War Curiosities: Stalingrad 1943. To the last man and the last bullet.

February 2, 1943. A brutal, crushing, inhuman cold grips the ghostly city on the banks of the Volga. The air slipping through the unrecognizable streets of this phantom metropolis is as sharp as a razor blade. It is a freezing wind, seemingly capable of slicing faces, tearing lips, and cracking the skin of those who dare leave their cellars and parapets to venture into the sea of rubble that the once-dazzling industrial city has become. Stalingrad, the pride of the Soviet Union, appears to the eyes of the men still fighting amidst its ruins as a colossal tomb where thousands of comrades have succumbed in a savage struggle that began back on August 23rd of the previous year. Indescribable barbarity. A massacre without parallel. The final hours of the Wehrmacht in Stalingrad are numbered. The reduced German contingents still refusing to capitulate wait in their positions for the final onslaught of the Red Army. Inside a factory in the northern sector of the city, a radio operator exchanges a look fraught with anguish with the officer beside him. One is about to broadcast what will be, unbeknownst to him, his final message. The other, his nerves steadier, counts the few remaining rounds he has to feed his Luger P-08. Both know their fate is sealed…

Stalingrad. View of an apocalyptic landscape.

January 31, 1942. The Tragedy of an Army.

Just before the turn of the month, on January 31st, the German troops besieged in Stalingrad found themselves split and surrounded in two pockets—one to the north, in the industrial sector, and another to the south, in the city center. In this second pocket, right where the Univermag department store stood, deep in its basements, Paulus had established his command post for the battle's final stretch. Hours earlier, Paulus, commander-in-chief of the disintegrated 6th Army, had been promoted to Field Marshal by Hitler. Such a "reward" was a clear invitation to commit suicide (never in German history had a Field Marshal been taken alive by the enemy). Ignoring the Führer's orders, overwhelmed by the terrible losses his divisions had suffered, Paulus signed the surrender. Gripped by a stifling atmosphere and the moans of dozens of wounded men crammed into that rathole, the Field Marshal resigned himself to capitulation. There was no other choice, no other way out. His men had fought to the end; hundreds had fallen to enemy fire, disease, the cold, and some even died of starvation. Yes, many of the once-imposing and model soldiers of the Wehrmacht had starved to death, immersed in the deepest misery. During the final days of fighting, combat-fit personnel received, among other meager rations, barely 100 grams of bread; the equivalent of 230 calories, when in previous months the German 6th Army had established that frontline rations should provide at least 3,000.

Paulus (right) scans the front through binoculars.

When the tense moment of surrender arrived, a solitary Russian T-34 tank waited at the doors of the Univermag store, its engine purring menacingly. The crew commander, Lieutenant Yelchenko, emerged from a hatch, ready to parley. His expression was austere, determined, and defiant. He feared no bullet, intoxicated by the safety that victory over the enemy provides. A sepulchral silence reigned, barely disturbed by gusts of freezing wind and the unmistakable sound of the T-34's gut. Moments later, dragging their feet, the German officer corps abandoned their fetid headquarters. Those men presented a Dantesque image. Their eyes, half-open and rheumy, stood out in a deplorable frame of gray faces, consumed by disease, slapped by the stinging brightness of the outside world. “Our supreme commander wishes to speak with yours,” said one of the German officers. “Ours has other things to do. You’ll have to deal with me,” replied the Soviet lieutenant.

Shortly after, Paulus and his entourage were driven in a Russian staff vehicle to Beketovka, a suburb of Stalingrad. Inside a humble wooden house, General Shumilov, commander of the Soviet 64th Army, awaited them to negotiate the surrender terms. Numerous cameramen, eager to snag a valuable snapshot of the German Field Marshal, seized the moment to immortalize the unique scene for posterity. Unknowingly, they became exceptional witnesses to a historic event. The Wehrmacht had finally been defeated on the banks of the Volga.

Paulus, looking gaunt, arrives accompanied by other German officers at the command post of General Shumilov of the Russian 64th Army.

