temperatures brought planned operations to a frozen impasse. The 6th Panzer Division war diary recorded a temperature drop of −32°C on 4 December and −25°C to −32°C the following day, dropping to −35°C at night. Cold injury casualty figures were passed by radio, not in writing, to corps headquarters, so as not to alarm the soldiers unnecessarily about the true situation. Infantry companies down to 30 men needed three reliefs of sentry per hour to cope with the biting cold. Five soldiers standing guard meant ‘half of the company was on duty while the other half got some rest’. On 5 December the operations officer reasoned:

Other complications were caused by the intense cold. Shock from wounds developed more quickly and was more lethal; cases of snow blindness increased in incidence. Carbon monoxide poisoning and eye irritations resulted from constant confinement in lice-ridden, ill-ventilated and overcrowded smoky hut and bunker conditions. Compressed living space in unhygienic conditions, coupled with winter darkness and the depressing attrition rate of dead and wounded, frayed nerves and shortened tempers. The cumulative impact this had on fighting power is difficult to quantify. Morale in general was maintained, but not easily. Opinions varied in relation to the proximity of the front. Panzer soldier Götz Hrt-Reger reflected with hindsight:

This high point was reached at the beginning of December. There were alternative opinions. Artillery soldier Josef Deck argued, ‘our morale was actually in a catastrophic state, because constant combat with its incessant changes of accommodation grated on the nerves.’ Infantryman Harald Henry held a similar view, declaring, ‘A tremendously deep hatred, a resounding “No” collected in our breasts – Ach, it was so awful!’ In order to counter collective dismay, officers and NCOs had to exercise their leadership qualities more often. In practical terms this meant more exposure to the enemy, and their casualties rose in order to maintain the momentum of the advance. Oberleutnant Ekkehard Maurer, fighting in the Leningrad area, described the inertia that had to be overcome.

Casualty reports reflected this drain on the junior leadership. The 6th Company of the IInd Battalion Schützen Regiment 114 reported being led by its sole surviving officer, an artillery observer, on 2 December. That day, nine men died and three were officers, as also one of 10 wounded. Total battalion losses had been 11 dead and 24 wounded.

While 7th Panzer Division clung to its tenuous bridgehead across the Moscow–Volga canal, on its right the 6th Panzer Division pushed on ahead. Gefreiter vom Bruch, advancing with Schützen Regiment 4, watched the explosions of bombs dropped from high-altitude Soviet bombers on the hilly wooded areas on the German side of the canal in bright freezing sunlight. As they entered the village of Goncharowo, he asked a little girl standing amid the ruins how far it was to the canal, Panzergruppe 3’s objective. ‘11km to the canal and 12 to Yakhroma,’ she said. ‘And Moscow?’ enquired the corporal. ‘60km,’ was the reply.⁽¹³⁾ Fighting began again in earnest as they penetrated the village of Bornissowo. Arctic temperatures were producing weapon malfunctions, which impeded operations with depressing regularity. Metal becomes brittle with intense cold and this, combined with the rapid increases of temperature by working parts during firing, caused breakages. Machine guns, in particular, needed substantially more spare parts. Belt-fed weapons had their feed pans regularly snarled up with snow, or fired intermittently due to the difficulty of controlling the gas flow to produce rapid rates of fire. Repeated reference is made in the 6th Panzer Infantry Regiment war diaries to heavy casualties caused by machine guns seizing up. Weapon stoppages and casualties among junior leaders attempting to remedy them were endemic across the front. Karl Rupp, commanding a PzKpfwII with Panzergruppe 4, recalled that, apart from the distraction of constantly turning over his tank engine to keep it working:

The Panzer spearheads continued falteringly to reach out thin fingers towards Moscow. On 2 December the 6th Panzer Division experienced ‘a light parachute-drop scare’ to its rear. Russian bombers were resupplying partisans but there were also parachute infantry insertions. German vehicles were shot at on the Klusowo road bridge in the division rear as the lead elements reached Kulowo. The 1st Panzer Division took Bely-Rast on 3 December with a tank/infantry attack. They were 32km from the Kremlin.⁽¹⁵⁾

The unfortunate Russian population was caught between German spearheads and Red Army resistance. They were exposed to the same −40°C temperatures described by Josef Deck with Artillery Regiment 71.

