Retreat From Rostov Part Two

By Paul Hughes

This book is Part Two of Three Parts that collectively tell the story of thirty-four days in late 1941 which saw armies of Adolf Hitler defeated for the first time, at Rostov in the North Caucasus.

Its characters—with the obvious exceptions of Stalin, Hitler, Timoshenko, von Kleist, and others equally well known to fame—are fictional. But its historical matters, military movements, communiqués, and the like, are authentic.

Originally published in 1943 as a nearly 600-page war novel by Random House, it was dedicated by Paul Hughes “in worshipful humility, to the Russian people, who, without drama and without complaint, are shedding their blood so copiously in defense of their land.”

Within one week the advance printing of 15,000 books was sold out, and Random House immediately ordered the next printing. Critics hailed it as one of the best war stories to be written while World War II raged. Three generations later this amazing treasure trove of memorable characters drawn from the fertile mind of Paul Hughes continues to fascinate those who read it.

It is an amazing array of multi-faceted word pictures of male and female characters that the reader will not soon forget. It was soap opera on a grand scale before soaps took over day-time television.

• Language: English
• Publisher: UCS PRESS
• Release date: Aug 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9780943247373

Book preview

Here is how a feature in TIME described Retreat From Rostov:

The novel was a Russian rodeo of heroes,

heroines, Nazi villains, Don Cossacks, foreign

correspondents, soldiers, civilians, enough snow

to bury an army, enough melodrama to burn

out every fuse in Hollywood.

A bit of World War II trivia:

When future United States President George H. W. Bush was aboard the submarine USS Finback, which had rescued the young Bush on September 2, 1944 after his Avenger torpedo bomber went down near the island of Chichi Jima, he wrote the following in a letter to his parents:

I have been doing quite a bit of reading lately.

Retreat From Rostov; and Dos Passo’s Number One

plus Captain from Connecticut and now The Robe.

NOTE: The full letter was published in War Letters: Extraordinary Correspondence from American Wars by Andrew Carroll; Simon & Schuster, 2002.

This book is Part Two of Three Parts that collectively tell the story of thirty-four days in late 1941 which saw armies of Adolf Hitler defeated for the first time, at Rostov in the North Caucasus. Its characters—with the obvious exceptions of Stalin, Hitler, Timoshenko, von Kleist, and others equally well known to fame—are fictional. But its historical matters, military movements, communiqués, and the like, are authentic.

Originally published in 1943 as a nearly 600-page war novel by Random House, it was dedicated by Paul Hughes in worshipful humility, to the Russian people, who, without drama and without complaint, are shedding their blood so copiously in defense of their land.

Within one week the advance printing of 15,000 books was sold out, and Random House immediately ordered the next printing. Critics hailed it as one of the best war stories to be written while World War II raged. Three generations later this amazing treasure trove of memorable characters drawn from the fertile mind of Paul Hughes continues to fascinate those who read it.

This three-part presentation of

Retreat From Rostov

is dedicated to the memories of

Paul Hughes

(May 1, 1916-January 20, 1979)

and his beloved wife,

Marjorie Hughes

(May 22, 1920 -December 11, 2009)

who was a great support to her husband

during research and writing of the

original Random House edition.

****

Retreat From Rostov

Part Two

November 14 to November 24, 1941

Paul Hughes

Published by UCS PRESS at Smashwords

UCS PRESS is an imprint of MarJim Books

PO Box 13025

Tucson, AZ 85732-3025

Copyright 2011 by Paul M. Hughes and his sisters Jo Nell Boyle and Amy Jane Hinerman who are, collectively, as heirs of Paul and Marjorie Hughes, the sole owners of all rights to this book.

Cover design by Marty Dobkins

ISBN: 978-0-943247-37-3

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the authors.

Table of Contents

Friday, November 14, 1941

Saturday, November 15

Sunday, November 16

Monday, November 17

Tuesday, November 18

Wednesday, November 19

Thursday, November 20

Friday, November 21

Saturday, November 22

Sunday, November 23

Monday, November 24

****

Friday, November 14, 1941

It was Corporal Hansen Kette who had first seen, and brought to the attention of his entire unit, the twisted gargoyle of Taganrog. Corporal Kette on this morning had finished his duties in the kitchen comparatively early; he was baking the loaves which would soon be taken to the hungry men fighting the war up there. Indeed, for several days he had been up there himself at a field kitchen, but had then been transferred to Taganrog.