February 2, 1943.

The city of Stalingrad, where days ago Field Marshal Paulus had to accept capitulation, is still the scene of desperate combat. Although Paulus himself ordered a cessation of hostilities on January 31st, some of his subordinates have since refused to accept reality. At the same time, other German pockets, having lost contact with neighboring units, hold firm in their positions despite Russian announcements everywhere that the German 6th Army has just capitulated. They don’t trust it. They think it’s a Soviet ruse. The haggard soldiers exchange looks full of exhaustion and dejection. The retinas of these infantrymen, battered by war, reflect with a dull shine the faces of comrades who, despite terrible suffering, harbor a glimmer of hope. They know things are bad, very bad, but... bad enough that the entire 6th Army has surrendered to the Russians? No, it cannot be...

A German soldier regains his strength amidst the ruins.

Sick, malnourished, and freezing to death, those Germans who have miraculously survived the battle brace themselves for the inevitable: the last day of fighting in the hell of Stalingrad. Inside a ruined factory in the northern sector, a pocket of frozen Wehrmacht soldiers listens to one of the many messages the Red Army repeatedly broadcasts over a loudspeaker in the distance. Among them, the commanding officer, alert to the update, checks the condition of his Luger P-08. He sighs in relief. It is still functional. Meanwhile, the word "surrender" cuts through the air from Russian positions to the German barricades. There, taking cover behind the remains of machinery destroyed by intense combat, some flirt with doubt. On the verge of embracing the peace offered by the Soviets, more than one weighs two totally opposite options: walk out with hands up or meet death at any moment. Some, whose morale has not yet completely collapsed, hasten to reload their weapons and place grenades within easy reach. Others, sheltering behind the few walls still standing, cover their ears; they don’t want to hear what that damned voice is proposing. The metallic voice speaks of hot food and shelter that, outside the horror Stalingrad symbolizes, will be provided to those who capitulate immediately, without question. Anguish, doubt, and despair are three hammers striking with equal force the brain of every soldier who internalizes the message launched by the Red Army. Treacherous voice! cry those inwardly who, one way or another, do not intend to give up.

Interior of a Stalingrad factory. Absolute desolation.

The lanky Russian soldier who has just offered the succulent deal hands the loudspeaker to his superior, a stern captain who wastes no time in issuing a warning that chills the blood of anyone listening. If they do not lay down their arms, in a few minutes the German position will be leveled. They are the last pocket of resistance. There will be no quarter for those enemies who stand in the way of the Red Army's advance.

The end of the Wehrmacht is approaching.

Once again, silence takes over much of the battlefield. Only a few scattered shots and distant explosions tear the stillness of that industrial sector. The air slips through holes in walls and partitions, drilled by bullets, crushed by explosions. The howling wind becomes far more sinister as it passes through the window frames, where shards of glass, like knives, slice the current to emit a haunting whistle. Some cannot withstand the pressure and put a bullet in their temple with a Luger snatched from the lifeless body of some officer fallen under Russian fire. Others, deliberately, expose their torsos through windows and doorways. Before long, a shot rings out and, immediately after, the body of a ragged German soldier slumps to the ground. One of the few German officers who has survived previous assaults, despite being wounded, gathers the strength to rally his men. What does it matter to die here or days later in captivity! No one must fail the badly wounded comrades who need the protection of those still breathing and standing to fight! He asserts this with his arm raised while waving his old Luger P-08.

A German soldier contemplates the shattered roof of a factory.

The officer's words seem to instill courage in those who, inevitably, must face an enemy far superior in numbers and resources. A courage that some men reveal in the faint glint shining in their eyes. Courage. Something they thought long forgotten. Courage. A mere mirage faded over endless months of suffering among the ruins of Stalingrad. Courage. The only note of life on the countless gaunt faces confined there. In a secluded spot, the only radio operator left alive in the German position proceeds to transmit what will be the unit’s final message from the factory barricade. His voice, brittle at first, becomes firm as the subsequent words spring from his throat: "We are the last survivors. We have several wounded. We have been entrenched in the factory ruins for four days. We haven’t eaten in days. I have just opened the last ammo for my automatic. In ten minutes the Bolsheviks will attack us. Tell my father I have done my duty and I will know how to die. Long live Germany! Heil Hitler!"

