had turned. In 1942, the Axis would enjoy spectacular successes. But it is a critical historical reality that senior functionaries of the Third Reich realised as early as December 1941 that military victory had become impossible, because Russia remained undefeated. Some thereafter nurtured hopes that Germany might negotiate an acceptable peace. But they, and perhaps Hitler also in the innermost recesses of his brain, knew the decisive strategic moment had passed. Gen. Alfred Jodl, the Führer’s closest and most loyal military adviser, asserted in 1945 that his master understood in December 1941 that ‘victory could no longer be achieved’. This did not mean, of course, that Hitler reconciled himself to Germany’s defeat: instead, he now anticipated a long war, which would expose the fundamental divisions between the Soviet Union and the Western democracies. He aspired to achieve sufficient battlefield success to force his enemies to make terms, and he clung to this hope until April 1945. Since the Western Powers and the Russians shared morbid and persistent fears of each other seeking a separate peace, Hitler’s speculation was at least a little less fanciful than it might now appear. Only time would show that the struggle was destined to be fought out to the end; that the rupture he anticipated between the West and the Soviet Union would indeed take place, but too late to save the Third Reich.
7
Moscow Saved, Leningrad Starved
Those who fought the war saw its turning point in late 1942, when Japanese advances in the Pacific were checked, and the Germans eclipsed at Stalingrad and in North Africa. For months before those events, the Allied nations endured a diet of almost unbroken ill tidings, which the United States’ entry into the conflict could not deflect. Konstantin Rokossovsky, the most glamorous as well as one of the most formidable of Stalin’s generals, was commanding Sixteenth Army north of Moscow. In mid-November he told a reporter, ‘Soon the Germans will start to get washed out and the time will come – we’ll be in Berlin.’ His words later seemed prescient, but at the time few people around the world grasped the gravity of the Wehrmacht’s predicament in Russia, the fact that some of Hitler’s closest advisers already believed his bid for global domination doomed.
German forces were still thrusting forward north and south of Moscow, but losing momentum. On 17 November, a Wehrmacht division broke and fled in the face of an attack by new Soviet T-34 tanks. Fresh Russian armies were taking the field; the invaders were running out of armour, fuel, men and faith. A young SS officer wrote: ‘Thus we are approaching our final goal, Moscow, step by step. It is icy cold…To start the [vehicle] engines, they must be warmed by lighting fires under the oil pan. The fuel is partially frozen, the motor oil is thick and we lack anti-freeze…The remaining limited combat strength of the troops diminishes further due to the continuous exposure to the cold…The automatic weapons…often fail to operate because the breechblocks can no longer move.’ If a man spat, the moisture froze before reaching the ground. A single regiment reported 315 frostbite cases. On 3 December Hoepner, commanding Fourth Panzer Group, reported: ‘The offensive combat power of the Corps has run out. Reasons: physical and moral over-exertion, loss of a large number of commanders, inadequate winter equipment…The High Command should decide whether a withdrawal should be undertaken.’
Again and again the Germans threw themselves at the Russian positions – and again and again they were repulsed. Georgy Osadchinsky saw a group of German tanks and supporting infantry mill in confusion before a railway embankment they could not pass, as Soviet guns wreaked havoc. Tank after tank caught fire, and the survivors began to retreat. He watched a German soldier flounder helpless in the snow on all fours, while others scrambled clumsily back towards their own line. ‘Relief and happiness swept through our ranks,’ wrote Osadchinsky. ‘The Germans did not seem so terrible now – they could be beaten.’ Russian tactics were still murderously clumsy, based upon frontal assaults launched at Stalin’s personal behest: one such, against the flank of the German Ninth Army, caused the slaughter of 2,000 men and horses of a cavalry division. Tactical leadership was poor, troops ill-trained; Rokossovsky railed against Zhukov’s insistence on the doctrine of ‘no retreat’, imposed by the Kremlin. Russian blood leached into the snow in unimaginable volume.