Lying near the steps of the kitchen, where it had evidently lain all night, was the specter which had brought him so much amusement. The corporal looked once and saw possibilities in this caricature of a man. It was an old creature, with scattered wisps of white hair flying from a brown old head, and it lay with its head resting on its left shoulder. Its eyes looked mutely up at Corporal Kette in a strange supplication, and it moaned in a high tone of pain. The corporal went to investigate, leaning down over the form. The corporal mustered up the best Russian he knew to make inquiries.

What’s the matter with you?

There was only a groan for an answer, a shrill wheezing sound of protest, but not a response.

Well, can’t you speak? Has somebody hurt you? Why do you hold your head like that? Can’t you get it straight on your neck again?

Again, no word issued from the old man lying at the foot of the steps. He shifted his eyes nervously under their bushy white brows. He only jerked and twisted spasmodically. This disgusted the questioner even more.

Come, man, why don’t you say something? There’s nothing wrong with you now, is there? Get up and tell me all about it! Who are you, anyway?

The shrill groan became a word. Papushka, the groan said.

Is that your name?

The head nodded.

Is that all you can say? The head nodded again.

Corporal Kette saw possibilities of sport. Then let me help you up, my friend. He lifted the old man to his feet and began to help him walk, holding him stiffly by the arm. If you have been out all night, then you are exhausted this morning. There is nothing like spending a night in Russia outdoors to exhaust a person now, is there?

Papushka shook his head.

A man would think that Government of yours would take better care of its flock than this. What does Grandpa Stalin mean, leaving you out in the cold? Papushka hobbled along with the German, not even responding by a change of his blankly wild expression. And yet you and your people complained when the Germans came to rescue you. A fine sense of gratitude, I must say! Is there nothing you can say, old man?

The head of Papushka responded negatively.

During this supremely entertaining monologue, the corporal had been half-leading, half-carrying his recently acquired charge toward a central square of Taganrog, where a large number of German soldiers was gathered. While Hansen Kette and Papushka were still more than a block away, the men at the corner looked up and watched the progress of the corporal and his burden with expectant eyes, knowing the former for a clown.

Here, Kette said, you have a specimen I picked up on my doorstep this morning. Isn’t it a little early for Kris Kringle to be leaving me presents?

The soldiers laughed; and even Papushka managed a sly kind of idiot grin, as though enjoying the joke on himself.

And yet, there it was, plain as day, a package in front of the building. Maybe in this country Saint Stalin delivers his gifts early.

This time Papushka joined in the laughter. It was in a high voice, cackled in great jerks shrilly; his lips were slightly separated and his whole body shook with the pain of putting itself to such strenuous work. The soldiers laughed twice, once at the words of Corporal Kette and again at the appearance of Papushka.

Go ahead, old one, tell them all what your name is, Corporal Kette insisted.

The old man made no sound.

Go ahead, I say! Tell them your name!

Papushka. The high voice squeaked, and the group of soldiers laughed mightily. Papushka.

You hear, Comrades? He is the Little Father himself—or the Little Devil. Anyhow, he’s little enough to play either part. There was amusement again.

What is the matter with you, old boy? Were you born like this?

No, the head indicated. Then perhaps some time in the revolution one of the Czar’s men made you like this?

No.

Oh, then during this war?

Yes, the head nodded; then the lips and eyes grinned, as if it were all a good joke.

You see, gentlemen? It is the war that has made him so. Now all he is fit for is a Punch and Judy show, and there will be none of those until the war is over. Perhaps one day he had a good mind and a good body, but now both are gone. The war has done it. It is one of the horrible crimes of Germany!

The soldiers rocked with laughter at this thrust.

Yes, just think of the events of our recent history. Czechoslovakia, Poland, Norway, Denmark, Belgium, Holland, France, Yugoslavia, Greece—and now, our crowning conquest, Papushka! His audience was enchanted with the farce. Even Papushka’s laughter reached for higher tones as he coughed and cackled. Finally the old man grinned, showing an ugly absence of teeth in the front of his mouth. This, added to his simpering look of laughing at himself, sent the audience into gales of giggling. And the more they laughed at him, the more Papushka seemed to appreciate himself.

This age has not seen his equal, and very probably his like never existed before in all the world. They smiled at the words, then at Papushka, then roared at the victim’s antics, finally increasing the guffaw when they saw that Papushka was joining them, though he didn’t understand a syllable of German.