A Wehrmacht radio operator transmits a message. Will it reach its destination? (Illustration by Antonio Gil from "Stalingrado. La Historia Gráfica" - La Esfera de los Libros, 2018 - Antonio Gil & Daniel Ortega).

The officer, with a grimace of disapproval etched on his sharp-featured face, contemplates his inseparable Luger. He nods with great slowness. Its metal frame feels icy to the touch. Not even the stylized wooden grips of the P-08 offer any warmth to its owner. The cold is atrocious. He snorts. Only she, along with the scarce ammunition remaining, can grant him a slim chance of escaping this deadly encirclement alive.

A legendary pistol: Luger P-08. Parabellum-Pistole, in German, is the exact designation of the weapon we commonly know as the Luger; although among the variety of models that have survived to this day, the Luger P-08 is the one that has shone with its own light in history. Its patent was filed by Georg Johann Luger in 1898, a weapons and ammunition designer of Austrian origin.

Georg Johann Luger.

Starting in 1900, the Luger pistol (Model 1900 Parabellum) entered production at the Deutsche Waffen und Munitionsfabriken (German Weapons and Munitions Factory). Almost immediately, one of the first countries to introduce it as a sidearm for officers and cavalry troops was the Swiss Army, whose model used the 7.65 × 21 mm Parabellum caliber. 1904 marked a turning point in the then-short existence of the Luger. That year it was approved for use in the Imperial German Navy. However, the design for the Navy (P-04) involved some variations, such as a two-position rear sight and a longer barrel length. But if this event was a milestone in Luger history, two years earlier, in 1902, the implementation of a new caliber, the 9mm, was undoubtedly something that revolutionized firearms history. From 1902 onwards, the 9mm cartridge forged its own fame, rising as a global reference and, thanks to its versatility, has reached our days as one of the most used for pistols (also used in revolvers and submachine guns).

Luger P-08 Pistol (replica made by Denix).

Such was the fame acquired by the Luger in its early stages that, in years to come, under license, "Parabellum" pistols began to be produced beyond Germany's borders. By the year 1908, the Luger patent marked another milestone in its history. None other than the German Army incorporated the pistol as a sidearm for its soldiers. It even replaced the aging M-1879, a revolver commonly used until then. It was during the First World War that the Luger, specifically its famous P-08 model, saw mass action. According to sources, it is estimated that just over two million units were used in the conflict. The Luger P-08 used in the Great War was fed with 9x19 mm Parabellum cartridges; an inseparable tandem that was maintained for decades to come.

 

Several German soldiers pose with their respective Luger pistols (Artillery version and with a 32-round drum magazine, First World War).

When addressing its technical aspects, it is worth noting that the Luger P-08 is a recoil-operated semi-automatic pistol. If anything distinguishes this mythical weapon, it is its internal mechanism, operated by a jointed arm—the toggle-lock—also characteristic of the P-08. In its time, this peculiar system was quite striking (and remains so today), as the slide was of an external type in the vast majority of semi-automatic pistols of the early 20th century. With it in hand, once cocked and the safety released, the user fires the first cartridge and, immediately, the bolt and barrel move slightly backward due to the recoil. Once the barrel and the characteristic Luger P-08 linkage reach the end of their travel, the chamber is exposed and, through the opening, the empty casing is ejected. Then, thanks to the action of the recoil spring, the mechanism introduces a new cartridge into the chamber from the magazine (with an 8-round capacity). Once empty, a button located on the left side of the grip, near the trigger, serves to release the magazine when pressed.

A Luger with its respective holster.

