Excerpt from Chapter 30:

Mid-September arrived and General Rokossovsky's Army was back to strength, determined to take avenge for his unexpected defeat some six weeks previously. The Russian army had retaken Wolomin and again stood outside Praga with all its might: 70 revitalized divisions with all its newest armour were ready to advance towards Modlin. Further north, 71 more infantry divisions and about 5 tank corps under the command of General Zakarov had crossed the Narev river and formed a bridgehead at Pultusk, some 20 miles north of Modlin. Wolomin, on the railway line to Bialystok had already been taken by the Russian forces. We abandoned our position beside the Vistula and were hastily deployed somewhere on the river Narev, north of Pultusk. It looked like Wilfried's predictions were correct. Once again the German army was in full retreat and it became just a matter of keeping a step ahead of the encircling and well equipped Russians. The Second and Third Belorussian Armies had already swept through Lithuania on their push to Konigsberg in East Prussia.

The going was tough, exhausting and frustrating. Often we dug in before dark, only to abandon the position about mid- night and hastily move somewhere else. Chaos and destruction ruled the Rollbahn which was choked and congested with retreating troops and anything moving, or more likely, unable to move, was easy prey to Illyushins and fighters or their fast-moving tank formations and motorized infantry.

One awful day we were dug in on the bank of the Narev by the railway line Siedlce to Allenstein giving fire support to an infantry company trying to prevent the Russians advancing on to a bridge being used by German units retreating across the river. The bridge was behind us and Russian infantry in front and our orders were to hold out until night then abandon our position and get across as fast as possible. Ammunition was getting low so we just fired steady short bursts and two other guns nearby did likewise as they slowly retreated towards the bridge. It was getting dark when a messenger from Oberleutnant Hahn's headquarter came along to tell us to stop firing and quickly get the hell across the bridge. The message was the Russian tanks were closing in and we should get on to the Rollbahn to Johannisburg and try to reach Allenstein where the main body of our battery was heading.

Reaching the bridge was reasonably OK but getting across was another matter. Traffic congestion on the approaches was chaotic but what we didn't know at first was that a fair bit of that moving column were Russian tanks and armoured vehicles! The darkness added to the confusion, and the Russians were just as unaware as us that they shared the bridge with retreating German vehicles.

Holder was the first to realize it and gestured to us from his front seat to lie low and remove our helmets, which would have been a sure giveaway. We'd managed to cover the gun under the tarpaulin and moved in close behind a dark shape which we discerned from its massive outlines to be a tank. We were unable to identify the type but its motor sure didn't sound like a Panzer! A stream of vehicles was behind us, all dark shapes as nobody carried lights, and as we approached the end of the bridge the tank ahead slowed down. Some shouting was going on and it wasn't German either, sounded more like some juicy Russian expletives. We crouched low on the carrier with rifles at hand, ready to jump, and our driver kept close to the tank praying it wouldn't stop, otherwise we would be trapped with no escape, end of line. I broke out in a cold sweat thinking what life would be like in some rotten Siberian slave camp.

Obviously something had gone wrong and we were right in the middle of it. Then came a heart-stopping moment when the tank slowed almost to a halt and - 'Daway, daway, yob twoyu mat'. Somebody was trying to get some order into the confusion and I would have liked it more had it been in German. We neared the end of the bridge and mercifully whoever it was overlooked us and just kept waving his PPS (Russian machine pistol) in the direction of the traffic flow.

Not far to the left of the bridge was a village and machine gun and rifle fire strafing the road was coming from within, unmistakably from a German MG 42. The tank revved up his motor as we cleared the bridge and turned left sharply and in the dim light we saw the Soviet star on the side of it's turret. Our driver put his foot down hard and kept to the road ahead, followed by two more vehicles which, thank God, proved to be German.

None of us had spoken a word, too scared to even think, I was anyhow. It was certainly the closest I ever got to a Siberian Gulag! Ahead was a road block, three German Panther tanks and military police trying to get some order into the retreating chaos and with them were men from our battery staff looking out for stragglers like us. With their help we joined up with our unit and headed for Allenstein around midnight. With that bridge behind us we started to relax though couldn't stop pondering on what could have been our fate had we been discovered.

