This video presents a firsthand account from a German soldier of the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler Division during the Battle of Kharkiv in early 1943, describing the extreme winter conditions, intense urban combat, and the critical decision by commander Hower to order a retreat despite Hitler's orders to defend to the last soldier, which ultimately saved his men from destruction.
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Street Fighting for Kharkiv Through the Eyes of a Waffen-SS Soldier. Eastern Front.Added:
Hello dear friends. Today we continue to explore the memoirs of a soldier from the Vafen SS Liebstandarda Adolf Hitler Division.
In the previous part, his division left the Soviet Union and headed to France for rest, training, and replenishment.
With your permission, I skipped that part of his memoirs.
Don't forget to rate the video and leave your thoughts in the comments. And now let's begin.
Return to Russia.
The days dragged on and the landscape grew steadily whiter and whiter from the snow.
Around mid January 1943, our train stopped in Pava, Ukraine.
Here I managed to transfer to another train carrying a tank unit that was heading to the deployment site of my fourth company.
A few hours later, the train stopped at a small station where the combat vehicles were unloaded. Some of them, as if complaining about the severe cold, stubbornly refused to start.
I went from tank to tank or armored personnel carrier, asking the drivers if they were heading to the area where the fourth company was stationed, but I had no luck.
When the trucks and armored vehicles disappeared into the swirling snow, I had no choice but to wait for morning in the company of another 50 soldiers from the tank unit.
When the sun, as pale as a full moon, sank behind the clouds, a biting frost set in.
As dusk fell, it grew even colder, and my cheeks felt that familiar tingling.
The winter silence was broken by the angry whistle of bullets.
The attackers positions were betrayed only by the flashes of their gunfire.
"We suddenly found ourselves in the thick of the fighting." "The bastards are less than half a kilometer away," shouted our only officer. "We need to organize a perimeter defense. Otherwise, here on the platform, we'll be easy prey for the enemy."
We managed to take cover behind large crates scattered around the station. A few minutes later, the enemy ceased fire just as suddenly as they had begun.
We waited anxiously to see what would happen next, peering intently into the deepening darkness. "Evon's behind the tracks!" someone shouted.
I could make out separate groups of ghostlike figures in white camouflage robes. Less than 100 meters away, they were running straight at us through the deep snow. Our two machine guns opened fire, shattering the night's silence with their crackling. With plenty of ammunition, we kept firing until all movement near the tracks ceased. Wolves began to gather at the scent of fresh Russian blood. Their eyes glinted in the frosty night. A shot rang out, followed by a mournful howl.
The next morning, our faces blew with cold. We joyfully welcomed the return of the tank unit. Radio contact with the fourth company was quickly established, and an hour later, a truck arrived to take me back to my unit.
Despite the Russian attack on the train station, I managed to save a bottle of Schnops and a few cartons of cigarettes that I'd gotten my hands on in Orionberg.
I sold most of it when I arrived at the company command post. However, I still saved a few packs of cigarettes and a bottle of Schnops for my comrades.
Finally, I found my unit's location in a sturdy bunker.
You just couldn't part with your French girlfriends, could you, Irvin? How are things in Berlin?
One by one, my comrades in arms came up to me, shook my hand, patted me on the back, and laughed like excited school boys.
I was finally home, and I was relieved to learn that the unit had suffered no casualties during my absence. I passed a bottle of Schnops around, and everyone got a decent swig and could forget about the cold for a while.
Then I rummaged through the pockets of my combat uniform, felt an untouched pack of cigarettes and slipped it into Boris's hand. A broad smile lit up his face. "I was starting to think one of the bombs had hit you on the head. There was some kind of commotion in Berlin," I explained. "They were sending us here and there." In the end, I managed to get to Evu after all. And then I finally boarded a train carrying one of the SS tank units. But you won't believe how slowly it crawled along.
Positioned on the heights overlooking the ice covered Severki donuts, the fourth company was defending one of the front sectors on the eastern approaches to Kadak.
I laid telephone lines, which we called puppet strings, to connect the scattered machine gun crews with the company command post.