But German commanders still underrated their foes. An army intelligence report on 4 December concluded that ‘At present the enemy in front of Army Group Centre are not capable of conducting a counter-offensive without significant reserves.’ They had no notion that Zhukov had been reinforced by nine new armies, twenty-seven divisions; more horsed cavalry units had been raised, which could move through snow where vehicles could not go. The invaders stood just twenty-five miles from the Kremlin, with spearheads nine miles from the capital’s outskirts. But, after suffering 200,000 dead since the start of Typhoon, they had shot their bolt.
On 5 December, the Russians launched a massive assault which caught the Germans almost literally frozen in their positions. The Stavka had awaited the assistance of General Winter. The thermometer fell to 30 degrees below zero Celsius, so that German lubricants hardened while Russian weapons and tanks still worked – the T-34 had a compressed-air starter, immune to frost. A stunned infantryman named Albrecht Linsen described the response of his unit to the Soviet assault: ‘Out of the snowstorm soldiers were running back, scattering in all directions like a panic-stricken herd of animals. A lone officer stood against this desperate mass; he gesticulated, tried to pull out his pistol and then simply let it pass. Our platoon commander made no attempt at all to stop people. I paused, wondering what to do, and there was an explosion right next to me and I felt a searing pain in my right thigh…I thought: “I am going to die here, 21 years old, in the snow before Moscow.”’
The Russians smashed into the exposed German salients north and south of Moscow, then exploited westward. The unthinkable became reality: the invincible Wehrmacht began to retreat. ‘Each time we leave a village, we set it alight,’ wrote Lt. Gustav Schrodek. ‘It is a primitive form of self-defence, and the Russians hate us for it. Yet its grim military logic is clear – to deny our pursuing opponents shelter in the terrible cold.’ Lt. Kurt Grumann wrote from a field dressing-station: ‘Eighty men were brought in here today, half of whom have second-or third-degree frostbite. Their swollen legs are covered in blisters, and they no longer resemble limbs but rather some formless mass. In some cases gangrene has already set in. What is it all for?’ Many tanks and vehicles were abandoned, immured in snow and ice. ‘The ghost of the Napoleonic Grande Armée hovers ever more strongly above us like a malignant spirit,’ wrote gunner Josef Deck.
For ten days the Wehrmacht staggered back through a white wilderness landmarked with huddled corpses, the blackened carcasses of abandoned vehicles. Most German commanders favoured a major withdrawal. Hitler, displaying an obstinacy which mirrored that of Stalin, called instead for ‘fanatical resistance’. The ardent Nazi General Walther Model played a hero’s part in stabilising the line. Stalin, against Zhukov’s strong advice, insisted upon extending operations. On 5 January he ordered a counter-offensive the length of the front. Once more following Hitler’s example, by spurning an opportunity to concentrate forces against the weak point in the German line Stalin threw away the possibility of a great victory; Rokossovsky later offered a scornful catalogue of the blunders made, chances missed. The Germans still resisted fiercely, mowing down attackers in tens of thousands. Soviet reserves were soon exhausted, and their advance ran out of steam. Model recovered some lost ground, and Zhukov’s hopes of encircling Army Group Centre were frustrated. But a decisive reality persisted: the invaders had been pushed back between sixty and 150 miles. The Russians held Moscow.
Even as the fate of Russia’s capital was decided, further west a parallel drama unfolded, of almost equal magnitude and embracing even greater human suffering. From north-west and south, in the autumn of 1941 Axis forces closed upon Russia’s old capital Leningrad. Barbarossa persuaded the Finns to avenge their 1940 defeat: in June 1941 Finland’s army, re-equipped by Hitler, joined the assault on the Soviet Union. German troops thrust from north Norway to reach positions within thirty miles of Murmansk. The Finns showed no enthusiasm for advancing much beyond their 1939 frontier, but on 15 September, with their aid the Germans completed the encirclement of Leningrad. The ensuing siege
