Various Firsthand Accounts

[KG_Panzerschreck]

i copied and pasted these off of several sites, dont remeber them now. :?




Firsthand Accounts


Interview with an Afrikakorps Panzer Veteran
by Jeff Scott


This interview was conducted by Jeff Scott on Tuesday November 10th, 1998. Jeff interviewed Hans (his real name) who is the father of an internet friend of his. Hans comes to the United States once a year and drives all across the Country. Jeff was able to arrange a meeting when he came through Nashville. They spoke for several hours. Hans speaks good English, but there were a few times when he was at a loss for an English word. Because of this, please excuse any misspelled words below, as sometimes Jeff wasn't sure what Hans was saying, and other times he wasn't sure of the spelling (such as with locations and certain German words Jeff was unfamiliar with).

Jeff: What year did you join the army?

Hans: 1941

Jeff: How old were you when you entered the army?

Hans: I was seventeen when I volunteered.

Jeff: How did you get into the Panzer arm of the army?

Hans:I wanted to drive a tank. I was part of a replacement panzer unit. I was sent to a panzer driver's school, where I got my panzer driver license. I was then sent to a "Tropical" (warfare?) school north of Berlin, to prepare for my being sent to Afrika.

Jeff: Where did you go from there?

Hans: We (crew and tanks) were sent to Naples. Our tanks were to be shipped to Afrika, and we were going to be flying over (He said all previous groups went on ships with tanks). We were to fly over in a flight of JU-52's (he said they always flew in flights of 21...) The pilots were very nervous, they did not like the run. They basically threw us in the planes and took off. We flew only about 200 feet above the water. On the way we were "shadowed" by two British fighters. The pilots told us to man the machine gun. We did and tried to shoot down the fighter, but shooting out of a plane is much different from shooting on the ground. In flight everything looks much closer then it really is. They harassed us a bit, but didn't shoot down any of us. We were relieved when the airport came into sight. We were in for a nasty shock however as while we were making our landing approach, bombs started going off all around us! The pilot made some crazy maneuvers and aborted the landing. There was flak going off all around us and we thought that we would be killed before we even landed. We circled the airport and eventually landed. All planes landed safely, even though some were damaged. It turns out that there was a flight of 18 British bombers above us when we tried to land. I guess they thought they could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. We were lucky to be alive.

Jeff: What unit were you attached to?

Hans: 21st Panzer Division. I was a part of Panzer Regiment 5.

Jeff: What type of Panzers were you driving?

Hans: I drove both Panzer Mark III's and IV's.

Jeff: Which type did you like better?

Hans: I much preferred the Mark III. It was very fast, having a Maybach 12 Cylinder engine. (He then went on to tell me about how great the Maybach engines were.) I didn't like that it only had a 5-centimeter gun. We were really outgunned, but speed partially made up for it.

Jeff: What did you think about the Mark IV?

Hans: Well, it had a much better gun, 7.5-centimeter. But it was quite a bit heavier, and had the same engine as the Mark III. Therefore it wasn't nearly as fast. It had a new gearbox system, 10 forward gears and 4 reverse. Not everyone could drive it. It was kind of a half-automatic.

Jeff: Did you encounter any Australian troops?

Hans: No, only British. British 8th army.

Jeff: What did you think of them?

Hans: Hard. Good fighters. They had good strong tanks. Very slow however. We liked their food

Jeff: Did you see a lot of action?

Hans: Yes. Almost continuously. It wasn't too bad however. We would fight from sunup to sundown. When it started getting dark, except for a few times, all fighting stopped. Much better then in Russia. (Brother in Russia wrote him about the hell that was going on)

Jeff: Did you have any interactions with Italian troops?

Hans: Yes. I had not known any Italians before, and fought with both the Ariete and Treste units (I don't know the spelling).

Jeff: What did you think of them?

Hans: The men were good. Their officers were poor, and their equipment was horrible. Their tanks were useless. The men however were good fighters.

Jeff: How did your capture come about?

Hans: We had been pushed back to Tunis, where we waited. We were later told of our surrender

Jeff: What did you think of your captors?

Hans: They were fair. They told us that our U-boats had been too successful. There was very little food and no water. We were given tea made from salt water. It was horrible, I can still taste it too this day. An officer told us that there wasn't enough food for us, they weren't trying to starve us. He told us to send some men to look at their food supplies, that he wasn't lying.

Jeff: Why did you escape?

Hans: No food. We wanted to surrender to the Americans. I didn't want to end up in England. I had always heard about how huge America was and I wanted to see it. Myself and 2 friends escaped one night and made our way to a food cache (emergency food rations in a cave they knew about). When we got there we found nothing but an alcohol drink made from pears (expensive Swiss stuff he told me). That's all we had to eat or drink for over a week. We were watching the road nearby for any sign of Americans. When we started seeing them driving past we went down and sat by the road until we were picked up.

Jeff: What did you think of the Americans?

Hans: They were kind. They had everything. After I had been captured, I realized that Germany had lost the war. We saw a train arrive that had carload after carload of toilet paper and tent pegs. I knew that an army that would bring all that, would not forget their guns! They had good cigarettes too! Camels

Jeff: How did you get to America?

Hans: We went on a Liberty ship. It took 5 weeks to get to New York. The captain was kind and let us stay on deck when we went through Gibraltar. They told us not to try and swim for it. We saw 2 Italians on another ship jump overboard and were quickly swept away by the currents. None of us tried it. There were more then 50 ships in our convoy. We later learned that German submarines were sitting underneath us with their torpedo doors open, waiting to fire. The BDU sent message to them not to fire that there were POW's on the ships. There were tankers in the middle of the convoy. The outer ring was of ships carrying POW's. We were being used to protect their tankers.

Jeff: Did that make you angry?

Hans: No. I knew that German military would have done same thing.

Jeff: Where did you go from there?

Hans: We docked in New York, and were put on Pullman cars after being processed. We were hungry on the train trip. They only brought small amounts of food at mealtime. We were told if they gave us a lot of food that it would make us sick. They promised us more food later.

Jeff: Did your family know where you were?

Hans: No. It was a year before they knew I was alive.

Jeff: What Prisoner of War Camp did you go to?

Hans: First we went to Camp Raston(or Ruston?) in Louisiana. There was nothing there. They gave us tools and we made some buildings and sports fields. They had nothing for us to do. We did no work, just played soccer and such. There was lots of food but not much equipment. We had to use flour to line our soccer fields because we had no chalk.

Jeff: I notice in your photo album that the men are still wearing their uniforms, even with badges and medals on them? That is really a surprise!

Hans: Well they didn't have any clothes for us! So they let us keep our uniforms. That man (pointing to album) was a sergeant in charge of 4 barracks, about 600 men. (Sergeant in photo is wearing Iron Cross 2nd class ribbon, Iron Cross 1st class, and silver would badge.)

Jeff: What did you think of the camp?

Hans: It was boring, but there was a lot of food. I was there about 6 months. Some of the men still gave the nazi salute. I thought this very bad taste. We were a guest in this country. I know if a Russian had saluted "Mother Russia" he would have been shot.

Jeff: Where did you go next?

Hans: Next I was sent to Camp Como in Mississippi. It was hot. Most of the men picked cotton, very hard work.

Jeff: What did you do?

Hans: I worked on a Singer (sewing machine). We repaired uniforms and let out pants and such. The officers did not work. They were expected to escape. We would collect American money we found in the clothing we were repairing and give it to anyone that wanted to escape. One man escaped and was caught by a farmer. The officer had been living in farmer's barn, and drinking milk out of his cow. The farmer knew was something was going on because his cow started being dry when he tried to milk her. Another man was caught crossing a bridge over the Mississippi river. We got tired of such foolishness and stopped saving them money. We were at Como for about 8 months.

Jeff: What next?

Hans: We went to a temporary work camp in Idaho. We picked huge amounts of potatoes, sugar beets, and onions. We lived in tents for 2 months.

Jeff: What was your work day like?

Hans: Actually pretty easy. We were only required to pick a certain amount of food a day. We were always done by 2:00. The farmer would then bribe us with cigarettes or chocolate and we would do more work. But sometimes we just sat under the trees. It was good.

Jeff: Then where did you go?

Hans: Next I went to Utah. An airbase named Hillfield in Ogden. They asked me what I had done and I told them panzer driver. They said "Good, now you are a snow plow driver". I was in charge of cleaning off the runway. Later they made me stop, a new rule had come about saying no German could be on the airway. I had picked up a decent amount of English during my time so far. So them made me an interpreter. It was boring. I told a friend I wanted to work and an American overheard me and said "I have a job you can do." "Can you drive?" "I'm your man" I replied. He sent me to get me eyes checked then to get checked out on a truck. I started driving a lunch truck. A woman and myself went to parts of the base that were too far away for them to come and eat. I would take their money and she would serve them. I also delivered bakery goods. I liked this because I told the cooks that I was required to test the food to make sure it was acceptable. I ate three chocolate eclairs a day! Later they let me deliver the bakery goods alone. I had to get a regular drivers license.(Which I have seen, real Utah drivers license stating Hans was a Prisoner of War but was allowed to drive on all streets in Utah.)

Jeff: When did you finally get back to Germany?

Hans: 1946. I didn't want to go home. I loved the United States.(Apparently the Americanization worked well on him. He still loves the US.)

Jeff: I then asked Hans some various other questions that I had thought up and others had requested me to ask. What did you think of Rommel?

Hans: We loved him. We thought as long as he was our commander we couldn't lose. We were very discouraged when he left. He also kept the SS out of Afrika! Did you know that? (No, I had never heard that.) Rommel hated Himmler and the SS. He refused to have any under his command. Hitler worked out a deal where every once in a while SS "observers" would come to Afrika, but there were no real units there.

Jeff: Have you seen Private Ryan, do you have any favorite war movies? (I love his answer here!)

Hans: No, I haven't seen private ryan. I don't really watch war movies. I have no need to. I was there. I did see Bridge at Remagen. I liked it.

Jeff: What do you think of current day Berlin?

Hans: Very different from my youth. I was born in Berlin you see. It tore me up seeing my home destroyed the way it was.

Jeff: Do you go to Veteran reunions?

Hans: No. I see some of my friends from that time now and again. But I don't go to reunions. It would take too much time away from my sports. (This was the same answer he gave when I asked him why he didn't have a computer) I love my tennis and skiing too much. (He also goes wind surfing still. Don't laugh, I've seen photos of that too!)

Jeff: Did you have any idea of all the interest in WWII Germany?

Hans: None. It has been so long since I talked with anyone about the war. I have enjoyed it however. (I then proceded to show him Jason's site and he was very impressed.)

Jeff: What did you learn from all your experiences?

Hans: (Long pause, then speaking very softly) It was a horrible time for me and all of Germany. We (Germans) have no one to blame except ourselves. I lost all three of my brothers. My home was destroyed and invaded. I know that the best place I could have been was in those camps thousands of miles away. I survived. What else can I say. So many did not. I'm simply thankful to be alive.



Interview with an Afrikakorps Infantry Veteran
by Martin Schenkel

This interview was done on January 23rd, 1999 by Martin Schenkel with a German Veteran known as Oberschütze Siebenbrot. He served in North Africa during WWII in the Wehrmacht Heer. In this interview, Siebenbrot first explains his wartime experiences and then responds to a number of questions asked by Martin.

I was drafted in February, 1941, at the age of 19, and did my basic training in Göttingen. In July, we were sent to the Truppenübungslager Munster, to complete the training. They then asked me if I was interested in going to Africa, to serve in the Afrika Korps. I agreed, and was sent to Potsdam, where (although we didn't know it at the time) we would be assembled in a Sonderverband (special unit). The unit was originally named Sonderverband 288. We later found out, that we would be going to Iraq, to occupy the oil fields. The Sonderverband, was not organized like a typical battalion which usually had 3 or 4 companies. We had 7 companies. The first company was composed of foreigners, who had grown up in the middle east, and in total, were able to speak 20 different Arab dialects. The second company were GebirgsJäger. The third, which I was in, was infantry. The fourth was reconnaissance. The fifth was an assalut gun company, with light and heavy mortar elements. The sixth was a FlaK company, and the seventh, was an AT-rifle company. There was also a water-testing unit, as well as a printing troop, we had everything, and we were also motorised.

My task was to be a runner, who sent orders and notices back and forth, but I was also used in the infantryman role. Because it was a small unit, and heavy casualties were predicted, we were trained in all the roles of the companies, so that when there were casualties, any man could fill the spot. For example, I as an infantryman, was only trained in the use of rifles, machinguns, and other small arms unique to the infantry. In this unit, we were also trained to use the light and heavy mortars, anti-tank rifles, and the FlaK guns. By the end of the training in September, every man in the Sonderverband was trained in the use of all the hand-held weapons, and sometimes more. We were then loaded on trains, and sent on our way. The trains were now and then held up by partisans in Yugoslavia, and when it got to Belgrad, we heard over the radio, that the British had occupied the southern parts of Iraq, namely Basra, which is where the Sonderverband was headed. We continued to Greece, and ended up south of athens, in the Atika peninsula. Quarters were quickly arranged, as the command no longer knew what to do with us. We stayed there for most of the winter, and continued to train. Because the unit was equiped and trained for the tropics, it was decided to send us to Africa. We re-embarked on trains, and headed back through Yugoslavia, to Trieste and then Naples. We were then ordered to Letche, on the Adriatic, to get ready to go to North-Africa, either by ship, or airplane.