A few days after I had settled in safely at my new post, the Russians began an artillery barrage during which telephone communication with the command post was cut off.
My task was to restore communication as quickly as possible.
It was an extremely dangerous task during intense combat.
I walked along the telephone line through deep snow and my feet kept sinking, breaking through the thin crust of ice.
Sweat streamed down my back and over my eyebrows.
White clouds of steam from my exhaled breath enveloped my face.
I found the severed end of the cable, but the entire section leading to the command post had been lost in the snow churned up by explosions.
Amid the whistling of bullets, which made it impossible to feel safe, I began a systematic search until I found the missing end of the cable.
However, it turned out to be too short to connect to the cable running from the front line.
I had to repair the brake with a piece of cable from the spool I was carrying.
I took a wire stripping tool out of the leather pouch on my belt, knelt down near the severed cable, and took off my gloves.
Before I finished with the first connection, my fingers had gone numb.
I dropped the tool, then found it again in the clear snow.
While I was working on the second connection, my fingers turned blue and it hurt to move them.
When I finished the repair, I looked around and noticed a group of Russians about a 100 meters away.
One of them called out to me. I could hardly believe my eyes.
The soldier was wearing a helmet and a skirt.
A girl.
And not just one, a whole women's unit.
For some reason, they didn't shoot, even though I must have been a very tempting target.
Apparently, my guardian angel had intervened again and saved me from certain death.
When I found myself back in our warm and comfortable bunker, I told my comrades that I'd stumbled upon a Russian women's unit.
After listening to me carefully, they started laughing and each one added his own comment to complete the picture.
You must have been desperate for a girl, Irvin. Did that little Parisian really get under your skin that much?
Didn't you set up a date with them? I'm telling you, you're just blind, buddy.
All you see are women everywhere.
Everyone laughed, and to tell the truth, I myself had already begun to doubt what I had seen.
However, the next day they were able to see for themselves that I wasn't spinning a yarn.
Our signal rockets shot hissing into the dark evening sky, bursting into the millions of bright sparks.
Numerous ominous shadows moved across the snow-covered fields near the Severki Donettes, illuminated by the flashes.
Russian infantry was approaching us.
"Rapid fire!" shouted our platoon commander.
Our machine gunners put their brand new MG42s to work. Their intense fire helped thwart yet another enemy night attack.
During the day, the Russians began shelling us with their howitzers.
Their shells had a very distinctive sound, and we were afraid of them because they exploded a split second after we heard the whistle. There was no time to take cover.
But even more frightening was the sight of endless columns of Russian infantry, which like black snakes, snaked day after day across the snow-covered fields on the opposite bank of the Severki Donettes, cutting their way around our southern flank and striving to close a deadly noose.
Exhausted by endless battles, with no chance to sleep and facing supply problems, we knew we could not withstand another massive attack.
At dusk, with temperatures below minus30°, we abandoned our well-prepared positions and retreated southeast toward the village of Roan, a suburb of Karke.
No sooner had we managed to organize defensive positions in the center of Rogan than the Russians launched another attack.
At times the intensity of the fire was so high that it was impossible to look out a window or over a wall without risking a bullet to the head.
T34 tanks supported by large infantry forces broke through our defenses.
After 3 or 4 days of continuous fighting, we retreated to the open hilly terrain between Karakiv and Rohan, and our strength was already at its limit.
On the right flank, across a large ravine, our first company suffered heavy losses.
It held positions on a key hill overlooking the main road to KKE.
The Russians were gradually pushing us closer and closer to the city center, preparing for a decisive strike.
Fortunately, we were commanded by none other than Papa Hower. Having learned the lesson of Stalenrad well, he gave the order to retreat from the city.
Just after noon on February 15th, I remember this date well because it was the day after my parents' wedding anniversary, we retreated through a corridor only a few hundred meters wide, carved out on the western outskirts of the city.
Soon rumors began to circulate that Hower, risking the most severe punishment, had essentially saved our lives.
After all, he had dared to ignore Hitler's order to defend Karkke to the last soldier.