Non-combatants caught in the path of the Army Group Centre advance suffered enormous privations. The Landser, insufficiently supplied, fell upon the populace like a horde of ravaging locusts. Valentina Judelewa Ragowskaja remembers the Panzers clattering into Klin on 23 November. The family hid in the cellar, ‘dreadfully frightened’, until German soldiers stamped on their cellar lid with jackboots. ‘A soldier came down the cellar steps with a stick grenade in his hand – “Out!” he cried, “all Russians out!” They demanded “bread and sugar Mother!” making smacking noises with their lips. Two loaves of bread and a pair of turnips had been saved for the children. They were handed over.’ One loaf was devoured before their eyes, the other tossed up out of the cellar to others. ‘I went up and saw about 300 soldiers outside.’ They were making fires with furniture gathered up from the houses to keep warm. Water and meat was then demanded. Ragowskaja’s two hens were snatched up, their necks broken and flung on the fire, complete with feathers. ‘Once the feathers were burned off, they stuffed themselves with chicken meat, as simple as that!’ When she complained to the German commander she was haughtily informed, ‘German soldiers do not take foreign property!’ Total catastrophe ensued when the Germans slaughtered their one cow. ‘It was our only cow and a young one at that, she produced a lot of milk,’ said Ragowskaja. ‘I cried and threw myself on the carcass of my dead cow.’

Forty years after the conclusion of the war, journalist Paul Kohl travelled the Army Group Centre route to Moscow during an academic pilgrimage to research Russian eyewitness accounts of the invasion and occupation. Cold War still reigned in Europe. Although it was difficult to avoid the ‘Great Patriotic War’ rhetoric, and it was a long time after the event, there was little doubt, despite exaggeration, that this had been an emotionally searing experience for those he met. Perceptions, like propaganda, can have the same impact as the truth. Inhabitants living in the communities on the approaches to Moscow suffered dreadfully. ‘The way they treated us!’, exclaimed Vera Josefowna Makarenko, from Klin, ‘they hardly regarded us as human beings!’ Her house was burned to the ground and her husband hanged. ‘Right on the first day,’ she wept. ‘Five days he hung there, and they did not allow us to take him down… When they came, they took everything,’ she said. There was nothing to eat or drink and it was forbidden to fetch water. Their bucket was shot full of holes to make the point. All their felt boots were stolen, despite it being the middle of winter. ‘Our legs were frozen,’ complained Makarenko.

Her young niece was taken away for questioning. ‘Your father,’ they asked, ‘where is your father? Is he defending the homeland at the front? Or is he a partisan?’ The little girl’s finger was cut off during the interrogation.⁽¹⁷⁾

Istra – 30km from Moscow – was captured by the 4th SS Regiment ‘Der Führer’, alongside infantry and tanks from the 10th Panzer Division. Fighting raged against elements of the 78th Siberian and Manchurian units between 23 and 26 November through Istra cathedral, situated west of the river, and around a surrounding complex of six large ecclesiastical building ringed by a stout 5m-high wall. The ‘Der Führer’ companies were reduced to 25-man companies in the process.⁽¹⁸⁾ Sixteen-year-old Ludmilla Romanowna Kotsawa described the impact on its hapless inhabitants. ‘Many had already fled into the woods,’ she said, ‘and they stayed in holes dug in the ground in ice and snow with temperatures at −20°C for days and nights.’ Her music teacher, Michailow, was held up by soldiers in the street and robbed of her coat. ‘You bandits!’ she screamed at them. Kotsawa watched as ‘one of them cold-bloodedly shot her in the mouth’. Istra typified what could happen to a town in this theatre of operations. It remained occupied for only two weeks before it was back again. Only 25 children were found in its cellars from a former population of 7,000. ‘Istra was a beautiful green town,’ Kotsawa wistfully remembered, but the population had been driven out. During December and January its ruins were infested with wolves. A rebirth did not occur until the re-establishment of its school in 1943.⁽¹⁹⁾

Josef Deck recalled the surreal scene by night, observing the approaches to Moscow from the forward positions of Artillery Regiment 74.

Hatred arose among the scenes of unbelievable destruction visited by both sides upon the Russian population. Vera Josefowna Makarenko knew whom to blame:

‘The spires of the city’… Moscow

The 1st and 2nd Panzer Divisions with the 23rd Infantry Division in between were the nearest German units to Moscow on 3 December during the final phase of the assault. There had already been some withdrawals as von Bock straightened his line on the Moscow–Volga canal to secure his northern flank before penetrating the city.