In March, 1942, our company was loaded into small aircraft to fly to Africa. They were old primitve Italian aircraft, with canvas covering which already had several holes. The entrances were open, and had machineguns for air defense. The poor airplane was overlaoded, and couldn't get off the ground. We were moved to the front of the aircraft, and the plane finally made into the air. To avoid British fighters, the plane flew 200 feet above the sea, and arrived safely in Derna. We were very quickly unloaded, as the pilot was getting very anxious to get going, because British airplanes would soon arrive. The plane was loaded with wounded, and a few minutes later, the fighters arrived. British intelligence and recon was very good, and they knew when planes or ships were arriving. The unit then spent some time re-organizing, and getting ready to participate in the offensive. At the same time, the unit was renamed Kampfgruppe Menton.

It was in early June, that we had our first contact with the enemy. The engineers first had to clear a path in the minefields. The path was very small, just barely wide enough for two way traffic. We were then sent to El Adem. The British couldn't hold, they retreated, and the town was quickly caputred. The unit then moved towards Bir Hacheim, but stiff resistance from French Legionaires, commanded by general Koenig, held up the advance. The French were very well entreched just outside Bir Hacheim, and wouldn't budge. After 10 or 12 days, the French finally gave way. Our company though, wasn't involved untill the last few days. On the last day, the French were encircled, but during the night, they managed to break-out and escape. After Bir Hacheim was captured, the British launched a counter-attack. We were hit pretty hard, had to quickly retreat, and somehow managed to avoid being cut-off and captured. The British counter-attacks then failed, and Rommel was able to push them back to the Egyptian border. The Sonderverband ended up near Bardia-Sollum. By that time, Tobruk had been surrounded, and was under siege. We were sent back to south of Tobruk, and watched the battle while in reserve. Then it was back to Egypt, and we arrived south of Mersa Matruh, while the British were still more than 100km behind us. On one perticular night, after we had dug our foxholes and were resting, we heard engine noises, and realized that it was the British, who were drinving past our positions. It was night, so nothing could be done, nor was our strength enough to take on so many British.

It was at this time, in September, that I started to suffer from arthritis. I was sent back to Tobruk, which had in the meantime been captured. On the way, we were attacked by planes. We quickly jumped out of the trucks, and scrambled for cover. During this attack, I narrowly escaped injury. The truck was only lightly damaged, so we could continue. I arrived in Tobruk at about noon, and it was very busy and a lot of traffic, as many wounded were being brought from the front, and there were many amputations. At around 8 that evening, a doctor finally got around to examaning me, and decided that because the arthritis wouldn't heal properly in the heat, I was to be sent back to Naples, from Derna, via hospital ship. Next to me on the ship, was an east indian, who was trying to talk to me, I didn't understand much enlish yet, but figured out the the indian had been injured while being attacked by tanks. Even if you were the enemy, you were taken care of if you were injured. I spent a month in Naples, and when I was able to walk properly, he was sent back to Germany for rehablilitation. After another month in southern-Germany (near the Bodensee), I reported back to my unit's HQ/collection point, in Küstrin. I then got two weeks leave, and went home, and when I reported again, I was sent to work on a potato farm for a few weeks. After that, in December, we were sent to Grafenwöhr, were there was a big training facility. There we joined the GebirgsJäger Regiment 756, and this time, I was attached to a rifle platoon, as an infantryman. On christmas eve, the unit was loaded on trains, and went throught the Brenner pass to Italy, and then on to Palermo, in Sicily.

In early January 1943, we boarded a small liner, and arrived in Bizerta. The regiment re-organized in Mateur, and then was sent to the front. We were then ordered to capture a hill. We captured it, and there, for the first time, I was close enough, in combat, to be able to see the whites of their eyes. In North-Africa, hand-to-hand combat very rarely took place, and I never once experienced it. During this attack on the hill, it was the only time I used a hand-granade. Each man was issued one hand-granade. The Morrocan troops, whom we were attacking, were very well camouflaged, and by the time I tossed my granade, they had already retreated. The combat in the days following, went back and forth, and after a while, we were sent to a quiet part of the front, on the coast, and rested, and laid booby traps. We then went on a 60 km night march, to attack French positions in a valley the next morning. With about 30 men left in our platoon, we ran down the hill, screaming and shouting. The French were totally surprised and surrendered immediately. The platoon took about 120 prisoners. The fighting in Africa, I would like to say, was always fair, and both sides respected each other, unlike in Russia. No prisoners were shot or badly mistreated. In one particular case, after heavy fighting, many wounded were lying around the battlefield, so a temorary cease-fire was arranged. Both sides went out to collect their wounded. Neither side ever violated the cease-fire. In another instance, close to the end in Tunisia (April), on a beautifull day, our company which was down to ten men, was dug in a hill. Two men were in each hole, and the holes were about 10 feet apart. Suddenly a British tank came along. We had absolutley no anti-tank weapons of any kind. Apparently, one of the men in the foxhole next to us, caught the attention of the tank, and it fired into the foxhole, and the men were injured, and shouting for help. A medic came with a streatcher to our foxhole, and tied a white band around my arm. We leaped out of the foxhole towards the wounded men, in full view of the tank, which wasn't more than 25 m away. One of the men was dead, and we took the other one away. Throughout this, the tank never fired on us.

But the end was inevitable. Outnumbered 5 or 6 to 1, and with very few heavy weapons left, the Axis suurendered on 8 May to the Allies in Tunisia. We marched over a hill to some British tanks, who gave us cigarettes, and we gave them choclate, and they were very friendly. We were sent to a makeshift POW camp near Bone. In the camps we didn't get too much to eat, so we had to try to get an egg, or some cous-cous from the locals. We then took a ship to Oran. By that time many men had lice, so we were disinfected. The same day, we were loaded onto a couple American ships that were heading back to the US. We arrived in New York on 30 May, 1943. On the voyage though, many had gotten lice again, so we were then disinfected once more.

On June 3, we arrived, via train, in the POW camp in Hunstville, Texas. The camp was divide into 3 areas, and each area held 1200 men. Next to the camp, a sports field had been built. Each prisoner was entideld to eat what a regular soldier eats. We were given enough food, and there were few complaints. At first, there wasn't any real work for us, so we just did small jobs in the camp, like mowing lawns etc., and a few volunteered for the camp fire brigade. We were also allowed to learn several languages (english, french, and spanish), and to read and write, and to study many different topics like math and so on, all organized by the prisoners. There was also a monthly newspaper, put together by the prisoners. There was a chapel, an orchestra, a theater, and once a month there would be a big show, with the band playing, some would sing, and there would be a play or two. In this camp, we ate corn for the first time, as in Germany it was used for feeding chickens. One prisoner came up with the following poem:



Mais fürdert in allen lendern
Bei Hünern die legerei.
Bei uns braucht's nicht zu versuchen,
Wir legen ja doch kein Ei.
Corn furthers in all countries
With chickens the laying of eggs.
Don't bother to try that with us,
We never will lay an egg.


Finally they figured that we should work a little. So they put to work in the cotton fields. Through our stuborness, we decided to stick together, and picked only up to a certain amount of cotton in a day. When you are a POW, you're not supposed to be put to work in an industry. We were used to getting two days holiday for Pfingsten, so on the first of those two days, we decided not to work. The Americans closed much of the camp down, including the kitchen. On the second day, the POW's decided to go back to work. Next, a local rice farm needed help for the harvest, so some of us were sent to work there. Each morning, the farmer would come to pick us up, and drive us home at the end of the day. I had learned quite a bit of english, so I was the interpreter for our group of ten or so men. This particular farmer was really nice. The camp food wasn't always the best, and each day the farmer's wife would serve us a different dish of rice. We really enjoyed that.

Early in 1944, I was sent to another camp, Huntsville, Alabama. Here I saw a bit of injustice. The Americans were trying to force non-comissioned officers to work. By the Geneva convention, officers are not supposed to work. The officers refused, and as a result, got little food, so we threw them some food over the fence. Then, after a quick stay in Georgia, some of us were sent to Florida, south of Miami. At first I worked at a big army depot. There was a big repair shop, where old army trucks were being repaired, and then sent to Russia. POW's weren't supposed to work in industry, so we maintained buildings, cut grass etc. Eventually, we loaded trucks on railcars. Next I moved on to a maintenance shop at Miami airport, and I started working in the paint shop, which prior to the war had been my trade. At this camp, I met some guys who had somehow put together a radio, and we could listen to news coming out of Havana (one of the guys spoke spanish), as well as local stations. At that time, Cuba was some what friendly to the Germans, so the German news we heard from Havana, was much different than from the American stations. I think that the American news was much closer to the truth. I stayed in Miami untill the end of the war.

In April 1946, we were sent back to New York, were we boarded a ship to Antwerp. Now under British control, we then ended up in a camp south of Brussels. In this camp, the food was extremly bad, and many POW's died. However, those of us who had come from the USA, had been well fed, so we were able to survive. The camps were exactly like described in a book by James Bach, The Other Losses. There was a high barbed-wire fence. You were lucky if you were able to get a tent, there were few blankets, and the food was hardly believable. We were there only for 6 weeks, but you could see that the guys had lost a lot of weight. Then, for some reason, instead of being sent home, we were shipped to England. There we were greeted by an English major or colonel, who was really impressive; he said straight out "...you are here to help rebuild the country, in retaliation for destroying much of it..." At least that guy was fair, he told us straight out what was going on. We spent a year in England. At first we worked on a farm, then we dug ditches for water, gas, sewer lines for new houses, and we were also a while in a brickworks. It was then 1947, and we were about to go home, But first, we had to be de-nazified. There were three classes: Nazi, mitläufer (just going along with it), and anti-nazi. The anti-nazis were sent home first. I was a mitlaufer. Last to leave were the supposed nazis. They were considered Nazis, because mabye they were nasty to the interogators. I arrived home, with an old British army uniform, with patches on it indicating that I was a POW.

Now the question and answer part:

Martin: What enemy units were you in contact with?

Siebenbrot: In Africa, we were at first in contact with French troops, but then after that, primarily British troops. The war in Africa was a war of movement, so you were never in the same position long, nor did you face the same enemy unit for long either.

Martin: What kind of an inpact did the Britsh Long Range Desert Force have?

Siebenbrot: They had success, but not all the time. They did a commando raid on Rommel's HQ, but they fared pretty badly. They operated far behind our lines, and they usually came up from the south, and acted mostly as recon. But sometimes, against small units, they would attack, or feign attacks, and quickly disapear. They didn't have much effect on morale, we were not afraid of them. I have also never heard of them doing any significant damage, as they were usually just used for recon. You knew about them, but we didn't hear about them much.

Martin: Have you ever met an interpreter by the name of Trefz?

Siebenbrot: No.

Martin: Have you ever had personal contact with Rommel?

Siebenbrot: Yes. We were in a rest position, in the desert, and it was my turn to be the look-out. In the distance, I could see a group of cars coming, and as they got closer, I could see that they were German. I had my rifle with me, and was wearing nothing except a cap, and shorts. I waved, and ran up to them, and I could see that it was Rommel himself, along with his entourage. I had to report the situation, what unit we were, and I pointed out to them where there was a minefield nearby, as they were going in that direction., and Rommel replies "Ja, we know, we know.". Then he asked me: "Wo kommst du her?" (Where do you come from?) I told him " Ich komme aus Niedersachen, Lüneburg." "Oooooooh... Lüneburg," he says, "Ja, ich war mal in Goslar..." (I was once in Goslar). He didn't have much time, and they drove on.

Martin: What was your CO like?

Siebenbrot: Our company commander was Oberleutnant Schröder. Our company had three platoons. The first platoon was commanded by Leutnant Buchholz. The second platoon was Leutnant Krusendorf, and the third was Leutnant Bronandt. This was while I was with the Sonderverband. I will be frank, we didn't like the company CO very much. He was too much by the book. If you can imagine it: You've been fighting, with little sleep, and then when you're in rest position, they come along and want you to clean your rifle. Then they make you feel bad if you have one spec of dust on it, but in those types of conditions, you can't help it. I understand that while in rest status, the troops need to be kept busy. But after being in combat, and when your on the move, you go 2 or 3 days without sleep, why not just let the troops sleep?

Martin: What do you think about the quality of the enemy soldiers and their equipment?

Siebenbrot: The English tanks, were inferior. They weren't quite as fast, and their firepower wasn't sufficient. The English though, were superior in the artillery. First of all they had more. But overall, in Africa, we were always outnumbered. Also, our supply was low, and approximately 40% of the supply ships were sunk. The British airforce was also superior. They had more planes, and more fuel. We had very few bombers, mostly just fighters. But, we had the 88. It was far superior to anything the British had. I think it could fire nine kilometers away. The british tanks couldn't fire that far, so we could destroy many before they were even able to shoot. As for the troops, I say they (the British) were equal. There may have been a few units that weren't so good, but in general, they were equal. And they were well equiped. But their commanders were somewhat hesitant to attack, and it seems sometimes they didn't know what was going on.

