13  September 1942 Back to the railway junction again. All day there are assaults, followed by counterattacks. Our world is measured in metres. We expose ourselves to appalling risks for the most mundane objectives – a bombed out workshop, a train repair yard, the fortified

14 September 1942 Since last night we’ve been occupying the remains of an apartment block with views across to the Volga. It’s been quieter in this sector today. The action seems to be further north for now. The enemy are still close by, but we’ve been digging in and improving

15 September 1942 At night the Volga glows with fire. Still, enemy barges cross, bringing fresh men. We watch through the smoke, our artillery hammering the river, but always some make it through. It feels like fighting against a tide. No matter how many we kill, more arrive.

16 September 1942 They attacked in force today. Mortars rained down on our position in the apartment block, collapsing walls around us. I pressed myself flat as debris showered my helmet. When the barrage lifted, enemy infantry surged forward across the square in front of our

17 September 1942 We were told this morning we were being relieved - I imagined trucks to the rear, hot food, a trip to the mobile bath unit, maybe even clean uniforms. Instead, we marched only a few hundred meters back, through alleys choked with rubble and bodies. “Relief,”

18 September 1942 A day in the cellar. It is strange to sit still after such terror. My body keeps twitching, ears straining for every sound. Some of the men slept like stones, even with the guns hammering. I lay awake, seeing the flashes against the walls. Incredibly, in the

19 September 1942 Rain all night, dripping through the ruined roof. Everything is soaked — uniforms, blankets, even ammunition pouches. The room stinks of wet wool and bodies. Some men tried to dry socks over the stove, filling the cellar with smoke. For a moment we laughed,

20 September 1942 We attacked at dawn, scrambling up the lower slopes. Artillery churned the earth into mud and gore. Stuka bombers screamed overhead and unleashed their ordinance on the Russian positions on the hill. The veteran Meier and I were on the MG42, providing covering

21 September 1942 The hill is hell. We dig into shallow scrapes on the slope, trying to shield ourselves from constant shelling. It’s been raining for much of the day. We’re soaked through and caked in mud, blood and gore. Snipers fire from the ruins below, and we press

22 September 1942 We were driven off the crest of the hill at dawn. Soviet tanks clattered up from the factories, infantry swarming after them. We poured fire down on them, including from a handful of Panzerbüchse, but it was not enough. Several parts of the line were overrun,

23 September 1942 Orders came to take the hill at all costs. We counterattacked. Another push involving several companies. Meier and I are still on the MG42 - we provided covering fire as the rest of our platoon scrambled forward with bayonets fixed, lobbing grenades and

24 September 1942 A brief lull. Both sides too battered to move. We used the quiet to scavenge: canteens, helmets, even boots from the fallen. Our trench was little more than a scrape in the dirt, filled with mud and blood. We reinforced it with sandbags, debris, even corpses -

25 September 1942 Last night a Soviet raid caught us half-asleep. They came in small groups, creeping low. One threw a satchel charge into our trench. The blast tore two men apart — I still feel the heat on my face. We fired wildly in the dark until they withdrew. When the sun

26 September 1942 We woke on a concrete pallet in a ruined factory, rainwater trickling through the ceiling. The air tastes of rust and smoke. New boys arrived — bright-eyed, clean clothing, nervous. I watched one of them choke on fear when a mortar landed nearby; the Feldwebel

27 September 1942 We cleared two apartments this morning. One held an old woman and a boy; they both trembled as we moved through the rooms. I felt the same tremble inside my chest and pretended not to. We left them alive. It was a miracle they had survived this long. God knows

28 September 1942 We moved through basements today - the Soviet defenders have turned the cellars into sprawling networks of strongpoints — loopholes had been drilled in cellar walls, and submachine guns spat in the dark. We used grenades liberally and, with support from a

29 September 1942 The air smells of coal and burnt brick. Rows of low houses stand shattered, their walls pocked with bullet holes, roofs torn open like rotten teeth. Civilians once lived here — I saw children’s toys scattered among the rubble, a cracked teapot, a photograph

30 September 1942 Today was grenades and submachine guns, hallways echoing like drums. We stormed an apartment block where the Soviets had machine guns in stairwells. Grenades went up, grenades came down. Smoke filled the corridors until we could hardly breathe. We fought from

1 October 1942 Rations arrived — stale bread and tins of horsemeat. We ate in silence, hands shaking with exhaustion. Some smoked, though tobacco is running out. Fighting never stops, only changes shape. In the morning, we were ordered to dig firing slits through brick walls,