Western Front Chapter 5:

It was Erich who pulled me inside and we could only thank Lady Luck that he grabbed me by my good arm. Had he taken my left I probably would have screamed like hell. Once inside he dropped me like a sack of wet potatoes in the dark corridor, quickly shut the hatch and resumed his watch position. I told him my gun was still outside. "Forget about it", he said, "where is Josef?" I told him that he was out in the trench, dead, and there were about half a dozen Yanks surrounding our bunker. He completely ignored my observation. "You need a bandage?" he asked, when he realised I was wounded.

In fact the rough treatment from Erich in pulling me through the hatch made my wrist bleed again. After a few moments of quiet thinking and another look through the slot, he asked what had happened to Josef. I told him that the Yanks out there, who'd probably taken over the trench by now, shot his head to pieces. Erich then told me to find Remer and ask him to send down his relief so he could see to my wound. Halfway up the stairs I met Remer and in the beam of his torch he noticed my condition and helped me to the living quarters where in the flickering lights of the Hindenburg candles he examined my injury and he too thought I would need attention. He looked at it again, obviously a bit puzzled. "That bullet must have hit you from behind? he asked. I told him how it happened, how it had been lucky for me but not for Josef that when the Yank who had crept up from behind pulled the trigger he swept his assault gun from right to left with Josef getting it first and I caught the tail end of the fusillade. "Left handed," said Remer after a bit of thinking. "No" I said, "I am right handed." I couldn't make out what he meant. "Not you, the fellow who shot you was left handed" he said, and after another quick look at me added, "If he'd sprayed his bullets from left to right, you would have probably got it first." That left me with something to think about.

Remer toyed with the idea of bringing in Josef. I told him about the Americans outside our front door, though he knew about them. He'd seen some of them through the view slot but didn't know how many. Our biggest fear was they might blast their way in with hollow charges, `Bangalor Torpedoes' or maybe use the dreaded flame throwers and roast us alive. The Kapo then went on the phone to Headquarters to let them know our precarious situation and asked for instructions. He was told to stay put and they would direct our artillery to drop a few bangers on to our position. Remer abandoned the idea of bringing in Josef but said perhaps he would try after dark, if we were still there. Then he went upstairs and Erich got busy with the bandaging. The bullet had gone clean through the bone, in on the back and out the side of my wrist, cutting a vein. Erich did a great job, considering there wasn't much he could use for bandages as most had been used on the previous day's casualties. He used a whole footrag which he tore into strips. Not exactly the most sterile of bandage, but as he said, "Don't worry, they will give you a nice tetanus injection at the first aid post" and as an after thought added, "if you're lucky and get there."

He had a good point. We were trapped and our prospects of getting out alive were minimal. Should the Americans be successful in lifting our bunker and subsequently take us prisoners I could probably forget about the tetanus needle. I felt sure they wouldn't waste the precious stuff on a Nazi Kraut. Remer placed all available men to guard the hatches in case they tried to blast them open. Two men to each hatch was all he had. Obviously those outside didn't know that and it was clear by now that they didn't have Bazookas or any other demolition charges otherwise they would have used them to blast their way in.

The artillery bombardment started, a mortar barrage from our six-barreled rocket launchers on the hills, the `Screaming Meemies' as the Americans called them. They did a good job and scared the living daylights out of them, which was understandable, they sounded a bit like Russian Katyushas, and they frightened the hell out of us too. Remer was on the phone again - amazing how that thing still kept on working - and the information he got wasn't very promising. The Americans had landed a substantial force on the eastern shore and were holding the road and railway line and had routed some of our bunkers, mainly on the Merzig side. Our bunker sector was completely cut off, but `temporarily' they assured Remer. A Volksgrenadier battalion, supported by tanks from the Dillingen area were engaged in battle and hopefully would throw the Yanks back across the river. Hopefully! Kapo Remer was told that under no circumstances were we to surrender our bunker. The order was the line had to be held to the last man for the counter-attack to succeed. I wondered who the `last' man would be. I was not much help anymore and there weren't many others left.