The 7th Panzer Division received the order to pull back from the Moscow side of the Yakhroma bridgehead at 02.15 hours on 29 November. It was a depressing development for the hard-pressed troops fighting on the enemy side, who had, in the words of their commander General Frhr von Funck, expended ‘sweat and blood’. They recognised the underlying negative implication for any future advance on the city. Von Funck described it as ‘an evil flash of lightning illuminating the great turning point of the campaign and, with it, the whole war… From now on one heard the oft-repeated expression “there are insufficient forces” with increasing frequency.’ Forward riflemen were told at about 04.30 hours that the bridgehead had to be evacuated by daylight, which would be in one and a half hours’ time. Heavy weapons and Panzers would have to recross the canal before they could be picked out in the murk. A sharp crack reverberated through the frozen air at 07.30 hours and an ominous black column of smoke rose from the centre of the bridge. It was regarded attentively and wistfully by the soldiers of the 7th Panzer Division. Only the centre part of the bridge span collapsed because there had been insufficient explosive. At 19.00 hours that night the Russians blew the remainder.

^{The 2nd (Vienna) Panzer Division [inset diagram] was the closest unit to the Kremlin on 2 December 1941. To claim to be in sight of Moscow had the same epic significance to German soldiers as claims of being at Dunkirk or Arnhem had to Allied soldiers. One reconnaissance unit penetrated as far as Khimki – a 15-minute drive from the Kremlin – in the western suburbs of Moscow. This was the high point of Ostheer success during the eastern campaign. It was powerless to achieve more.}

Explosives were also unavailable to burrow new defence positions into the west bank. Houses by the canal edge were fortified instead. Both sides appreciated the implications of this latest development. First Shock Army, forming up nearby in preparation for the forthcoming Soviet counter-offensive, had applied unremitting pressure to the bridgehead. Soviet artillery fire began to range in on the newly established German positions. Air attacks increased. On 2 December the 7th Panzer staff ominously reported, ‘Sixteen air attacks today!’⁽¹⁾

Forty years later, Soviet artillery soldier Pjotr Jakowlewitsch Dobin, observing the canal bridge, reflected on the intensity of the fighting.

Many Germans remember the fateful bridge detonation early on the morning of the evacuation. ‘We were missing Unteroffizier Leopold,’ said one witness:

With victory no longer an option, the surge of morale that originally accompanied the capture of this Moscow entry point suddenly dissipated and reaction set in. There was nothing left to transcend the physical discomforts and threat. Fighting continued in driving snowstorms against a build-up of enemy attacks, which had to be opposed with faulty frozen machine guns. There were complaints ‘that urgently required warm winter clothing had still not arrived’, and these ‘became even more pronounced’.⁽³⁾ Now that Moscow was denied them, survival became the primary concern.

Gefreiter vom Bruch was attacking forward further south of the 7th Panzer Division; he was with Infantry Regiment 4, part of 6th Panzer Division and 7km from the canal. His squad, protecting the forward artillery officer of the battery in support, ‘soon ran out of ammunition.’ Caught on exposed flat ground, the company suffered appalling casualties. On 3 December they occupied the village of Jasikowo but were ejected by a surprise attack at midday by 10–15 Russian tanks which suddenly emerged from the wood. Vom Bruch described the pandemonium as they burst upon them.

That night, with temperatures down to −32°C, their orders of several days, standing remained unchanged – ‘hold the ordered line’.⁽⁴⁾

The 1st Panzer Division had meanwhile advanced 5km east of Bely-Rast, placing it 32km north of Moscow. Below them the bulge created by the 2nd (Vienna) Panzer and 23rd Infantry Divisions was creeping south-eastwards toward the Moscow suburbs. The 2nd SS Division ‘Das Reich’, with its 4th ‘Der Führer’ Regiment, was further south of the Istra–Moscow road and had reached the western outskirts of Lenino, 17km from Moscow. Russian Worker’s Militia volunteers were thrown against them. ‘Moscow was near enough to touch,’ announced Otto Weidinger, one of its commanders.

Legends abound concerning which German unit penetrated the nearest to Moscow. Its suburbs may well have been reached and were frequently easily observed. To be within visual sight of Moscow during this attack was in German eyes of epic significance, comparable to other ‘glorious’ failures at Dunkirk or (later) Arnhem for the British. Little glory remained to an advance which had deteriorated to one of groping progress. A young SS ‘Deutschland’ Regiment officer wrote, ‘We are approaching our final goal, Moscow, step by step.’ But, as he recounted, there were supply difficulties and weapon malfunctions. ‘The day is coming,’ he said, ‘when the soldiers will not only be at the end of their strength, but companies will have lost their fighting strength due to the loss of numerous wounded, frozen and dead.’ This was no final sally at a crumbling fortress. On the contrary:

North of the 2nd SS Division ‘Das Reich’, Unteroffizier Gustav Schrodek with Panzer Regiment 15 reflected in his diary: ‘the capital Moscow is our attack objective – will we reach it?’ He was a Panzer commander advancing with the 11th Panzer Division and was stalled by enemy action a few kilometres beyond the village of Krjukowa. ‘I saw a signpost,’ he said, ‘which read “MOSKWA 18,5 km”. His Panzer was abruptly reversed by its alert driver, just as a 76mm shell from a hidden T-34 whooshed by the turret.