Oberleutnant Hahn was in front of us in his VW Kubelwagen, driven by Jurgen his orderly, when the Rollbahn came under fire from five or six fighter planes, just as the sun rose on the horizon. They came in very low and fast and strafed our moving column, too fast for us to get a bearing and the convoy in front of us copped most of it. We got a few shots at them but with not much success. They zoomed overhead and were gone as quickly as they came.

Holder was the first to notice. He jumped off the carrier and dashed to Hahn's vehicle but it was all over for Jurgen. It must have been one of the very last bullets that whizzed down the highway and got him right through the head. He never knew what hit him, and he had been so close to his home. We eventually reached the railway line leading from Allenstein to Osterode and Deutsch Eylau, East Prussia, German soil. The front had stabilised again and we dug ourselves in on the railway line just outside Deutsch Eylau.

We were there for almost two weeks when one morning Oberleutnant Hahn and Wachtmeister Wehrt visited our gun position on an inspection and casually Hahn mentioned they were looking for volunteers prepared to join Wachtmeister Wehrt on a transfer to the Western Front. Hahn explained that his battery had to give up six men by order of the Abteilung Command and in his view volunteering would be the fairest way. It might have sounded right but that was bullshit. We knew the term `volunteer' in the German Army was just a polite way of sending you anyhow.

Wachtmeister Wehrt made it clear he would like to see me join his group and gave us until the evening to decide. Wilfried and I talked it over. None of us really wanted to go, but I knew if I didn't `volunteer', Wehrt would take me just the same. Wilfried and I decided we would go and went to see Hahn that evening with our decision. He thought that was very commendable of us to volunteer, very patriotic. `Arschloch' I was thinking; I couldn't see the patriotic side and it wasn't hard to figure out that he already had Wachtmeister Wehrt's selection with my name probably right at the top since he told me straight away to get ready and report back first thing in the morning with my gear and belongings. Then he turned to Wilfried and told him there was absolutely no way he could accept his offer as he must stay with his battery. Wilfried was listed in the Battery books as weapons mechanic as his trade was metal worker, toolmaker precisely, though he didn't know any more about the gun than the rest of us. So there it was, I was on Wehrt's roster list and bloody Wilfried was indispensable.

I stood the early morning watch from 4 to 5.30, my very last one with the outfit. Wilfried joined me for the last half hour. We thought we had a lot to talk about though as it turned out we said very little. I said goodbye and shook hands with the rest of our crew, picked up my gear and left for Hahn's quarters to join the other five lucky `volunteers`. Hahn farewelled us with his best wishes for our future and we headed for the Deutsch Eylau station with Wehrt to board the supply train going west. It was one of those make/shift trains, converted cattle trucks with wooden benches and rough planks for back rests and horizontal narrow slots in the walls instead of windows. Of the group I only knew Josef from one of our neighbouring guns and Erich, his friend, so the three of us decided to stick together.

We changed trains a few times before reaching the city of Posen in West Prussia, end of the line for the Eastern traffic except supply runs. In Posen station, once again we filed through the usual sanitary checkpoint for steam treatment and showers to get rid of lice and vermin, before boarding the train to Frankfurt on Oder. The train was comfortable enough, although a bit crowded. Not much talking went on except from Wehrt's corner. The rest of us were either asleep or pondering what fate had in store for us once we reached the Western Front, wherever that might be. Josef and Erich wondered whether the American way of fighting would be much different from what we'd become accustomed to from the Russians. I said we'd soon find out, and went to sleep.

We arrived in Frankfurt's Haupt/Bahnhof and were due to change trains but where to was anybody's guess. Wehrt told us to remain on the platform while he went to the Station Commander's office for further travel instructions but we were hungry and decided to do a bit of snooping for something to eat. We knew that every major station had some sort of Red Cross field kitchen which catered for troops or individual military personnel in transit.