The `Meemies' hammered away and our heavy artillery had joined in too, mainly concentrating on the road and railway line behind us and I hoped the heavies wouldn't come any closer. It was bad enough when a few rockets hit our roof and made one wonder where the next breath of air would come from. The shattered wrist bone was hurting badly since the nerves and feeling had returned but nothing could be done until I reached the first-aid post, and from the plight we were in it looked like I wouldn't be going anywhere for quite some time. Headquarters came through again for clarification of our situation. They suggested removing the entrenched Americans from outside our bunker, saying they would instruct the rocket crews to hold their fire for the duration of the operation - five minutes. Remer told them we were in no position to open the hatches and take on those outside. With Josef gone, me out of action and one lost to Wehrt's bunker he was left with only four men to carry out such a dangerous move, also he had no idea how many Americans were outside. The Command Post was adamant: remove the Yanks or take the consequences. "Jawohl, Herr major, we will try" was Remer's answer as he banged down the phone so hard it bounced off its cradle.

The Kapo certainly needed all hands he could muster. He sent me to the emergency exit to tell one of the two fellows there to come up top. I grabbed the spare rifle which had been Bertl's and wondered if he'd lived and was safely tucked away in some hospital bed. I wished I was too but the prospect didn't look very promising. Remer called me back before I had time to slip into the corridor and told me to put the bloody rifle back. "If things don't go the way they are supposed to when we open up, and the Amis lift our bunker, you will most probably be the first who snuffs it if they catch you with a fire arm," he said. "Come back and stay by the phone".

It didn't take me long to realise his logic so I put the gun back and went to the Notausgang to deliver the message. I took a quick look through the viewing slot and could see the top part of the trench to the first zig-zag and it appeared to be empty. Either they were back behind the first bend or they were all at the hatch.

At the main door Remer and his skeleton crew got ready for what could very well be their last act. They tied hand grenades together, three to make one big worthwhile blast - `geballte Ladung' (extra forceful charge) we called them. The `Meemies' and artillery stopped and Remer spun the locking wheel to open position and told his man holding the grenades to pull the fuses. Then he flung open the hatch, the grenades were tossed out, and Kapo slammed the steel door shut. There was a delay of perhaps three seconds and the grenades went off outside with a muffled, hollow bang. They couldn't have thrown them very far as we heard the shrapnel hitting the steel. Everyone stood ready, assault guns pointed towards the hatch, fingers on the trigger as Remer turned the flywheel once more, flung open the hatch and they sprayed the outside with quick bursts then rushed out and hit the snow. But the expected return fire did not materialise. The Amis had gone except for two dead bodies. They must have retreated when the rockets cut into them.

Upstream in the gully we could hear hand grenade detonations and machine gun and rifle fire, then the short impacts of tank cannons and realised the Volksgrenadiers and armoured units had arrived, which lifted our spirits a bit. It looked like the Yanks were in those empty bunkers again and this time we hoped the Volksgrenadiers would deal with them. We crawled back inside and locked the hatch. Remer reported to HQ what had happened and was told to take the dead and stretcher wounded up to the railway line by nightfall where they would be collected. Walking wounded, as usual, were to go to the Command Post with the food carriers.

Shortly before dark Kapo Remer took three men into the trench to retrieve Josef's body which was quite difficult as a rocket had fallen on the trench and the wall had caved in. They got him up and laid him next to the two dead Americans then went for the two GIs in 'no mans' land. They were all placed outside the front hatch ready to be taken up to the rail line. A grim reminder from two days' action in our sector - and how many lie outside other bunkers' front doors? When the time had come to join the hapless food carriers up by the road I said farewell to Remer, Erich and the rest of my mates feeling slightly sorry of leaving them but all the same was mighty glad to still be able to walk away from this ominously cold and ghostly concrete vault. Remer told me that despite my wound I was lucky to be getting away to see the war coming to an end from the security of a hospital bed; I could have been stacked up outside next to Josef. He was right there too. Kapo had no illusions about the outcome of the war, that we were heading for a bitter time and would be exposed to harsh revenge. The hate from Roosevelt, Churchill and Onkle Joe, not only towards Germany but the entire German nation, would make the Versailles Treaty look tame compared to what the victors would exact from us.

Remer knew he would not see that moment. His life had effectively ended when the British Bomber Command raid on Nürnberg in March wiped out his whole family, parents, wife and two children. He was embittered and prepared to fight to his end. He had never told us that before and said he would never ever surrender to the Americans or British and relate that story as he knew what they would say: "Serves you right you bloody bastard, you're only a f...ing Nazi." His view was, the niceties had gone out of the Americans since they were sure they would win the war, the same for the other allies, he reckoned.

