Armee-Abteilung Narwa: Wwii on the Eastern Front

Chapter 1

Plyussa River Valley

It is April 12, 1944, and warm spring air had finally begun to loosen and break the grip of a fierce North West Russian winter, clearly indicating the passing of another season. Leo Glowaski stood in the doorway of his small house and surveyed his northern surroundings, enjoying the bright sunshine and warm weather. It had been a long, cold winter, and today was one of the first days this spring that a man could sit outside without a heavy over coat. He lit a German made cigarette and sat himself slowly down on a well worn home-made wooden chair. Leaning the chair back against the rough, slab siding of his house, he looked up at the sky and studied the billowing clouds racing to the west. It must be windy up there in the heavens, he thought to himself. Only the chirping of swallows and the bubbling of melting snow water interrupted the quiet monotony of the still spring day. Occasionally there was a distant rumbling to the east, the sounds of war, which had been a constant backdrop to life in northern Russia for almost three years. Being sixty years old, Leo had seen many Baltic winters surrender to spring, and considered days like this to be the most enjoyable of the year. Life in a harsh environment encouraged a man to appreciate and enjoy peaceful moments like this. He inhaled the coarse tobacco deeply into his lungs and closed his eyes.

Leo’s humble Farm is only a mile west of the Plyussa River, about forty miles southwest of the Russian city of Kinisepp. Other small farms, presently without inhabitants, are scattered along low areas along the river valley, transitioning to higher ground which give way to scattered but heavy stands of aspen, and are still covered with a blanket of deep snow. A warm weather front moving south from the Baltic Sea confronts the cold air hanging over the still frozen Lake Piepus, causing some turbulence and winds at higher valley altitudes.

The distant whine of diesel and gasoline engines interrupts Leo's reflections. He sits forward, bringing the chair away from the wall of his house. He squints to adjust his poor eyesight, and focuses in the direction of the noise. From his house he can view one half mile of the road, which winds its way up from the Plyussa River valley. He can faintly make out a line of military vehicles. As the vehicles get closer, Leo can clearly see a diverse mixture of horse drawn wagons and military implements competing with walking men for space on the narrow, muddy road. As the mass of equipment and men get even closer to him, Leo can barely make out the black Wehrmacht identification markings on the endless flow of drab military vehicles.

Since autumn of 1943, the German Army has been working on a defensive position along the Estonian border with Russia. Leo had been one of the thousands of workers the German Army conscripted to provide the labor to build the Panther Line. Before being transported to the construction site, the Germans had let him work together with his neighbors to take off their small crops of rye, then rounded them up and put them to work constructing bunkers, trenches, tank obstacles, rail lines, roads and communications. Leo worked on the defensive positions during October, November and December of 1943. The construction was not totally done when Leo had been released, the shortage of materials bringing the project to a standstill.

Russian offensives in late 1943 and January 1944 forced wide gaps in Army Group North’s defensive positions around Leningrad, destroying supply and communications lines. In February the German Eighteenth Army began retreating from their shattered positions near Leningrad. As many of the men and as much material as possible was pulled back to be salvaged from the massive Russian onslaughts. Most of the remaining German Army had managed to get into position along the Estonian border by early March. For the last six weeks defensive units that had been left behind to serve as rear guards to protect the retreat of the main body of the army were breaking away from battling the Russians, and working their way west to join their countrymen at the Panther Line.

More Germans retreating from Leningrad, thought Leo to himself. It is amazing that there are still more to come. Soon the Russians would be coming, he worried. Leo had been a spectator to the full retreat of the German Eighteenth Army since early February. Army Group North were scrambling to get the men and material organized and positioned on the Panther Line positions for maximum defensive utilization, while the ground was still frozen.

Two battered, mud and dirt encrusted motorcycles equipped with sidecars were the first to approach Leo's farm.

Leo watched, and pouring himself a drink of vodka, smiled with amusement as the three-wheeled wonders of modern transportation slipped, spun and fought to make progress on the rutted road, intermittent with mud puddles, slush and snow. Leo was always impressed with the rough terrain capabilities of the German motorcycles. It was obvious by the two back tires sending rooster tails of mud high into the air that the sidecar wheel is also powered.