We found it eventually, tucked away in an obscure corner and at first they wouldn't give us anything, wanting to see our marching orders and we had a hard time explaining we were on a group travel and Wachtmeister Wehrt, our minder, was at the Commander's office with our marching orders. They relented and dished us out a good lashing of porridge, which was about all one could get from such places. It was made from coarse ground wheat, husks and all, with no sugar or milk. Absolutely tasteless goo but it filled the stomach quite nicely.

Wehrt, when he returned to where he left and couldn't find us was furious when he eventually located us saying that in such times all we could think of was filling our bloody bellies. He then informed us that our destination was Stendal, a parachute training base about 100 km west of Berlin. I told Wehrt I wouldn't know how to operate a parachute and he replied, "You don't have to, they just throw you out of the plane." Then I told him I once flew rear gunner and vomited all over the cabin, so he would have to count me out and leave me on the ground. "In any case, you volunteered," he said. "Yes, that's because you had me on top of your list ", I replied, just letting him know that I knew all about that. He gave me a contemptuous look and shut up.

By the time we reached Berlin Anhalter Bahnhof - or was it Haupt Bahnhof - I can't remember it was getting dark. The station looked like any other station exposed to heavy bombing, with broken stones and twisted steel debris everywhere and broken glass crunching heaped up on the platform. It was a miracle that they were still able to run trains at all through the chaos and rubble. As soon as we left the train we were told to clear out immediately and make our way across to Bahnhof Friedrichstrasse to board an outgoing train to Wolfsburg. Friedrichstrasse was on the western side of the heap of rubble that was once Berlin.

We wasted no time and were only too glad to get out before the next raid started. They had been coming every night lately so we were told, and tonight would be no exception. It was British Bomber Command,`Bomber Harris's mob, that did the night destruction and the American air force would follow up at day time. "It's a passing phase" said Fritsche, the Government spokesman from the Wilhelmstrasse. They were still trying to convince the people that in the end Germany would win the war. The Berliners didn't believe it really, but they and the rest of the German population were well aware of the Allies' demand for unconditional surrender and since Harris, with Churchill's approval, decided to wage indiscriminte bombing they knew they had nothing more to lose and, therefore, were determined to go down fighting.

It was a fair way to walk to Friedrichstrasse by means of various detours in Berlin's almost total blackout. We found the station, and the train to Wolfsburg was already filling up with military personnel, mostly bound for Stendal and Gardelegen, another parachute training centre, 20 km from Stendal. We were told to stay alert during the trip and be ready to evacuate the train the moment it came to an unexpected stop.

About an hour out of Friedrichstrasse, near Wustermark we did stop and were ordered off the train and to spread out beyond the line. A warning had come through that Harris's bombers were over Berlin again for their nightly assault. We thought the authorities well organised, that they could warn a moving train. At first we couldn't figure out why there was such a hurry to stop it but we soon learned the reason. In the event of a night attack it was standard practice to stop well before the bombers were overhead, to enable the stoker to shut down the fire under the boilers. A train under full steam was an absolute give away to any approaching aircraft, long before reaching the target, especially on a clear night. Practically all trains were fuelled on brown coal, which emitted an enormous tracer of red hot glowing sparks from the funnel when under full steam.

They droned above us and from our vantage point we could see the flashes and burning fires and it was obvious Berlin was getting a fierce battering. They didn't have it all their way though. Torchlight beams crossed the sky trapping an unlucky victim here and there which became easy prey for the homing Acht Acht batteries of the ground defences and would fall like a sizzling comet. Then we heard the long, steady sound of the sirens and it was all over, for the time being anyhow. The Americans would follow up tomorrow. But after the night's raid quite a few Berlin women and children wouldn't have to worry about tomorrow anymore. Gone forever, eventually rotting away in their rubble graves. But then they were only ordinary people. `Bloody Nazis' to the British bomber crews, 'god damn fucking Nazi krauts' to the Americans.