Having a commander who cared for his soldiers was a great honor for us. We knew he would never sacrifice us, his boys, just to carry out some pointless order from above.
By early March 1943, the situation had improved.
The Russian threat in the south had been eliminated. We were going to retake Katk, desperately striving to deal a fatal blow to the enemy, wishing to pay tribute to Papa Howser for his loyalty to his officer's duty. Filled with the determination to take revenge on the Russians for our humiliating retreat a few weeks earlier.
With the Vafen SS divisions Dasich and Totenop on our flanks, we pushed through the milky fog that obscured the horizon, blurring the distinction between sky and earth.
Everything around us turned gray. The surrounding world lost its perspective and color.
We moved forward day and night, stopping only to chip the frozen ice off the wheels and tracks.
Wherever the Russians had put up resistance, their corpses lay. The eyes and mouths of the dead were covered with a crust of ice, and their faces were frozen in the cold embrace of death.
Here and there, the barrels of submachine guns or rifles poked out of the snow as if begging for help.
To me, they were no longer Bolsheviks, but simply young men who had died defending their country.
The barrel of one of the newest Tiger tanks passing by jerked, spewing a flash of light. A shot rang out, and suddenly the roar of battle ceased.
That is how I learned firsthand the effect of a shot from the Tiger's mighty gun.
The shock wave shook my eardrums, deafening me and rendering me unable to hear the approach of combat vehicles, the howl of incoming shells, or the warning shouts of my comrades.
On the battlefield, this was extremely dangerous.
I breathed the sigh of relief when, after a few hours, my hearing finally returned.
Across the snow-covered fields, our combat group underneath along the main road connecting the city with Belgarod.
Tracer shells set fire to the thatched roofs of the houses where the Russians had taken up positions.
The fires even melted the ice on the fences of neighboring houses.
Steam rose from my overcoat as I passed a burning mill. Its sails kept turning until the entire structure collapsed, engulfed in flames and smoke.
The Russians desperately tried to halt our advance. They launched a surprise attack in the area of the airfield in the northern part of the city.
Positioned a few kilometers to the right, our nebulas, rocket launchers showered the defenders with a hail of rockets. And up ahead, the Tigers engaged the Russians. T34s and the enemy's counterattack faltered.
Armored personnel carriers marked with swastikas advanced closer to the city center. We watched as our tanks shells destroyed buildings, suppressing pockets of Russian resistance.
Couriers on motorcycles sped past, delivering important reports and kicking up the dirty, icy snow with their wheels.
As we advanced deeper into the city, we discovered that the defenders had barricaded the streets with wrecked vehicles and set up traps for the tanks.
Therefore, our tanks were forced to line up on the roads leading to the center and wait until the sapper and engineering units cleared the roads of mines and established safe passages.
Street fighting and winter conditions always carried a danger. And in Karakiv, this danger was of an exceptional nature.
Perhaps this had something to do with the city's layout. Or maybe the enemy had developed new combat tactics. Either way, the Russians fought tenaciously for every house, every block, every street.
In some places, our advance was slowed by deep knee high snow, and the risk of being hit by sniper fire increased sharply.
We moved from one house to the next. Our group was led by a resourceful Oberushfur, with whom we had achieved success in battle on more than one occasion.
Suddenly, a handful of Russians opened fire on us. Our commander was on the opposite side of the road at that moment. He returned fire, forcing the Russians to retreat. We began to pursue them and managed to fire several shots before they disappeared into some building. Perhaps it had once been a factory or some kind of warehouse.
Our obermura rushed after them. We raced across the road to catch up with him and found ourselves at some kind of stairwell.
Skipping over several steps, we rushed upstairs.
Hearing some kind of metallic clang upstairs, we stopped abruptly.
Exchanging glances, we silently agreed to continue our mad climb, regardless of the danger that might lie in wait for us upstairs.
And there, a heavy metal door blocked our path. I yanked the handle, but the door was locked. One of my comrades pushed me aside and kicked the door with his foot. I joined him and began striking the door with the butt of my rifle, but the door still wouldn't budge.
Since our attack in the city center was not over, we had no choice but to abandon our feudal attempts to get inside.