By way of conclusion, one cannot overlook that the Luger was presented in several versions within the military sphere, such as the one used by the Artillery branch of the German Army, whose barrel measured about 20 cm (it also had an adjustable eight-position rear sight), compared to the usual 10 cm of the model used by the Infantry or the 15 cm of the Navy. Also noteworthy are some of the accessories manufactured for the Luger P-08, such as an attachable stock, different holsters, and even a drum magazine with a capacity for 32 cartridges ("Trommelmagazin 08").

German paratrooper with a Luger P-08 gripped to his belt (World War II).

Despite being used by thousands of soldiers during both world wars, in the late 1930s, another pistol, the Walther P-38, gradually replaced the Luger P-08 within the military sphere. But, despite this, it did not mean its definitive extinction, nor its condemnation to oblivion. During both conflicts, it was a prized trophy for combatants on both sides. Even today, it is a firearm highly appreciated by countless collectors and history enthusiasts, as its striking design is capable of capturing the attention of anyone who sets eyes on it.

Graphic diagram of a Luger pistol.

Soviet Fury.

We return to the northern pocket, where the factories of Stalingrad simulate an apocalyptic cemetery erected from chimneys and twisted masses of iron. The German soldiers resign themselves to taking part in the final combat. There is no turning back. That Wehrmacht remnant, with the hardened officer commanding a group of ragged, malnourished men with wavering morale, prepares for the imminent: unlikely surrender or a more than certain death. The officer, with a vacant stare, contemplates his inseparable Luger P-08, whose metallic touch seems to warn him of the danger looming over his position. Prior to the Soviet assault, hundreds of cannons unleash a rain of harrowing destruction. All Soviet fury is unleashed on that sector, victim of a devastating bombardment. For long minutes, Red Army artillery makes the ruins and foundations of every factory shake as if they were houses of cards. Countless explosions light up the leaden day with scorching flares. Roofs, walls, and windows burst amidst thunderous chaos. Earth, ice, and snow fly through the air; they seem to spring from the ground to furiously scratch the sky witnessing the barbarity unleashed in Stalingrad. Shrapnel whistles mercilessly, tearing the air in search of fresh flesh to sink its teeth into. The living and the dead dance the macabre waltz set by "Stalin's Organs." The very ground seems to want to split in two, as if wishing to swallow both the corpses scattered everywhere and the bruised bodies of the German infantrymen who, crouched down, try to cling to life... At least for a few moments more.

Soviet infantry on the assault.

Again, like something unexpected after a deafening apocalypse that was presumed endless, silence dominates the surroundings of the factory. Such is the devastation witnessed by the German soldiers that not a single one is capable of uttering a word. Not even the wounded dare to emit a whimper. Human remains and rickety machinery pepper the ground here and there. The first whispers, intermingled with weeping and agonizing groans, begin to run through parapets and trenches. The storm of fire and steel has finally subsided. As if driven by automatic mechanisms, the soldiers react almost in unison. They reload weapons and prepare hand grenades. The Russian infantry will not be long in arriving. The officer, with his lustrous Luger P-08 gripped in his hand, scans the defensive positions. Medics, without bandages or medicines, attend as best they can to those in their death throes; more than healing, they try to accompany with kind words those about to die amidst horrendous pools of blood. With head bowed, he walks the last inch of ground remaining in Wehrmacht power in that drama called Stalingrad. Snaking between the corpses and the countless craters caused by the bombs, he instills courage in his subordinates, who nod their heads after hearing his words, huddled among rubble and cadavers. He also takes the opportunity to grab a few more 9mm rounds. Soon his pistol will demand a large amount of ammunition. Absolute calm...

Ghostly appearance of the interior of one of the factories located in the northern sector of Stalingrad.

Upon returning to his post, his ears catch a strange sound. It is as if a peculiar creak accompanied the pendulum movement of a heavy object. Someone next to the radio points toward one of the few beams still intact above their heads. A couple of soldiers hang from ropes. They couldn't take it anymore. That is the fate of those who lose their minds now that the end is so near. A shot in the temple or a rope; either alternative presents itself as an acceptable solution now that the Russians are about to raze everything. “Did no one stop them?” the officer asks in a low voice while sliding the safety off his P-08. “Would it make any sense?” the radio operator counters.