Martin: What was it like being under Rommel's command?

Siebenbrot: It was great. I think that every man in the Afrika Korps, admired Rommel. And if he would come around and say: "Ok guys, we want to take Bardia" everybody was willing to go. He would always ask more from the soldiers than was expected of them. He was very demanding, but we would give it to him gladly. We respected him because he was fair. No prisoners were mistreated. Also, he kept the SS out of Africa. He refused to have any SS units under his command. He was also admired very much by the 8th Army.

Martin: What did Rommel think of the troops he was commanding?

Siebenbrot: He was very satisfied with his troops. He had some misgivings about the Italians, however in hindsight, they had a lot of tough luck. They didn't have the armour, they weren't properly fed either. An Italian friend of mine, who was in the Italian army, said the food was atrocious. Their army was also classed, unlike the German army (at least in Africa), where an officer would basically get the same food as a private. Not so in the Italian army. And consequently, the Italian moral was not as good as in the German army, which is understandable. One should not always put the Italians down, in my opinion.

Martin: (almost redundant now but...) What did you think about the Italians?

Siebenbrot: Like I talked about before, but they were good guys. On one occasion we ran out of water. Our canteens could only hold 3/4 of a liter, while the Italian had big ones, at least 2 or 3 liters. So a group of Italians happened to come by, and offered us some water. We were extremly gratefull. But their equipment wasn't very good, their tanks were horrible, so they couldn't stand up to anything. And they had no trucks. You try marching aroung in the desert, and fighting. So they usually only moved at night. We also at times had no trucks, but very few Italian units were motorized. You have to keep that in consideration.

Martin: Have you ever heard of Hans von Luck?

Siebenbrot: No.

Martin: What was your basic training like?

Siebenbrot: The training was not too bad. Personally, I didn't like the army. The treatment was pretty rough. When you get punished for something you haven't done, it's tough to take. The actual training wasn't bad, I could take it. But when the officers treat you unfairly, then it's not very good. But this is just my opinion.

Martin: Have you ever been back to Africa after the war?

Siebenbrot: No. When we immigrated to Canada, it was a little far off. But I did attend two meetings of the Afrika Korps, after the war. Once in Iserlohn, and once near Hannover. At each occasion, Rommel's widow and son visited. In Hannover, I met a German general, General von Letto-Vorbeck, that had served in Africa during WWI (WWII??)

Martin: What do you think of your experiences from the war?

Siebenbrot: Well, I lost 8 or 9 of the best years of my life. When you went back home, you did all the things that you would've done at 17 or 18 or 19, six or so years later. Especially now, since we lost the war, you feel cheated out of those years, and many wonder what the use was. What did we fight for?

Martin: What was life like in the desert?

Siebenbrot: The desert is just sand. Some deserts, like in North-America, have bushes or shrubs, but in northern Lybia and Egypt, there are almost none. Those that do exist, are small, and most are brown. During the day, the temperature goes up to 40 degrees Celcius. Throughout my stay in Africa, I experienced only one time that it rained. But when it rains, boy oh boy, does it rain. The water runs off in what are called wadis. They're like a canyon, buy only a few meters deep. They were very usefull for cover, even for vehicles. In the desert, you wouldn't carry too much, just your equipment, one change of socks and underwear, and thats it. When I was wounded the first time and sent back to Italy, I didn't have a stich of clothing that was German, except for my cap. In Africa, you would scrounge or loot captured or abandoned trucks, get clothes from there. So hardly anybody wore an official uniform. Even some of our equipment wasn't German. Many trucks we had were captured ones that could be fixed up. In general, our supply was poor. You had to make do with what you had.

Martin: What was a typical day like?

Siebenbrot: If it was a rest day, you would do nothing. If possible, you would wash your cloths. The nights are very cold in the desert. You need at least 3 or 4 blankets. If your not resting, your constantly on the move. Here and there, wherever your needed. And every now and then, you'd come upon an enemy column. I remenber one occasion, we ran into a small group of British trucks. We weren't a big group either, but we managed to get the uper hand, and shot up the trucks. We ran up to the trucks, and we took what we could. Food, water, anything you could use. I remember for one particular week, we lived entirely on english food. Our field kitchen wasn't able to keep up with us. Each soldier carried a 'Eiserne Reserve' (hard biscuit) with them, and it was only to be eaten on orders, if there was no more food. The British had a choclate version, and they were very good. On another occasion, we were driving along, and we could see enemy tanks coming in the distance. The lieutenant ordered to get the machinegun ready, and get into positions. The tanks come closer, and closer, and finally they started shooting. Then the lieutenant yelled to get the hell out of here. So we ran like crazy, and saw some of our trucks that had stayed behind. They seemed to have the same orders to retreat, and I was just barely able to jump onto one of them, when it took off. In the desert, a unit is rarely in action together. elements are spread around, and used were they are needed.

Martin: Under what higher HQ was your unit in?

Siebenbrot: We were attached to the 90th Light Division. We weren't a generic unit, but an independant unit attached to the division for most of the war in the desert.




Memoirs of a Panzergrenadier Veteran
by Björn Jervas


The following was translated and compilied by Björn Jervas, whose Grandfather, Willy Tiedemann, served in the Wehrmacht Heer during WWII. The following memoir was written from a series of audio tapes that were recorded by Willy before his death a number of years ago. Some place names may be incorrectly spelled, and various minor corrections and additions have been added by Jason Pipes, as indicated by information in parentheses. The following is an interesting mix of biography, memoir and diary entires based on Willy's experiences during World War II. It serves as a powerful testiment to the entire range of experiences and emotions of a German Soldat, from the monumental to the mundane, and from the joyous to the terribly upsetting.


Pre-war

I started my career as a policeman, my unit was 1. Landespolizei-Hundertschaft, Harburg. In September 1935, the whole unit was turned over to the Wehrmacht, we never volunteerd. In October 35 we were designated III Bataillon/Infanterie-Regiment 69, and our first batallion commander was Oberstleutnant Spengler. After this, we had years of practice.

In October 38, my unit marched into the Sudetenland, and we also invaded Czechozlovakia later. In August 39, my unit was in Sudetenland, practicing as (a) motorized unit. There were rumours of a war against Poland, but we did not believe it. On 20.8.39 we were moved eastwards, Küstrin-Landsberg. We arrived (at) Hasseln on 26.8.39, and camouflaged our vechicles. Nothing more happened. On 31.8.39 we were moved to Sclochau, were we met other units. Something was going on!

The Polish Campaign

(On) 1.9.39, at 0445 O'clock, our artillery started barraging the Polish town of Konitz. Konitz was ready for surrender by 0800. We drove into the fields of Tuscla. The first Polish resistance we had, was when we arrived Grajebo. We had actually moved "back" into Germany, before crossing the Polish border once more (Willy's unit was a part of the 20.Inf.Div.(mot.), which began the campaign against Poland on the western side of the Polish Corridor and after crossing through it, actually entered into East Prussia, thus entering "back" into Germany. - JP). On the 10.9.39 we crossed river Narew, and got in position at Zambro. Near by was "Festung Lomska", with 2 polish infantry and one artillery regiments. We were supposed to participate in a siege of this unit. It was so much fog that day, that the Polish managed to withdraw without our knowledge, but soon we engaged them. Polish and German MG's at Zambro shot wildly at anything moving, and it was a disaster! Our Bataillon lost 120 men, my Kompanie, the 9th had 32 KIA's. We took more than 400 POW's, and two field cannons.

Shortly after, we were sent towards Brest-Litowsk. We were supposed to attack this "festung", supported by railway-artillery, but the Polish surrendered after their officers had escaped. We were met by a terrible sight: more than 300 Volksdeutsche had been held as captives in the "festung", and they had been very badly treated! We occupied the town of Brest-Litowsk, the civilians wandered around in the streets, mostly very drunk...

We met the Russian forces in Brest-Litowsk. The commander of 10.Panzer-Division, Guderian, participated in the parade together with the Soviets. Our regiment was now a reserve unit for the forthcoming offensive against Warsaw, but no action took place.

On 6.10.39 we were moved, through Schneidemühl and Berlin to our barracks in Hamburg-Wentdorf. After some time, on 25.11.39, we moved westwards, and stayed in Paderborn. More exercises!

The Western Campaign

(On) 10.5.40 we were in position close to the Dutch border by Maastricht. We crossed the border, close to Lignic. No enemy contact. When we arrived Lafontaine, in France, we were met by escaping French and Morroccan forces. On 21.5.40 our Bataillon took 4300 PoWs, and we were turned towards Arras. Lots of prisoners were held at Bulogne. In the Calais-area, not far from Dunkirk, we attacked Oscapell - the British HQ. It was fierce fighting! At Lesegn-Chemaign the British tried an armoured counter-attack, but were beaten. On 31.5.40 we attacked Dunkirk and St. Omar.

(On) 4.6.41 we drove through Arras, Vieraux to Vedun. Just spread enemy activity (??). At Longrais, the French attacked, and our Bataillon had 20 casualties. We thought the war was over by now, but we were ordered to move on. The enemy resistance got harder, and the 9th Kompanie had 7 KIA's, the french about 60. Even if France had capitulated, the forces continued to fight! These were mostly soldiers from the Maginot Line.

One night, I was ordered to lead a patrol of a reinforced platoon. Suddenly we heard horses in front of us, and we opened fire! Without resistance, 100 men w/ 80 horses and one PAK surrendered. They told us that more French were to come, so we laid down in ambush. Just after 30 minutes, we heard horses - and it became silent! We sneaked in the direction where we had heard the noise, just like indians! We started firing, and really much so the french would believe we were many more than we really were. It worked!! We caught 1 colonel, 9 officers, 500 men and 400 horses! This unit had planned to attack our Bataillon the next morning!

From 21.6.40 we were not in combat anymore. We moved to St.Revienne at Nivea, to En Vrien close to Paris, as occupation forces.

Christmas 1940 was celebrated in Ahrendsee in Germany, before we went back to France. During Easter 41 we moved to Kosten, later Grossborn in Pommern, where we practiced for 7 weeks. On 12.6.41 we (were) in East Prussia close to the Soviet border. Could it really come to war again? I had a bad feeling.

(At some point after the French Campaign, he seems to have switched units because he now makes mention of his unit as the 20.Panzer-Division, which was not an extention of his earlier unit, the 20.Infanterie-Division (mot.) - JP)

The Eastern Campaign

On 22.6.41 my Bataillon crossed the Soviet border by Punsk. Very little resistance, we shot down 6 enemy aircraft, Ratas and Polkaripovs. (On) 25.6.41 we attacked Wilna, while Jagdgeschwader Mölders cleared the skies (of) enemy aircraft. On 28.6.41 we were in Minsk, with the mission of protecting bridges in the area. Very hot temperature, dust and swamps. We crossed Berezina, and were assigned to 4.Panzer-Armee led by Kluge.

On 7.7.41 we met really hard resistance at the Stalin line by Duna. For the first time we used the Nebelwerfer, with good effect. At Starojezelo we had great losses…

(On) 9.7.41 we moved towards Witebsk, very hard Russian resistance! We had to get out of our vechicles because of enemy artillery. Our Bataillon was stopped completely, and we had to jump around like rabbits to save our vechicles. Had to march from now on. On 10.7.41 we see that the Soviets are putting Vitebsk (on) fire. The city was not totally conquered before 13.7.41, after the use of Nebelwerfers.

Soon after, my division, the 20.Panzer-Division moved towards Smolensk. We reached north of the city on the 23.7.41. We were told we were the German unit who had reached most far into (the) Soviet (Union)!

On 28.7.41 we were reserve for (the) 12.Panzer-Division. We rested until 7.8.41, and were assigned to "Panzergruppe Hoth" , who apart from us, consisted of 20. and 18.Panzer-Grenadier-Division (actually, both were still motorizied infantry divisions at this point, they both became Panzer-Grenadier units in 1943 - JP) and 12.Panzer-Division. On 19.8.41 we moved northwards, Smolensk - Vitebsk - Opotska - Nikolajewo - Nowgorod towards Leningrad, and we stopped about 20km from Leningrad, in the Neva area, with the task to form a bridge-head. Hard fighting, 6.Kompanie had 6 dead, and 7 wounded. The enemy attacks with tanks and aircraft.

On 1.9.41 we meet the hardest resistance so far. My Kompanie has 11 casualties. We sit in wet trenches, and are constantly under heavy fire from artillery, tanks and mortars. Later this day, my Kompanie loses 26 men. A Stuka attack on russian artillery positions gives us a short break.

On the 9.9.41 we were moved to Sclüsselburg, and went into position. Had to build bunkers during night-time.

16.9.41. We are in our fox-holes, great losses. Our troops are in (a) very bad mood, and we feel like we are waiting to be executed.