Burying the dead in the frozen ground was hardly achievable with picks and shovels. ‘We could only create a shallow ditch using hand-grenades,’ he remarked. Temperatures had dropped to −35°C, and they were unable to advance further. Moscow was merely one hour’s drive by Panzer, but with no accompanying infantry, they had to leaguer up in the snow and wait. They felt isolated, virtually abandoned.⁽⁷⁾

The closest finger niggling at the Russian defences on the outskirts of the city was the 2nd (Vienna) Panzer Division. Its antitank battalion was becoming increasingly dismayed at the ineffectiveness of its 37mm guns against the increasing numbers of Soviet T-34s its battle groups were encountering as they advanced south-eastwards along the Solnechnogorsk–Moscow road. A lucky shot striking the machine gun aperture of a T-34 from only 10m during an attack at Turicina had set one tank ablaze. It suicidally carried on to crush its 37mm assailant. At Strelino four English ‘Matilda’ tanks were despatched by Panzer Regiment 3. They had all been recently manufactured and had ‘September 1941’ stamped on their engine plates – an indication of Allied resolve and urgency to stem the Axis advance. On 28 November American tank types were knocked out. As the Kampfgruppe ‘Decker’ rolled into Oserezkoje on 1 December soldiers remarked on the appearance of Moscow Omnibus line stops. A combat group of Panzers, infantry, artillery and engineers commanded by Oberst Rodt of the 304th Regiment occupied the three villages of Krassnaya Polyana, Putschki and Katjuschki on 30 November. Another battalion (the IInd) from the same regiment under Major Reichmann secured Gorki, nearby. A small salient had been driven into the area of Sixteenth Soviet Army, 17km from the outskirts of Moscow and only 27km from the Kremlin.⁽⁸⁾

They had been preceded, unknown to themselves, the previous day by motorcycle patrols from Panzer Pionier Battalion 62. Temperatures had now risen slightly to 0°C, which produced light wet snow and patchy fog. Utilising these conditions, General Hoepner commanding Panzergruppe 4 detached these motorcyclists from 2nd Panzer Division and ordered them forward to raid the railway station at Lobnya and conduct a fighting reconnaissance south of it. In one of those bizarre episodes of war, as the Russians fell back from Solnechnogorsk and the 2nd Panzer Division pushed its battle groups south-eastwards in search of an unopposed route into Moscow, the motorcycle raid found it. Hunched behind their BMWs and machine-gun-mounted sidecars, the force thrust forward, encountering no opposition until it reached Khimki, a small river port in the north-west suburbs of Moscow. They were within 8km of the city and 20km of the Kremlin, only a short drive away, a distance that could be covered in minutes. Panic ensued among the startled local inhabitants. ‘The Germans are in Khimki!’ was the cry. The motorcycle detachment, having had no substantial contact with Soviet troops, feeling vulnerable at the depth of their incursion and seeing the obvious agitation they had caused, turned back. They needed to report this unopposed thoroughfare. Support would not be at hand if they drove into resistance and, feeling over-extended, they retraced their route. Incredibly the unit drove back through the German lines without a shot being fired.⁽⁹⁾

Not surprisingly a flurry of activity resulted on the Russian side. Soviet General Konstantin Rokossovsky, whose Sixteenth Army was located just west of Moscow, received an unwelcome reminder of Stalin’s resolve. He said:

Rokossovsky could only agree. Counter-attack orders were issued. Sixteenth Army had already been forced to pull back from Solnechnogorsk, ‘giving rise to a serious situation,’ as General Zhukov later explained. Units were moved into the area from the Supreme Headquarters Reserve. The Russian line was bending in an arc commensurate with German pressure, but did not buckle. Zhukov in early December was beginning to detect ‘from the nature of the military operations and from the attacks of the enemy forces that the offensive was grinding to a standstill and that the Germans had neither the manpower nor the arms to continue their drive’. Michael Milstein, an officer on Zhukov’s staff, recalled, ‘we were able to capture German staff documents in front of Moscow and all these indicated that Soviet reserves appeared to be exhausted, and there would be no more available.’⁽¹¹⁾

