The name Tim evokes the most terrible memories of desolation, hopelessness, isolation and loneliness. It brings to mind a bone chilling, numbing cold and men succumbing to its deathly grip. Tim is not a man, but a town in the middle of nowhere in Russia.

On December 11, 1941 Willi’s unit advanced all day without making enemy contact. They travelled about sixty miles. The unit’s goal was to reach the city of Voronez, but they made only half the distance, arriving at Tim just before darkness. Sergeant Hertig said that Voronez was to be taken the next day. “One way or another we will have to stay here overnight,” he said with a serious face. Hertig usually smiled, but not today.

Everything was desolate and barren where they stopped. There was no shelter anywhere, not even the tiniest tree to offer protection from the severe winter elements. It was wretchedly cold; about 30 degrees below zero Celsius. An icy wind blowing across the steppes drove the fine snow into drifts in front of the vehicles and guns. Country lanes became covered with ice.

The men huddled around their vehicles. Every few minutes somebody got up to stomp his feet. The wind caught the short overcoats and fluttered them like black flags. Men rubbed their faces, hands and ears, trying to not freeze to death. They were exhausted. Desperately they tried to sleep for a few seconds, but would wake up with their ears burning from frostbite. The men had no warm shirts, vests, socks, winter boots or coats and were still wearing their summer uniforms.

The only interruption came from the noise of the motors. The vehicles had to be started every half hour so that their blocks would not burst.

The morning could not come soon enough for these men. It was only 1700 hours, Fourteen hours to go until 0700. It was a long, cold night.

When morning finally dawned every man, vehicle and gun got ready for the attack on Tim. The enemy sat and waited in the town’s huts, with no intention of giving up their position.

Suddenly the German army was greeted with barrages from Stalin Organs – rocket launchers. Willi’s men went into all-out attack mode. His friend, Sgt. Erich Hertig, was one of the first soldiers to storm forward. He was hit in the legs by enemy fire. Somebody grabbed him by his shoulders and dragged him into one of the huts. His pain became unbearable and he lost consciousness. The battle went on into the afternoon. Troop carriers took the wounded, including Hertig, to Kursk.

Out of nowhere, a human wall of Russian soldiers confronted the German sentries at the eastern exits of Tim. The German forces fired into them. As quickly as men fell down, they were replaced with new soldiers, who were also mowed down. It was a fierce battle. Only a handful of Russian survivors fled.
The German forces were relatively small and seemed outnumbered. They decided to stay out of sight and spend the night hiding behind, or in, the houses.

On December 13, 1941 Willi received news from Kursk that Sgt. Hertig was seriously wounded and would not return. This left the assault gun without a leader. Willi was summoned to headquarters in Kursk and appointed as the new leader of the assault gun.

While riding back to Tim in a jeep, Willi met a convoy of black vehicles headed towards Kursk. The three trucks and two jeeps were not the usual combat vehicles. Willi saluted and asked where they were going. The captain said, “We are the burial detail, Sir.” Willi looked into the trucks and jeeps. They all carried the same cargo: white-faced bodies lying shoulder-to-shoulder two layers deep. The frozen bodies looked like wooden soldiers. The captain explained that they would blast holes into the ice, place three men into each hole, and mark the graves with crosses bearing the men’s names. It was a very sad sight. The men saluted Willi and went on to perform their tasks.

As Willi and his driver travelled along the wide steppe, they came across a lone straggler. He looked very young. He wore a worker’s uniform, not one of a combat unit. He was a member of the detail that repaired and rebuilt supply lines such as railway tracks and bridges. He definitely belonged at the rear and was obviously lost. He begged to be taken along. His unit had been withdrawn in early October. Their vehicles had become stuck in the bottomless quagmires created by the rains, then they were ambushed by partisans. His whole unit had ceased to exist as an organized body. He was the only one who escaped. He had been told that he did not legally belong to any unit. He tried to latch on to any combat group. He was willing to perform odd jobs, but nobody wanted him. He was nameless. Willi pitied him and told him to get into the jeep.

Back in Tim, the temperature plunged to 20 degrees below zero. The huts had been heavily damaged and most were useless as shelter. The soldiers had been fighting for many days with hardly any food. They were exhausted and overcome by the cold. They were so tired that they lay down where they were, never to wake up again. The next morning they were found sleeping peacefully, frozen to death. Those who received only second and third degree frostbite usually lost their limbs – if they got to a hospital in time.

The young straggler became lost again. One of Willi’s men found him lying in a street. He was brought into a hut and someone put a blanket over him. Willi asked him where he was from. He answered, “from Sterkrade.” Then he started to cry because he had not received any mail from his parents for a long time. He said that they had even forgotten his birthday, which was three days ago. His whole body shook with terrible sadness.

Willi tried to console him by telling him that nobody had received any mail for weeks. “You don’t even have a field number, so, how could they send any mail to you?” But this made no difference to the teenager. He just could not understand.

Old man Nehlson took the boy’s head into his hands and stroked it. He thawed some bread and gave it to him. Then he heated some snow over the fire and gave it to him to drink. The young lad went to sleep. Suddenly he woke up. He said that he remembered where his unit was. Then he got up and walked out into the snowy night – and was never seen again.

Excerpt from Willi: Diary of a Young Lieutenant by Michelle Kaiser

© 2009 Valhalla Publishing Canada