But their enthusiasm soon began to pale. Many of them drifted off toward the district where the women were kept. While the battle for Rostov was going at its present intensity, there were few men who got leaves to come to Taganrog, and those who did found a wide selection of feminine flesh. Corporal Kette for a few moments reflected that he would join the group bound for the brothel, but he recalled the results of his last visit, and he did not wish to become involved either in the brawls of whores or the amatory affairs of an infantry colonel. He was suddenly tired of Papushka; he began to wish he had not brought him.

What shall I do with you? he said, resuming his rough Russian.

You think I have time to care for you all day? Oh, no, it is still early morning and I have too many things to do today. Where shall I put you, old man?

Papushka pointed to a deserted corner of a building, and there Corporal Kette sat him down. He saw him settled on a mound of snow, his head still on his shoulder and his few white hairs straggling in the breeze. Corporal Kette went away, satisfied that his responsibility for the day had been executed with some thoroughness.

When Kette was out of sight, having turned a sharp corner, and while there was no one within eye range in all the neighborhood, the creature Papushka stood up firm and straight, cautiously lifted his head from his shoulder and exercised it, looked about and stretched himself. Then he ran to another corner, where he sat down and assumed his contorted posture, as if waiting to be noticed by someone. He seemed strangely contented.

Far away at the front line Johan Frimel, though handsome and sound of limb, was less than half as satisfied with himself. Johan Frimel was at this moment engaged in the adjustment of some sandbags in a trench before Rostov, under the supervision of Captain Karl Schroeder.

What’s the matter with you, Frimel?

What, sir?

What’s the matter, I say? Last night you were long overdue from your leave, and this morning you are acting as if you don’t care who wins the war. What’s wrong?

Why, I don’t know, sir. Nothing, I think.

What did you say was the matter last night?

I got a ride up from Taganrog in a truck; it was damaged and I was several hours late.

Couldn’t you have transferred to another truck?

I stayed to help the driver make repairs, sir.

Oh. Yes. I suppose you are an expert mechanic?

Not expert, sir. But helpful.

What was the driver’s name?

I don’t know, sir. He didn’t tell me.

What outfit?

I’m afraid I didn’t notice, sir. It was too dark for me to see the insignia.

The captain walked away, and Johan Frimel returned to work on the trench. It was bitterly cold, so cold that the snow seemed veritable arrows slashing against his face. The already fallen snow was frozen into a surface almost as hard as steel, treacherous to walk on. Dressed in an issue of clothing much too light for the weather, Johan did his work. He tried not to complain as he moved the sandbags from a shallow trench to a larger, deeper one, where much of his contingent was being transferred to do battle. Soon he was very tired.

At this point Russian artillery began an intensive bombardment of Johan’s position and the entrenchments near it. Johan’s only response was to hover along the edge of the ditch until he saw his opening; then he ran for a slight recess, a branch of the trench which faded away behind the line and around a corner. Here he was at the end of the excavation, while only a few yards away the entire unit rushed into activity. The gunnery was answered in kind by the German artillery behind Johan, and the noise of firing, the whistling and exploding of the shells, and the resultant crashing of snow-capped dirt and debris was a malevolent and continuing muttering.

A shell exploded only a few yards away, and snow and dirt were thrown all around Johan by the concussion. The noise of the trench in front of him was tremendous, as infantrymen completed their preparations to receive the expected Russian mass attack.

Out of the mists which hovered over the snowy front came the first intimations of Russian infantry. Far away, as though wrapped in clouds, the Soviet soldiers came on the heels of their artillery’s surge, driving against the fortified and excavated point of the Germans.

The Russian infantry was soon only a few hundred yards away.

German artillery was pouring a hellish fire into the advancing column, but the big guns of the Russians were wreaking almost as much destruction in the Nazi trenches. Now the waiting Reich soldiers could see the Soviet masses plainly, thousands of them, attempting to reach and take the German trench.

As if struck by a lightning bolt, Johan leaped to his feet. The opposing infantry units were now so close together that the artillery fire had ceased altogether, each army fearing its big guns might harm its own men. The Germans waited in silence for the Russians to dive in upon them. When the Red army attackers, screaming mightily, were perhaps one hundred yards away, the entire German sector opened fire with pistols, rifles, repeating rifles, ‘machine guns and hand grenades. Johan grabbed his gun and ran to the front trench, crowding himself among the others until he could see the coming Russians plainly. He watched entranced as they fell in front of the trench; he watched bemused as the survivors of every blast continued to come, running now as if their race had only started; he watched amazed as they continued to come on, heedless of the men who dropped from the initial wave. He fired repeatedly into the columns of Russians while they ran toward him. Then the mass was upon him and his comrades.