The Russian Supreme Command inserted forces sufficient only to hold the line while they amassed forces for a counter-offensive immediately behind the front. Soviet tank driver Benjamin Iwantjer remarked on the extent of the casualties they had already suffered. ‘Standing before those who have already died in this war leaves us remaining alive with a sense of almost unbearable guilt,’ he admitted.⁽¹²⁾ General Zhukov, however, had no compunction in exacting whatever price was necessary to create the necessary conditions for his planned counter-stroke. The Soviet West Front continued to be reinforced with two newly formed armies – the First Shock and Tenth Armies – as well as a number of other units combined into a third, named Twentieth Army. Still the Germans suspected nothing.

Zhukov was a master of military deception. He applied measures similar to those he had conducted as commander of the First Mongolian Army Group in 1939 after the Japanese invasion of Mongolia. The formation successfully encircled and destroyed a Japanese force in a surprise assault on the River Khalkhin Gol. Although Zhukov’s force had been 644km from the nearest railhead he clandestinely organised massive deliveries of matériel, assembling a huge tank force which subsequently overwhelmed the Japanese in a totally unexpected attack. These same deception measures were reenacted on the Moscow front to give the impression that the Russians were intent on defence rather than offence. Soviet artillery observer Pawel Ossipow, preparing for the attack, recalled:

Soviet soldiers were prepared to endure whatever was necessary to win this war. Lew Kopelew, a junior officer, pointed out, ‘a lot of people forget the fact that we fought voluntarily, many of us, millions – and we wanted to counter-attack.’⁽¹³⁾

Zhukov transposed this Mongolian experience to camouflage preparations for the pending counter-offensive. Transport movement from the interior was cloaked in secrecy. Extensive reconnaissance was conducted alongside meticulous planning to enable the passage of large formations from their assembly areas to attack points. Strict security was applied to briefings on a ‘need to know’ basis. Bogus signals, radio traffic and other disinformation methods were used to cloak the intent of the operation. Pamphlets had even been issued during the Mongolian operation which offered Soviet soldiers advice on defence and were left in situations where they might be found by the Japanese. Concentrations and all regrouping activity were conducted by night. Officers carried out reconnaissance dressed in soldiers’ uniforms and used lorries rather than distinctive cars and jeeps. Tanks, heavy weapons and other equipments were painstakingly camouflaged and dispersed. Artillery barrages were fired to disguise the noise of marching units and other methods were employed to dampen engine noise.

The attack orders were not issued until the last possible moment for fear of compromising security,⁽¹⁴⁾ after which routes needed to be cleared of snow. This strategic deception was based on a fine balance between concentrating the mass of overwhelming strength at a given point and not dissipating its impact through compromising surprise. Applying barely sufficient and piecemeal resources to counter local German penetrations contributed to the overall deception. German units had become accustomed to strong local counter-attacks, and never realised the sinister implication behind these probes. As a consequence, the steady Soviet build-up was misinterpreted as ‘last-ditch’ efforts to retain key ground. The 7th Panzer Division front line reports, for example, gave little indication that its bridgehead across the Moscow–Volga canal was clashing with the newly formed First Shock Army. Likewise, 2nd Panzer Division, pushing forward a salient in the Krassnaya Polyana area within striking distance of Twentieth Army – similarly expanding and preparing to attack – misconstrued increasing resistance as fanaticism.

Soldiers from the 2nd Panzer Division occupying the villages of Katjuschki and Gorki near Krassnaya Polyana on 4 December soon found ‘it was possible to observe everyday life in the capital using scissor-telescopes’. The distance as the crow flies to the edge of the city was 16km. Much to their frustration, they were unable to engage Soviet soldiers daily disembarking at Lobnya station in sight, because their supporting artillery was out of ammunition. Kampfgruppe ‘Buck’ from Infantry Regiment 304, in taking these villages had placed themselves within ‘cannon range’ of the Moscow city limits. Conditions were harsh. Layers of jackets of temperate issue coats offered the only protection against an icy east wind. Movement was so difficult that it was decided lightly wounded soldiers should be kept with the battle group rather than sent to the rear. Partisan activity and snowstorms had converted administrative and resupply runs into perilous activity. Nightfall came abruptly and as early as 15.30 hours in these wintry conditions, at which point whoever was not on guard or building defences disappeared inside a dwelling for shelter.⁽¹⁵⁾

A number of German probes were conducted toward the city outskirts. One combat group from 240th Infantry Regiment, supported by a 52nd Flak Regiment unit, worked its way forward in temperatures of −40°C to the Krjukowa railway station. This was a stop on the local Moscow suburban railway line. They passed a signpost at a road intersection, barely visible in light snow, reading ‘22km to Moscow’.