The motorcycles came to a steamy halt on the side of the road, parking at the mouth of the washed out entrance to Leo's farm-yard. Each motorcycle had a soldier in the sidecar. They all dismounted, the men in the side cars struggling to get free from tangled equipment, and grouped together in a circle. After a brief discussion, three of them turned and walked with purpose toward Leo's meager collection of farm buildings. They unslung sub-machine guns, released the safety catches, and carefully scrutinized the farm lay-out with experienced tired eyes as they approached. The fourth soldier, who had remained behind with the motorcycles, lazily lit a cigarette and leaned back against one of the sidecars to relax, watching after his comrades as they walked toward Leo’s farm buildings.

Their uniforms were shabby and in poor condition. The clothing and kit had obviously received many untalented attempts at patching and repairs with thread and patch material in varieties of colors. It was obvious by the damaged clothing they wore that the men had been through some violent experiences.

As they got closer, the soldiers slowed, and checked the surroundings with careful, methodical sweeps. The smallest soldier of the three, who was obviously in charge, gestured to the straw roofed barn and log granaries. The other two split up and advanced on these buildings.

The short soldier turned and walked toward Leo. As he got closer, Leo could make out the lightening SS on his metal helmet, which had goggles strapped on its brow. He had the twin chevrons of a corporal on the arms of his camouflage smock. His worn leather Y straps sagged under the weight of canvas ammo pouches, water bottle, and two stick grenades. Binoculars dangled on his chest. He kept his machine pistol in front of him but aimed low as he approached.

Leo had always been treated fairly by these conquers from the west, so was not concerned. In fact, he had grown to prefer the orderly way of life under the German Military Government, and was glad to be rid of the harsh dictates of Stalin. A few new settlers from Germany and other parts of western Russia had moved into the area in the last two years, and had brought many new, modern ideas, along with a modest influx of investment money. Most of the Estonians and Russians who had ignored Stalin's 1941 order to retreat and leave parched earth for the invading German army were beginning to visualize a better lifestyle and possibly a more secure future, even though most of the local resources for the last year had been secured for use by the German Army.

There better not be any partisans hiding on your farm old man, growled the stocky Waffen SS Corporal in fluent Russian. He stopped and surveyed the farmyard, looking to see if his men found anything suspicious. Oberfuhrer has no humor left, since we have begun to retreat, and is looking for avenues to vent his frustrations. He strolled up to Leo and stopped beside him.

Holding a dark glass vodka bottle out in a gesture of friendship, the wizened old Ukrainian replied. I assure you there are no enemies on this humble farm. He persisted in waving the bottle, offering a drink to the Corporal.

The SS Corporal stepped up onto the porch, not acknowledging the drink being offered him. He moved past Leo, keeping his eyes on the two dirty windows, straining to see through them. Opening the door abruptly, he stepped into the musty one-roomed house and swept the interior with the muzzle of his submachine-gun.

You haven't noticed any new strangers in the area lately, have you, old man? He continued as if not expecting an answer, like he was talking to himself, some partisans have been causing trouble for the local commander not far from here. He stepped back out into the sun light, his gaze constantly on the move, absorbing everything with his sharp blue eyes. His nostrils had been assaulted by the fine dust and musty smell of the cabin interior.

The Corporal walked out of the building entrance, passed in front of Leo and gazed down at the rutted road snaking east toward the Plyussa River and the valley beyond.

Leo set his bottle down on the ground beside him and noted the Corporals expression as he took in the view. The Corporal had an obvious look of satisfaction, like he was pleased with a new discovery. He demonstrated the bearing of a person that has come up with an idea that will be appreciated by others.

The Corporal's tone was impersonal. You are going to have to move your bed into a granary, as the Army has need of your house and barn for a short time. We will probably even renovate it and upgrade the furniture for the officer that will be staying here.

