Authors: Harrison Salisbury
“Why don’t you open fire?” Shcheglov asked a young lieutenant at a machine-gun post.
“That is categorically forbidden,” he replied.
“But you can see the enemy with your own eyes!” Shcheglov exclaimed. “He is getting ready to cross, devil take him!”
“I have less than a thousand cartridges for my machine gun,” the lieutenant explained patiently. “And we have no bullets for our rifles. When we will get ammunition I don’t know.”
The Germans did not try to cross the river that day. Nor the next. Not until very late in the night of September 9 did the handful of Soviet troops on the Neva line get any artillery. That night twenty guns, straight from the gun works at the Kirov factory, arrived in a truck column. It was long after midnight. The night was deathly still. A full moon shone down. All that night Shcheglov went from post to post, distributing the guns. He found some commanders so tired he could hardly wake them. When they staggered up, hardly conscious, they could not understand what he was talking about when he warned that this very night the Germans might cross the river. It was dawn before the last gun was mounted. Would it be enough to halt the Germans?
Two days later Shcheglov and his units were still waiting. They knew the Germans were on the river across from them, but they had no notion of what was going on. They had lost all connection with Colonel Donskov and the NKVD troops that were defending Shlisselburg. What had happened to them and what had happened at Shlisselburg no one knew. On the night of the eleventh Shcheglov and a small unit slipped across the Neva to try and discover whether the Germans were preparing to attack. They found that Nazi tank columns were now returning from Shlisselburg, moving back in the Leningrad direction. That meant one thing: the Germans were not preparing to cross the Neva at this point. They must be mustering strength for a smash across somewhere closer to Leningrad, to the right of Shcheglov’s position, possibly beyond Annenskoye village near the Mga River. The next morning they made contact with Donskov’s NKVD units, which they found moving into positions on their left flank, having gradually reassembled after the fall of Shlisselburg and the crossing of the Neva.
The Germans, it appeared, had made a weak attempt to follow Donskov’s troops across the river. But a small artillery unit commanded by Colonel F. A. Budanov had taken up a position across from Shlisselburg on September 7. Budanov’s guns were able to cover the crossing by Donskov’s troops and discourage the Germans from following over.
Among the Nazi forces on the south bank of the Neva was an SS division which had participated in the German parachute landing in Crete. It was ordered by von Leeb to carry out a crossing to the north bank of the Neva. Von Leeb is said to have ordered the crossing on September 9. If such an attack was tried, it apparently was weak and easily frustrated. No substantial accounts of any attempted river crossing have survived in the memoirs of officers and soldiers who were stationed along the Neva at that time, although many Soviet histories flatly assert that a Nazi attack was turned back. Why a determined German effort was not made is still a mystery.
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The mystery of the Neva deepens when examined from the German side. On August 31 Haider noted in his diary that the question of the “assault of Leningrad"—that is, of a frontal attack upon the city—was still being held open although Keitel’s barbarous proposal that the Germans refuse to feed Leningrad’s population after capitulation and, instead, that the people simply be driven from the city had been rejected because “it cannot be carried out in practice and therefore is wholly pointless.”
Five days later Hitler again conferred with his staff. He now felt that the German objectives had been achieved and that Leningrad would become a “subsidiary theater of operations.” The chief target was Shlisselburg—a decision which was obviously reflected in the drive of the Sixteenth Army up the south bank of the Neva to the old fortress city.
As for Leningrad, it was to be invested along what Hitler called “the outer siege line,” and as much infantry “as possible” was to be put across the Neva in order to close a tight circle around the city from the east.
Once this was achieved, Reinhardt’s armored corps could be released for the coming battle for Moscow. The junction with the Finnish Army was to be achieved through Lodeinoye Pole on the southeastern shores of Lake Ladoga.
The German opportunity to cross the Neva, join hands with the Finns and seal off Leningrad completely from the outside world was missed. Had it been launched at any time during the first ten or twelve days of September, it could hardly have failed. There were not enough Soviet forces on the north bank of the Neva to offer more than light opposition. The guns were not in place. There was no ammunition. There were no tanks. The troops manning the thin line of hastily dug field works were either People’s Volunteers or the remnants of divisions which had been so badly mauled they could have done little but offer token resistance.
Later on the Germans would try again to cross the Neva, to close the ring and cut off the Lake Ladoga communications route. But they would never have as good an opportunity as that which they missed during these early September days.
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One Soviet account asserts that the 115th Division and the Volunteer units to which Shcheglov was attachéd, together with students of a Border Guard academy, repulsed the Germans. (Shtein,
Znamya
, No. 6, June, 1964, pp. 145
et seq
.; Sviridov,
op. cit
., p. 153
et seq.