Leutnant Heinrich Haape, moving forward on a liaison visit to the 106th Infantry Division south of 2nd Panzer, found the optimism in the rear was greater than that at the front. ‘We were told that the great final attack on Moscow would begin within the next few days,’ he heard. ‘Morale was at peak level and everyone seemed confident that the city would fall before the year was out.’ Spiritual momentum alone seemed to be maintaining the advance. ‘The troops argued,’ observed Haape, ‘that rain, mud, snow and frost had failed to stop them; they had earned Moscow and now it must fall to them.’ Haape’s view encapsulated what every soldier felt: the culminating point of this battle was fast approaching. ‘Moscow, a city that had haunted our thoughts during the long, marching kilometres, and which now seemed to be approaching us like a city in a legend,’ he wistfully reflected, ‘screened from us by seven veils’. Haape was close to the city centre. ‘It was a sobering, almost frightening, thought that if one continued at this speed for only 15 minutes we would be in Moscow itself, and a further 15 minutes would bring us into Red Square or to the walls of the Kremlin.’⁽¹⁶⁾

Across the front there were repeated glimpses of the tantalising prize. The combat diary of the 87th Infantry Division reported its 173rd Infantry Regiment was manning positions in temperatures of −30°C on 3 December on the edge of the forest of Masslovo, at the confluence of the Istra and Moskva rivers. They were ‘no more than 20km from the outskirts of Moscow, whose towers are already in sight’. The report’s author felt able to ‘boast with pride that they were among those German soldiers in World War 2 who came nearest to the capital of the Russian empire’.⁽¹⁷⁾

Back home in the Reich, the gulf between expectation and reality had become even greater. Wehrmacht High Command reports were no longer effusive. There were no more Sondermel-dungen. On 25 November it was officially reported, ‘the attack in the central sector of the Eastern Front is enjoying further success.’ Four days later, ‘further progress has been made in the attack on Moscow’. On 1 December it was announced that ‘infantry and Panzer formations are advancing closer to the capital’, ‘deep penetrations’ on ‘a broad sector’ were reported the next day and ‘gains’ on 3 December. The population suspected developments of greater significance than these frugal statements. Newspapers tended to give more space to ‘smaller’ successes achieved by minor Wehrmacht units, which were regarded as insignificant compared to previous epic results. Public opinion was convinced the reportage was masking unannounced important developments. A brief stir was created by the capture of Solnechnogorsk, 50km northwest of Moscow, which appeared to indicate the Wehrmacht’s determination to prosecute the advance whatever the weather.

There was further anticipation by 1 December that Moscow may yet fall. Much popular news was concerned with the ‘tragic’ deaths of well-known Nazi personalities. The Luftwaffe general and stunt-flying film star Ernst Udet died, as did top-scoring fighter ace and Spanish Civil War veteran Werner Molders. This offered some distraction from the dramatic events being played out around Moscow. Winter thus far in Berlin had been reasonably mild, averaging 2°C. Only 14 days had been recorded below freezing. The ‘Frozen Offensive’ seemed a long way away indeed.⁽¹⁸⁾

When Leutnant Haape reached the forward positions of the 106th Infantry Division, temperatures had dropped to double figures below freezing. Russian positions were pointed out on the ground. Nearby was a solitary Moscow tram stop, which was wistfully regarded by Haape and his companions. They were so near, yet so far. The fall of Moscow could mean the end of the war. The tram stop was barely 16km from the capital.