Not waiting for Leo's reply he walked briskly into the yard and met with the two soldiers who had completed their check of the farm buildings. After a short conversation, one of them turned and strides athletically back to the parked motorcycles.

The guard, patiently waiting at the road, and anticipating the need to leave quickly, took one last puff on his cigarette and carefully put it out. He stowed the butt in a tobacco pouch made from the toe piece of a ladies light leather slipper. Straddling the saddle of the bike, he swung out the starter pedal. Jumping high to bring his full weight on the kick-starter, his BMW started with a sputter as it was running on one cylinder, but soon the other cylinder fired and it idled smoothly. He gently revved the engine indicating he was ready to go, as his comrade climbed into the sidecar. They turned and roared back into the stream of the oncoming convoy. The passenger in the sidecar quickly pulled on his goggles to protect his eyes from the splashing slush and mud.

A steady stream of heavy armor now rumbled past the driveway of Leo's farm. Some were Beutepanzer tanks, which are captured Russian T34 tanks with new Wehrmacht identification painted on the hulls and issued to German Panzer divisions. Included in the armored vehicles is a mixed assortment of light and heavy models of the German Panzers. There are Hundreds of men, many riding, and some running to keep up with the equipment. An interesting array of self-propelled, truck and horse drawn guns also followed. Numerous supply trucks, horses, wagons and foot soldiers were interlaced in the moving flow of equipment.

Several hours later, and the military traffic continued steadily, like the endless flow of a river. The sun was beginning to set, and the temperature began to drop rapidly. The SS Corporal and his driver were now helping themselves to the vodka, and were arguing about what the outcome of the next campaign would be. The driver was questioning the superiority of the German army, much to the dismay of the Corporal. They did not include the old Ukrainian in any of their conversation. Leo watched them argue like a spectator watching a sporting event.

Twelve soldiers left the main road and walked tiredly up the approach to Leo's farm. A Sergeant was at the head of this rugged group of men. They wore an assortment of German uniforms that did not distinguish them as belonging to any particular section of the armed forces of Germany, although the dark panzer pants and short jacket was predominant.

The stocky Sergeant interrupted the conversation of the two SS troopers, I'm Hellmich, I've received orders from Captain Hehr to help set up rear guard at this farm. A large artillery gun is to be positioned here, and we are to provide support and protection.

The SS Corporal took another appreciative drink of the vodka as he studied the rough group of men before him. You have found the right place. The gun will be arriving within the next two days. Your new commander for the rear-guard along the Plyussa River will be Waffen SS Captain Jodl. A 150MM gun situated here can strike any approaches to the valley without being readily detected, but more important, the Plyussa River bridge defenses are also within range. Several mobile assault guns and an assortment of tanks will be staged between here and our new defensive positions on the Panther Line, and will be ordered to advance when and where armor support is required.

Hellmich shook his head and grinned knowingly. I hope the defensive rearguard has more than one large field gun, and a few assault guns. We need more firepower to hold back the ocean of Soviet humanity and material attempting to overrun us.

The main purpose is to support the Hiwis (Ukrainian volunteers in German uniforms) and Estonian volunteers that are guarding the bridge at the river. They will likely be the first attacked. There are two Panzer Pz Kw4's with support infantry camped across the road behind the tree line to help out if you come under attack. Jodl does not want too much congestion in one place. The rear guard is lean, but deployed in such a way that if one position comes under attack, the other units will be able to provide support. The General wants the rear-guard in position to keep the bridge open as long as possible. There continue to be many scattered remnants of the Eighteenth Army still fighting their way back to the Panther Line, and we need to get these men and as much equipment as possible across the Plyussa river.

Hellmich and his men listened without comment. Hellmich pointed to a deteriorating log granary, and his men tiredly filed past the farmhouse without even looking at the SS Corporal, who was appraising them critically as they moved by. Falling in behind the ragged band of tired Soldiers, Hellmich joined his men.

When they were beyond the hearing of the SS men, Hellmich signaled to stop his men. They all waited with anticipation, wanting to hear what he wanted. Have a brief rest and something to eat, then let us hurry and get set up so we can get rested before the Russians pay us a visit. I have a feeling that we are going to be in the middle of a major fight sooner than the Corporal implied.

