right to work that afternoon, and the wounded were first given something to eat, hot drinks and first aid. Dr. Bruestle, the battalion surgeon, slid off his gloves and readied his skilled hands to work in the frostbite.
Until the next morning there was little else for Peiper’s battalion to do besides stand guard. Once night settled over the frozen Donetz Basin, Jochen and his battalion stood and stared hollow-cheeked into the ominous darkness. Sharing guard duty, Jochen got no more than 90 minutes of sleep that night.
Dr. Bruestle came to see Peiper first thing in the morning.
“I don’t know what happened to these men along the way, but this is ridiculous. A mess.”
“I’ve been operating all night long, and I don’t need to tell you what that kind of exposure does to one’s hands.”
“…But you wouldn’t believe it! No one from the 320th so much as lifted a finger to help me!”
“Be lenient with them, Herr Doktor. Gods know what they’ve seen. The 320th has been stranded for two days and has been in close combat for six days previous to that.”
Once Jochen gave the order, the endlessly long column, frostbitten Dr. Bruestle included, began to shuffle its way back northwards, ambulances on the road and fighting men deployed on both sides to protect each side. The air of vulnerability permeated everyone’s nerves.
Again the road back to friendly lines was eerily devoid of Bolsheviks. Those in front soon noticed a plume of smoke coming from a burned-out ambulance ahead. Jochen knew that the enemy had gotten some of the stragglers from the previous day, but he wasn’t prepared for what they would soon lay eyes on.
Three German ambulance drivers had just been torn to pieces. Two were unrecognizable. One driver’s face was smashed open with an ax.
“Watch out! There could be mines!” A lieutenant shouted to the Landsers.
Word passed from mouth to mouth. Soldiers stopped at the second ambulance and looked in without daring to enter. Two ambulance men, who had been stripped naked and mutilated, were lying in pools of black, congealed blood. The Bolsheviks amputated both of their genitals.
Jochen’s face contorted with hate. But, right at that moment there would be no time to think, because their column came under fire from a snowshoe battalion that must have sneaked into the village. Immediately the Germans pressed themselves into the snow. Some fired back.
Without hesitation, and despite the obvious danger, Peiper calmly mounted the flamethrower onto his halftrack. Jochen simply gave one motion of his hand, and with that, the halftracks left the ambulance column exposed and charged the village at top speed with all guns firing.
The Russians broke into a panic within minutes. Peiper’s vengeful flamethrower went into action, as did several other mounted blowtorches. Fires spread only slowly from one isba to the next; the winter cold made a house-to-house battle necessary. After what the battalion had seen, they were more than up for the task.
Machine gun fire from the halftracks chewed up wooden walls and threw off thatched roof after thatched roof. And Bolsheviks panicked and scurried out, some with their hands up. But if Jochen had told his men to take prisoners, his men just might have just shot him as well. Another Bolshevik came out with a white flag in hand and was promptly shot in the skull. One of Jochen’s lieutenants snarled and trained his rifle onto one another surrendering Bolshevik.
There were at least 500 Bolsheviks in that snowshoe battalion. None of them lived. The whole time, Jochen hardly even noticed that the adversary had reduced that planked wooden bridge to a pile of rubble.
Postel brought the ambulance convoy into the charred remains of what was Krasna Polyana village, so they wouldn’t lose their cover.
“The designated bridge team is already on it, Postel,” Jochen growled. He was not in the mood to suffer the arrogant Generalmajor for a second
Until the next morning there was little else for Peiper’s battalion to do besides stand guard. Once night settled over the frozen Donetz Basin, Jochen and his battalion stood and stared hollow-cheeked into the ominous darkness. Sharing guard duty, Jochen got no more than 90 minutes of sleep that night.
Dr. Bruestle came to see Peiper first thing in the morning.
“I don’t know what happened to these men along the way, but this is ridiculous. A mess.”
“I’ve been operating all night long, and I don’t need to tell you what that kind of exposure does to one’s hands.”
“…But you wouldn’t believe it! No one from the 320th so much as lifted a finger to help me!”
“Be lenient with them, Herr Doktor. Gods know what they’ve seen. The 320th has been stranded for two days and has been in close combat for six days previous to that.”
Once Jochen gave the order, the endlessly long column, frostbitten Dr. Bruestle included, began to shuffle its way back northwards, ambulances on the road and fighting men deployed on both sides to protect each side. The air of vulnerability permeated everyone’s nerves.
Again the road back to friendly lines was eerily devoid of Bolsheviks. Those in front soon noticed a plume of smoke coming from a burned-out ambulance ahead. Jochen knew that the enemy had gotten some of the stragglers from the previous day, but he wasn’t prepared for what they would soon lay eyes on.
Three German ambulance drivers had just been torn to pieces. Two were unrecognizable. One driver’s face was smashed open with an ax.
“Watch out! There could be mines!” A lieutenant shouted to the Landsers.
Word passed from mouth to mouth. Soldiers stopped at the second ambulance and looked in without daring to enter. Two ambulance men, who had been stripped naked and mutilated, were lying in pools of black, congealed blood. The Bolsheviks amputated both of their genitals.
Jochen’s face contorted with hate. But, right at that moment there would be no time to think, because their column came under fire from a snowshoe battalion that must have sneaked into the village. Immediately the Germans pressed themselves into the snow. Some fired back.
Without hesitation, and despite the obvious danger, Peiper calmly mounted the flamethrower onto his halftrack. Jochen simply gave one motion of his hand, and with that, the halftracks left the ambulance column exposed and charged the village at top speed with all guns firing.
The Russians broke into a panic within minutes. Peiper’s vengeful flamethrower went into action, as did several other mounted blowtorches. Fires spread only slowly from one isba to the next; the winter cold made a house-to-house battle necessary. After what the battalion had seen, they were more than up for the task.
Machine gun fire from the halftracks chewed up wooden walls and threw off thatched roof after thatched roof. And Bolsheviks panicked and scurried out, some with their hands up. But if Jochen had told his men to take prisoners, his men just might have just shot him as well. Another Bolshevik came out with a white flag in hand and was promptly shot in the skull. One of Jochen’s lieutenants snarled and trained his rifle onto one another surrendering Bolshevik.
There were at least 500 Bolsheviks in that snowshoe battalion. None of them lived. The whole time, Jochen hardly even noticed that the adversary had reduced that planked wooden bridge to a pile of rubble.
Postel brought the ambulance convoy into the charred remains of what was Krasna Polyana village, so they wouldn’t lose their cover.
“The designated bridge team is already on it, Postel,” Jochen growled. He was not in the mood to suffer the arrogant Generalmajor for a second
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