We could only guess at the fate of our brave Obermfura.
One thing is clear, that day we most likely lost a trusted comrade.
On the second day of fighting in KKE, I received an order to report to the company command post.
Navigator Bartman, said the officer on duty. I have a small task for you. He handed me an envelope and added, "This report concerns the delivery of ammunition, so make sure it reaches the supply base. I'm sure you understand that the completion of this task is vital to our success in this battle."
I had only a vague idea of the location of the relevant supply unit.
Where exactly am I supposed to deliver the package?
But the officer grimaced and shook his head without offering any explanation, then waved his hand vaguely.
I'm sure you'll manage to find it.
As I set off through the streets, where fierce fighting had raged all day, it began to grow dark. Time and again, or so it seemed to me, I was given highly dangerous assignments.
But I swallowed my irritation. After all, an order is an order, and now it was my duty to carry it out, regardless of the risk.
Using any cover I could find, I cautiously made my way past piles of rubble and houses with shattered windows. An enemy sniper could be lurking in any of those windows. So, after walking several kilometers in the opposite direction from where we had gone the day before, I reached the outskirts of the city. A dim light shone from a house by the roadside.
I wondered whether I should go in to ask the residents for directions.
However, after a brief moment's thought, I concluded that such curiosity would be too risky for a lone soldier.
I decided to press on through the darkness until I finally reached a fork in the road.
Which way should I turn? I hesitated for a few minutes, then decided to take the right fork.
After walking another kilometer along the deserted road, I noticed dark figures of soldiers in the distance. Who were they? Russians or Germans?
I froze in my tracks.
One of the figures moved toward me, waving his hand and gesturing for me to come closer.
And then an unfamiliar voice called out to me. A Russian voice.
A cold shiver ran down my spine.
Although my heart was pounding wildly, I kept my composure, turned slowly, acting as nonchalant as possible, and walked back. My legs were shaking.
The Russian called out again, but I ignored him and kept walking and walking until I was a safe distance away.
After all, my guardian angel was on my side again.
When I reached the fork in the road, I turned left.
Soon, the silhouettes of combat vehicles loomed in the blue haze. This time, I was more cautious. I lay down on the ground and crawled forward until I was absolutely certain they were our own.
Then I shouted the password, "Morning dawn!"
The excited sentry let me pass, and the agitant escorted me to the commander, who was fast asleep. The agitant tapped the officer on the shoulder. "Over Sternfure, I'm sorry to have to wake you, but there's an urgent report regarding an ammunition delivery.
Rubbing his eyes, the Stermfure took the package I held out and began to read.
"Damn it," he cursed. "I'll have to rouse the entire crew."
Getting out of bed and throwing on his tunic, he turned to the agitant. "Don't just stand there like a statue. Rally everyone, we're moving out."
I drove them to the fork in the road, then walked back to my command post.
When I told the officer who had given me this dangerous assignment about my adventure, he simply replied, "You were lucky."
A huge poster hung on one of the lamp posts in Kadk City Square. On it, the words Liandat Square were neatly handwritten.
The fact that such a renaming of a city square in Ukraine filled me with pride may seem absurd now. However, this incident was a testament to the attitude toward us ordinary soldiers on the part of our commanders for whom I personally felt sincere respect.
They did not shy away from the dangers their subordinates faced. Although the Lipstand division suffered enormous losses numbering in the thousands of dead and wounded, I personally did not receive a single scratch in the battle of Khiv.
The concept of a guardian angel ceased to be merely a synonym for luck. I was now firmly convinced that guardian angels really do exist and that one of them had chosen me as his charge.
After our victory in Kharkiv, we moved westward to Olani where the engineering units set up showers and disinfection stations for us. True happiness in the life of a soldier fighting on the Eastern front was the feeling of cleanliness, which for obvious reasons came to us extremely rarely. The long awaited respit had arrived. We rested and regained our strength.
Reinforcements were arriving. In short, everything pointed to the fact that we were being fattened up for yet another colossal battle.