I made my way to the road to join the food carriers and deep down inside I was mighty glad to be going up that hill for the last time and not have to return to that hell. I couln't help thinking of Remer's last words and admit I agreed with him. If I were in his shoes I'd probably do likewise. It would be Bunker Eight where Remer would take his last revenge. There were two more walking wounded and a couple of stretcher cases were dragged up to the roadside where we hoped an ambulance would pick them up before night changed into another ferocious day. It was reasonably safe since while their troops were still fighting on the eastern shore the American artillery was not firing into our positions in case they hit their men. They were whacking shells into the town of Dillingen instead.

The carriers were already waiting for us so we set off on the uphill journey. The going was very slow and time consuming. One of the walking cases wasn't too steady on his feet and kept falling over and finally had to be carried the last stretch from the village to the Command Post. He kept moaning and groaning, from internal injuries we suspected, and should have been left by the railway line for the ambulance. The other walking case had not said a word since we moved off. From the occasional glimpse I got of the filthy wrappings it looked like severe head injuries.

The field kitchen was waiting when we got to Headquarters, with a very impatient driver who wanted to get down the lee side of the hill before the American gunners got active. At the moment they were busy hammering our big guns somewhere in the valley. Kutscher would have been a more accurate description for the driver of the field kitchen as it was a rickety iron cart of iron construction and pulled by two horses. He was just getting ready to whack them to get them to move when a Hauptfeldwebel from HQ staff stopped and ordered him to take me and the fellow with the head wrappings down to the dressing station. Our third walking case was in no condition to be put on any vehicle but an ambulance and most likely wouldn't last the night.

Mounting the field kitchen was almost as hazardous as scaling the hill to Headquarters. There was one little step and that was too high to reach with the foot in a comfortable way and a vertical iron bar in front of the seat to pull on. Not an ideal transport for wounded people. I managed to get up reasonably well with a push up from the driver and a scream of pain from me, but it took a while to get my companion hoisted into the seat. He seemed pretty well in control of himself and only whimpered as we got him safely seated. Perhaps his blood-caked bandage was too tight. There was. just enough room for the three of us. Kutscher gave the brake handle a few turns to clear the wheels, thrashed the horses again, told us to hang on and we rattled off with a few initial painful jerks. Apart from an iron bar in front there was nothing else to 'hang on' to. The downhill run was steep and winding with quite a few dreadful hairpin bends. The field kitchen was of World War I vintage with iron wheels and no rubber tyres. The seats were likewise flat steel with no cushion to absorb the rattling shocks and it made almost as much noise as a tank. Every time our Kutscher turned the wheel to tighten the brakes a shower of sparks hit the road and I could see his reasons for haste. American gunners would have no great trouble homing in on his vehicle.

I felt a hand gripping my coat. It was my `faceless' mate and I couldn't blame him as we nearly fell off that contraption negotiating the first of those treacherous bends. I wished he would have answered me when I said something but he only whimpered. The bloody Kutscher hadn't said much either since we hit the road apart from warning us of impending bends ahead but than he had no time for conversation he had his own problems, doing his best to keep his prehistoric cooker from toppling over, which was some feat. We had just approached the second hair pin - it wasn't a bend, more like an acute zig-zag - when the big American guns homed in on our road. I wasn't surprised; it was what I had feared and the driver almost certain knew. The noise our ancient chariot made could surely be heard for miles. The gunners got their range pretty right and shells shrieked over our heads, exploding with a yellow-red flash halfway down the hillside, a fraction before multiple echoes rose from the valley. The amazing thing was our horses trotted on without the slightest sign of panic or the expected desire to jump over the cliff taking the cart and us with them. They were fitted with pads over their eyes and were most probably stone deaf and thanks to the superb horsemanship of our Kutcher, but largely to the fearless horses, we made it safely to the bottom of the hill.

"Whooaa," the Kutscher roared to his nags, then for the first time he spoke to us saying he couldn't take us any further. He hastily helped us off the contraption and was back in his seat in a dreadful hurry to get going. Obviously he knew the American gunners' habits. I summoned the courage to ask the location of the dressing station and how to get there. "It's over there" he said, pointing his whip somewhere to the left before tickling the horses again then he and his pressure cooker rattled off leaving the two of us stranded in the dark at what appeared to be crossroads.

It was no good asking my faceless friend what to do. He'd stopped whimpering but his grip on my coat was firmer than ever. The heavy Ami guns had continued with their barrage and the shells were coming in somewhere to the left of us. In the flash of the explosions, I made out the outline of houses not far away. The next round was much closer and one shell whacked into the ground just in front of the crossroads and I hit the ground with the other fellow falling on top of me. I was in agony when my arm made violent contact with the frozen hard soil and could have wept.