The final hour of the condemnation. Kill or die.

Outside, beyond the factory walls, hundreds of lungs shout a characteristic cry in unison. "Urraaaaaaaah!!" It is the Red Army infantry that has just launched the attack. Numerous T-34s immediately appear in the factory compound like a ghostly apparition. Their guts roar with fury and their cannons vomit shells left and right. The tracks of the Soviet tanks crush everything in their path. They scatter snow and mud as they go. But they also scatter death, for their machine guns hammer the walls of every building behind which enemy soldiers are sheltering.

A T-34 in the foreground, escorted by Soviet infantrymen, heads towards an enemy position.

While most Wehrmacht men choose to engage in savage combat with the Soviets, others resolve to take their own lives by shooting themselves or hugging a hand grenade with the din of battle around them. These are the ones who do not want to end their days in a prisoner camp in Siberia. Sometimes rumors wreak havoc. The rest, those who still dare to stand up to the Red Army, fight with ardor. They are soldiers, some still beardless, who prefer death in combat rather than betraying their comrades, wounded or dying, without whose help they will not survive. The Soviet infantrymen, despite the hair-raising casualties decimating their ranks, manage to reach the factory walls. Alongside them, the T-34s knock down everything in their path to facilitate the task of annihilation for their brothers-in-arms. Hundreds of bullets whistle and patter everywhere. Hand grenades fly over the heads of those who, amidst screams and curses, take part in a demented struggle. Machine gun bursts, explosions, and submachine gun and pistol fire make up a symphony of destruction in that spot of the industrial complex. Several groups of Russian soldiers work brutally to stifle the last nests of resistance. They are unable to comprehend why the enemy still defends itself like a cornered lion. The reason is simple: they are facing men who have nothing to lose.

Soviet infantrymen assault a building.

The violence is extreme. It comes to hand-to-hand combat. The teeth of both sides grind. Eyes filled with tears. Fierce grappling between attackers and defenders. Shovels and bayonets shine sinisterly as their edges draw murderous traces in the air. Wails, howls, and oaths intermingle in the fight, primitive, fierce to the extreme, something typical of the Russian front. The officer watches helplessly the Dantesque end of his last subordinates while emptying, one after another, several magazines of his Luger. Clinging to machine guns and submachine guns, with ammunition about to run out, his men unload a rain of lead against an enemy that seems to have inexhaustible manpower. Russian grenades land on the German strongpoints, where weapons bark ceaselessly. Those who can react in time throw them back at the attackers to escape death by a hair's breadth. Others, blinded by the heat of battle, are blown sky-high by the powerful detonations.

Hands up! A soldier surrenders to the enemy.

Next to the radio, the officer reloads his pistol. It is the last handful of bullets remaining for his P-08. Sheltered by a wall, the radio operator and he are the only ones left alive to defend the position. Devastating explosions shake the place. A T-34 has just fired a shell at point-blank range. A shower of debris crashes down on both of them. The radio operator is hit by a piece of rubble in the head, which is thrown several meters away. His body, decapitated and on its knees, remains arched until another explosion throws it aside. Stunned, the officer walks with an erratic step and blurred vision. Several brown uniforms appear before him with submachine guns, rifles, and bayonets at the ready. In a last attempt to save his life, the German fires his weapon at the silhouettes he can barely distinguish clearly. The confusion around him is total. Several detonations crackle inside the factory. It is the Luger, singing its final song. Two Red Army soldiers, shot, collapse as a result of the German's luck. Two others immediately lunge at him. They do not wish to suffer the same fate as their battered comrades. With an energetic movement, both infantrymen run the officer through with their respective bayonets. A groan precedes the last shot he fires with his P-08, faithful to the end, but which soon falls to his feet.