The men nodded and shuffled off to find comfortable places to lie down and get some badly needed rest.

The temperature dropped twenty degrees within three hours of the sun going down. The SS Corporal and his driver had left on their motorcycle. Hellmich’s men went about the business of getting settled in for a prolonged stay, wanting to make everything as comfortable as possible. A military truck manned by two Russian civilians and a Wehrmacht quartermaster stopped and dumped off a variety of equipment, including food supplies, ammunition, and field telephones with large spools of wire.

Hellmich sent two of his men to help Leo the farmer carry necessities from his house to one of the better of the decrepit log granaries. They carried a heavy homemade aspen post bed with a straw mattress, a chair, oil lamp, food, blankets, and a varied assortment of pots, pans, bottles and clothing. As they worked they dodged Leo's attempts at conversation. Leo realized they were not being rude, just anxious to get the work done so they could get some long awaited rest.

After Leo got his meager belongings arranged in his new quarters, he took his rickety homemade chair outside. He did the buttons of his coat up all the way to his chin, to keep out the frosty evening air. Leaning his chair back to get himself comfortable, he lit a cigarette, and watched the bustling activity going on around him. He had led a lonely life after his wife died, and his children had grown up and had been relocated by the government to work in the growing industrial cities of the USSR which had an unquenched thirst for labor. The children had not really been interested in staying on a remote farm anyway, and had anticipated a better life in the larger centers. Two of his idealistic sons, who had dreamed of an independent Ukraine, had joined a German SS Police division after the invasion, and were stationed in a Kiev garrison.

The German soldiers at the farm did a lot of their defensive construction work in the dark for fear of air attacks, as the Russian Air Force had recently taken primary control of the sky. The Luftwaffe seldom had the strength to challenge the Russian Aid Force. Foxholes were dug, sandbags filled with dirt and stacked, and telephone lines strung out. This group of men worked together efficiently as men experienced in accomplishing tasks together. Within five hours, with the moon bright overhead, the work was complete. All preliminary defensive positions prepared, including a MG 34 machine gun nest situated on a knoll overlooking all the approaches to the farmyard.

After they were done with the defensive construction, they warmed gruel meal over small open fires and ate quietly, with little conversation. When finished eating the men all shuffled tiredly to respective granaries where they spread heavy woolen blankets over straw for the most comfortable beds most had experienced for many weeks.

Two soldiers stayed in the foxhole with the MG 34, and a rifleman patrolled the farmyard. The men in the foxhole took turns sleeping on the dirt floor or standing watch. The men in the granaries slept deeply, some snoring comfortably, protected and safe because of the guards, believing the Russian Army to be safely on the other side of the Plyussa River.

Leo got up from his chair as the interesting activities he had been observing for the evening were over. He walked into his granary with short, fragile steps, holding onto the door frame as he entered the building. The affects of drinking a considerable volume of alcohol had slowed down his mind and muscles. Within fifteen minutes he was in bed and sleeping fitfully, dreaming of forty five years ago, long before the Bolshevik Revolution when he was a strong young man, working long days as a sharecropper for one of the Czars feudal landowners.

The next day the little farm yard was bustling with human activity. The sharp smell of aspen cook fires hung in the still cold air. Hellmichs men were working on the little extra touches to their new homes that would make their stay more comfortable.

Straw was being stuffed into canvas and burlap bags, to be used as thick pillows and mattresses. A makeshift wood burning heater was being manufactured from two old oil barrels. Three men carried water in metal Jerry cans from the well to be heated on the fire for giving soiled uniforms much needed washing. Two other men carried dry fire wood from the forest, sawed it into blocks with cross-cut saws, and then used heavy axes to split it into firewood.

Hellmich appraised his men's accomplishments in the farmyard with satisfaction. If the Soviet Army doesn't show up looking for a fight right away, we might finally get a well deserved rest, he remarked to himself out loud for the men to hear. He stripped off his uniform and underwear and put a greatcoat over his pale white nude body. His face, hands and lower extremities of his arms were a dark contrast to the rest of his body. He picked up his bundled uniform, strode to the fire, and threw it into the hot water barrel which was frothed with soap, to soak and cleanse.