As soon as the 'zings' and 'pings' of the whirling shrapnel subsided I tried to get up and make a dash for the village but couldn't with my moaning companion hanging on. After twice more hitting the ground we reached the first house, by which time the pain in my arm was terrible and I could feel the blood oozing through the bandage. It probably didn't matter anymore; the next round of shells would do us in anyhow....The house we reached must have been hit quite a few times and had lost its roof, but some walls still stood and would provide a bit of protection until the barrage stopped. We made our way round to the back, climbing over a partly demolished fence when there came another mighty crash behind us. It must have hit the front and brought the whole wall down, judging from the sound. Finding my feet again for the next spurt into nowhere, I'd made it halfway across the back yard when the German word `halt' made me freeze and drop flat, followed by mate. A German sentry stood in front of us, ready to pull the trigger if the password was not forthcoming. "Don't shoot," I yelled. "We are two Germans, we are wounded and are looking for the Verbandsplatz." I tried to make it clear it was a waste of time asking for the password. We didn't know it since nobody had bothered to tell us, and our only interest was getting to the dressing station as quickly as possible.

A flash from the sentry's torch convinced him we were what I told him. "Just down that road" and he pointed with his rifle in the direction of some dark shapes of houses and presumably where that road would be. "it's the last house in the street". Just then another `heavy' screeched over our heads leaving an enormous mushroom of dirt and debris where a house the opposite side of the road had stood. The quick flash of the impact also revealed the barrel of a heavy field gun protruding from its rampart. So that was the real target the Ami gunners were after. When we were back on our feet again the sentry continued his directions. "It's not a proper house"! he said, "the `house' is really a bunker, so don't try to get in through the front door because it's a dummy. The real entrance is round the back, via a steel hatch". So much for the `it's easy to find' grunt from the Kutscher!

The commotion from the last grenade brought the sentry's mates from their dugouts. I wasn't particularly keen on any lengthy conversation with those fellows and wanted to get to the 'Verbands' bunker and off load the poor fellow hanging on my back in sheer agony, and get some attention for myself.. "The ambulance should have taken you there in the first place" they said one of them with an air of authority, after assessing the situation. He probably was the Kapo of the crew, I guessed" We didn't come down by ambulance" I snapped. "We came by horse transport, that relic with the steel-rimmed wheels" I told them. "Ahh!" they knew exactly. "Die Feldküche!" Das Arschloch, der verdammte Kutscher and seine `Vergeltungswaffe'!" they called it the 'V 3' and said every time that old relic rattled down the hill the Yanks pulled the string on their guns and homed straight in on their position. "It's usually a round, or maybe two, but since this morning they've hardly stopped" they said....

Then they asked how things were the other side of the hill, down by the river bunkers. I said, " take a lift with the `V3' in the morning and have a look for yourselves" but the mere mention of the field-kitchen was enough for them to decline. "By the way," I said, "thanks for plastering our bunker yesterday morning, it was spot on." It took them a while to remember it and I didn't want to get involved in their lengthy self appraisal, so wished them a safe night and left, following their directions. Straight down the street to the last house, as the artillery man said, we couldn't miss it.

We made slow progress, my silent mate hanging on to my coat and I felt really sorry for him now. I had briefly glimpsed his bandaged head when the sentry shone his torch on. The whole bandage was caked, a dirty brown colour and was still oozing fresh blood in places. His face must be in a hell of a mess and I realised he was probably blind. He was an ambulance case and should never have been put on that ancient cooking tank. I expect he was mighty grateful to have got thus far and still be alive, or maybe he didn't give a damn any more.

About halfway down the road we were flat on our bellies again. Another round of shells smashed into the village, one hitting the road we were heading down and shrapnel pinged and whirled all around us. Something whizzed past us with the sound of a small motor bike and hit the side of a house on our left. Jesus! That sure was a mighty big chunk, and pretty low too, just over our heads. I must have bumped my wrist again diving down and my arm hurt something terrible. I got to my feet, pulling my mate, and we made our final dash for the lonely house.

The artillery man need not have warned about that dummy front door. It didn't exist anymore. The whole front facade was one heap of rubble and must have happened that very night or the sentry would have known about it. I found the bunker entrance and inside a Red Cross sign glowed dimly from the ceiling.

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