Photo 19: Woe to him who falls wounded! There will be no compassion. The hour of Russian vengeance has arrived. After clutching one of the sharp pieces of metal sucking the life out of him, the German officer grunts something incomprehensible. The pain is unbearable. He feels the warm touch of his own blood flowing from his gut. The Soviets stand firm, waiting for the fatal outcome, with cold looks charged with determination. Shortly after, he feels the embrace of a soothing peace. His strength leaves him. His legs give way. He collapses on the ground, littered with casings from his Parabellum, where he ends up bleeding out in a matter of a few minutes. Both soldiers look with a certain disdain at the mortal remains of the Teuton. Although they are enveloped by the roar caused by the last shots and the rumble of the T-34 engines, they are unable to look away from the Luger, still smoking. “Come on, you idiots, don’t just stand there. We still have a few left to give a passport to hell,” bursts in a Red Army non-commissioned officer with a PPSh-41 gripped in his hands. “Ah... I see... You like that pistol, don’t you? Well, don’t even think about doing what you’re thinking. You’ll have time to turn the city upside down when everything has calmed down. Wake up!”

Photo 20: Intense fighting amidst the ruins of a Stalingrad factory.

A Final Reflection.

Solitary, the German officer's weapon, the lustrous Luger pistol, remained next to its inert owner as a mute witness to the barbarity perpetrated by human beings in the Soviet city. An exceptional witness to primitive combats, which often came down to hand-to-hand fighting, and which were resolved with point-blank shots. Iconic, the Luger P-08 is undoubtedly a historic weapon that invites us to meditate on what happened in that contest so atrocious and inhuman. The words spoken by the Soviet sergeant that February 2, 1943, were the prelude to the end for the men cornered in the small pocket of the Stalingrad factory sector. From then on, those who did not surrender succumbed to the fire of the Red Army infantry and armor. Everyone had fought to the last man, the last round, and the last breath against immensely superior forces. Photo 21: The freezing wind, laden with snow, lashes a column of German prisoners. Such a defeat for the Wehrmacht, something unheard of at the time, spread like wildfire across the world. The dramatic fate of Paulus's men had traumatic effects on the German population. In every home of the Third Reich, funeral music was heard for hours. Radio stations halted their broadcasts for three days to pay tribute with gloomy melodies. That music never reached the ears of those who had recently perished along the Volga. Nor was it heard by those who, captured by the Russians, walked toward the prisoner camps and perished there, massacred by disease and misery. Just after the dramatic final battles took place in Stalingrad, Goebbels, the Propaganda Minister in Hitler's service, hastened to draft his famous "Totaler Krieg" (Total War) speech. Many cheered his words amidst the intoxicating ecstasy they were immersed in while Goebbels urged the population to fight the enemy with everything within their reach. What the Propaganda Minister never got to experience was the suffering of the thousands of soldiers who succumbed under the Soviet steamroller in Stalingrad. Far from home, husbands, fathers, sons, grandsons, brothers... All of them spilled their blood in Stalingrad, died, disappeared, or were taken prisoner. Long years later, after the war concluded, little more than 5,000 men would return to the homeland to recount what they suffered in Russia. Photo 22: The dramatic result of the barbarity in Stalingrad. Piles of corpses pile up in the ruins and surroundings of the industrial city.

Was Germany ready for that kind of war after what was evidenced in Stalingrad? It had been proven that it was not. Ⓟ and Ⓒ Daniel Ortega del Pozo www.danielortegaescritor.com

PS 1: For more information about the Luger P-08 pistol, do not hesitate to visit this link, where you will find an incredible replica made by the prestigious brand Denix: https://www.denix.es/es/catalogo/guerras-mundiales-1914-1945/pistolas/m-1143/ PS 2: For more information about "Stalingrado. La historia gráfica" (edited by La Esfera de los Libros, 2018), the graphic novel I developed together with illustrator Antonio Gil, visit this link: https://danielortegaescritor.com/novelas-graficas/ 

An article by our blogger: Daniel Ortega del Pozo