Mud and misery

It’s November, one of the most miserable months of the year. It’s wet, cold and dark, and the only redeeming feature is the fact that it’s just 30 days long. Now, imagine spending November on the Eastern Front during World War 2…

There’s the mud and cold. There’s the woolen uniform that hasn’t been washed in months. The rations are mostly getting through, but it’s the same stews, soups, dark rye bread and ersatz coffee. The daily allotment of seven cigarettes can be traded for other items if you don’t smoke. If you’re lucky, you are quartered in a house where the original owners either crowd together in a small room, or have been thrown out to face an uncertain fate. If you’re a front line soldier, you live in a bunker which, if the front is fairly static, has been made hospitable by the adding of an iron stove. As air raids on your home town become more frequent, you worry about your family. You haven’t had leave in months. The letters from your family make it through, occasionally also a package with a pair of socks and some extra food, and you write several letters home every week. You have your Kameraden in your squad, which is your second family. You secretly wonder if fighting over this miserable country is really worth it, Lebensraum be damned. Still, you’re stuck in the middle of it, and deserting to the Soviets isn’t really an option. The war was supposed to be over “by Christmas”, but they never really said which Christmas… There’s a rumor about a big push, but then speculation is rife and no one tells you what’s really going on. No wonder your stomach is giving you trouble.

That might be what the men in the photo went through. The muddy street of some nameless Soviet village holds a couple of vehicles, one a truck with a cabin-like rear cab, and one a Borgward “5-tonner” bus, which was only made in 1938-39 and thus a pretty rare sight. The village appears to be the base for some rear area units, and thus fairly safe. Still, I guess the men in the photo wish they were in France on occupation duty, perhaps a quiet place like the coast of Normandy…