At regular intervals we attack the northern bridges over the Don. The biggest of these is near the village of Kletskaja and this bridgehead on the west bank of the Don is most vigilantly defended by flak. Prisoners tell us that the H.Q. of a command is located here.
The bridgehead is constantly being extended and every day the Soviets pour in more men and material. Our destruction of these bridges delays these reinforcements, but they are able to replace them relatively quickly with pontoons so that the maximum traffic across the river is soon fully restored.
Up here on the Don the line is mainly held by Rumanian units.
Only in the actual battle area of Stalingrad stands the German 6th Army.
One morning after the receipt of an urgent report our Wing takes off in the direction of the bridgehead at Kletskaja. The weather is bad: low lying clouds, a light fall of snow, the temperature probably 20 degrees below zero; we fly low.
What troops are those coming towards us?
We have not gone more than half way. Masses in brown uniforms -are they Russians?
No. Rumanians. Some of them are even throwing away their rifles in order to be able to run the faster: a shocking sight, we are prepared for the worst.
We fly the length of the column heading north, we have now reached our allies' artillery emplacements. The guns are abandoned, not destroyed. Their ammunition lies beside them. We have passed some distance beyond them before we sight the first Soviet troops.
They find all the Rumanian positions in front of them deserted. We attack with bombs and gun-fire but how much use is that when there is no resistance on the ground?
We are seized with a blind fury horrid premonitions rise in our minds: how can this catastrophe be averted?
Relentlessly I drop my bombs on the enemy and spray bursts of M.G. fire into these shoreless yellow-green waves of oncoming troops that surge up against us out of Asia and the Mongolian hinterland. I haven't a bullet left, not even to protect myself against the contingency of a pursuit attack. Now quickly back to re-munition and refuel.
With these hordes our attacks are merely a drop in the bucket, but I am reluctant to think of that now. On the return flight we again observe the fleeing Rumanians; it is a good thing for them I have run out of ammunition to stop this cowardly rout.
They have abandoned everything; their easily defended positions, their heavy artillery, their ammunition dumps.
Their cowardice is certain to cause a debacle along the whole front. Unopposed, the Soviet advance rolls forward to Kalatsch. And with Kalatsch in their hands they now close a semi-circle round our half of Stalingrad. Within the actual area of the city our 6th Army holds its ground. Under a hail of concentrated artillery fire it sees the Red assault waves surge up incessantly against them. The 6th Army is "bled white," it fights with its back to a slowly crumbling wall: nevertheless it fights and hits back.
The front of Stalingrad runs along a plateau of lakes from north to south and then joins the steppe. There is no island in this ocean of plain for hundreds of kilometres until the fair-sized town of Elistra. The front curves East past Elistra. A German infantry motorized division based on the town controls the mighty waste of steppe. Our allies also hold the gap between this division and the 6th Army in Stalingrad.
The Red Army suspects our weakness at this point, especially in the northern sector of the lake district, the Soviets break through westwards.
They are trying to reach the Don! Another couple of days and the Russians are on the river. Then a Red thrust forces a wedge in our lines to the northwest. They are trying to reach Kalatsch.
This plainly spells the impending doom of the 6th Army. The two Russian attacking forces join hands at Kalatsch and then the ring round Stalingrad is closed. Everything happens with uncomfortable speed, many of our reserves are overwhelmed by the Russians and trapped in their pincer movement. During this phase one deed of anonymous heroism succeeds another. Not one German unit surrenders until it has fired its last revolver bullet, its last hand grenade, without carrying on the fighting to the bitter end.
Stuka Pilot-Han Ulrich Rudel
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hans-Ulrich_Rudel
Hans-Ulrich Rudel (2 July 1916 – 18 December 1982) was a Stuka dive-bomber pilot during World War II and a member of the Nazi Party. The most highly decorated German serviceman of the war, Rudel was one of only 27 military men to be awarded the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross with Oak Leaves, Swords and Diamonds, and the only person to be awarded the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross with Golden Oak Leaves, Swords and Diamonds (Ritterkreuz des Eisernen Kreuzes mit goldenem Eichenlaub, Schwertern und Brillanten), Germany’s highest military decoration.
Rudel’s input was used during the development of the A-10 ground attack aircraft.
Maybe if Rudel’s masters had bothered to equip the Romanians with something that was more effective against T-34s than a handful of rocks, they might have stayed in their positions and fought.
As it was, many Romanian units did hold their ground until they were surrounded and overwhelmed.