Our train got steam up again and we reached Stendal in the early morning. Military police hovered round the exit barriers and made sure there was no unnecessary loitering so all hopes of finding more porridge were gone. We were ordered to get to the barracks without delay. In our case just a short journey.

Once inside the administration building we lined up for registration. Wehrt did all the talking and we just filled out forms. Actually they were already filled out so all that was required were our signatures. Nobody bothered to tell us what for. It was headed 'freiwillig' (volunteer) and there was no point asking any questions. We were all Freiwilige, we were told. Those who did make a few enquiries were told not to worry, it was only for filing purposes. So we just signed like every obedient soldier was expected to, agreeing to be trained for parachute duty. It hardly mattered whether one got killed crawling in the dirt or dangling from a parachute, the end was the same.

We spent the next few weeks being sorted and grouped into companies and platoons and did a fair bit of training on the exercise grounds. Hour after hour just rolling round on the ground, running along and dropping down on the shoulder, rolling over on the back and standing again, just as one would do when touching ground from a parachute drop. Like the yo-yo man who always springs back on his feet. A fairly simple exercise if empty handed but a different matter if loaded with rifle and all battle gear.

There were some old, empty Junker 52 bomber skeletons at various places over the exercise field, fixed permanently on concrete piers with the fuselage floor some three metres off the ground with a rope ladder leading up to the door opening. Once our mentors thought we were proficient enough in rolling through the dirt they took us to the dummy planes for advanced work-out exercises. One at a time we climbed the rope then jumped while the rest judged the peformance. It looked amusing until it was your turn to climb into that old relic, when three metres plus one's height seemed one awful long drop. But apart from sore legs and a few bruised shoulders, we succeeded in executing a few jumps almost perfectly.

That was as far as our education in the art of airborne troops went. We never got to jumping off the harness tower at the far end of the drill ground, which was quite a relief for some of us. Instead, after a few weeks our platoon and Wachtmeister Wehrt were on the move again, to a training and replacement centre at Haselunne, close to the Dutch border.

It was the middle of October and the temperature was dropping. We were told we were there for a quick training course in new techniques in ground battle warfare and would be grouped into newly formed field units called Volksgrenadier Regiments, just a more glamorous sounding name for the old infantry soldier. Like calling the cesspit cleaner a sanitary engineer, it gave more status but the job was still the same.

The training set-up there was not much different from any I was in before except the instructors were professionals in (theoretical) close-up warfare and good Party supporters who did their very best to ensure they kept their relatively safe jobs. We were housed in the usual wooden huts with the potbelly stove in the centre which reminded me of my old Arbeitsdienst camp. The stove plus candles were our only source of 'comfort' as electricity was permanently disconnected. Power was needed for the war effort and, besides, a good soldier didn't need a light; he should be able to find his gear in the dark. Strange how there was always light behind the carefully drawn blinds in the instructors' hut.

The day began with the usual six o'clock whistle. There was no hot water in the wash rooms so nobody fancied cold showers on a freezing morning. The only hot water came from the potbelly, which was just enough for a shave if one was quick enough to get a spoonful. Breakfast at seven, black coffee with equally black bread, a blob of margarine and a spoonful of jam which could be eaten while shaving as it was just as exciting.

Morning call and flag raising ceremony was at 7.30 and rain or no rain the companies were marched out to the exercise fields at 8 o'clock sharp. Marching out on those mornings seemed to give our instructors much malicious pleasure. The approaches to the training fields were provided with all kinds of diabolical obstacle courses and our mentors made good use of them. "It will drive the last ounce of sleep out of you", they said, when they chased us through them, "and will toughen you up." Naturally, our noncoms like Wehrt were exempt and stood watching how we performed under stress. I would like to have seen the overweight Wehrt slide on his belly under the low strung barbed wire structure or heave himself over the escalation wall and fall on his head the other side. Since we were now with the infantry he had to be called Feldwebel which would do lots for his ego.