18.9.41. Suddenly we see the 8.Panzer-Division moving through our area. Attack?

21.9.41. Today it is Sunday, but what a Sunday! No difference. Why can't the Soviets surrender, we have been told they were almost finished! Later this day, 9 Russian aircraft attack, and my Kompanie (has) 3 dead. Are we all to die here in foreign soil?

22.9.41. 8.Panzer-Division is ready to attack, and my Bataillon shall join them. The enemy fires from everywhere, who is really under siege? The Russians counterattack at Neva.

24.9.41. Positions unchanged. Counterattack! As reinforcment, we get one Stukageschwader and one Schlachtfliegergeschwader - they are attacking the Soviets now!

The Russians get supplies over the frozen Lake Lagoda, and this can not be stopped before the 18.Infanterie-Division (mot.) is moved further north, or if the Finns arrive. Where are the Finns? This night I think about Napoleon in 1812. What if the Winter comes?

25.9.41. Heavy Soviet artillery, tank attacks.

26.9.41. Soviet air attacks. German planes drives them away.

27.9.41. At 1800 12 Soviet bombers attack. Several casualties!

28.9.41. More and more air attacks, and heavy artillery. The Russians must have very good observers! We have now been here for 5 weeks!

29.9.41. Rumors of Fallschirmjäger and Infantry units taking over!

3.10.41. Indeed! Our Bataillon is releaved by Fallschirmjäger! We hear on (the) radio that Adolf Hitler promises the war will be over before the Winter!

5.10.41. No more rest. The whole Korp is about to attack soon!

8.10.41. Big Soviet armor attack, but we manage to stop them once again. Very cold, and constant rain.

9.10.41. In the night we wake up from some very loud detonations. Our forces use, for the first time, a projectile of 50 kg TNT, which we call "Peterchens Mondfahrt".

13.10.41. We are told to move to Djuba tomorrow. Where after that? This is hardly fun anymore, more than half of my Kompaine are dead ny now. The first snow is falling!

25.10.41. Today's surprise! I am ordered to go to Riga, to pick up food and equipment. It could be dangerous, because of partisans, but I'd do anything to get out of here!

7.11.41. I'm back. My Bataillon is in the Volchow-Tichwin area, to secure the right flank towards Budogotch. We are to support tank units that shall meet the Finns in Tichwin. Our forces reach Tichwin, but the russians stop the Finns from arriving. Difficult situation now!

17.11.41. My Bataillon, the first (I), has huge losses! 71 dead, and these were badly stumbled (I think he means badly treated - JP) by the Russians, they took all the uniforms, and left them naked in the snow. New Russian air attacks, temparature is below 31C.

19.12.41 We are ordered to retreat from Tichwin. During the night we reach Volchowa by Nowgorod. Tempature is below 52C!

We celebrate christmas in Luga. The russians are getting stronger, and have better clothes and equipment, but we only getting weaker. What a christmas...

29.12.41. We are deployed to Volchow together with an newly arrived I.D from France. The Russians have managed to form a bridge-head at Chodowo. Temperature is below 45C, and in my company we have 50-60 soldiers with severe wounds because of the temperature. Again back to the foxholes and bunkers.

In March 42 we are moved to a position west of Nowgorod, we are participating in the siege of 7 russian divisions. This lasted for some time, and the russians often tried to break out, in vain!

In May comes the spring. It is mud, mud and mud only. We have difficulties in getting supplies. The Russians despair! Our Nachtjäger are shooting down most of the aircraft that are dropping food and equipment to their forces. We are guarding the so-called "Erika-path".

It's getting warmer, and now we have millions and millions of mosquitos that pester us. Many get the "Volchow-fever", a kind of malaria, and so do I. When I recover, I get an unexpected leave, and can go to Germany.

I'm back on the 21st of July 42. By then the battles at Volchow were ended, we took more than 36,000 PoW's. How many dead? We certainly had heavy losses during the 4-month siege! We are now moved to Voltoskido, southeast of Lake Ilmen.

On 21.8.42 we get new orders, first to move to Staraja Russa, later northeast of Volchow. By now we knew we had to endure another winter in Russia.

In our new positions it was quite calm. We did good fortifications! In the beginning of November 42 (something) happened that changed my destiny: An order from Heeres-Personalamt, Berlin, said that all former policemen were to join a Feldgendarmerie-Ersatz-Abteilung. I was finally to get an officer education, being a Hauptfeldwebel by now. I was happy to get away from the frontline, the school was in Lodz, Poland. I stayed in Lodz for two months, and got orders to lead a transport of 65 Feld-Gendarmen to Kaukasus. The train was set up in Warsaw.

We spent 5 weeks on the train, sometimes we had to wait hours and days for more important trains to pass. Horrible trip!

In Changhoy, at the Crimea, we stopped. Now we heard of the 6th Division in Stalingrad... (I believe he means 6.Armee, which was finally lost in the Stalingrad Pocket in early February 1943 - JP)

(In) the place we were to go (to), in (the) Kaukasus, the situation had changed. The Germans were retreating, so we couldn't go of course. I got orders to go to Simropol, Crimea, and meet the commanding general, Mackenklot. My unit got divided, and (we) were sent to different places. I could choose, and (I) chose Jalta. What a beauty! It was like dreaming, sun, palms and flowers! The beauty really thrilled me!

I worked at Ortskommandantur Simais, south in Crimea. I led a unit of Tartar HIPO's, (These were the Crimean Tartars, local ethnic men in the Crimea region who came forward to volunteer for service in the German Wehrmacht specifically to help fight the Soviets, with whom the Crimean Tartars had been stuggling for freedom for many years. Approximately 10 Bataillonen and 14 Kompanien of Crimean Tartars were formed in the Crimea region during WWII. Their service in the HIPO, or Hilfspolizie, was as auxiliary police units in which they helped hunt down partisans - JP) and were told to guard them as well. One of our tasks, was to give a daily meal to the civilians. If the war was like this, I surely could endure for some time!

In the beginning of March 43 I had to meet in Schabroze with my men, and to join the Feldgendarmerie Unit I originally was designed too. They had arrived from (the) Kaukasus. This meant an end to my good life... I got promoted to Leutnant in Sept 43, and joined my new unit in Poltava. Now there was a rapidly moving retreat to Polomi. Hell breaks loose again!

From 2100 O'clock the Soviets attacked with bomber airplanes, and heavy artillery, agaist the railway station at Polomi. 18 freight trains were destroyed, and we had numerous killed. I sat in an earth hole, like so many times before, but had lost contact with my unit. Not so strange, they were in Mariopol, and I teamed up with them again.

I recieved a reinforced platoon (zug), and were ordered to stop the russians. Fierce fighting, we fought for our lives, and NOT to end up as PoW's in Siberia. (On) 11.9.43. we arrived in Bertjansk, and started to evacuate the civilian population. Of course we burned everyting that the Russian forces could use. My unit was divided into several groups, so we didn't see each other too much. Suddenly the town was attacked by russian T 34 tanks, and we had to get away. We managed so!

In Nogjajsk the situation was desperate! We had to move, but it was all just mud. We literally had to carry our PzKv! We gathered in Povrovka. At the end of September, we were officially deployed to Heeresgruppe Süd, and moved to Vititsa. Got an unexpected order that I had to participate for 6 weeks more in front line service, as Kompanie commander!! They must have forgotten that I had fought in the first lines with 20.Panzer-Grenadier-Regiment before I joined the Feldgendarmerie! (Here I believe he is actually refering to the division he originally fought with in Poland, the 20.Infanterie-Division (mot.) which was later upgraded to a Panzer-Grenadier-Division in 1943. It would seem obvious that to the Soldat in the frontlines, the symantic differance between a motorizied infantry division and an armored infantry division was bascially pointless. - JP)

On 5.10.43 we were deployed to an Infanterie-Regiment, but this was destroyed before we could join. Ended up in 231.Infanterie-Division, (the) commanding general was Block. At first, we were the reserve unit.

Suddenly we got orders to throw out 800 Russian commando soldiers who had dug in near a tank trench. We were to attack at 1300. Our mission: Clear a village close by, and attack the main force. Our artillery gave us cover. As we arrived to the village, the Russians opened fire from everywhere. We could not stay, and managed to get out. I got wounded by a shrapnel, and had to give up my command.

At last my company managed to eliminate the Russians, with good help from a unit (of) "Do-werfers" (some sort of rocket launcher - JP). But just for 1 hour, the Russians counterattacked, and forced my Kompanie out again. When we tried to re-capture the positions, our Do-werfers laid their fire on our unit, and the whole Kompanie was destroyed!! What a luck I had to survive! (Imagine being caught in a mistaken barrage of friendly Nebelwerfer rockets... the thought of it simply horrible! - JP)

On 6.11.43 I was in a bunker, totally bandaged. The Russians got stronger day by day. Got a new Kompanie yesterday, and we move in our trenches again. The Russians are only 60m from us! It is horrible, we can only move at night time.

24.11.43. Soon we will get some rest. The last enemy artillery attack lased for 80 minutes. How is it possible that someone can survive such detonations? This night a Pionier-Kompanie is to clear out a Russian trench, so that they can destroy a Russian HQ bunker.

25.11.43. Just after midnight hell breaks loose! The Russians attack! Twice were they down in our positions, and we had to fight man against man. Only by the help of handgrenades were we able to throw them out! We held our positions!

A new unit took over, and we got out. Just two hours after that, the Russians overrran the trences finally.

We are constantly moving! At 0500: Alarm! We are ordered to attack a Russian bridge-head. We are transported about 12km, and go into position to wait for the promised reinforcment units. (which never arrive). Russian JABO's constantly harrass us!

26.11.43. We can not attack, but are ordered to hold an important area. The Russians use rockets against us all the time, the "Stalin organ". My Kompanie looses 8 men, and there are only 34 men left! We are told to keep a frontline of 800m! We all believe the Russians will attack soon, we have no flank security.

The Russains have 3000 men total, my batallion 150. We have only one MG42, and one PAK placed between 1. and 2.Kompanie. Behind us are two self-propelled FLAK's as reserve. We have good positions.

26.11.43 at night time we are expecting the Russians, but it is unnaturally quiet. Get 16 men as reinforcement. Have to check all sentries constantly, that they are awake! At 0530 comes an enemy artillery attack, but quiet again. Suddenly we all see the Russians, who don't come at us, but at the 1.Kompanie. We are posisioned in a square, and my right flank has contact with 1.Kompanie's left flank. Here we had the PAK, but it was destroyed almost immediately during the Russian artillery fire.

At 0630 I see Russian infantry moving slowly. I estimate 8-900 men. Our two Kompanie have 120 men now, and since we have no radio, I order one man to get to the HQ behind, and to get the two FLAK's brought up. I couldn't believe my own ears when he returned, and said that the HQ with FLAK's had left the area!!!

The Russians advanced, and 1.Kompanie opened fire. The Russians answered with rifle and MG fire, and 1.Kompanie could not hold them up. The Kompanie commander was killed, and the rest came to us. The Russians moved, surprisingly, to where the HQ had neen, and we had a short break. I ordered my Kompanie to move rapidly, and we came to a small hill. Now we were seen by Ivan, and they opened a murderous fire. One by one my soldiers were killed. After 3 hours we had no ammo left. What now? I had only half of my force intact now.

Suddenly I felt a hard blow in my left arm, and my tunic got red. No pain. I can't remember what I thought!

Me, and 8-10 men moved slowly backwards, and I felt a new, and harder blow, and was thrown to the ground. A Gefreiter who had a knee injury, thought I was dead, and crawled towards me to get my ID tag or Soldbuch. He believed he was the only who had survived and didn't want to get shot as a deserter. As he saw I was alive, he dragged me 50-60m into a corn field, allthough I begged him not to.

The Russians came, and gun-butted our wounded comrades to death!

What now? We crawled, after some hours, across the corn field, and suddenly we saw a German soldier! Actually it was three Artillerie-men, who had lost their unit! And they had two horses and a wagon! God be praised.

We rode on the wagon, but after about 1km I suddenly heard loud motors, and a explosion. I fainted. As I woke up, I realized a Russian JABO had attacked. The three artillery men, and their horses were dead, only the unknown Gefreiter and me survived.

After a long, and extremely painful journey at night, me exhausted from pain and the loss of blood, we met German forces again. I got several operations, and was finally to be sent to Odessa. Later Lemberg, finally Germany. I spent more than 2 years in the hospital to recover.

The Bataillon commander, who betrayed us, got the German cross in Gold for hard resistance against the enemy, I got EK 1, but survived the war. He didn't, and I shall not mention his name.

Was it true heroism or insanity that made me do such things? I thought about it during the rest of the war. It was surely not heroism.

War is so cruel, that nobody can understand. I spent 10 years in the Wehrmacht, almost 5 years at the front line. Most of my friends and comrades now rest in foreign soil!





Memoirs of a Luftwaffe Nachrichten Veteran

{continued in the next post}

[KG_Panzerschreck]

The following was written by Hans Thielemann, a frequent visitor to the online forum of this site. Hans served during World War Two in the Luftwaffe signals branch, in a Nachtrichten unit. His story is an amazing one, and one straight from the heart. In this brief overview of his life Hans recounts a variety of emotions and recollections, and provides a valuable glimpse into the experiences of many men during the period. Hans ended WWII in the Kurland Pocket and was one of the lucky few to make it home alive from Soviet captivity.