The next half-minute was a frightful daze as he leaped aside to dodge the bayonet of a Russian, then speared his adversary in the back with a sickening squish of blood and entrails. He tried to draw the blade from the body and could not. Another Russian was above the parapet ready to leap. Johan Frimel ran along the trench then, took a little side road, and was soon retreating to the next trench lines, a quarter of a mile to the rear.

The entire contingent followed him, as the Russians gained possession of the position and manned it so fiercely that there was no question of a German counterattack. The Russians had paid dearly for the strategic spot. The Germans rested in a new position, panting from the fight and the retreat and throwing up precautions against a new Russian smash. Johan felt very cold when he stopped running.

You crazy bastard! Captain Schroeder yelled. Who told you to begin the retreat?

Why, nobody, sir.

You ignorant swine! You were the first to retreat and they retreated after you. You lost that trench; do you know that?

No, sir.

Well, you did. Where were you just before the attack started?

I was in a side trench.

I ought to send you up for court-martial. Do you know that?

Yes, sir.

But I won’t do that. I’ll do something even better.

What?

I will make my punishment precisely equal to the crime. Tomorrow, you shall lead the charge, just as you have led the retreat today.

What, sir?

You lost that position over there today. Tomorrow I want you to take it back for me. We will attack at our earliest opportunity in the morning. I want to see you out in front of the entire force, leading the men.

You might as well sentence me to death, sir.

Perhaps not.

Sir, I think you are being unfair. What could I have done?

A man fights, Frimel, until his commanding officer tells him to stop.

Even though the man has no fighting equipment except his bare hands?

Let us have no more of this, Frimel. It is decided. Tomorrow you will lead an attack on the position we lost today. I expect to get it back.

Johan waited a long time to answer. Yes, sir. I am to die in the morning.

Don’t be so gloomy about it, Frimel.

Johan watched until the officer was out of sight.

As he did so, German communications officers in a room back at Taganrog were sealing the doom of Rostov with much more elan than Johan Frimel exhibited. Several Nazis, including Captain Max Wessling, were gathered around a radio receiving set in Taganrog. The loudspeaker was pushed to its highest volume but produced nothing.

I see nothing miraculous about all this, Captain Wessling explained.

But wait, one of his friends insisted. There will be something in a few minutes. There always is, every day.

But what can he tell you?

It is uncanny. He is in Rostov where he can see and hear everything, and he tells it to us.

How do you know it is all accurate?

Very simply. We tested him, at first cautiously and experimentally. He told us where a certain motorized division was encamped. We sent one plane over and verified it, then a flight to bomb it before it could escape. It’s been that way ever since.

Why, that’s marvelous.

The radio operator lifted his hand for silence. Then, sharp and clear, the dots and dashes began to drip from the loudspeaker, and the operator took down the letters as they came to him. As he filled each page with letters, he tore it from his tablet and handed it to an officer, who immediately ran out of the room with it, then appeared for another page within a minute or two.

What is he sending now? Captain Wessling asked.

I don’t know, his friend replied. I’m not an expert at this kind of code.

Where does that officer take the messages?

To a superior who immediately segregates the reports, then distributes them to the proper departments. Why, very often it’s only a matter of minutes between the time we get the message and the time we actually launch an attack against the unit or location described in the radio message.

I never heard of anything quite like it. But who is this man inside Rostov?

I’m sure I don’t know. Somebody in the German army does, but certainly not I.

They stood quietly and waited until all the messages had been received, written on the tablet, torn off and taken away. Then the dots and dashes began to utter a monotonous routine combination of sounds which was the sign-off signal. The German radio operator threw a switch which cut his receiver off, then turned to the two officers still standing behind him.

A busy day today? Captain Wessling asked. Anything very interesting?

Yes, sir. There were several mechanized units moving north out of Rostov to the Russian lines there. We got the whole story, and if the flyers are up to the usual standard today, those tanks will never reach the battlefront.

Anything else?

Principally locations of divisions—where various outfits of cavalry and infantry, artillery and air force are stationed today. Why, I could tell you about the defense of Rostov better than I could the German plans for capturing it.

The man must be complete.

"He