) Pavlov (
op. cit
., 2nd edition, p. 23) says the crossing was attempted on the night of September 9 between Porogi and Sheremetyevka but was frustrated with heavy losses by “workers battalions” on the right bank of the Neva. Presumably these are the battalions to which Shcheglov was attachéd. He mentions no such action. The Leningrad Naval Defense Staff reported that on September 9 the Germans attempted to cross the Neva between Porogi and Sheremetyevka but were beaten off by the 115th Infantry, the 4th Brigade of marines and workers battalions, supported by naval artillery on warships in the Neva. Hundreds of German bodies lined the Neva after the attack was repulsed (Panteleyev, pp. 156, 195). The official Leningrad history says the Germans attempted to cross but were hurled back by Soviet forces on the north bank aided by naval vessels in the Ivanovskoye rapids.
(Leningrad v VOV
y
p. 147.) Kochetov says the Germans tried to break through at Porogi September 9.
(Oktyabr
, No. 6, June, 1965, p. 163.) What seems much more likely is the explanation of the authors of
N.Z
. (p. 152), who assert that the 39th Nazi Corps had no pontoons and that this forced the Germans temporarily to give up plans to cross the Neva. Small groups, these authorities say, tried to cross and were beaten back with heavy losses.
BY THE SECOND WEEK OF SEPTEMBER VON LEEB’S ARMY Group Nord was driving on Leningrad for the kill. He had moved staff headquarters up to Gatchina, and from this front-line observation post he got a fine view of the city. All the grandiose architectural ensembles built by Peter and Catherine and the later Romanovs lay spread before him like a panorama—St. Isaac’s, the Admiralty spire, the Fortress of Peter and Paul. The dive-bombing and the great fires started by the 240-mm siege guns near Tosno could be followed with clarity. Von Leeb felt victory within his grasp. The Führer seemed pleased and graciously honored him with awards and congratulations on his sixty-fifth birthday. The aging Field Marshal had every reason to believe that he was on the verge of a success which would crown his earlier achievements in breaking the Maginot Line and occupying the Sudeten. Once Leningrad had been captured, he could look forward to pleasant retirement on his East Prussian estates, basking in glory. First, of course, he would participate in the envelopment and destruction of Moscow. That should not take long. The role of Army Group Nord had been clearly spelled out. It would wheel south after capturing Leningrad and approach Moscow from the rear. With good luck the war would be ended by mid-October at the latest—a bit behind schedule, but close enough.
Von Leeb had been concerned about the strength of the forces which he had mustered against Leningrad in mid-August. But now with the armored and air reinforcements which the Supreme Command had finally (if belatedly in his view) given him, he felt that he could accomplish his task.
He had at his disposal about twenty divisions. They comprised the Twenty-sixth, Thirty-eighth, Fiftieth and Twenty-eighth armies and the 41st and 39th motorized corps. However, not all of these units were available for the final assault on Leningrad. Von Leeb had a long flank to the south and southeast which had to be protected.
For the closing attack on Leningrad he was able to concentrate about eleven divisions, and he had been busily engaged in regrouping them during the first week of September. Now he had packed eight divisions, including five infantry, two Panzer and one motorized, into the narrow southwest approach to Leningrad, roughly from Ropsha to Kolpino, facing the special fortified regions which the Russians had created from Gatchina to Slutsk-Kolpino. Von Leeb had created a concentration of one division to each three miles of front. Slightly to the east he had positioned his other three divisions in the area from Yam-Izhorsk to Ladoga.
It was not too difficult for the harassed Leningrad Command to perceive von Leeb’s intention. He proposed to smash into Leningrad from the southwest, plowing through the suburbs of Krasnoye Selo and Ligovo (Uritsk) in the direction of the Kirov factory. At the same time he hoped to break into the city from the southeast along the Leningrad-Moscow highway just beyond Izhorsk and Kolpino.
If it was easy to see what von Leeb intended, it was considerably more difficult to thwart him. The Soviet forces facing von Leeb’s eight-division task force in the southwest were four weak divisions of the Eighth Army (backed up toward Oranienbaum), two broken divisions of the Forty-second Army, four divisions of the Fifty-fifth Army and the command reserves—two infantry divisions and a brigade of marines.
The numerical strength was about the same on each side. But the Nazi divisions were in infinitely better condition and close to full operational strength. They included two tank divisions. The Soviets had no tank divisions. The Germans also had complete control of the air.
Von Leeb launched his attack September 9. The Thirty-eighth Army and the 41st Motorized Corps attacked toward Krasnoye Selo after very strong air and artillery preparation. They were met by a People’s Volunteer unit, the 3rd Guards, and in a day’s heavy fighting pushed ahead a mile or two on a six-mile front. Baltic Fleet artillery joined the battle during the night and the next morning, shelling the Germans heavily and slowing them down, but by midday the Soviet lines began to crumble after von Leeb had thrown in the 1st Panzers from his 41st Motorized Corps.
