Battle of Russia, The (1943)

[bunniefuu]

- In part
one of Battle of Russia,

you saw the Russian
people's historic defense

of their land against centuries
of unsuccessful invaders.

You also saw how after
five and a half months

of n*zi blitz.

The Russians stopped h*tler
at the very gates of Moscow,

and how, in spite of h*tler's prediction

that by December of 1941,
the swastika would fly

with the Kremlin towers,
December had come,

but it wasn't the swastika
that flew over the Russian capital,

and it wasn't the n*zi
conquerors who marched

through the streets of the ancient city.

But fresh reserves of
the red army on their way

to reinforce and relieve the front lines.

The Russians read this appeal
and knew what it meant.

They remembered that
in their past history,

the time always came when they
could turn and strike back.

Time had come.

Their old ally, the Russian winter,

had carpeted the Russian land.

And while in the churches of Russia,

men of God prayed for
victory against the invader.

In the front lines,
the men of the red army

listened to the long
awaited order of the day.

The whole world is
looking to you to destroy

the German hordes.

The w*r you are fighting
is a w*r of liberation.

A just w*r.

Death to the German invaders.

Fighter command ready.

Bomber command ready.

Parachutists ready.

a*tillery in position.

Tanks manned.

Calvary in position.

Infantry ready.

Beyond those hills is the enemy.

Now it was the Germans' turn
to fight for their lives.

Now, for the first time,
it was the German army

that retreated.

Now it was for the Germans to learn

the terrors of strafing.

Village after village, town after town,

on the red army swept through
the country for days and weeks

had been under the invader's yolk.

Out of the cellars, out of the forests,

out of only they know what hiding places,

come the men and the
women and the children

that had once called these towns home.

Soldiers and guerrillas
find wives and mothers.

Friends are reunited.

There is thanksgiving in the streets.

Thanksgiving in their hearts.

There is also something else,

something they will never forget.

Their ruined homes.

The shattered towns they once had known

as thriving and prosperous communities.

They stand gutted now.

Ghostly relics of what they once had been.

Nothing has been spared.

This was a museum.

A former home of Peter Tchaikovsky.

A man who wrote music for Russia.

Music that sought the
heart of his own people.

And because it found that
heart, it found the hearts

of people everywhere.

This piano concerto.

The Fifth Symphony.

The Sixth Symphony.

His work was, is, and
always will be inspiration

to countless millions.

But it brought only one
inspiration to the Nazis.

Vandalism.

And this was the home of Leo Tolstoy,

the author of the immortal
novel w*r and Peace.

His home, too, was a museum,

until the Germans came.

And this is Tolstoy's grave.

If the Nazis buried nearby
had read his famous book,

they would have learned
their fate beforehand.

But there were other dead
the Nazis didn't bury.

Russian dead.

They weren't soldiers, and
they weren't k*lled in battle.

No, these aren't dolls.

These are children.

Mass m*rder*d by orders
of the high command.

And there were other children.

Perhaps more fortunate, perhaps less.

Young girls, but not young now.

The attentions of the n*zi
soldiers aged them very quickly.

And whoever resisted the
invaders met with this.

These are the things the
Russians can never forget.

These are the things the
Russians will never forget.

These are the reasons why every Russian

pledged his life to
uphold this sacred oath.

Blood for blood.

Death for death.

That was the reason the
Russians smashed on.

Deeper and deeper, along the entire front

from Rostov to Leningrad.

Nowhere could the tide of
Russian pressure be stopped.

And by spring of 1942,
this area was delivered

from the Germans.

But this was not the important result.

Not that this town or
that village was retaken,

but that the whole legend
of n*zi invincibility

had been shattered.

German armies could retreat, too.

German armies could be defeated.

German troops could be captured.

But besides this crushing offensive,

there was another factor
that shattered the legend

of n*zi invincibility.

That factor, which will
live forever in the history

of this w*r, was written
by the people of this city.

A city now called
Leningrad, after the leader

of the Russian revolution, Lenin.

And which, before that,
was called Petrograd,

in honor of its founder, Peter the great.

A city which, today, with
the exception of Moscow

is the most important
center in the Soviet Union.

Because some of Russia's
largest industries

are centered here.

And also because it is
Russia's principle port

on the Baltic Sea, and the
base for its Baltic fleet.

Here, as throughout the Soviet Union,

on June 22nd, word came of the att*ck.

But here the city was only a few miles

from German lines.

And while the men of the red
army and the Baltic fleet

moved out to meet the enemy,
behind them another army

was formed, an army whose
weapons were shovels,

instead of r*fles.

An army of men.

An army of women.

An army of children.

Feverishly, they dug the trenches.

Threw up barricades.

Built defenses.

Prepared themselves for the worst.