Morning exercises consisted mainly of what was called 'improved ground battle technique', like how to stick the bayonet successfully into your opponent's belly or how to get the arm around your foe's neck to crush his jugular, as is so popular in American war movies where the heroic GI sticks his knife into the unsuspecting stupid-looking German guard's back but doesn't show you how he manages to get behind him! It all sounded fine in theory but most of us thought a bullet from a safer distance did a much better job with less effort.

Lunch was always the same, goulash and boiled potatoes, undercooked and unpeeled and we spent most of the time queuing for it. Eating was invariably done on the way to the hut as there was no time to sit at leisure. Sometimes the whistle would blow for the afternoon's duty on the exercise fields well before we were ready and we'd have to leave it behind uneaten.

Afternoons were slightly more interesting, with simulated battle conditions, charging trenches, knocking out mock tanks with Panzerfausts and all the trimmings that go with those war games. The good thing lay in the knowledge that when it was all over we were still alive. Nobody got hurt but there were always plenty of 'casualties'.

One cold foggy afternoon I was assigned to a machine gun crew as feeder gunner, the chap who feeds the cartridge belt into the gun. We were supposed to defend our sector of the trench against an `imminent' attack from the enemy and had our gun positioned on the end of the trench by the undergrowth leading to a small forest. We were well camouflaged and ready for action. While waiting for the `enemy' to show up two of us decided to explore the woods to our left for anything edible. We knew the farmers towards the end of autumn dug their surplus produce into a cache to keep over winter for use as spring fodder for their animals. The area around us was prime farming ground and our guess was pretty right.

Foraging through the undergrowth we found a fairly large storage in the middle of the copse. There were turnips, potatoes, some beetroots and a hell of a lot of carrots. We gorged ourselves on the carrots and filled our pockets with as many as we could cram and then made our way back to the machine gun post only to find that in our absence we'd been attacked by the `enemy'. The gun had been captured and our third crew member was unfortunately `shot dead' and when we arrived we were taken `prisoners`, but on seeing the carrots our `captors' were quite eager to share our loot and our `dead' colleague made a remarkably speedy recovery. To simplify matters for the inevitable analysis of the `battle' we agreed with our `enemy' that we'd been `wiped out' in a hand grenade attack.

A new harassment had been introduced into the German army at that time in the form of who was called the 'Fuhrungs Offizier' (guidance officer) and each company had one, not necessarily in the rank of an officer. He was just an implant by the Party machine and his main task was to keep up the morale within the ranks. The Fuhrungs Offizier was known by us therefore didn't worry us unduly. The danger was the instructors had informers planted within the company who were not known to us. One had to be very careful what one said and to whom it was said. Political jokes were top of the danger list. If a particularly nasty joke made its round it was no good looking out for the one who didn't laugh to discover the implant, he probably was the one who laughed loudest. In any case it was always advisable to keep his appreciation of a good joke to an unsuspecting middle level.

One day we were marching back to barracks for lunch after a hard harassing field exercise, when the sergeant instructor requested a song. Singing while marching was an obsession in the German army. It was up to those in front to hastily decide what song it was going to be and pass the title through to the rear, then a quick `Drei, Vier' and the song was under way. It wasn't always smooth going and depended to a large extent on the mood of the instructor.

I forget the title of the song that was decided but it had some lines in it which said 'Nur gegen England noch und USA dann ist alles vorbei' which meant it was only a matter of fighting England and the USA and the war would be over. But we put a slight variation in the line and sang 'Nur gegen England noch und die SA (Hitler's Braunshirts) dann ist alles vorbei'. It sounded almost the same but it sure had a different meaning.

The screaming bellow of our instructor Feldwebel whose ears were alert to such variations brought the song to an end. He called us `ungrateful Drecksuue' (unappreciative pigs) and the whole company was put in reverse and back we went in quick march to the obstacle course. They must have saved quite some goulash and lots of potatoes that noon as our company spent practically all of the lunch hour doing the rounds of the obstacle course. On the way back to barracks we were ordered to sing the same song only this time we sang the right words. The one satisfaction for us was the informer in our midst, whoever he was, had to do the same or he would have given himself away.

 

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