Voroshilov was in a state that fluctuated from frenzy to despair. It was not only the Krasnoye Selo front which was crumbling. The Germans had begun their terrible air attacks on the city. The Badayev warehouses had gone up in flames. The capture of Shlisselburg had sealed the ring. For practical purposes the city had been in a state of siege for ten days, since the fall of Mga cut the last rail route. To the north the Finns pressed closer and closer to the outer suburbs. Inside the city Nazi long-range bombardment had shaken morale.
Nor was this all. The pressures upon Voroshilov and Zhdanov from Moscow had risen. Stalin’s tongue on the VC line had grown sharper and sharper. He seemed to think Voroshilov was preparing to abandon Leningrad. And worse followed.
Voroshilov had tried to hold back the news of the fall of Mga. He thought he could recapture Mga before the Germans solidified their hold. But he had not. And Stalin had caught him out. Voroshilov had done the same with Shlisselburg. He simply could not bring himself to report its loss. But Stalin discovered what had happened and demanded explanations.
The world of the old revolutionary warrior seemed to be collapsing about him. Nothing he did could halt the Germans—or halt them for long. He had virtually no reserves left. On the shaky Forty-second Army front he threw in the 500th Rifle Regiment at Taitsy. But it was unable to occupy its assigned positions before falling back in wild disorder under air attack, abandoning the key Sparrow Heights to the Germans and opening their way to Krasnoye Selo and the vital Pulkovo Ridge. Voroshilov rushed up from Vasilevsky Island in Leningrad a brigade of marines, the 1st Brigade, commanded by Colonel T. M. Parafilo who had seen service in the Tallinn encirclement. Voroshilov ordered them into the breach at Krasnoye Selo.
The breach could hardly have been more dangerous. The Germans at 3
P.M.
, September 10, hurled at the little village of Payula two hundred tanks, including a number of flame-throwers. They burned out the concrete bunkers which the 3rd Volunteer Guards occupied.
The Baltic Fleet warships were ordered to pour fire into the area while the marines were being brought up.
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On the morning of the eleventh Colonel Bychevsky reported to Voroshilov at the field headquarters which the Marshal had established at Krasnoye Selo. Voroshilov seldom had a good word for Bychevsky. He had none this morning.
“Look here, Bychevsky,” Voroshilov snarled, his pale blue eyes snapping fire, “why haven’t the marines been supplied with entrenching tools? How are they supposed to protect themselves?”
Bychevsky knew that the marines had been rushed to the front. He had no idea why they had no trench shovels. Maybe they had never been issued any. Maybe the shovels had been supplied by the factory without carrying cases. He admitted to Voroshilov he just didn’t know what had happened.
“You haven’t any consideration for the troops,” Voroshilov barked. “I’ll give you half an hour. I don’t care where you get them but get them and personally deliver them to the brigade.”
Voroshilov was in no mood to be argued with. Bychevsky got the shovels. By the time he had them the marines were assembled for attack. They had taken up positions in the thin birch thickets, and Bychevsky could hardly see their long black cloaks beyond the underbrush. No Soviet outfit was more feared by the Nazi troops than the “black death"—the Red marines in their black wool capes. Around the marines roared the battle. The dust of exploding shells filled the air. High in the sky a dogfight was in progress between Nazi and Soviet fighters.
In front of the marines Bychevsky saw Voroshilov, his solid figure firmly planted. The wind carried Voroshilov’s words down the ranks as the old commander called on them to fight for the Motherland, for the Party, for their sailor’s honor. Many of the young sailors had thrown off their steel helmets. They stood, listening to Voroshilov, their blond hair tousled in the wind, their faces fresh, their chins grim. They stood quietly, concentrating on Voroshilov’s words.
For a moment Voroshilov stood silently before them.
Then he said simply, “Let’s go.”
The youngsters began to move, slowly and steadily toward the German positions.
They shouted a quick “Hurrah!” Then they hurried on, overtaking the sixty-year-old Marshal.
Forward the troops went, Voroshilov at their head. They moved over the highway and drove the Nazis out of the village of Koltselevo. Again and again the Nazis counterattacked. Ten times the marines beat them off. But there were no reserves behind them. In the end they had to fall back. Within hours Krasnoye Selo was lost.
Word of Voroshilov’s action spread quickly over the front by the soldiers’ telegraph. Within a day or so the 109th Division heard it. General Dukhanov learned of it the next day. It entered into the legend of the Leningrad siege. Not everyone thought it just an heroic act by the aging commander. Not a few believed that Voroshilov, in despair at halting the Germans, had determined to die rather than suffer the disgrace of defeat— or the fateful penalty which Stalin might mete out to him.