They knew that they, too,
were in the front lines.

They weren't wrong.

Leningrad's baptism of fire

didn't stop with the darkness.

Finally, the morning comes,
and the people of Leningrad

dig themselves out from the ruins.

They seem very similar here
to the people of London.

Of Rotterdam, of Warsaw.

As in those cities,
there were ruined homes,

museums, and other important
m*llitary objectives.

Like the Russian Dumbo,
from the Leningrad zoo.

But there was one important difference.

Bombing from the air
was only one small part

of what the people of
Leningrad had to face.

In September, the Nazis
surrounded the city,

unannounced, it was cut off and doomed.

The German commander sent
the city an ultimatum,

demanding its surrender.

He is still waiting for the answer.

Thus began the siege of Leningrad,

a siege that was to last
for nearly 17 months.

In Leningrad, as
everywhere else in Russia,

the winter came early that year.

A cold, hard winter.

The hardest in years.

But here, unlike
everywhere else in Russia,

the winter wasn't an ally, but an enemy.

Here the 10, 20, 30
below zero temperatures

could only mean more
suffering, more hardship.

In the trenches outside the city,

trenches of snow and of ice,

the defenders stuck firm to their oath,

to die if necessary,
but not to go backward

one more step.

When the enemy, in spite
of all its efforts,

was stopped at the very gates of the city.

A city now facing disease,
famine, destitution.

There was no oil for fuel.

No power for the electric lines.

But the people defied the elements,

and trudged the necessary
miles to lathe and workbench.

The pipes froze, water was shut off.

So they dug holes through the streets

until they could get to water.

There was no food,

and the whole city went
on starvation rations.

A factory worker got eight
ounces of bread a day.

Everyone else, child and
adult alike, only four.

And to keep the dread enemy of disease

from stalking the streets of their city,

an army of women worked with shovels,

worked with picks, in
those streets every day,

clearing away the rubble, the refuse,

the sources of contamination.

Bombs from the air couldn't
force the defenders

of Leningrad to surrender.

Winter couldn't do it.

Hunger couldn't do it.

So the Germans decided to
shell them into surrender.

For days, long range
g*ns hurled ton after ton

of high expl*sives into
the heart of the city.

The more the people of
Leningrad were shelled,

the harder they worked.

Drenched in a rain of high expl*sives,

cut off entirely from the rest of Russia,

with only their own hands to depend on,

their determination never faltered.

Every day, more people d*ed.

Of cold.

Disease.

Hunger.

This was Leningrad in its darkest hour.

And then, a miracle happened.

To the west of Leningrad
is the Baltic Sea.

And to the east and north is Lake Ladoga.

7,000 square miles of inland water.

The Fins and the Germans
occupied one border of the lake

to about this point.

And in the south, the Germans
controlled the lake to here.

Between these two points
was a stretch of lakefront

still in Russian hands.

But there was nearly 100
miles between this shore

and the beleaguered city.

100 miles of what had been open water,

and was now snow covered ice.

Across this frozen
surface now went tractors,

sledges, carving a road across the lake.

And soon, across this highway,

from the far side of the lake,
poured a stream of trucks.

Bringing in food.

Oil.

Grain.

Fuel.

Truckload after truckload of fresh life

for the people of the city.

Too late the Germans
discovered that they had left

one avenue of rescue open.

Their planes bombed the road,

but the trucks kept rolling.

By day and by night.

The lake highway remained open.

And soon, more than trucks
would reach the city,

for the Russians were now
laying a track across the ice.

To the heroes of Leningrad,
says the inscription

on this locomotive, as it
starts its pioneer voyage.

From the far shore of the
lake, it brings food, medicine,

supplies of all kinds.

Across the lake, and into Leningrad,

this train is but the first of many.

Trains that not only brought in supplies,

but that could take out the wounded.

The sick women, the half frozen children.

All those that needed better care.

All winter long, the
lake traffic continued.

And all through that terrible winter,

the men of the red army, outside the city,

found the strength not only to defend,

but to att*ck.

Time after time, they hurled
themselves against the invader.

Driving him inch by inch back
from the city's outskirts.

And then spring came.

Spring.

Outside Leningrad, the
snows begin to thaw.

And German bodies are washed
from their icebox graves.

New evidence of Russian tenacity.

The warm breath of spring is felt, too,

on the frozen surface of Lake Ladoga.

But the trucks continue to roll,

even though the ice is
melting beneath them.

And spring, as it invariably does,

comes to the city, too.

But spring is more than a
new season to the people

of Leningrad.

It's a new life.

The city begins to breathe again.

For the first time in
months, the trollies ran.

That first day, it seemed
that every man and woman

and child in the city
had to go for a ride.

This was life again.