One day we were offered a choice. Either visit the soldiers barracks in Khiv with girls and other entertainment or go to the opera. I chose the opera where they were performing Boris Gordonov at the time. The production was superb and the cast performed beautifully as well. Our soldiers and officers went to the theater with great pleasure. It was a long awaited respit from the hardships and dangers of war.
To add a little variety to the usual routine, our officers organized shooting competitions between teams from different platoon.
A large ravine with a cliff nearby was chosen as a safe shooting range. Targets were set at distances of 100, 200, and 500 m from the firing line.
The prize was a box of cigars donated for the occasion by one of the officers.
Only the six best marksmen from each platoon were allowed to participate in the competition.
Oberstrom Furer Fritz Lauder, our young company commander, was the first to demonstrate his skills, after which the competition began.
One by one, members of each team stepped up to the firing line.
I was pleasantly surprised to come in second after Lauder, and I particularly excelled in the 500 meter shooting event.
A soccer match between the non-commissioned officers and officers teams also helped foster a spirit of friendly competition.
Lacking uniforms so that spectators could somehow distinguish the opponents, the members of the non-commissioned officers team played bare-chested and in shorts.
An attractive Ukrainian woman wearing a colorful traditional headdress welcomed Ellers Bruder Koig and me into her home, our current apartment with the traditional bread and salt.
Still quite young, with a face as fresh and rosy as a sunflower, she cared for us like a mother, cooking for us and washing our clothes.
And she, by the way, spoke German reasonably well.
At least we understood that her husband served as a pilot in the Soviet Air Force.
She slept in the only bedroom while the four of us shared the living room whose window faced the house on the opposite side of the road where our battalion headquarters was located.
Although at first they managed to do it in secret, it soon became obvious that a romance had blossomed between our Ukrainian landlady and Brutder, our driver.
And then one morning as he was heading out to the yard to repair the car, he announced that he would be spending the night in her bedroom.
"Promise me," he asked, "that you won't disturb us tonight." "We promise," we sang in unison.
As soon as Brutder left, Eller began frantically rumaging through the closets and sideboards.
Great. It turns out our landlady makes jam, he announced joyfully, grabbing several empty glass jars.
Now I just need some rope to tie them to the bedsp springs.
That evening, Brutder, smiling broadly with the air of a victor, headed into the bedroom with the landlady.
Eller nearly burst out laughing, but Koig covered his mouth just in time.
Barely holding back our amusement, we listened in silence and waited.
Soon the sound of shattering glass rang out, and then everything fell silent.
"Damn it! He found them after all!"
whispered Eller, whose disappointment was quickly dispelled by a cascade of luxurious clinking sounds as the jars, partially filled with water, began to knock against one another.
Bruder cursed angrily, but his protests were drowned out by our friendly laughter.
It took several days before our driver stopped frowning at Ellers. Our life in Olani was going well until it was overshadowed by tragedy.
It happened one afternoon when I was delivering another report to battalion headquarters.
Drawn by frantic screams, I turned and saw several women in the midst of a crowd of children. They were all fussing over an overturned heavy German motorcycle.
A communications motorcyclist who had just come out of headquarters darted past me straight into the crowd where two women, their hands pressed to their cheeks, stood frozen in horror. I went over to see what had happened. "Damn it, there's a child under it," the motorcyclist groaned as he struggled to lift the overturned motorcycle.
The woman bent over the child, a boy of six or seven, and in a frantic attempt to bring him back to life, slapped his face. Her feudal efforts ended in a cry of grief that echoed painfully in my heart. She took the limp body in her arms and began rocking it, murmuring, "Colola! Kolanka!"
Drawn by the general commotion, women from nearby houses gathered around the hapless motorcyclist.
He tried to shout them down, but they pounced on him with their fists. He tried in vain to explain that his motorcycle must have tipped over while the boy was playing nearby.
We barely managed to pull him away from the enraged crowd.
Sternbon Furer Fry made sure a coffin was made for the deceased child and ordered us to stay away while the funeral service was held at the nearby church, followed by the burial at the cemetery.
That's all for today. If you liked the video, please support it with a like and subscribe to the channel. Bye for now, everyone. Until next time.
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