Whatever the old commander’s motivation, September 11 had not come to an end before he was removed as Leningrad’s defense chief. The indictment: passivity in the face of the enemy.
Did Voroshilov know that he was being relieved of command when he marched out at the head of the black-clad marines? Perhaps not. But he may have had a premonition.
In his final report of September 11 to the Supreme Command, Voroshilov had replied to the indictment of failure to halt the Germans, of failure to grasp the initiative. The reasons, he felt, were clear. As early as August 13 he had reported to Moscow: “All our reserves, including aerodrome battalions and the headquarters security detachment, have been sent into action.” And on August 27 he had said again: “Almost all our troops are committed to battle.”
“For two months,” Voroshilov wrote,
all our strength has been directed toward creating a strong shock group with which to seize the initiative from our enemy and go over to the offensive. It seemed that this would be possible through the formation of our four divisions of People’s Volunteers, the rifle division of the NKVD and four infantry divisions sent from the Stavka.
Regrettably these divisions, formed at different times, completely untrained and weakly armed with automatic weapons, had of necessity to be thrown into the most threatened parts of the front.
This was in the second half of July at the time of the enemy’s simultaneous blows at Petrozavodsk, Olonets and Ivanovskoye.
In the middle of August this was repeated on a bigger scale when the enemy simultaneously with the breaking of our front in the Novgorod direction cut off the Eighth Army in Estonia and went on the offensive in the Gatchina (Krasnogvardeisk) direction and on the Karelian isthmus.
In these conditions to talk of mounting a counteroffensive was impossible. The best Voroshilov had been able to do was to carry out local counterattacks.
Voroshilov’s presentation was accurate. It was supported by Zhdanov and Secretary Kuznetsov. But it was not accepted by Stalin.
No full account of what happened on the night of September 11-12 has been made public. But it is probable that the culminating point in the indictment of Voroshilov was his failure to admit the loss of Shlisselburg.
Some time on the twelfth—possibly in the early morning hours, as this was Stalin’s usual time for making important decisions—the Supreme Command in Moscow decided to send Marshal Zhukov into Leningrad.
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A day was spent by Zhukov in collecting a staff. One member was Army General Ivan I. Fedyuninsky, a first-class officer who had been on the western Ukrainian frontier commanding the 15th Rifle Corps when the war started. He had fought through the desperate summer campaigns in south and central Russia. He had just been called in by Marshal A. M. Vasilevsky, Deputy Chief of Staff, to take over the Thirty-second Army which was being formed for the reserve front. Hardly had he gotten to Vyazma to join the Thirty-second Army staff than he was summoned to Moscow. He flew back on September 12 and was instructed to be ready to go to Leningrad in the morning.
On the Li-
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transport which lifted off Moscow’s Vnukovo airport early on the morning of September 13 with three fighters to protect it from German attack en route to Leningrad there were four generals: Zhukov, the toughest troubleshooter in the Red Army, the man who had been Chief of Staff at the war’s outbreak, who had been thrown in at Yelnya on the Western Front when the going got rough and who was now facing the most difficult assignment in his career; General M. S. Khozin, a solid man of no special brilliance, who was to be Chief of Staff; General P. I. Kokorev; and Fedyuninsky.
Khozin knew Leningrad intimately. He had commanded the Leningrad Military District until the eve of the winter war with Finland, when he was transferred to the Ukraine. He not only knew Leningrad but was well acquainted with the Karelian isthmus. He was a bear of a man with a figure which one of his associates described as monumental. He moved slowly and spoke with great precision.
What Fedyuninsky was to do in Leningrad was not very clear—either to him or, apparently, to Zhukov.
“For the time being,” Zhukov said, “you’ll be my deputy. Then well see.”
The flight to Leningrad was uneventful. Fedyuninsky looked about with interest as their cars sped from the airport to Smolny. The city seemed lovely. The weather was still sunny and warm. It was as though summer did not wish to leave the northern capital. But war’s grip was easy to see. There were not many people in the great squares or avenues. Fedyuninsky noticed that the golden dome of St. Isaac’s had been camouflaged a dirty gray. Under the red and orange leaves of the trees in the parks there were firing points and AA guns. Great silver balloons, which went up each evening at dusk to protect the city against low-flying German planes, nested on the ground in squares and open places. The sun sparkled on the gray waters of the Neva, and Fedyuninsky thought how natural it was for the Lenin-graders to love their beautiful city with such passion. He was surprised at the camouflage which had transformed Smolny. Under its daubing of paint and huge nets it looked like a park.
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