The forward triangle of villages and towns around Krassnaya Polyana occupied by the 2nd (Vienna) Panzer Division was the nearest Kiel that had been driven toward the Moscow suburbs. Katjuschki, held by the Kampfgruppe ‘Buck’ from 134 Regiment, formed part of an integrated defence position mutually supported by Gorki, held by Kampfgruppe ‘Decker’ to its north-west and Putschki to the rear. Oberleutnant Georg Richter’s battery from Artillery Regiment 74 was in Putschki with Kampfgruppe ‘Rodt’ from 2nd Regiment. It was ‘a big town, practically a city with factory blocks and store-houses’, Richter explained, writing proudly in his diary, that they ‘were the furthest forward of all the divisions operating on the Ostfront’. Now wearing Russian felt boots, the artillery officer felt the rate at which temperatures were falling merited daily inclusion in his diary. Starting at −15°C on 3 December, he plotted a daily decrease to −28°C on the 6th. The battle had become merciless in his opinion, sustained by the inescapable logic that ‘what you took once, even with weak forces, was held’ because ‘if you give it up, it could only be retaken with very heavy casualties’. His artillery battery, not even directly in the forward positions, had already suffered a notable 12 dead and 20 wounded. ‘One learned what was meant by fear,’ he observed, because, in the face of such losses, ‘people who earlier commanded respect were exposed as panic-mongering cowards’. Doubts over whether they would actually take Moscow began to surface. ‘We were asking ourselves more often,’ he admitted, ‘whether we would truly break through this ring’. The frequency of local counterattacks also perceptibly increased. ‘The enemy is particularly lively with his attacks today,’ he announced on 2 December, ‘he has received reinforcements.’ It was a steady build-up, ‘first a battalion, the next day a regiment, two regiments, one division, two divisions’ and so on.⁽²⁰⁾

The day before, Generalfeldmarschall von Bock accepted, ‘the fighting of the past 14 days has shown that the notion that the enemy in front of the army group has “collapsed” was a fantasy’. His forces were now dangerously over-extended. He complained to Halder, the Chief of the General Staff, that the seriousness of the situation appeared not to have been briefed to Hitler. ‘It was astounding,’ he said to Halder, ‘how little the highest levels of command were informed of my reports.’ The General Staff had retained a mystical faith in the resilience of the Ostheer, paralleled by a firm conviction that the Russians must be at their last gasp. Halder confided to his diary later that day:

On a clear sunny day on 2 December, the men from Kampfgruppe ‘Buck’, occupying positions dug in the Katjuschki village graveyard, received their first hot food from the rear in many days. Previously they had endured snowstorms and the temperature was now −15°C. As they commenced eating, the forward outposts yelled ‘Alarm!’ The German battery outside Putschki immediately opened fire, sending salvoes whooshing over their heads to cascade in a series of crackling detonations on the edge of the wood south of the village. Crouching in their stand-to positions, the German infantry were acutely aware their hot food was going to waste, until Russian counter artillery fire interspersed with Katyusha rocket strikes, burst all over their positions.

Activity was apparent inside the wood. Trees were being snapped off and broken down like matchwood, until, with a series of deep-throated diesel growls, Russian T-34 and BT-7 tanks dashed aside the last trees and swung into an extended line and moved toward the German positions. Russian infantry were labouring through the deep snow behind them. ‘Like a steel Phalanx,’ the Russian armour bore down on the village of Katjuschki. As the Russian artillery switched fire to the rear onto Putschki the rumble of German artillery ceased. Low-flying bombers and thick-bellied ‘Rata’ Soviet fighters swept by and strafed and bombed the German artillery positions. Leutnant Richter had already developed a healthy respect for these attacks which produced a stream of casualties and ‘catastrophic’ damage to vehicles. ‘Enemy pilots,’ he recorded on 2 December, ‘kept our arses warm, as the Landser would say, throughout the day.’

The T-34s and BT-7s grew steadily larger within the sight telescopes of the two German 50mm anti-tank guns hidden among headstones in the graveyard on the southern edge of Katjuschki. Having lost artillery support, everything depended upon the detachment commander, Unteroffizier Hentsch, a cold-blooded veteran of many actions, to fight them off. Hentsch, aware of the T-34’s armoured protection, chose to open fire at the last possible moment and use all his stock-piled ammunition at close range. All were versed in the tactics: drive the accompanying infantry to cover and then engage the tanks. Any that broke through the position were to be left to infantry anti-tank teams who would attack them with hand-held explosive devices. The Russian tank commander, intent on his objective, failed to notice he had outstripped his infantry, who were pinned down by German small arms fire. Kicking up great clouds of snow, the tanks drove directly at the German positions.

The lead tank exploded on a mine as it entered the obstacle belt and ploughed to a shuddering halt, the first of several 50mm rounds slamming into its flank. It suddenly burst into a slurry of flame and black oily smoke. Three tanks were disabled, one after the other, by the solitary 50mm anti-tank gun. Thick clouds of dark smoke pouring out of the wrecks soon disorientated the remaining tanks, which abruptly changed course and began to bypass the village, moving in the direction of Putschki. Hentsch immediately began shooting into their rear as they moved off.