My name is Hans Thielemann. I was born in 1923 in Berlin, Germany. My birth year, 1923, was an exceptionally bad one for the life expectancy of baby boy's. Only 30% of us lived past the age of 22. The rest vanished in World War II. I have written a book with the title "Luck Alone is not Enough", based on my personal experiences during the first 30 years of my life.

All the problems in my life started on January 30, 1933 when Hitler was named chancellor by President von Hindenburg. I was 9 years old and I didn't understand or care about politics. I could see that my family was distressed about the political developments. Family gatherings had developed into angry fights about political convictions and loud arguments continued to spoil most family events and everybody came away angry. My cousin Wolfgang and I however took advantage of these heated discussions and disappeared quickly to more enjoyable endeavors.

In the following years the family scenes would gradually change because the "new order" had penetrated to the family level. The many discriminatory rules brought upon by the Nazi government made open discussion more dangerous and difficult. In school anti-Semitic propaganda began also to permeate the teacher's rhetoric. In one of the next school years the teacher gave us the assignment to produce a family tree. Every pupil had to come up with documents to prove their "Aryan" ancestry at least back to their grandparents. I don't recall if any students admitted not being true "Aryans".

A Saturday sports program was mandated in school for those kids who were not members of the Hitler Youth. Many Berliners were opposed to the Nazis and in my school class 90% of the students were not members of the Hitler Youth. I hated these Saturdays because it kept me away from playing together with friends, or visiting my grandparents.

My father had problems too. He was employed by International Harvester Company as a sales manager and they were laying their employees off, because most foreign companies were taken over by the Nazi government. He finally got a new job with the Royal Dutch Shell Company which was a foreign company too, but was allowed to continue its operation in Germany. Maybe that was because the CEO, Sir Henry Deterding, was an admirer of Adolf Hitler.

My father got his own sales district in the eastern part of the Province of Brandenburg and we moved to a town called Landsberg, 80 miles east of Berlin. Landsberg had a population of 45,000 and was the center of agriculture and forest industry.

Changing schools is always a difficult problem for kids and here I had an especially nasty political difficulty. In this small town apparently everybody was for Hitler and I was the only student in a school of 400 who was not a member of the Hitler Youth. That brought on constant pressure from the teachers and the other pupils. The teacher wanted to know why I wasn't a member and made it quiet clear that it was "scandalous" not to belong. My excuse was a leg injury that I had suffered in my first school year that had left me with a permanent disability. In that Landsberg school I had to avoid all political discussions and had to talk "politically correct" to avoid being sent to a concentration camp. I was however able to finish school at the top of the class and without joining the Hitler Youth.

I was 16 years old when World War II started, and was in the second year of an apprenticeship in ophthalmic optics. I was soon called up for a physical to determine my military draft status. Of course the military doctors didn't care about my leg injuries as long as I could stand up and hold a rifle. They needed fresh cannon fodder and declared me fit to serve. That upset my parents. They had experienced World War I and knew what was coming. If I had to serve, I wanted to be in a technical field and I signed up as an Air Force Technician which required a 4 year duty. Since I was under 18 years old, my father had to sign my papers and he refused to do so. Only after much discussion did he finally give his ok.

My family's private life was of course severely influenced by the war. My father lost his sales job because during the war the government distributed all petroleum products . We had to move to a much smaller house to save money. From food rationing to the constant barrage by the Nazi propaganda we were reminded daily that Germany was once more in a nonsensical war. My parent's radio had a short wave capability so we were able to listen to theo ther side, primarily the BBC. This listening to the enemy was a felony and if one spread such information, one would for sure go to a concentration camp or even face the death penalty. As a teenager I tried to ignore these restrictions, but extreme caution always had to be on my mind. If I didn't think before I opened my mouth, it might have been too late to avoid severe punishment. I couldn't even trust other teenagers, because they might report a slip of the tongue to the police or the Nazi party. Some kids even turned their parents in.

After I had just finished my apprenticeship and passed all the required tests, I got a registered letter which ordered me to report to the National Labor Service or Reichsarbeitdienst - RAD as it was called, on October 15, 1941. Not quite 18 years old, I reported to the indicated unit, about 60 miles from where my parents lived. This was a 6 month service prior to the military draft. After basic training in para-military fashion, we were shipped to an ammunition factory north of the city of Berlin. Here we manned an assembly line for 3" artillery shells under the supervision of military personnel. I was assigned to the final inspection position, where I measured and corrected the position of the primer with respect to the fuse of the shell. The primer was the highly explosive nitro-penta material that triggered the shell's explosive material. It was a very dangerous job, because if I dropped the primer, or hit it too hard it could explode. The RAD also built roads and airstrips, often right behind the front lines.

When I came home from my RAD service my military draft order arrived and I was off to the Air Force Boot Camp near Berlin in April of 1942. The unit was the 15. (Funk Ersatz) Luftnachrichten Regiment d. Oberbefehlshabers der Luftwaffe (Herman Göring).

After 4 month of training I was sent to Airfleet 1 stationed in Riga, Latvia which gave aerial support to the northern Russian Front sector. They passed me on to 3.Komp.(Ln.Verb.) Luftnachrichten Regiment 31 - a Liaison Communications Group in Siverskaja, about 40 miles south of Leningrad. This company had liaison officers with communication vans at various Army Command Posts to keep the Army and Airforce in constant communication. I got stationed at the 170th Infantry Division about 30 miles east of Leningrad, which was involved in eliminating a first Russian attempt to re-establish land access to the besieged city of Leningrad. This attempt failed with heavy losses to the Russian Army.

Returning to my base unit, I was transferred to temporarily serve as an airborne radio operator with an aerial reconnaissance squadron. On my sixth flight the aircraft, a Focke Wulf 189, was shot down and we crash landed behind the German lines. I was the only survivor and after recovering from my injuries, I was ordered back to the liaison company, which had been renamed Ln.Verb.Comp. z.b.V. 1.

I took part in various battles in northern Russia and was assigned to numerous Army units during the Russian breakthrough at Nevel and the battles around Narwa, Estonia and several others and retreated with the 16th and 18th Army into Kurland. I had assignments with the XXVI.AK, II.AK, 270.I.D., Armee Abteilung Narwa, Kampfgruppe Berlin, XLIII.AK, XXXVIII.AK, VI.SS-Korps, 24.I.D., and finally the 12.Panzer-Division, always in a liaison position.

Army Groupe North had been cut off from the rest of the German armies to the south and west by October 1944. We were now besieged in the so called Fortress Kurland in Latvia. Here we faced numerous battles until the end of the war on May 8, 1945, when Army Group Kurland also had to surrender. Rather than marching into a Russian POW camp I decided to try and "hike back to Berlin" 600 miles to the Southwest.

This was certainly an ambitious and super optimistic idea, born in the mind of a 21 year old man. I started out on May 10, and after 6 weeks of hiking, I was arrested, now in civilian clothes, by the NKVD (the Russian Gestapo) in a train. While in jail, I was accused of being a British spy because I had talked to a fellow prisoner in the English language. It was the only language in which we could communicate reasonably well.

I finally ended up in the ill-famed NKVD/KGB prison in Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania. I spent 16 days in jail, when after numerous interrogations, I was able to convince the Jewish commissar that I was just an ordinary soldier who wanted to get home from the damn war. He sent me to the Vilnius POW camp. I could have faced a firing squad.

In the POW camp my deteriorating health was the reason for an early release. I was back in Berlin on October 30, 1945, four years after I had been drafted, and 6 month after the war ended. I was the first soldier of my unit who was back in Germany. Most of the other men didn't return until 1948 and many of them never came back. I was among the first 2% of German PoWs who were released by the Russians.

When I came back from the war I was a homeless person because the part of Germany where my parents lived, had been given to Poland and my mother had been deported by the Polish Administration.

In Berlin I found my mother at a construction site, recycling bricks of a bombed out building. She had never done anything like that before, but if one didn't work, one didn't get a food rationing cards. As a returning PoW I got food tickets for 10 days and if I decided to stay in Berlin, I would have to take any job just to get food. I certainly didn't like how the Russians were running the city. Everything of any value was ripped off and shipped to Russia, and they treated people just like the Nazis did.

My relatives living in the US occupation zone invited me to stay with them and they helped me to get re-established. In 1946 I was able to return to my profession in ophthalmic optics in Stuttgart and got married there. In 1953 I feared that the uprising in Eastern Germany might be the precursor to the next war and I emigrated to Canada. I celebrated my 30th birthday in Grande Prairie, Alberta, located at 55 North Latitude and 119 West longitude, which was as far north as the PoW camp in Lithuania, but nearly halfway around the world to the West.

In Canada I had to work in totally unfamiliar professions and as a consequence was not able to make a comfortable living. In 1961 a friend invited me to apply my many years of experience in optics and electronics in Santa Barbara, California. I became a registered professional engineer and for the next 30 years I worked for defense and aerospace contractors and was involved in many projects that helped to win the Cold War and the space race for the USA. Many parts that I worked on are now resting on the moon in the LRV (Lunar Rover) that was built for the Apollo program.

I retired in 1989 and moved to Whitmore to get away from world politics and write about my life.



Anecdotes From My Early Life



The following was written in full by Heinz Altmann. "These anecdotes are true as I remember them after all these many years. The names of my friends Fritz, Kurt, Jupp, Willi and Charles have been changed, but they are real people and are still living." This memoir is copyright 1998 by Heinz C. Altmann. All rights are reserved, including but not limited to any commercial use or exploitation of the contents. These anecdotes are solely for the private and personal use of the reader on this site.



I am Heinz Altmann. As you read this, in 1999, I am seventy-three years old and I have been retired for sixteen years. I live with my wife of 46 years on our own two hundred acres of forest in Upstate New York. Life is good. But that wasn't always so.
I was born 1926 in Ulm, a city of some 70,000 people on the bank of the Danube River in southern Germany. I am the oldest of four children. My father owned a retail business and we were solid middle class.
My father had been working in New York City before the First World War. When that war started, he tried to get back to Germany on an Italian ship and was caught by the British at Gibraltar. He spent the entire war as their prisoner on the Isle of Man. Imprisonment left lasting scars on his personality. He was morose, brooding, rarely happy. He somehow felt that he had not done his duty to the Fatherland. When he returned home from prison, there was intermittent civil war between the leftist Communists, the Social Democrats and the rightist parties. His sympathy was with the right.
I started primary school in the spring of 1933. In 1936, I passed the entrance examinations to the Realschule, a secondary school that emphasized sciences and mathematics, and transferred to that school. English was compulsory, and I took the language from age ten until I became a soldier. I never imagined that one day English would displace German as my language.
One day father brought home a dinner guest. He was an Englishman. We children ate our dinner in the kitchen that night. After dinner, the two sat in the parlor for cigars and brandy. I was called in, introduced and asked to show off my English. I froze. The presence of a foreigner in our home had overwhelmed me.
We had a Jewish boy in our class. He sat two rows behind me. I sympathized with him, because he, like I, was a weakling. Because it was the fashion to dislike Jews, he often had to suffer indignities from his classmates. The teachers never helped him. One day he was gone. His family apparently had left Germany.

I joined the Hitler Youth when I was ten, and I didn’t like much of it. It emphasized drill and physical, paramilitary play, and I was a weak, straggly, uncoordinated asthmatic. I was tolerated by the others, but always chosen last when teams were picked. The marching drills and political lectures were boring. But I did enjoy the hikes and outdoor play, such as capture-the-flag and compass-and map exercises.
There were riots on the night of November 9, 1938, later to be called the Kristallnacht. The synagogue, not far from our home, burned. The next day, I chased and collected heat-singed papers across the square in front of the burned-out building. They were printed with strange letters. It was Hebrew. An acquaintance of my father’s came to the house later that day. He had been in the riot, and the police had arrested him. Father calmed him and told him he would help him. He did.
Our family hiked just about every Sunday. One Sunday in late August 1939, we stopped for lunch in a forest clearing. We children started to play noisily as usual, but mother warned us to be quiet, as father was very worried and should not be disturbed. The war started a few days later, on 1 September 1939, a date I shall never forget.
The Hitler Youth was called out to deliver the induction orders to the homes of the reservists. This task made us feel very important. I made my deliveries on bicycle. One day, I was caught in a downpour that soaked my papers. I was afraid I would be punished for neglect of duty.
My father’s business failed in 1940, and the family moved to Stuttgart, the provincial capital, where father got a job as a government bureaucrat. He had joined the Party in 1933. In Ulm, he was what in New York City would have been called a ward heeler. In Stuttgart, he also became an air raid warden. Alarms occurred at night, and he always took me along on his patrols.
One night, the flak began to shoot, and shrapnel started to rain down and bounce on the pavement. We took cover in a doorway. After the shooting stopped, I went to pick up a piece of shrapnel as a souvenir and burned my fingers on it. Father said that would not qualify me for a war injury medal, and I was disappointed. I would eventually get such a medal.
--oo0oo--
Then came Stalingrad, late in 1942. The German army lost more than 200,000 men there (5,000 eventually returned home). Other disasters loomed: The Allies landed in Africa, and Rommel was defeated at El Alamein. American bombers joined the British in attacking our cities. More fighting men were needed, and sixteen-year old boys were none too young. My entire class (the eleventh grade) was called into anti-aircraft auxiliary service on 15 February 1943. We now were soldiers.

About fifty boys from our school manned an 88mm antiaircraft battery in the outskirts of Stuttgart. I was assigned to the radar. Some hundred feet from the radar was the battery fire control. There were three of us students and five soldiers, plus a sergeant, at the radar. We three radar students shared a small hut with five others that worked at fire control. We slept on double-decker bunks. Fritz, who had sat next to me in class at school and was my best friend, slept above me. He is a Canadian now.
I had trouble waking up when there was an alarm at night. One time, I failed to show up at my station. The sergeant asked where I was, and nobody had seen me. They thought I had gotten lost, tripped and hurt myself, and they went looking for me. They found me, snoring in my bed with all my gear on. The sergeant was livid. But I was not punished.
One night, a rain of magnesium incendiaries dropped on our battery. The little stick bombs all got stuck upright in the soft soil and cast an eerie, very bright but pale light. No damage was done. We didn’t do much damage, either. While I was there, the battery was credited with half a plane, a British bomber that had come down near Paris on its trip home to England.
We were discharged in February 1944. Five months later, a large bomb buried itself between the radar and fire control, exploded and killed eight students and ten soldiers, including the battery commander. Among them was the entire radar crew. It could have been us!
--oo0oo--
A three-weeks leave followed. I went hiking with my friend Fritz for a few days, cross-country. Those late-spring days were gorgeous, and to be free to do as we pleased was just wonderful. Often, we saw the contrails of American planes on their way to bomb somebody. One early afternoon, we entered a village. Several farmers took us "captive," brandishing pitchforks. They were sure we were downed American airmen and locked us up in their goose pen, with the geese. After about an hour there, we were let go with apologies.
After that leave, I reported to the Reichsarbeitsdienst (RAD, the compulsory national labor service, similar to the American CCC), a paramilitary organization of the Party. I ended up in Czechoslovakia, near Budowice. My friend Fritz went somewhere else. Most of our time was spent in military drill, which was a complete waste of time. The first two weeks we shoveled snow from our camp to the railroad station, so supplies could be carted to camp. My boots leaked and were too small, and I froze both of my big toes, a very painful infliction. Later, we dug holes for the poles of a power line that was to serve the nearest village.
Our sergeant told us stories during breaks. He had been in Russia with a group of soldiers whose job was it was to round up Jews. That seemed a perfectly natural thing to have to do. Years of indoctrination had dulled our senses. Today, I shudder in loathing; there but for the grace of God could I have gone!
We would get passes on Saturdays to go to the nearest village, but we had to go in groups, because the natives were hostile, and some soldiers had disappeared without a trace.
My stay in Czechoslovakia ended late in May, after 76 days. A special train took us back home. At Linz in Austria, the wagons were uncoupled for a change of engine and temporarily parked on a siding, right next to what I later learned was the Mauthausen concentration camp. We could see the barbed wire fences, the huts, and some inmates shuffling around. I still wonder if that stop was done deliberately, to show us what would happen to us if we disobeyed.
--oo0oo--
After another leave, during which the Allies landed in Normandy, I reported to a basic training company stationed near Stuttgart. This time, the training was for real: I was now in the army and was to become a combat infantryman. We were housed in a large stone building, twelve men to a room, with double bunks. All but one of the twelve in our room had been flak auxiliaries and knew all about the drill; thus our sergeant spared us much of the customary hassles, at least so long as we always passed inspection. Our twelfth man, who never could get anything right, was "helped" by the other eleven.
Training with live ammunition was included. The principal source of firepower of the infantry squad was the Light Machine Gun (Mg) 42, which fired some twenty rounds every second. I did not weigh enough to be a machine gunner: The recoil pushed me back bodily. However, I had grown in height and was among the tallest in the company, a definite disadvantage to an infantryman when digging and hiding in foxholes. We dug many a hole with our little folding spades; then a captured Russian T-34 tank would roll over us. We threw live grenades, and I got to fire a Panzerfaust, a disposable hollow-charge antitank weapon, hitting the boilerplate target dead center and burning a neat hole trough it. I wasn’t much good as a rifleman: I could focus either on the sights of the rifle, or on the target, but not on both at the same time.
While in basic training, Stuttgart suffered a number of heavy air attacks, all at night. We were ordered to help with rescue. One time, we dug into a cellar to rescue a mother and her little daughter. When we got to them, the girl was just barely alive, the mother dead. And all the time, an unexploded bomb hung perilously above us in the wreckage. I also remember being in the center of the city in a firestorm so fierce that we had to hang on to each other, or we would be swept into the flames. Not a hundred feet away, it was so hot that the asphalt paving of the street was burning.
Toward the end of basic training, I was among those who were about to be ordered to officers’ training school. I had other ideas. I did not want to go through yet another set of basic training indignities. There was only one way to avoid it: Volunteer for combat duty. Much against my parents’ wishes, I did just that. Had I stayed with the prescribed routine, I would have died in the East. As it was, I was immediately posted to a unit that was forming up for front line duty in the West.
This was early in September, 1944. The Allied thrust had come to a halt for lack of supplies, especially gasoline. The right flank of the US Third Army (General Patton) was exposed, and three new armored brigades were formed to attack that flank. I would be with one of these three.
I was assigned to a Panzergrenadier company in the infantry regiment of the 112th Panzer Brigade. Our squad of twelve was led by a sergeant who had had extensive battle experience in the East. There was a corporal, but the remaining ten were all privates, like I. Not only that, they were Polish. Yes, the sergeant, the corporal and I were the only Germans in our squad. The others did understand German, but could hardly speak it. Our squad armament, apart from personal weapons such as rifles or handguns, consisted of two MG 42. Because I was no good with a rifle, I was assigned second machine gunner to one of them. My machine gunner was one of the Poles; we could communicate only with difficulty.
Each squad had a truck, and when all was ready, our trucks took us to the railroad station for loading, the trucks on flatbeds, the men in passenger wagons. We set off in the evening of
8 September and crossed the Rhine at night. Sometime in the morning, the train stopped in a forest, because there were enemy aircraft nearby. We were ordered out of the wagons and took cover among the trees near the tracks. The train itself was well camouflaged, but that did not help. The engine built up too much steam, the safety valve let go, and a tall plume of steam betrayed us. Two planes came in firing, and it was interesting to me to see the bullets hit twigs and leaves nearby or cause tiny fountains of dust when hitting the soil. It was my baptism of fire, and I was elated that I felt no fear. It was like watching an exciting movie.
The planes had caused little damage, and the train moved on. The day after, on 10 September, we unloaded near the city of Epinal in France and moved off into the meat grinder that, only eleven days later, spit me out hurt but alive.
--oo0oo--
And now followed almost two weeks of turmoil and confusion. This is how I remembered those days when I wrote my Memoirs for my children in 1984, thirteen years ago:
It began with many long rides on the truck. We sat on benches along the sides of the truck bed, our gear and weapons between the benches. Most of the time we were in convoy and moved at a crawl. There never seemed to be a stop. We sat for hours without relief. My bowels would hurt to be emptied. Finally, a stop.
I jump off the back and into the road ditch. But no sooner are my pants down, with the business far from finished, and the convoy begins to move again. In the rush, my underwear gets dirtied. It will be days before I get a chance to wash it. But I am not alone with this problem. The enemy must have smelled us coming!
We got orders to find the Americans: A reconnaissance. It probably was early in the afternoon of 11 September. Our platoon, in three trucks, was ordered to follow and protect a Panzerspaehwagen of type Puma, an eight-wheeled, turreted armored car carrying a 50-mm gun. It had two drivers, one in each direction of travel.
Our little convoy drove off, the armored car in the lead. It was a beautiful autumn day. We followed a dirt road through a deep forest, protected by the dense canopy from aerial detection and possible attack. The armored car reached the edge of the woods and stopped briefly, then ventured beyond and stopped again. We jumped off our trucks and fanned out on both sides of it, keeping mainly in the road ditches. So far, none of us knew what was happening. Then the hatch of the armored car opened, and the commander stuck his head out. He raised his binoculars to his eyes and looked at something off to our right. There they were! On a parallel road, perhaps a mile away, some vehicles were on the move. They were American. We were still undetected. The armored car backed into the woods, and its commander went on the radio. Then he left the woods again, trained his gun and fired. Two of the enemy vehicles, probably trucks, were hit in quick succession.
Then he quickly backed into the woods again, and we followed. The trucks now had to turn around on the narrow road, and there was no time to lose. In the hurry, the other two trucks bumped each other, but no disabling damage resulted. Our driver stayed well clear of the others. Then we high-tailed it back home. It had been an exciting experience. Our first contact with the enemy was a victory for us! But it was to be our only victory.
The next day, 12 September, was also exciting. It was our first day with tanks, Panthers at that. The only tank I had seen close-up before was the Russian T-34 that had provided realism to our basic training. These Panther monsters were huge, their 75-mm guns the size of telephone poles. Two dozen of them drove up, and we climbed aboard. Then we started off in a whirlwind of dust. Our squad was on the second tank. The tank commander was standing in his turret. He wore no insignia of rank, but from the conversations he had over the radio, it appeared that he commanded the entire column. The rattling and screeching made it almost impossible to understand what he was saying, and I leaned well toward him to catch some of the words. He saw my interest, smiled and winked at me.
There were no enemy planes around all afternoon, and we reached our destination without interference. It was a shallow valley near a village. The tanks went into bivouac in the valley under the cover of orchard trees. We dug in on the hillside about a half-mile away ahead of them. The night was peaceful. The next day was not.
The nearby village was Dompaire. After the war, I learned that French civilians had sent word to a nearby unit of the 2nd French Armored Division of our presence. Wisely not risking his Sherman tanks against our Panthers, the French commander called in air strikes. They began about 10 a.m., just as we were ready to move out. The unit was 406 Tactical Air Group, stationed in Rennes.
The strafing planes slaughtered our tanks, attacking with machine guns and rockets. I shall never forget the sight of the flaming tanks, of burning crew members spilling out of hatches to slide down the sides, only to lie on the ground like flickering heaps of ashes, quite still and smoldering. I remembered a Latin phrase: Sic transit gloria mundi (Thus goes the world’s glory). Had yesterday’s tank commander also died?
The following night, a few remaining tanks and we grenadiers slunk back. We were much chastened, even though none of us grenadiers had been hurt.
The next few days are a kaleidoscope of confusion. We moved all over the countryside, at first truckborne, then on foot. When I looked at maps after the war, many of the place names were still familiar: Epinal, Remiremont, Gerardmer, St. Die, Rambervillers, Baccarat, Domptail, Gerbeviller.
I recall episodes like these:
We travel on our trucks, apparently without destination or goal, moving for the sake of moving. We stop, perhaps to rest, perhaps to dig in and stay a while. One afternoon, we rest at a roadside. Down a side trail stumbles what turns out to be an American Thunderbolt pilot, hands folded over his head, escorted by a grenadier with his rifle pointed at his back. The pilot looks terrified, and he is shaking all over. His eyes are those of a child expecting a beating. They plead. Our sergeant talks to the grenadier, who says he has just flushed the pilot out from under some shrubs. The sergeant says something to the captive, but he shrugs his shoulders. He does not understand German. I offer to help and start asking questions for the sergeant. The pilot shakes so much he can barely talk. It appears he expects to be massacred. No doubt he has been told that would be his fate. I offer him a cigarette instead. He accepts it with a thin smile and lowers his raised arms. I give him a light and smile back. He looks at me with great surprise first, then with obvious gratitude. But we learn nothing from him, and the grenadier leads him away.
We are to have a day of rest and get a chance to clean up. The squad is quartered in one of the farm houses of a village. The inhabitants have all fled. There is a fenced-in rabbit warren outside, penning some two dozen big meat hares. We haven’t had a decent meal in several days and catch three of the hares for dinner. But no sooner is the water boiling on the stove, we are ordered to mount up again. No rabbit stew tonight! We find a bucket and salt the rabbit meat away for later. We never get to eat it.
We are in another village, quartered for the night. I am on guard duty and it is very dark. Behind me is a high masonry wall. I am very scared and alert. We heard stories that French partisans will sneak up behind a sentry and slit his throat or slip a garrote over his head. But nothing happens that night.
One of our Poles – I’ll call him Lover Boy – likes the French girls, and they him. He is often gone away somewhere, and that drives the sergeant crazy. Lover Boy gets chewed out, but that means nothing. He just shrugs his shoulders as if to say that he doesn’t understand a word the sergeant says.
Again I am on night guard duty, this time on the periphery of a village. I hear the drone of a heavy engine on the other side of a low, bare hill in front of me. Could be a tank, I think, though I don’t hear the usual clanking and screeching of treads. Perhaps it is just standing there, warming up, getting ready to pounce. I wake up the sergeant, who sends a patrol to investigate. They are back in a few minutes: A farmer is plowing with his tractor.
We are riding through a burning village at night, on the rear deck of a Panther tank. The driver seems to enjoy hitting the farmers’ carts parked by the side of the road. The tank commander tells him to stop it, but that has no effect. The driver probably pleads poor visibility.
A rainstorm drenches us while we are riding on a tank. I find a warm spot near the engine exhaust, huddle there and fall asleep. When I wake up, it is morning, and I am dry and very thirsty.
We are on a hill among shrubs in a semi-open pasture, just sitting there, smoking and waiting for orders. All is at peace. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, bees are busy among the flowers. Then a bunch of trucks drives up, men jump off and unhook Nebelwerfer rocket launchers, pull them into firing position on the road, load, aim and fire, all within a few minutes. The rockets whoosh away, screaming, leaving behind a big pall of smoke. No more birds or bees. They quickly hitch up again and are gone. We are left behind and know what will happen. The Americans do not like the Screaming Meamies and will do everything possible to put them out of action. In this case, they answer with a barrage of 105mm artillery. But it is too late. It is us they hit, not the rocket guys. The earth around me explodes. The ground heaves and shakes. Big clods fly skyward. And I have to empty my bowels again and right now! Aside from my underwear, nothing got damaged.
We are told that our trucks have been hit. No more riding in comfort. From here on we walk. We are now just simple infantry. That means lugging my ammunition boxes and spare barrels through the heat of the afternoons. I am streaming sweat. I am so parched I can’t talk. My throat hurts. I can just barely keep up with the others. We cross an open pasture. The cows look at me and appear to tell me how dumb I am. They tell me to be smart, like a cow, to stay a while and chomp some grass with them.
We stop at a farmhouse. Like all others, it is deserted. Just outside the front door stands a wooden tub, filled with a bubbling mass of little yellow prunes, the making of Mirabelle, the local prune brandy. And – wonders never cease – there is a big pile of watermelons in the hallway. I am very hungry and thirsty and wolf down some. That stills my hunger and thirst but gives me instant diarrhea. To this day, I don’t like watermelons.
I am exhausted, tired without limit, dead beat, yet I have guard duty at night near the bank of a river or canal. There is no cover nearby, and the sentry has to lie down. That is my undoing. I fall asleep, to be shaken awake by my sergeant. He scolds me, justifiably, accuses me of neglect of duty and threatens court-martial. But he does not report me.
Fatigue rules our lives. Ernie Pyle, the American war correspondent and hero of foot sloggers, described it thus: "Exhaustion, lack of sleep, tension for too long, weariness that is too great, fear beyond fear, misery to the point of numbness, a surprising indifference…" That was the burden of infantrymen on both sides. I have never before, nor since, been so dog tired and drained.
--ooOoo--
Then came two days that changed my life.
Our company entered Luneville from the south in the morning of 20 September and advanced to the railroad station, which we had been ordered to occupy and defend. Americans had entered the city the previous day. I learned after the war that they were from the 4th Armored Division and the 79th Infantry Division.
The railroad station consisted of several buildings aligned along a number of parallel tracks that were separated from each other by raised concrete platforms. Beyond the buildings was a large square, bordered by more buildings on the other side. Between those buildings, an alley entered at an angle. Our squad went in reserve in a nearby cellar, which was occupied by civilians and nuns hiding from the fighting.
Another squad of the company occupied the station. Their sergeant hid behind a building. When he peeked around the corner of it, a sniper bullet caught him in the cheek, wounding him severely. Our squad was called to relieve his men. I was to take the post where he had been, behind that building. When I got there, he was lying on the ground, groaning feebly. The bullet had torn away his entire jaw and part of the nose. One eye was dangling from its socket. The other eye was open, staring wildly and terrified, yet somehow knowing, at nothing. There was hardly any blood. His men carried him back to the cellar.
A bit later, a GI came out of the alley and stepped into the square. He stopped in the middle of it. Others appeared at the mouth of the alley. I could not shoot, because the sniper knew I was there. So I motioned to Lover Boy, who was behind another building, to toss a grenade. The GI came closer. A few more steps, and he could fire on us. Again I motioned to Lover Boy. Again no action. He seemed frozen in fear. Luckily for him, and us, the GI turned around and disappeared back into the alley with the others.
That night, we were ordered to abandon the railroad station and retreat. The sergeant had died. We left his body in the care of the nuns who offered to bury him.
We ended up in a village just south and east of Luneville, called Moncel. A large farmhouse was assigned to us. We posted a guard and went to sleep. There was a fox kitten chained in the kitchen, and it smelled up the place terribly. Now, why would anyone have such a pet? The farmer probably put it there to discourage intruders. It did not keep us from sleeping.
Morning came, and we dug in. There was a railroad track running on an embankment past our farmhouse. We dug our machine gun nest between the tracks. The first houses of Luneville were less than a mile away, and there was nothing but flat fields between us and them. That gave us a beautiful field of fire. The riflemen dug in on either side of the embankment.
I had guard duty in mid-morning, when an artillery spotter plane appeared. Those things were dangerous. They would call in artillery even on a single soldier. He didn’t see anything moving, got bored and disappeared. But a half-hour later, artillery began to fire smoke shells to blanket our field of fire with fog, and we could hear tank engines. Tanks crawled out from between the houses along the road toward us, and ghostly figures appeared among the fog swaths. We began to fire. The bullet belt rattled from the ammo box, guided by my hands. The barrel got hot, and I changed it. I do not remember being scared, just very busy and excited.
A guy in one of the foxholes fired a Panzerfaust against a tank, but missed. The tank made for him, straddled the hole with one track, then slowly pivoted, burying the inhabitant alive. My gunner got hit in the shoulder and left for the rear. I took over the machine gun. The firing got heavier. My heart was pounding, I was sweating, but this time my bowels were ok. Then the call came to retreat.
I grabbed the gun and slid down the embankment toward the farmhouse. Everybody else had already left, and I was alone. I went toward the road, thinking that my buddies had gone that way. I turned the corner of the farmhouse, and there was that Sherman tank, not fifty feet from me, all buttoned up, as high and as wide as a house, menacing as a bull elephant. Fear gripped me the instant I saw it. I ran back around the farmhouse, ran through back yards and gardens, over fences and through ditches, ran, ran, ran.
I was still lugging my machine gun but had no ammunition. Where were the others? Was the enemy already in front of me? Would I end up a prisoner? If I tripped, would I have time to get to my feet? How close behind me were they?
I came to another ditch. There were two soldiers in the ditch, Germans. One had been wounded in the chest, the other had taken the tunic off and was getting ready to bandage him. It was a lung shot, no exit hole. Hardly any bleeding, just some pink froth. Very labored breathing. He had to be carried back to the aid station, wherever that was. I now had to choose: Do I help carry the guy, or do I keep my machine gun? I drew the bolt and the barrel, threw both as far as I could, and left the useless gun right there. I could have been court-martialed for that, had the gun been signed out to me.
Eventually, we reached the edge of a forest. Others had already arrived there. A defensive line was being organized. I was handed a rifle. A Sturmgeschuetz (self-propelled antitank gun) drove up and hid at the forest edge. It was none too soon. Some tanks appeared on the road. The Sturmgeschuetz shot twice, and two tanks were hit. One burned. The Sturmgeschuetz backed up, knowing what was about to happen. It didn’t take long, and artillery rained down on us, probably 105mm shells.
The shells burst in the treetops. I took cover behind a big oak, lying on my belly with my head against the trunk. There was no place to hide, no hole to crawl into. Something stung the tip of my right middle finger. It was a sudden, hard, intense, stabbing pain. I did not dare look at first. Then I sneaked a peek, because the finger hurt with a burn. A sense of relief overcame me: Now that I was wounded I could, just possibly could, get a few days rest in some nice hospital.
The bombardment ceased. All of a sudden, no noice. I tried to rise but could not. My left leg refused. I called to a nearby buddy, who came over and examined the leg. I had been hit through the boot top, and there was blood in the boot. He helped me get up and hobble to the Sturmgeschuetz nearby. Other wounded were sitting or lying on it. I joined them. The next stop was the battalion aid station. I was put on the ground alongside quite a few others. Surprisingly, the leg did not hurt, just the finger. Then I passed out.
I remember waking up once that night, lying in an open-top ambulance truck that was racing cross-country trying to escape artillery fire.
--oo0oo--

My leg was set and encased in a plaster cast at a hospital in Phalsbourg. When I woke up from the anesthesia, a medic asked me how I felt. I told him that I was hungry. He laughed out loud: Nobody is hungry while still in an ether fog. But I wolfed down three jelly sandwiches. A day later, I was moved to a hospital in Haguenau, where I was for several days. As my right hand was bandaged, and I could not hold a pen, a nurse wrote a postcard to my folks for me.
A surgeon came and explained my injuries. My finger was not hurt badly. A pinhead-sized piece of shrapnel had partly destroyed the nail bed, had buried itself under the nail and then burned part way through the nail from underneath. That had caused the intense pain. There should be no lasting effects, and the bandage would come off in about a week. However, the leg injury was serious. The shrapnel had entered the back of the leg three inches above the ankle. The exit hole was the size of a silver dollar, located on the outside of the leg. Two inches of the fibula had been shattered. He had removed as many of the bone fragments as he could find and then inserted a rubber tube to drain the wound. A little lower, and I would have lost my foot. He thought it likely that the foot might yet have to go. The war was over for me, he said.
The next move was by train. The rail trip was in a closed freight car that I shared with some twenty others, none of us being able to get up, all lying in semi-darkness on blanket-covered straw. We had not been provided with food or water, nor could we relieve ourselves with dignity.
We arrived at Ravensburg, a small city in southern Germany. Luxury was waiting for us there: A regular hospital train. The cars had double bunks, and I drew a lower bunk, just inches above the floor. We were fed and watered. I tried to get up to go to the toilet but collapsed in the aisle. The nurses had a job getting me loaded back into my bunk.
After three days, moving only at night, we arrived at Coburg. The hospital was in a former school building. I shared a room with about ten others, all amputees. Our nurse was a tiny girl who had a hard time with our jokes.
The surgeon came on rounds every morning. The nurse would first remove the bandages, then rinse the wound with hydrogen peroxide. The surgeon seemed to get a kick out of wiggling the drain tube, causing me considerable pain. About two weeks into my stay, there was a surprise. My wound had been itching a lot for days, and I complained to the nurse. She discovered a nest of maggots hiding under the drain tube. How they had survived the daily disinfectant bath was a puzzle. The surgeon pronounced them helpful: They would eat any dead tissue, thereby promoting healing. But the nurse killed them the next day; the itching was driving me crazy.
The days passed in boredom. I read a lot, even tried to study the lessons I had missed at high school. I did not sleep well because I could only lie on my back. After a while, my heel began to hurt. A medic cut a hole in the cast and discovered a big blood blister there, caused by a fold in the lining of the cast.
A rumor arose that those who could walk could ask to be ordered to their home hospitals in time for Christmas. I had not been on my feet for some six weeks, but I was determined to try. With help from a friend, I sat sideways in my bed and let my legs dangle down. My wound throbbed badly. But it went better with each try. He got me a pair of crutches, the kind that end below the elbow. I learned to use them. The rumor proved to be true. I asked the surgeon for orders to go home, and he laughed at me. When I told them what I had done, he stopped laughing and started to scold me. But he relented: If I could make it to the dining hall and back, I would get orders. The dining hall was in another building, and a flight of steps had to be negotiated. The weather was lousy. I made it.
My home in Stuttgart was only about a mile from the railroad station. I arrived at the station in the morning of Friday, 24 November, during an air raid. The all-clear sounded, and I made my way home, including a long flight of steps. It was quite exhausting. Was that a reunion! My family had no idea I was coming. There had been no time to notify them.
I spent the weekend with them. There were three alarms the first night. Their shelter was a tunnel, some thousand uphill feet from the house. I made the round trip twice, but then stayed at the shelter. My dad stayed with me. The exertion had made my wound bleed again.
I hobbled the downhill mile to the hospital on Monday morning. The sergeant was very angry with me. I had been away without leave the entire weekend! It had never occurred to me that this was punishable. But he relented and signed me in as of Saturday.
I shared a room with amputees. We had a good time together, playing cards a lot. After my cast was removed and I was more mobile, some of us would go to movies in town.
My beloved city of Ulm was bombed by the British in the night of 17 December 1944. My maternal grandparents lost their home and life savings. The house where I was born, and where the family had lived, owned by my father and his siblings went up in flames. Two neighborhood girls and their mother lost their lives when they suffocated in their shelter. Their father and husband survived three years of war in the East.
Christmas was depressing. I spent it at home with my parents and the older of my two sisters. The other sister and my kid brother had long ago been sent to safer areas. We could hear the distant thunder of artillery in the west. None of us said so, but we all doubted we would win the war. Goebbels had promised miracle weapons, and we wanted to believe, but doubts were strong.
My wound would not close; a fistula had developed. The surgeon tried every trick to get it to close, so he could order me into service again. When it finally closed, March had arrived.
--ooo0ooo—
I was discharged from the hospital on 9 March 1945 and ordered to report to a battle group that was being formed to take part in the defense of Stuttgart. In beautiful spring weather, we dug fortification ditches. I was still using a cane but was appointed company message runner. In place of a rifle, I carried a handgun. This was not an elite unit!
French troops encircled the city on 20 April. Our company retreated to the banks of the Neckar River that flows past Stuttgart. Early the next morning, the bridges across the river were blown in a serious of tremendous explosions. Only a rickety footbridge remained standing. We retreated across it in the afternoon. The other side was being occupied by American troops, and we dodged Sherman tanks on our way through the suburb of Bad Cannstatt. The evening saw us in a forest that I knew well. It had been a favorite hiking area for our family in peaceful times. We were quartered at an inn, and I had guard duty during the night.
We retreated into the forest during the morning, then were told to wait. Tired, I laid down in the undergrowth. When I woke up, I was alone. My first reaction was to try and follow them, but by then all energy had left me. I made my way through vineyards toward the nearby village of Uhlbach and knocked on the door of a farm house.
A woman opened. I asked her help. My wound was bleeding again. She let me come in and fed me. I was told to undress, so she and her daughter could wash my clothes. I crawled into bed and immediately fell asleep.
She shook me awake early the next morning. The Americans had been in the village and put up posters: Anyone harboring a German soldier would be shot. I put on my partially dried uniform, dismantled and threw away my handgun, thanked them for their care, forgot to take my cane with me and proceeded down the highway toward the river. In my pocket was a sandwich the woman had given me.
It is not possible today, from the base of comfort and happiness in which I have been allowed to live for so many years now, to reconstruct the frame of mind, the deep depression, which had seized me then. All that I had believed in had dissolved into disaster. Germany was beaten. There would be no future. Morgenthau would see to it that there would be no German generation after mine, if mine was allowed to survive. Hitler had deserted us. He had promised us greatness but had failed us. He was the deserter, not I. The whole German nation had deserted me. I was alone, all alone, a little, miserable speck, a worm to be crushed under some boot. And I did not care any more.
Two Americans in a jeep drove toward me. I threw up my hands. They stopped. I was motioned to sit on the hood of the jeep, hands behind my neck, a mere hood ornament. They turned around and triumphantly drove into the next town, Esslingen.
The spring sun was still shining and the birds singing, as if nothing had happened.
--oo0oo--
A dark dungeon of a cellar swallowed me. There were many other people. I ate the sandwich. The clock on the city hall tower outside struck the hours that crept by. In the afternoon, a truck took some of us away.
The next stop was a barn near Winnenden. On the way there, I observed the heavy traffic of army vehicles. Nobody was walking. Military police in white helmets supervised busy intersections. There was a strange and unfamiliar odor in the air. I eventually recognized it as engine exhaust fumes. How could we win a war against all this engine power?
We spent the night locked in the barn. The next morning, 24 April, saw us off, again on trucks, toward the camp at Heilbronn-Boeckingen. I have no recollection of this camp that has become rather infamous, except that there was little, if any, food, and that I got very thirsty in the warm sunshine.
My little sister had made me a small pocket calendar as a Christmas present, and I used it to keep track. I still have the calendar.
The next day we loaded into a huge tractor-trailer with open top. There was little room to spare. A GI sat on the roof of the cab, chewed gum and played with his carbine. We started off. Some women threw bread to us but were shooed away by the guard. He even shot once. We crossed the Rhine on a temporary bridge and arrived at Rheingoenheim, a suburb of Ludwigshafen. A city of stockades had been erected there, each stockade a square about five hundred feet on a side, surrounded by high barbed wire fences, machine gun towers at each corner. Alleyways separated the stockades; the guards patrolled them. I do not know how many prisoners were in each stockade, but I estimate it must have been at least two thousand.
We were the first group to occupy our stockade. The ground was a plowed, raked field. It would soon be a bed of dust. The spring of 1945 was quite warm and had lots of rain, even a hailstorm. The rain turned the dust into a quagmire of mud. There was no shelter. Heavily chlorinated drinking water was supplied from a few Lister bags that hung from tripods. There were not enough of them, and we all got terribly thirsty. Eventually, a single water faucet was installed. Initially, there was no latrine. Eventually, a few shovels were issued and a trench dug and equipped with a log beam to sit on. To get out of the sun, guys would dig holes to sit in. When the rain came, some sides caved in and buried the inhabitants alive.
I was lucky to have a greatcoat, woolen, the kind the teamsters wore in the German army. It was so long as to almost reach my ankles. That coat kept me warm and dry.
We were plagued by lice and fleas. It was impossible to keep clean; there was no water for washing. There was far from enough to eat: Nothing at all for a couple of days, then a quart of watery soup once a day. Ravenous hunger and thirst developed. Some went mad and climbed the fence at night, only to be shot down by the guards.
But in the midst of this misery, good fortune smiled on me. One day I was hunting lice while sitting on my greatcoat when someone tapped me on the head. It was my good friend Fritz from school and flak days! I joined his group and now had someone to spend the endless hours with, to share memories with and to hope with. I needed Fritz badly. He was much more pragmatic than I was and was always optimistic. Without him by my side, I may not have survived.
Word got around that Hitler was dead, and later that the war had ended. Rumors began to fly that we would all be discharged soon. Another rumor had it that we could volunteer to serve in the Pacific. Neither proved to be true.
On the morning of 18 May, our group and others were ordered to line up at the gate. Tables had been set up there; behind them sat Americans who turned out to be mainly refugees from Hitler Germany. They let us know that we were not their friends. Each German soldier had a Soldbuch (soldier’s passport) which listed, among other items, the unit he belonged to. That let the examiners weed out any SS-men. Then we had to scratch out the swastika on the cover page. One of us had a letter with a German flag on it. The examiner made him eat the letter while he jeered: "Jetzt kannst Fahnerl scheissen" (Now you can shit flags) in flawless Bavarian dialect. We each were assigned a prisoner number and told to memorize it. Then we were deloused with cloudy puffs of DDT up our sleeves, down our pant legs and into our hair. We looked like millers.
We were allowed to sit on a pile of telephone poles. I still remember that Fritz and I talked about what the future might bring. We still feared the Morgenthau Plan: We had been told that it envisioned a rural Germany, shorn of industry, peopled by castrated men and childless women. But we had found that the few Americans we had had contact with, mainly the guards, were normal human beings, not gross monsters, and that was encouraging. They were much more interested in trading our jewelry, watches and decorations for cigarettes than in doing us harm. Fear of the future had not yet been banished, but there was a flicker of hope. We could dream. What would I choose in life, if I could choose? My wishes were modest: Enough to eat without constant hunger, enough income to support a wife and a few children, a roof over our heads, perhaps even a little house of our own. And peace to enjoy it all. Life would bring all of that in blessed abundance not all that many years down the road, but it was a forlorn hope then.
Shortly after that, the doors of a railroad freight car closed behind us and were locked. We were cattle, to be hauled somewhere.
--ooOoo--
It was quite dark inside; the only light came from four small openings high up in each corner. There were about forty of us, and it was crowded. In the center were a couple of boxes of what turned out to be ten-in-one US army rations and some five-gallon cans with water. Ravenous as we were, the food was immediately portioned out and wolfed down. Disastrous diarrhea followed, with no sanitary facilities except the few empty cans. The floor of the car became treacherously slick. The stench was sickening. When the train stopped at Epinal the next day, 19 May, we were all sick. Fritz had to support me on the march to camp. I remember very little. He tells me that our guards had to fend off French women who attacked our column and bombarded us with filth.
I was at Epinal for five days, most of which I spent sitting on the latrine. I became exceedingly thirsty, as not even water would stay down. Fritz nursed me along. Without him, I would have perished of dysentery.
While in Epinal, we were given preprinted postcards to send home. They said: I am in American hands and am well. This would be the first word to my family. They received the card on
9 November, some six months later.
The dysentery gradually got better: I had nothing left to void. It left me badly weakened. When we were told to get on yet another tractor-trailer, I could not climb up without assistance and had trouble standing without support. On the road, we frequently were bombarded with rotten eggs or fruit, but that was a minor problem. The fresh air felt great. Somebody began singing an old army song, and we all joined in. They couldn’t kill our spirit, no matter how they tried!
--ooOoo--
The convoy of tractor-trailers stopped at a meadow, next to a large barbed-wire cage. We unloaded and formed ranks. We had to undress completely. French women and children stood on the road, leered at us and made vile gestures. We were issued used American fatigue uniforms with the letters PW stenciled prominently on them, also underwear, socks, boots, blankets, jackets and other items. Our discarded German uniforms were carted off to be burned.

We were divided up into groups of about fifty. I never left Fritz's side. One group at a time, we were marched into the stockade that was to be my home for fifteen months.
This camp housed PW labor for a depot of the US Army Engineers, named E-511B, that was located near the village of Domgermain about a mile away. Another part of the depot and its headquarters was in Toul, some five miles down the road. More about the depot later.
The stockade was a square about a thousand feet on each side, with machine-gun towers at each corner. Inside were twenty large shacks that turned out to be pole barns made out of two-by-fours. The sides were enclosed with chicken wire covered with tarpaper. The floor was dirt. There was no furniture. These were the barracks for the men. There were other buildings: The German camp office near the gate, next to it a few smaller huts for German officers, a kitchen and a sick bay.
Housing improved with time. The first luxury was the corrugated cardboard in which rations had been shipped. It was used as ground cover to sit and sleep on. When fall brought chilly weather, we insulated the walls with it. A few weeks after arrival, lumber was made available for furniture construction. Double-bunk beds were made, with chicken wire streched between the frames to serve as mattresses. Small tables, one for each of six men (later four), were hammered together. A couple of wood stoves provided heat. Our transport filled up all those barracks; there were then over a thousand prisoners there.
Each row of five barracks had a latrine and a washroom. A washroom was about thirty feet square and had a hot-water boiler fashioned from 50-gallon drums. Water was heated only once a week, for showers. During the week, we washed at wash racks with cold water. Washing up in the winter with cold water was not pleasant.
The latrines were screened, roofed enclosures with a urinal trough along the wall and a "throne" in the center with twelve holes. At the beginning, there was no disinfectant, and the liquid in the pit writhed with maggots.
Fritz and I shared a double-bunk and a table with two others: Kurt and Jupp. Kurt was the oldest of the four of us and was a sergeant. He was quick, wiry and nervous, spoke both English and French and was a wheeler-dealer. Jupp, younger than even Fritz and I, was quiet but witty. The four of us soon became close friends and are to this day.
When we arrived at the camp, we were all starved, but even though now we received regular rations, we still were always hungry. One problem was that the rations did not contain sufficient calories. I believe they were less than 1800 a day in the beginning. But there was another problem: Our stomachs were used to a lot of fiber, and the rich American foods, ladled out in small dibs and dabs, never filled us up. I was always hungry, no matter how much I ate.
None of us had had any news from home. Fritz had a letter before Christmas, but not I. We could write home but had no assurance that the letters arrived. Christmas 1945 was pretty dismal. We had a little tree in our barracks, decorated with lathe turnings from the depot machine shop, but no candles. Fritz shared a cigar with me that was a present from his sergeant. There was some singing, but our hearts were not in it. They were with our loved ones at home.
Every day, except Sunday, the whistle blew at 6 a.m. After ablutions, we ate breakfast at our tables. Then everybody had to line up outside to be counted. After that, off to work at the depot. Lunch was trucked to us there; it always was a one-pot meal. Back at camp in the evening, we were counted again. After dinner, also eaten in the barracks, the time was our own, and there was no set bedtime.
Aside from normal housekeeping, like mending or washing clothing, darning socks, improving the barracks furnishings and cutting each other’s hair, we played cards and read a lot. The Americans were very generous in donating used paperback books, and soon the camp had a decent library. I became acquainted with America by reading Hemmingway, Dreisser, Dos Pasos, Faulkner, Zane Grey and other popular novelists of the time. We also had acquired some radios, probably via the black market, and liked to listen to the jazz and swing music on American Forces Network.
The first few months were very difficult. We were always hungry, were weak yet had to work hard, were crowded in our quarters and were handled none too gently by our guards, who were at first Americans, then Russians and, finally, Polish. But things gradually got better, in part because of the Black Market: The guards realized that, with the help of the prisoners, they could steal from the depot and sell to the French. Everybody benefited, even some Americans.
Starting in June 1945, a few prisoners at a time were sent home. They were the very young and old, the handicapped, railroad people and miners. This gave us more room in the barracks. As the work at the depot gradually was accomplished, fewer laborers were needed and left. By the spring of 1946, only about five hundred prisoners remained. The camp closed on October 19 that year.
Now again a few snapshots:
June 1945: One of the guys in our barracks claims to be an American. He says he was born there of German immigrants, who returned to Germany in the Thirties. He never knew that he was an American citizen until one of the GIs, hearing his story, enlightened him. But how could he prove it? Somehow, he managed it, and was gone by summer.
June 1945: Another of the guys, a young, blond, handsome soldier, was in the Waffen-SS and is death