After hanging his freshly washed and wet underwear, shirt, jacket and pants in a tree to dry, Hellmich, wearing only a pair of tattered pants, undershirt and laced short boots, sauntered over to the rotted structure that housed Leo.

Leo was sitting on the south side of his building, by the crude doorway. Soaking up the rays from the bright morning sun, and as usual, smoking with a demeanor of personal satisfaction.

Hellmich sat down on a dry patch of ground next to Leo. He held out a large callused hand and spoke in broken semi-fluent Ukrainian, Sergeant Joseph Hellmich.

They shook hands with appraising eye contact, immediately taking a liking to one another. They relaxed and talked about the war, chain smoked cigarettes, and drank cup after cup of vodka. Two hours went by; the day was quiet with no wind. Hellmich could feel himself getting drunk. They had stopped talking for awhile and were separately contemplating activities they would be involved in, and places they would be, if there was not a war happening.

They heard the whine of aircraft at the same time, both turning towards the sound, approaching from the west.

Three Stuka dive bombers screamed overhead in side by side formation, wing tips almost touching, following the river valley to the southeast. The planes were the Luftwaffe’s armored versions of the Stuka, equipped with cannons to attack and destroy tanks. These aircraft were very successful in supporting ground warfare on the Russian front, but no match for the Russian Yak fighters that preyed upon them.

They must be on a patrol and attack mission, covering our retreat, reasoned Hellmich. It is amazing what one of them can do to against several tanks. I have seen the tank hunters in action often in the last year. A Stuka pilot by the name of Rudel has over two hundred Russian tank kills to his credit, and regularly destroys two or three on each patrol.

Do you believe these flying machines will stop Stalin's advance? questioned Leo with a worried frown. Their eyes followed the sleek warplanes as they traveled across the blue sky, quickly getting smaller and then disappearing over the horizon to the east. The howl of their powerful multi-cylinder engines slowly dying off into a distant whine.

If we had several thousand it would probably not be enough; and those three can do little, Hellmich confessed as he got up from sitting on the ground. He stood and dropped his cigarette on the ground beside him, then stepped on it, grinding the butt into the damp ground with the toe of his heavy jack boot. It has been good talking to you Leo, I will come back again another day, he said as he turned and walked up the hill toward the machine gun position.

The next day - April 13, 1944

Machine gunner Garret Gruten scrutinizes the procedure to be sure that his two helper's actions include every minute detail of cleaning and oiling his beloved MG34, and also the spare barrels. Some would consider the MG34 machine gun an ugly weapon of war, but Gruten gazed upon the polished steel and worn wood with the same appreciation some men would view a beautiful woman. He basked in the gleam and awesome firepower of the finest machine gun design available in the world. This weapon is light, accurate, reliable, and provided a rate of fire over one thousand rounds per minute. The MG34 was responsible for more dead Soviets that many other German weapons combined. The massed Russian attacks cost many lives, as humans were cut down like swaths of wheat or barley with the stuttering MG34.

Gruten abruptly takes the gun from the hands of Stumpy, and trying to be patient, explains to him the proper techniques for quick changing a hot barrel under fire. Gruten handles the gun with affection, wiping it with a cotton cloth before remounting it on the bipod. He gets in behind the gun and sights along the barrel, swinging the gun in wide arc. He notices Hellmich coming up the rise.

Does this position look as good to you this morning as it did last night? Hellmich questions, as he stands on the edge of the foxhole and examines the field of fire around them, and in front of the machine gun barrel.

Yes, even better. We have a very good vantage point from here, replied Gruten, as he swept his arm in a wide arc to the south-east.

Hellmich lowered himself into the foxhole and glanced approvingly at the way Gruten had set up and arranged the equipment. He leaned back against the foxhole wall, digging his heels into the ground before him.

The machine-gun is perched on a