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Yet this mujik was now a first-rate soldier. In the ruins of Stalingrad he acquired confidence and knowledge. At Kursk, he put the knowledge to its harshest test ("Myi Stalingradtsi," these men boasted, "We're from Stalingrad. We chased them"). The veterans of these two battles became the backbone of every active army.
At Stalingrad, the Russians mastered the defensive weapons: the anti-tank rifle, the mine, the Molotov cocktail. In the winter drive which followed, they mastered the weapons of attack—artillery, tanks, cavalry.
Stalingrad also developed a cadre of top-drawer commanders: the weak, the slow, the incompetent were weeded out without mercy. Those who survived were young, tough, skilled in the combined use of all armed branches—and often underestimated by the German foe. Many generals took unnecessary risks, for rivalry was keen, and the pressure from below urgent. But boldness usually paid off, for it was buttressed by muscle.
The muscle came from training camps, turning out millions of men & women soldiers. It also came from the new or transplanted war factories. Russian engineers performed miracles in expanding production, modernizing old weapons, creating new ones. Russia's Katusha antedated the U.S. bazooka, the German rocket gun. New, high-velocity, armor-piercing shells enabled the Red Army to retain anti-tank guns once thought too light to tackle the German Tiger.
These men and these weapons thrice beat Manstein: at Stalingrad, Kursk, Zhitomir. But, thrice beaten, he still failed to understand the lesson. For understanding meant loss of hope and faith: the Slav commoner had negated the Junkers' wondrous Blitzkrieg.
Junker's Life. In this dark hour of defeat by the despised Slav, Fritz Erich von Manstein must have longed to shut his eyes to the dreary, hostile scene and think of friendly Ostelbien: of the small estate of impoverished Prussian Artillery General von Lewinski, whose tenth child he was; of the Castle of Colonel Baron Georg von Manstein, who adopted Erich von Lewinski when his father died.
Baron von Manstein brought Erich up as his own son—in the Junker tradition. When Erich emerged from the Kadetten-Schule and was commissioned lieutenant in the swanky, expensive Potsdam Guards, the baron gave him a handsome allowance. Lieut, von Lewinski von Manstein had few vices, studied much and hard.
Early in World War I Manstein was severely wounded. On recovery he fought at Verdun, drew attention by his energy, will power, harshness. He remained with the army after defeat, served on the hush-hush postwar General Staff, helped to build up the Wehrmacht for the war of revenge.
In the summer of 1932, while Germany and Russia were still slapping each other's backs, Manstein donned civilian clothes, went to Russia for a look. At the Kharkov station a leather-jacketed Soviet commissar bounced in, offered Manstein vodka and zakuska. While the surprised visitor was gulping the fiery drink, another commissar dashed in, pulled the first one aside. Both then approached Manstein, stuttering, red-faced: "Mistake. ... It was a mistake. . . . We thought you were Comrade Thälmann. . . ."*