Life for the Leningrad
children that weren't k*lled

by n*zi bombs or by the horrible winter.

Life for the Russia WACs,

the women of the red army.

And for the Russian waves,
the women of the red fleet.

And for the sailors of
the fleet themselves,

the artists of the famous
ballet theater had come

to offer entertainment.

Spring is here.

Summer is coming.

And Leningrad is still free.

Although, some Germans did finally succeed

in getting into the city.

But under different circumstances

than they had anticipated.

Yes, here, too, the legend of n*zi

invincibility was shattered.

Against the iron will and
courage of a determined people.

The citizens of Leningrad have proved

that generals may win
campaigns, but people win wars.

By summer of 1942, new
posters were appearing

in the streets of Moscow.

Posters that greeted and
welcomes their allies.

Allies whose help was already arriving

in Russian ports.

Allies whose friendliness
had sent dr*gs and food

and warm clothing to help sustain them

in their darkest hour.

But in spite of all this,

the staff of the red army
knew that they still faced

the most powerful enemy in history,

and that that enemy would att*ck again.

But when this att*ck came,
the whole German strength

was to be concentrated on one objective.

The Caucasus and oil.

The Caucasus Mountains
represent one of the toughest

m*llitary obstacles in the world.

Towering peaks rising
to heights of as much

as 18,000 feet, with only
one practical highway

traversing them.

And Baku, the biggest oil
field, is on the other side.

To reach Baku, the only
feasible m*llitary route

was along the coast of the Caspian Sea.

But the map shows what a
dangerously extended supply line

this would entail.

To make the operation a
success for the Germans,

the first necessity was
control of the northern hub

of the rail lines of the area.

And a new base of operations.

That hub was a Volga River port

we have come to know well, Stalingrad.

Named for Russia's present leader.

The pride of this generation of Russians,

for it was their city,
built in their time.

With the capture of Stalingrad,

the Nazis would have a
base from which to launch

a flanking att*ck on Moscow.

With one master stroke, the
Russian armies to the south

would be cut off from help.

And in the north, Russian
factories, Russian farms,

and Russian armies, would
be practically cut off

from Caucasus oil, and also from American

and British supplies, which
were shipped to Russia

through Iran and Iraq.

German control of the
entrance to the Volga

and its two main ports,
Astrakhan and Stalingrad,

would be a crippling blow for Russia.

For the Volga is the
vital artery through which

the lifeblood of supplies.

Early in May, the German offensive began

along a front extending
from course to the Crimea.

Within two weeks, the n*zi steam roller

had overrun the Kerch Peninsula.

Although two months more were to elapse

before embattled Sevastopol finally fell,

giving the Nazis complete
control of the Crimea.

And the southern route to
the Caucasian oil fields.

Next, they started to drive further north.

And drove through to the Don
River in the area Voronezh.

Then spread south and
east, until they occupied

the whole area from the
Don River south to Rostov.

This left them in perfect position

to strike against Stalingrad.

Further and further south,
the drive plunged on.

And by the end of
August, they had captured

the oil fields at Maikop.

Needless to say, first
demolished by the Russians.

And reached the northern Caucasus.

Yes, the Germans were only
a few miles from their goal,

the oil fields at Baku.

But two barriers still stood between them.

Russian mountains, and
Russian determination.

A people of the Caucasus.

Joined with the army to
form an unshatterable wall

against the full onslaught of the att*ck.

Further north, the n*zi
pincers were within

15 miles of Stalingrad.

This city had become the focal
point of the whole campaign.

Regardless of the cost,
Stalingrad must be captured.

Those were the German orders.

German g*ns.

German bombs.

Shattered the city into pieces.

By September 20th, the
Germans, after 30 days

of grueling and ceaseless fighting,

battled their way into
the city's outskirts.

By the end of the month,
their drive had carried them

through the whole northwest
section of the city,

and into occupation of part of the center,

including the railroad station.

From the last day of
September, h*tler announced

that the fall of the city was
only a matter of a few days.

Once more, the world was afraid

the Russian campaign was lost.

But once more, the Germans were to stand

on the very threshold of victory,

and still fail.

For now they were to meet a fire of fury

such as they had never known.

For all that had gone before,

the battles waged in the
streets of Kiev, Rostov,

Odessa, Stofel.

These were all preludes to
what happened in Stalingrad.

Every inch of the city
was a strategic point

to be defended as such.

By the end of October,
snow covered Stalingrad.

From the air, the Germans
tried to force surrender

of the Russian held part of the city.

Same time, the battle of
the streets continued.

But as November dawned,
the Russians were no longer

defending their city inch by inch.

Inch by inch, they were regaining.

And now, as the whole
world spoke in admiration

of the city of steel, the ticker tape

brought its breathtaking news.

American and British troops had landed in

and occupied North Africa.

Further east, the British eighth army

was driving westward,
pursuing the African core.

But in the northeast,
the red army had launched

its smashing counter offensive.

But Germans were learning the real meaning

of the words combined operations.

As though a spring had been released,

the Russians att*cked
along the entire front.

In the far north, the
Germans felt the first impact

as the Russians recaptured Schlusselburg,

breaking the axis ring around Leningrad.

Soon after, another offensive
lashed out further south,

bypassing the Germans
defense position of Rzhev,

and plunging down to the Velikie Luki.

Still another Russian blow
fell in the Voronezh area,

pushing a threatening spearhead
deep into the German lines.

In the far south, the Germans
were moving away from Grozny.

Instead of toward it.

Under the force of the Russian att*ck.

At Stalingrad, the
Germans were about to meet

new opponents.

Fresh reserves were
arriving from far side area.

They had been stationed
there in case of trouble

with the Japanese.

Now these troops had been
transported to relieve

the embattled defenders of Stalingrad.

And as the reserves entered the city,

at headquarters, the commanders
of three Russian armies

were meeting.

The Germans had fought
for Stalingrad as a prize.

The Russians were determined
to make it a trap.

Two simultaneous att*cks were launched.

One from the north, one from the south.

The German armies encircling Stalingrad

were now, themselves,
threatened and encircled.

Finally, the two prongs met.

These battle hardened
soldiers of the northern army,

as soldiers of the southern,

were emotional as children
as they greeted each other.

They knew this meeting meant
the salvation of Stalingrad.

And of their country.

And on this Christmas of 1942,

the people of the Soviet Union

can celebrate with happy hearts.

They have received a most precious gift

from the men of their army.

The assurance of ultimate victory.

Just as in our home towns,
it is the children's day

in Moscow.

It is a happier Christmas this year.

Today there are no
German bombers overhead.

In other years, the
Russians, like ourselves,

celebrated on New Year's Eve.

Not now.

The factories are just as
busy as on any other night.

The moment comes.

It is the new year.

And at the front, the
greeting is the same.

Up to a point.

Outside Stalingrad, the icy
winter becomes a fiery hell.

Here are concentrated the
latest in Russian equipment.

Flamethrowers.

Ice gliders.

Used here by shock troops
to capture air fields

and advance the main army.

Rocket g*ns.

Ketusha, the Russians call them.

Every last resource of
the red army is thrown

into a crushing offense
of ultimate destruction.

This was 'Keil and Kessel'
with a vengeance,

for the Nazis were getting kesseled

instead of the Russians.

And on February the second, 1943,

after 162 days of the heaviest fighting

in the history of warfare,
the last sh*t was fired.

Peace came to Stalingrad.

In the shattered streets,
the blasted ruins,

the ghastly evidence of their ordeal,

the defenders of the city
greet the rescuing army

of the dawn.

Stalingrad is free.

The Nazis had capitulated.

The German generals, who
had been ordered by h*tler

to take Stalingrad,
regardless of the cost,

and who would obediently
promise the city would be his,

these generals, 24 of them,
who had covered themselves

with such glory, and such
medals, on the fields of Poland

and Norway and France, they now had only

their past glory to comfort.

This is Field Marshal von Paulus.

Commander in chief of the
German armies at Stalingrad.

This is the man who told
his soldiers that if they

surrendered, he would see
to it that their families

would die in reprisal.

When he faced his captors,
perhaps his worried expression

reflected an anxiety
that h*tler might take

the same revenge on his family.

For he knew that when he
surrendered, h*tler lost

not only a field marshal,
he lost an entire army.

22 divisions, 330,000 men.

These are the men who
had been promised that

as conquerors they would
winter in Stalingrad.

Well, it was winter.

And this was Stalingrad.

But here were the conquerors.

And when another spring
broke over the Russian

countryside, the results
of the winter were clear.

The invader had been driven
back far beyond the lines

he had occupied a year earlier.

185,000 square miles of
Russian land had been freed.

An endless winter campaign of 1942,

the axis powers had lost 5,090 planes.

9,190 tanks.

20,360 g*ns.

30,705 machine g*ns.

More than 500,000 r*fles.

17,000,000 shells.

128,000,000 cartridges.

Vast stores of other materials.

And 1,193,525 men, of
whom 800,000 were dead.

That is the story to date
of the German attempt

to conquer Russia.

In 1941 they tried for Moscow.

And failed.

In 1942, they tried for the Caucuses.

And failed.

In 1943, and for as many
more years as necessary,

they will not only be resisted,

wherever their failing powers strikes,

but they will be att*cked.

att*cked and att*cked
by these united people

of these united nations.