Three tanks remained in front of the graveyard, seeking the antitank gun causing so much damage. They machine gunned the positions and grave plots in a reconnaissance by fire. Another BT-7 erupted, metal, boxes and equipment flying off the decks of the tank as the internal pressure of the explosion flung the hatches open. Unteroffizier Braun, observing the action, saw:

Narrowly missing Braun, the tank churned around like an enraged dinosaur, smashing into the corner of a barn, which collapsed upon it. ‘It then disappeared into a cloud of snow,’ he said. The remaining tank meanwhile slowly traversed its gun onto the now clearly identifiable solitary PAK, whose fate appeared sealed. A single 50mm projectile slammed into the side of the T-34 at 823m per second. It did not move as a further four rounds tore into the smouldering carcass until it burst into flames. The twin supporting 50mm gun of the pair manned by Unteroffizier Becker had been moved from the other side of the graveyard as soon as the Russian artillery fire had switched to the rear.

Inside the village the surviving T-34 was playing ‘cat and mouse’ with a 37mm anti-tank gun. The latter was eventually cornered and the crew fled as the tank crushed the gun and bulldozed into a cottage directly behind it, the building collapsing to the ground. Stuck fast in a civilian shelter, its see-sawing motion and bellowing diesel engines indicated it could not get out. An anti-tank mine was flung onto its engine deck and the single crack of its detonation reverberated around the village, signifying the end of the action. Clouds of smoke spilling across the snow to the rear of the village also indicated the demise of the tank attack on Putschki. The solitary tank that had evaded the two anti-tank guns had been despatched by a direct-fire hit from the artillery battery.⁽²²⁾

To the north-west the 23rd Infantry Division sought, with steadily declining strength, to continue its advance to the Moscow–Volga canal. They laboured forward in more than knee-deep snow, 35km from Moscow. Feldwebel Gottfried Becker with Infantry Regiment 9 was ordered to extract a beleaguered company that had been ambushed 5km further east, outside the village of Choroschilowo. The mission was only partially successful. The remnants were rescued but the wounded had to be left behind. Becker delivered his report, much troubled by his conscience. It was received without demur by the battalion commander; these things happened. They remained holding their positions at Staroje, enduring the bitter cold in a totally cheerless landscape. Soon they lost all sense of time. Every two hours a reconnaissance patrol was despatched to check the woodland bordering the village. The veterans were uneasy. There was a collective perception that a Russian attack was pending. A patrol returning that night reported ‘something going on, you can hear loud noises’. Snow began to fall heavily, which reduced visibility to 200–300m. Nobody wanted to do more. Becker was exhausted and his men were tired. They would investigate further in the morning.⁽²³⁾

Russian probing attacks continued against the 2nd Panzer Division vanguard in the Krassnaya Polyana area. Leutnant Georg Richter gloomily observed that being only 30km from Moscow meant ‘the enemy could move his troops up to the front in trams’. The supporting artillery battery outside Putschki was experiencing problems because ‘its guns could only be traversed with considerable difficulty’. Lothar Fromm, another artillery observer, described the impact of these Arctic conditions:

By contrast, as Richter complained at Putschki, ‘It was unbelievable what ammunition the enemy had stacked up next to his positions to blast out every calibre’. As a consequence, ‘the factory buildings,’ he wrote, ‘were burning for the umpteenth time.’ Nerves were feeling the strain. ‘The extent of fear and cowardice,’ the dispirited Richter admitted by 3 December, ‘is catastrophic – the cooks won’t come out and cook because they are ducking inside their shelters the whole time.’ Prospects did not appear good. In Richter’s opinion it was ‘senseless’ to try and hold onto the villages of Gorki and Katjuschki.⁽²⁴⁾

Generalfeldmarschall von Bock was of like opinion. He instinctively felt the army group had approached the end of its strength. Corps commanders were telexed during the night of 2 December ‘that the undoubtedly serious moment of crisis that the Russian defenders are facing must be exploited wherever the opportunity presents itself.’ But he did not believe it, because he confided, ‘I have my doubts whether the exhausted units are still capable of doing so.’ That night von Bock was presented with a document from the city of Smolensk thanking him for liberating it from Bolshevism. Three months before, Army Group Centre had stood at the pinnacle of success. As he considered the document, von Bock probably reflected all this was virtually an age ago.⁽²⁰⁾

Two days later Leutnant Richter was overseeing a gun-position change at Putschki. They were pulling back. Every single vehicle needed to be tow-started in temperatures of −25°C. Many vehicles, in particular the 6.5-ton ‘Tatra’ heavy lorries, had to be abandoned. Their wheels would not turn and the steering was frozen solid. An NCO shouted a warning:

They were indeed. Another soldier, writing home that day, encapsulated what was going on in a simple terse statement: