Death Was Our Companion E-Book

Tony Le Tissier

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 461

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

As Hitler's dreams of a Thousand Year Reich crumbled in the face of overwhelming assaults from both East and West in the first months of 1945 the heavily out numbered German armed forces were still capable of fighting with a tenacity and professionalism at odds with the desperate circumstances. While Hitler fantasized about deploying divisions and armies that had long since ceased to exist, boys of fifteen, officer cadets, sailors and veterans of the Great War joined the survivors of shattered formations on the front line. Leading historian Tony Le Tissier gives a German perspective to the mayhem and bloodshed of the last months of the Second World War in Europe. Teenaged Flak auxiliaries recount their experiences alongside veteran Panzergrenadiers attempting to break out of Soviet encirclement. Struggles between the military, industry and the Nazi Party for influence over the defenders of Berlin contrast with a key participant's account of Goebbel's abortive attempt to conclude a cease-fire with the Soviets. This is fascinating reading for anybody interested in the ordinary soldier's experience of the culminating battles in central Europe in 1945.

Leseprobe

First published 2003 by Sutton Publishing Limited

This edition published 2021 by

The History Press

97 St George’s Place, Cheltenham,

Gloucestershire, GL50 3QB

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

© Tony Le Tissier, 2003, 2021

The right of Tony Le Tissier to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 0 7509 9927 4

Typesetting and origination by The History Press

Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ Books Limited, Padstow, Cornwall.

eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

CONTENTS

Maps and Diagrams

Introduction

Retreat Across the Rhine

Schoolboy Diary

Counterattack

Fighting in the Oderbruch

Musketeer

Luftwaffe Infantryman

Diary of Defeat

Death Was Our Companion

Retreat via Halbe

The End of the 21st Panzer Division

The Siemensstadt Volkssturm Battalion

The Skorning Report

Searchlight in Spandau

Surrender Negotiations

MAPS AND DIAGRAMS

No. 5 Troop near Wriezen

No. 5 Troop at Letschin

No. 5 Troop at Alt Tucheband

The New No. 2 Troop near Wriezen

Closing the Corridor – 22–23 March 45

The German Counteroffensive 27–28 March 45

The Approaches to Seelow – 16 April 45

Fahnenjunker-Grenadier-Regiment 1241 at the Front

The Lebus Battleground

Counterattack at Schönfliess

Withdrawal of the 9th Army to the Spreewald

The Battle of Halbe

Breakout of the 9th Army from Halbe

VS Bn 3/115 – Biesdorf-Kaulsdorf-Mahlsdorf – 21–22 April 45

VS Bn 3/115 – Friedrichsfelde-Ost – 22 April 45

VS Bn 3/115 – Central Cattle Market – 23–24 April 45

VS Bn 3/115 – Samariter Strasse – 24–25 April 45

VS Bn 3/115 – Richthofenstrasse & Löwen-Böhmisch Brewery – 25 April – 2 May 45

VS Bn 3/132 – Siemensstadt – 21–26 April 45

Successive Defence Lines – 2nd Bn, 60th Fortress Regiment

Combat Group Skorning’s First Engagement

Combat Group Skorning’s Final Engagements

Searchlight in Spandau

INTRODUCTION

Consequent upon the successful publication of twelve articles from my archives in With Our Backs to Berlin, I am venturing to follow up with a sequel portraying further incidents in the German Armed Forces during the final phases of the Second World War. Again, this is no apology for the German cause, just a collection of straightforward accounts as related by the individual authors.

Werner Mihan, a Luftwaffe officer cadet, recounts his experiences with a field flak unit in the retreat across the Rhine from the Palatinate, and a Luftwaffe auxiliary, Friedrich Grasdorf, recalls his time as a fifteen–sixteen-year-old gunner transferred from the Home Flak to a front-line role on the Oder.

Erich Koch describes his company’s experiences in the German attempt to break through the Soviet bridgehead to relieve the vital fortress of Küstrin, and Colonel von Lösecke takes up the tale of the same battle as a regimental commander.

When Marshal Zhukov launched his breakthrough battle on 16 April 1945 with a terrifying barrage from over 14,000 guns and 1,500 rocket launchers, Günter Labes was right in the line of fire below Seelow. Zhukov’s use of 143 searchlights, a ‘secret weapon’ that would blind the enemy, help guide the advancing infantry and give them extra hours of ‘daylight’ to enable them to achieve their goals, had a totally unexpected effect, as Labes describes, but the German infantryman’s laminated ammunition was equally useless. Herbert Böker’s ambition to become a fighter pilot led him to an infantryman’s role nearby in the same battle, but he managed to survive and eventually reach the American lines across the Elbe.

Further north, Lieutenant Hans-Werber Klement’s Army Flak battalion was involved in a fighting retreat right across Mecklenburg to reach the Americans minutes ahead of the Russians.

Rudi Lindner, who was to attain the rank of major-general in the East German Army, but then an officer cadet, describes his experiences in the struggle for the Reitwein Spur, and the eventual horrific breakout attempt of the German 9th Army from the Halbe encirclement.

Erwin Bartmann, an instructor at the Waffen-SS depot east of Berlin, found himself assigned to a makeshift regiment trying to block the Soviet 33rd Army’s attempt to seize the Frankfurt/Oder–Berlin autobahn. Caught up in the German 9th Army’s withdrawal into the Spreewald, he too became involved in the breakout from the Halbe ‘pocket’, eventually crossing the Elbe and passing through the American lines only to be captured later. Then a curious twist of fate in due course resulted in Bartmann becoming a British citizen. Also involved in the Halbe encirclement of the 9th Army, Major Brand tells of the fate of the 21st Panzer Division, where it reached a state of near mutiny before being captured by the Russians.

Dr Pourroy’s report on one of the Volkssturm battalions formed from employees of the vast Siemens concern shows just how combat-effective such a makeshift unit could be when properly organised and led. The battalion fought in the eastern suburbs of Berlin to end up in a well-stocked brewery before finally surrendering to the Russians.

Colonel Skorning, an ammunition technical officer, found himself commanding a makeshift battalion in the defence of Berlin’s southern suburbs, only to see it eliminated.

Werner Mihan returns with his account of the fighting and breakout from Spandau, when he voluntarily rejoins his old searchlight battery from convalescent leave.

Lastly Colonel von Dufving, then Chief of Staff to General Weidling, the Defence Commandant of Berlin, recounts how he accompanied General Krebs in the abortive attempt by Goebbels to secure a ceasefire to enable the formation of the government dictated in Hitler’s will, and then had to conduct negotiations for the surrender of the Berlin garrison, roles that earned him imprisonment as a prisoner of the NKVD and not as a normal prisoner of war.

Several of these articles refer to the so-called Seydlitz Troops, the turncoat German prisoners of war used by the Soviets for psychological warfare and also in these final stages for spreading false information and orders as well as, when mixed with Soviet troops, actual combat with their former comrades.

A H Le T

Frome, Somerset

November 2002

RETREAT ACROSS THE RHINE

WERNER MIHAN

Born in Potsdam in 1927, Werner Mihan was drafted as a Luftwaffe auxiliary three months before his sixteenth birthday to serve with his classmates on searchlights and radar equipment in a battery located at Falkensee, due west of Berlin, from February 1943 until September 1944. Seven weeks of Labour Service followed before he was conscripted into the Flak arm of the Luftwaffe in January 1945. He then attended a short course for officer cadets in Denmark before being posted to an active service unit in the Rhineland–Palatinate.

14 FEBRUARY 1945

Our train left Hamburg at about half past midnight. There were nineteen of us for Stuttgart, nearly all former Luftwaffe auxiliaries who had seen action in the Berlin area. Of course there were several air alerts. The train was completely packed. I spent the night dozing in a car tyre. A civilian was taking his car tyres with him wherever he went. I sat comfortably next to him, despite the circumstances. One can get used to anything when tired. In the morning I discovered why my seat had been so soft – I had been sitting on the cheese I had bought in Denmark!

Meyer, the dope, found that he had lost his paybook and one of his boots. ‘Bad luck!’ I said to him, but that was little consolation.

During the course of the day I managed to get a window seat and so the rest of the journey went well.

We had another air alert in Thüringia, and we were well aware how the ground-attack aircraft loved to attack trains.

Beyond Kassel our train came to a stretch of open track and we were able to see another train some distance away being strafed by four fighters. Some squadrons of heavy bombers were flying over us on their way back from attacking Dresden. I sat at the window looking out at the mountainous countryside. It was beautiful, with woods, deep valleys and elevations – a peaceful scene had it not been for the streams of bombers overhead!

Suddenly I saw two fighters coming straight at us out of a valley cleft. ‘Take cover!’ I shouted. ‘Aircraft!’

In the last instant I saw both machines swinging outwards and streams of fire coming from their wings. We fell flat on top of each other on the floor of the compartment as the aircraft thundered over only a few metres above the train. The four-barrelled anti-aircraft gun mounted on the rear wagon of our train fired after them without success.

The brakes screeched and our train stopped. ‘Open the window!’ and out we jumped quickly. In ten long strides I reached some good cover offering protection from all sides. I looked back at the train, where a mass of people was being disgorged from doors and windows to rush over the fields in panic.

I was lying in a small hollow about 1½ metres deep. ‘Another attack!’ cried out somebody above me and then jumped, landing with both jackboots right between my shoulder blades and knocking the breath out of me. I would have given him a good hiding, but I could not move a limb for at least another minute.

And the attack? The bloody fool had been dreaming. There wasn’t a fighter in sight. Four-engined formations were flying high above us with their fighter escorts criss-crossing above them, but our four-barrelled anti-aircraft gun had earned their respect. They did not like having to deal with such a weapon.

Our crowd went up to the engine, with me limping along. It had received several hits but was still functioning. Pale-faced, the driver and engineer perched on top of it and showed us where it had been hit.

Then back to the flak-wagon, the second wagon behind our carriage. The armour plating had hardly been damaged, but the gun crew’s accommodation had been riddled. Even their saucepan had been shot through and their lunch spattered over the ceiling. One of the soldiers showed us his trousers.

‘I was the last to get to the gun,’ he said, and pointed to his torn trouser bottoms. ‘I was lucky!’

‘Heck, Heimann, another two carriages along . . .’

‘Look at the hits, all at the same height!’

The whole of my back was very painful.

The train set off again two hours later. ‘Never mind,’ said Frede, a former student at our school, but from one form lower than myself, ‘It doesn’t matter! It might have been us having to live in there!’

There was a six-hour long alert in Würzburg. It was night, but when a night-fighter fired some bursts, we got moving and sought cover.

Something was bound to happen next day, for it was 15 February, and it was on 15 February in 1943 that I had been called up, and on 15 February in 1944 that we had the attack on our Finkenkrug position. So what would happen on 15 February 1945?

We spent the whole day in Bietigheim1 under constant air alert with the traffic standing still. The Americans and British had won complete air superiority over Germany, and gave us no peace any more, either by day or by night. The routes for the attacking streams of bombers had been shortened now that they had sufficient bases in virtually the whole of reconquered France. If it wasn’t bomber squadrons flying over the cities, there were almost continuous fighter squadrons in the air, shooting at everything that moved: trains, individual vehicles, individual people. Faces were always looking upwards. Life had become unbearable, and still the war went on!

We waited for our train at Bietigheim station, from where it was due to leave at 5 p.m.

‘We’ll wait for the next one at 6 o’clock,’ Sergeant Muth, our movement NCO, told us. ‘The air is still “unclean”.’

Later he ordered us on to the overcrowded carriage of the narrow-gauge railway train, while he remained on watch on the outside platform. We eventually reached Gross Sachsenheim.

‘Air attack!’ shouted someone, and we jumped straight out of the window and ran for cover. Three fighter bombers were diving down on the train, but didn’t open fire! From some distance off we could see Sergeant Muth running for cover and laughed. The machines were wheeling round and diving down on the train again without firing in the type of attack we knew as ‘carouselling’. There was a third attack, but still no gunfire.

‘Wow!’ said Heimann, ‘How about that for a game! Obviously they are out of ammo and only want to see us run. I bet it gives them a good laugh!’

‘Perhaps it is also a pilot’s training exercise!’

‘That’s it! Without ammo, so that nothing can happen!’

We laughed out loud. I think the others must have thought us mad, but the idea was so amusing, and the pilots must have enjoyed it too.

That evening we reached Vaihingen.2

‘Vaihingen is the front line station for the western front,’ Heimann declared, ‘and thank God not for the eastern front!’

We had something to eat and soon fell fast asleep. We were not alone. One hundred officer cadets from Grove3 were already there.

In the morning I marched off to the field hospital, where a bruised back was confirmed: nothing serious.

The duty schedule existed only on paper; we just lazed about, ate and smoked. We could walk out in the evenings at 6 o’clock. The first night Heimann and I looked for a wine bar, but without success. The second night we sought female company, this time with success.

The following evening we were told to prepare to leave, but we still walked out.

We set off at 3.30 a.m. to avoid the fighter-bombers and drove in a truck 50 kilometres alongside the Enz river, via Pforzheim, through the beautiful Black Forest. The weather soon cleared up and the sun shone out of a cloudless sky.

We reached the Division at Bad Herrenalb at 9 a.m. and took advantage of the situation to have a look around the town and eat at a hotel.

That evening the senior office cadet told me: ‘Take these nine men on to Neuburg and report to the regiment there.’

We went on by train to Karslruhe, spending the night in an air-raid shelter. The city had been badly damaged, like everywhere else.

‘Neuburg? There are several Neuburgs around here!’ A fine mess!

Finally we settled for Neuburg-am-Rhein, the nearest one, and took the early train across the Rhine to Wörth, where there was several hours delay.

‘Go and ask where the goods train over there is going. Perhaps they can take us with them!’

The engine driver was prepared to take us as far as Hagenbach, but from there we would have to continue on foot. Hagenbach, which, like Wörth, lay within range of the American artillery, had been destroyed. We got off there and I thanked the driver for taking us.

‘So, lads,’ he grinned ironically. ‘Carry on marching to victory!’

‘Let’s not go straight on,’ I said. ‘Let’s eat first.’

As the door was locked, we got into the station waiting room through the window, and had our second breakfast that day. It was bitterly cold.

Then we shouldered our kitbags and slouched along at Flak Auxiliary speed alongside the railway line to Neuburg. We had to march through a thick wood until we eventually saw the place, which took a long time.

During the winter the village had been in no-man’s-land. The West Wall ran through here and during the offensive at the beginning of January it had been abandoned by the Americans. There were bomb and shell craters everywhere, with fallen telephone lines and pieces of equipment lying around – a battlefield.

The front grumbled away in the distance.

We reported to the regimental staff. The major who received us nearly fell out of his boots when he found out that I had been a Luftwaffe auxiliary for over one and a half years without ever having been near a gun. My three-day course on the 20 mm gun hardly counted. It was the same with the others.

‘And we want to win the war!’ he groaned. But that was not our concern.

We were allocated accommodation in an abandoned house, and at midday we were issued wine, one and a half litres each, with the inevitable outcome. We did not need our waterbottles on the way to our accommodation!

Next morning we were put to polishing shells, but if others have not polished them since, those shells will still be unpolished! That afternoon we withdrew into a quiet corner to avoid being detailed for further work. We were already in bed when someone shouted: ‘Pack up everything! We’re going forward!’

It was 20 February. It was completely dark, all lights being forbidden, and we had to pack! Within a short space of time we were loaded into a truck for a 50 kilometre journey.

‘Where’re we heading for?’

‘Kutzenhausen.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘When the firing starts, you’ll soon find out!’ was the comforting reply.

It was becoming increasingly dangerous but, putting this aside, we settled down in the straw and hefty snoring soon accompanied our healthy sleep.

Next morning we were split up. Five, including Heimann, were allocated to the 4th Battery, a 37 mm gun battery, and the remainder to the 5th Battery of 20 mm guns, all of the 1st Battalion, 10th Flak Regiment.

The battery quartermaster sergeant described the route to the 5th Battery’s command post to me. I gathered my sheep and we marched off, but beforehand we had a fine breakfast from a farmer and filled our waterbottles with red wine.

Martin Frede was also in the team. He came from Lehnin and had attended the Realgymnasium in Potsdam, like myself. He also had had some experience with 20 mm guns. Jürgen Meyer came from Apolda. He was a quiet chap, dreamed a lot and always went into shock when woken up. Then there was Gert Mally from Dresden. Unlike the rest of us, he had not been a Luftwaffe auxiliary. He had a low, piping voice, and was always friendly and comradely. These made up the four that reported for duty at Hölschloch.

We looked round our new location with critical eyes. The village of Hölschloch lay north of Hagenau, where there had been some fierce fighting during the winter.

The battery commander, Lieutenant Kontradewitz, summoned us to his command post. After I had made my report, he gave us the usual lecture on duty, the operational task, etc. When he discovered the extent of our training on the 20 mm gun, he almost had a heart attack. Our new commander made a good impression on us. He was tall, lean and athletic, wearing the Iron Cross First Class; he was about twenty-five years old.

When he learned that we were all seventeen, he asked me about my Sports Badge, which one usually got only at the age of eighteen, and also about my Flak Badge. We four were allocated to the 4th Platoon under Sergeant Just, and our training was given to Officer Cadet Sergeant Gensberger: both had a unique conception of training, but we will come to that later.

We got on very well with the other personnel, although Sergeant Just was dead against that kind of friendship. As he was an ardent ‘Ja-soldier’, I suspected that he would try to train us in the same mould. But others had already failed to do so. He hoped no one would back us, but didn’t take into account the Chief’s sympathy for us. Even Sergeant Gensberger, who was about twenty, wanted to train us, but soon gave it up.

Sergeant Just was sharp, but only when not under fire!

We first dug a pit six by three square metres and one to one and a half metres deep, and as this was to be our sleeping quarters, we raised the sides about a metre. Then trees were felled and laid over the bunker in two layers, one lengthways and the other across, the gaps between being filled with twigs and earth. Although it was still cold, the work brought us slowly but surely into a sweat. The paths were soft and muddy, the weather mainly rainy. Within three days the bunkers were completed and we settled in comfortably.

We were then issued with camouflage jackets and could move about more freely. The camouflage was necessary because of ground-attack aircraft. Once they found something they would not leave it alone until it had been reduced to smithereens.

About 500 metres from us was an abandoned American gun position, from where we removed useful things such as wood, sticks of compressed gun-powder and boxes.

‘Look, a detective novel! Mr Fortune’s Best Stories! I must have that!’

‘And I’ll take some more gunpowder sticks.’

Suddenly there was a bang, a howling and an explosion. This was the second time that we had been surprised by artillery fire, the first being in Hölschloch. Another howling and explosion.

‘That was Number Two!’

We ran back from this discomforting place, taking the book and gunpowder sticks. We had discovered that we could use the sticks to heat our little stove. If we set fire to one, it would burn for some time before the powder was consumed, and solved the tedious warming-up problem.

One day the Chief came into our bunker with a cigarette in his hand. ‘Anyone got a light?’ At first he shrank back when he saw the burning powder stick being held out to his cigarette, but then was heartily amused with our device.

‘Training begins tomorrow!’ said Sergeant Just. Sergeant Gensberger would be in charge.

Only seven kilometres behind the front line we were now expected to go through the same training routine we had seen in cartoons with ‘Lie down!’ ‘Get up!’ ‘Take cover!’ and so on, in an attempt to combat our idleness.

‘That idiot should try running around “fresh and lively” with three kilos of mud on his boots!’ complained Martin.

Mally also had grounds for complaint, and Meyer added: ‘Just the senior soldier! When he comes into the bunker it’s “Hey, more left shoelace!” “Hey, right shoelace tighter!”’ and he mimicked Sergeant Just accurately.

‘He already has a nickname,’ I said. ‘Do you know what he is called? Sergeant Kroelschnitt!’

‘Why Kroelschnitt?’ Meyer wanted to know.

‘Kroelschnitt is the least popular tobacco on issue. So, as nobody likes Sergeant Just, he got the name. It suits him fine!’ explained Frede, our non-smoker.

The Americans directed artillery fire on us from time to time, just so that we would not get the idea that it was peacetime.

Training on the 20 mm flak gun, Solo 38, also went on. We learned a lot in a short time.

Lieutenant Kontradewitz tried some indirect shooting, which was quite unusual for the 20 mm gun, firing over a hill into the open countryside. He took us up the hill and gave the order to fire by telephone. The burst of fire whistled over our heads as we lay on the reverse slope of the hill, not wanting to lie where the shots fell at a theoretical rate of 400 per minute!

Enemy air activity left nothing to be desired. The two Mustangs, ‘Max and Moritz’, appeared daily on reconnaissance, and should they find anything, a little later four to eight Thunderbolts would come and and reduce everything found to smithereens. Squadrons of Marauders also laid bombing carpets here and there.

We were now issued with carbines.

Inspection by Sergeant Just: ‘What, not ready for inspection? Another inspection in an hour!’ Then usually followed another inspection, and yet another.

We lined up in front of the bunker.

‘Your carbines are still not clean! Dirt and rust everywhere!’

One would have needed a magnifying glass to have seen a speck of dirt, despite the fact that the carbines had been issued to us in a rusty and dilapidated condition. Just stood in front of me: ‘Do you see the dirt here?’

‘No, sergeant!’

‘Here on the screw!’

I demonstratively turned the carbine from side to side, up and back down again: ‘I don’t see anything, sergeant!’

The others were grinning.

‘Right, you four! Inspection every two hours. Understood?’

No answer.

‘Do you understand?’

We remained dumb.

Sergeant Just: ‘One hundred metres to the edge of the wood, double! You cheeky lot! This is insolence! You wait, I’ll show you!’

We trotted off at flak unit speed for 100 metres.

‘Do you understand?’ we heard faintly.

‘Yes, sergeant!’

‘What sort of an answer is that? A whisper!’ and he shouted: ‘About turn! Double!’

After a few metres he shouted: ‘Halt!

‘Keep going!’ I whispered to the others. ‘He’ll have to shout again.’

And again he shouted: ‘Halt!’

‘Keep going!’

Then I stopped, held my hand to my ear and listened.

‘Halt! Halt!’

I let the others stop.

‘Didn’t you understand me?’

In my usual voice, I replied: ‘Yes, sergeant!’

‘I can’t hear anything!’

Then the Devil got into me, and I shouted at the top of my voice: ‘Yes, sergeant!’

The others giggled, and Sergeant Just detected the ridicule. ‘If you think you can make a fool out of me, you’re mistaken!’

And again I bawled out at the top of my voice: ‘Yes, sergeant!’

Just gave up the struggle, and from that point on in his opinion I became the stupidest, most obstinate, idle and uncouth officer cadet in the battery. Since we had not breached regulations, he was unable to report us to the Chief.

Once he held seven inspections in a row. There was a toothbrush inspection. Mine was pristine clean, which baffled him: ‘That must be a spare one! I know that trick. I want to see the proper one!’

Hesitantly I produced a second toothbrush from the back of the shelf.

‘So, also completely clean. You’re lucky, Mihan!’

He failed to notice that I had a third one for everyday use! I also had three combs: another old Luftwaffe auxiliary trick!

Infantry drills were increased for everyone; something was in the air. American air attacks became conspicuously stronger, with ‘Max and Moritz’ appearing more frequently, and the villages being carpet-bombed. So it came as no surprise when one day the order was given: ‘Prepare to change location!’

Soon everything was packed up and loaded, guns hitched on and everyone made ready for the move. We moved off at 3 a.m. on 11 March. Farewell Hölschloch!

Shivering, we stretched our limbs in the brand-new day. We had arrived at the foot of a hill with a destroyed railway station a bit farther on and a town beyond it.

‘Dig in!’

Second Lieutenant Elbinger, our platoon commander, indicated the locations.

‘A fine Sunday activity!’ grumbled Sergeant Limburg as he shovelled the fresh clods out of the ground with gusto.

There was a smell of spring in the air.

‘A change of air is fine, but having to work . . .’

We looked at the destroyed town with the mountains just visible behind through the mist. ‘What town is that?’

‘I think it’s Weissenburg,’ answered Sergeant Roop. ‘Over there, where our quarters are, is Altenstadt.’4

On the edge of the position I found the deeply cut bed of a brook, with a lively stream flowing through it. A quickly constructed bridge led over it to the tent in which we slept when we had guard duty.

The sun shone most welcomely upon us, spreading its warmth all day long. Spring had driven the long winter away.

I liked best lying in the grass beside the brook writing letters or reading Mr Fortune’s adventures. We only had guard duties to do, nothing else, and this idle life suited me fine.

Ground-attack aircraft came over, crossing overhead, and their bursts of machine gunfire became our daily concert. One day four Thunderbolts attacked a target near Altenstadt, diving down low and coming close by us as they climbed up again, playing ‘Carousel’.

I took my carbine as our No. 1 Platoon shot a Thunderbolt on fire. As it climbed, it exposed the whole of its underside. I aimed several aircraft lengths ahead of the machine and fired. At the same moment our own platoon opened up in a hellish concert and the Thunderbolt crashed ten kilometres away.

Something new for us was the horizontal dropping of bombs by fighters. Six to eight Thunderbolts flying in formation would release their bombs simultaneously. We called this ‘rug-bombing’ instead of ‘carpet-bombing’, but they were not to be ignored!

On Sunday, 17 March, we had a film show. The show continued despite bombs falling close by and the frequent bursts of machine-gun fire. The surprise followed: ‘Prepare to change location! All of Weissenburg is being evacuated!’

Feverishly we packed up again, loaded up, stowed things away and hooked up the guns, setting off at about 11 p.m.

The vehicle engines roared as the column moved off northwards through the night with dimmed headlights. We stopped at about 2 a.m. and slept.

We climbed aboard our fine captured American truck again in the morning and made our way up a gully that led up a fairly steep mountain, but the strong truck made it.

‘Dig in!’

Once more we dragged the guns into position, dug them in and camouflaged everything, not knowing how long we would remain here. Even our captured extra-heavy 12.7 mm machine-gun was deployed. Once the position was ready, we looked around at the landscape.

As already mentioned, we found ourselves on a height, which appeared to be of considerable size. A wood covering both sides of the gully blocked our view to the north. The wooded peaks of the Rheinpfalz rose to the west, where a castle could be seen. We could see far across the countryside to the northeast and east, but the best view was to the west.

Sergeant Roop, Mally and myself were manning the gun.

‘Marauder at 10!’

The Marauder formation, consisting of groups of seven machines, flew quite fast, their cockpits alight and flashing in the sun. There were seven or eight of these groups.

‘Formations turning in 2! Flying back to 12!’ and then ‘“Carpet!”’

Dark clouds billowed from the earth. Sergeant Roop looked at the map: ‘That must be Landau that they are bombing. It is already destroyed, so what are they looking for?’

The Thunderbolts kept wheeling round.

‘They’ve spotted us!’ said Sergeant Roop.

One dived down and began attacking from 600 metres. We fired several bursts, and then it was gone. We could even see the pilot in his cockpit. Two bombs fell in No. 4 Battery’s wagon park, but only caused some minor damage.

19 MARCH 1945

Early in the afternoon several Thunderbolts wheeled down on the area in which No. 4 Battery was located.

‘It’ll be our turn soon!’ declared Sergeant Limburg. He went on: ‘You take over as No. 4 on the gun when it starts and make sure the magazine exchanges go right!’

He watched through his binoculars.

‘Here comes one! He’s attacking!’

Our 20 mm gun thundered away and flashes came from the Thunderbolt’s wings as we fired together.

‘Magazine’s empty!’

‘Ready!’ The new magazine was in.

The Thunderbolt vanished and did not return to renew the attack.

About an hour later an officer cadet appeared whom I recognised. It was Heimann from No. 4 Battery, where one of their 37 mm gun positions had been hit, killing one and wounding four others. He left again after an hour.

Towards evening heavy artillery fire fell on the southern slopes of our mountain, using explosive and phosphorous shells. The effectiveness of the bombardment was soon visible from the dense smoke rising.

‘Time for us to up sticks again soon!’ Sergeant Roop remarked.

That evening we went back to our quarters, walking around the village, even though it was dark. We could hear aircraft engines, but did not know what they signified. We were soon to find out. Somewhere close machine-guns rattled their greetings and we dived for cover. Fortunately nothing happened.

We made for our beds, but as we crawled into the hay, the firing started: whistling followed by an explosion. Shells were landing on the village, but we were so tired we nevertheless fell asleep in our barn.

20 MARCH 1945

At 2.30 a.m. came the order: ‘Change location!’

Swearing, we searched for our clothing in the hay. It was pitch dark.

This time it was a long drive via Landau-Neustadt. The morning dawned and it became light. The drive could not go on for long because of enemy aircraft.

‘Air alert!’

Into the nearest hiding place, a village called Niederkirchen, not far from Bad Dürkheim.

In the woods before us our army was retreating from the Americans. The American reconnaissance had apparently worked well. The enemy aircraft attacked with bombs, machine-guns and cannon, so that there were continuous explosions, and there were always twenty to thirty ground-attack aircraft in the air at any one time.

Two or three of these machines attacked the wood simultaneously with hammering guns, bringing death and destruction. A whole army was bleeding to death in those woods, the carnage continuing from morning until evening, and we could only stand and watch helplessly all day long.

That afternoon I consumed a whole bottle of wine.

In the evening we drove on to Bad Dürkheim, where we rested overnight in the wine cellar of a castle within a park. I was roused at midnight to take over guard duty. Second Lieutenant Elbinger arrived shortly afterwards. When I tried to make my report, I vomited right in front of him. Athletic as he was, he was able to jump back just in time. Fortunately, he let me off, as he had been drinking too.

After my guard duty I obtained a stiff slug from the castle porter. It did me good.

Then at 4 a.m. came: ‘Change location! We’re going back across the Rhine!’

21 MARCH 1945

The first day of spring! A beautiful sunny day broke. There was still some light mist to be seen and the dew lay in fine drops on the young seedlings, but the sun appeared on the horizon, breaking through the veil of mist, and soon drove the last traces of the cold, foggy night away.

We hauled our guns into their allocated positions, the wheels of the special trailers sinking deep into the soft soil. Soon we were shovelling away in mad haste, and when ground-attack aircraft appeared at 7 a.m. the position was fully camouflaged.

The sun climbed higher and higher. It became warm and finally hot. There was a wonderful, cloudless sky.

We lay on the edge of Dannstadt with our truck parked in the yard of one of the houses. Wine was still available and, despite my bad experience the previous night, I had my fair share. The lunch was good, and afterwards I retired to our truck.

Enemy aircraft appeared, racing only a few metres above the roofs of Dannstadt, but our gun crews were ready. There was a burst of firing and the second aircraft flew right into it, bits blowing off as shells bored into the engine, and the plane pulled up before crashing, with its engine on fire.

There was jubilation among us. We had bagged an Airacobra.

An Auster artillery spotting plane appeared high in the sky, keeping out of range, and then things started getting serious, with guns firing phosphorous shells at us.

Sergeant Wurm and Corporal Niermann went into the village with panzerfausts as an anti-tank team. Sergeant Wurm was a jolly chap who dis-regarded his rank status in the pursuit of fun.

‘I’ve a funny feeling,’ said Sergeant Roop, ‘that things are going to get serious! We don’t have a particularly good field of fire. We have the gardens in front of us and the houses on our right. On the left is an 88 mm battery. It doesn’t look rosy to me!’

‘Before it starts, I would like to go across to the truck,’ I said.

‘You can take a couple of boxes of shells with you,’ said Sergeant Limburg. ‘Then we won’t have so much to carry when we have to move in a hurry.’

‘OK,’ I said and grabbed the two boxes, each weighing half a hundredweight.

Sergeant Limburg called out: ‘Wait a moment! I’ll come . . .’

There was a howling and a hissing sound.

‘Take cover!’

Bang! an explosion went off close by.

Soon rifle fire was whistling past, a strange feeling hearing bullets coming towards you for the first time. Some were pinging against the wall. This was what our baptism of fire was like.

Sergeant Roop cocked his sub-machine-gun ready for firing just as the order came: ‘Change location!’

‘Schmalz,’ called out Sergeant Roop to our driver, ‘drive the truck out on to the street and behind the barricade!’

We rushed back to the position, where the shells were flying.

‘Dismantle the gun!’

Soon the shield, seat, gun and its mounting were dismantled. We lifted the gun carriage out of the position, packed it all together and pulled it across the field to the street.

‘Let’s hope the Americans won’t be as fast,’ murmured Sergeant Limburg as the first infantryman came back.

‘Hey, where are you going?’

‘Disengagement from the enemy has been ordered, to Schifferstadt.’

‘What’s happening up front?’

‘You wouldn’t believe it. There’s firing!’

‘Idiot!’

The next one came by. ‘Who ordered a retreat?’

‘What retreat? We’re attacking in the opposite direction!’

They were off, and soon there were no more infantry to be seen.

The Americans began sweeping the street with machine-gun fire. We brought our gun into position behind the anti-tank barricade that extended right across the street, leaving a small gap between the building and the barricade, through which our gun was directed against the approaching Americans.

Corporal Niermann came back wounded in the upper thigh.

‘Where’s Sergeant Wurm?’

‘The last I saw of him he was firing a machine-gun when a Sherman tank rolled over him. I don’t know any more than that.’

Sergeant Roop went forward: ‘Mihan, are you coming with me to get the rest of our stuff from the position? You can stay here if you like, and I’ll take Sergeant Limburg.’

Was he suggesting that I was scared? Not yet!

‘OK, I’ll come!’

We turned off into a side street that led on through two gardens. Constant explosions could be heard from either artillery or tanks. Sergeant Roop selected the items he wanted, three panzerfaust 60s, two boxes of shells, explosives and a cap, handing me his sub-machine-gun and his pack.

My first trip back was with the panzerfausts, which I propped up in sight against a wall. I shouted to Mally: ‘Take that stuff away! I have to go and get some more!’ But Mally didn’t move.

On my second trip I picked up Sergeant Roop’s things and the explosives. Bullets were flying everywhere and I was sweating and sweating. I pushed my helmet back against my neck.

On the third trip I brought back the shell boxes, a whole hundredweight. It was too much for me. Like an idiot, I set them down in the middle of the street and sat on them to get my breath back. I could hardly breathe.

‘You’ll go to hell,’ shouted Sergeant Limburg, ‘if those damn things explode!’

I laughed: ‘Weeds never die!’

‘Where are you going?’ called out Second Lieutenant Elbinger.

‘Getting the rest of the stuff, sir. Sergeant Roop is still there.’

Back down the side street. Then an ammunition truck belonging to the 88 mm guns blew up, sending bits and pieces flying. I was hit in the hand, which hurt. The ammunition kept exploding. I wanted to get to the position and tried once or twice, but could not make it. Then Second Lieutenant Elbinger came to the street corner and took me back to the gun.

With his face contorted in pain, Sergeant Roop hurried past us and went off to the rear. He seemed to have been wounded in the hip.

At that moment our gun received a direct hit down the barrel from an explosive bullet, but we tried it out and it still worked.

American infantry appeared at the far end of the street with sub-machine-guns on their hips and started filing up both sides of the street.

Sergeant Limburg took aim: ‘Fire!’

A long burst, using a whole magazine, ripped through the files. Then we had some peace. They had not got us yet!

Suddenly there was a burst of fire, and there were our old friends, the ground-attack aircraft, presumably ordered up in support when we cleared the street. They were firing straight at the street as they came in. I jumped for cover into the nearest house entrance and there saw with astonishment someone I had not seen for some time, Sergeant Just. I simply looked at him. Immediately after the air was clear and I came out again.

Sounds of combat were coming from our left.

A flak captain came running out of a side street. ‘Pull out! Pull out! We’ve been outflanked!’

Schmalz, our driver, engaged the starter and got the engine running. Mally was already sitting inside the truck. Should I jump in, or not? The truck drove off. Two strides and I jumped up, one hand got a grip and my feet skidded along. I was hanging on like this as Schmalz accelerated. Finally Mally managed to pull me aboard with some difficulty.

We stopped a few streets further on and I went back to see if Second Lieutenant Elbinger, Sergeant Limburg and our corporal clerk were to be found. They were coming towards me.

‘Is the gun blown?’

‘Oh, that damned gun! No sooner had we left it than it got a direct hit!’

We raced at high speed through the streets of Dannstadt, where the Americans would soon be marching. The inhabitants stood beside the buildings and waved.

Sergeant Limburg examined my hand, which was bleeding profusely. ‘It doesn’t look too bad,’ he said, ‘but there is some dirt inside. Be careful not to get blood poisoning.’

‘You go straight to hospital when we get to Schifferstadt!’ ordered Second Lieutenant Elbinger.

‘I would prefer to remain with the battery, sir.’

‘Very well, if you don’t want to go to hospital, you can stay with me as a runner, but it’ll be on your own responsibility!’ said Second Lieutenant Elbinger.

Orders had been given for Schifferstadt to be defended. In our ‘attack to the rear’ – the word ‘retreat’ no longer existed in the German vocabulary – everything, panzerfausts, ammunition boxes, carbines, was simply being thrown haphazardly into the back of the truck.

Our platoon paraded. Of the original twenty-two, only sixteen remained. The truck took the wounded away.

I was a runner now, and stood guard over our equipment. It was a bright night. A group of several men started clearing away the beams from an anti-tank barrier. That wasn’t right!

A sergeant appeared with his men. ‘You must be mad dismantling that barrier! What sort of outfit is this?’

‘Volkssturm!’

‘Surround them!’ he ordered, ‘Cock your weapons!’

Then he went across to the old men of the Volkssturm. ‘So you are the kind that as soon as our last truck has passed through hoist the white flag!’ he raged. ‘None of you will leave until this barrier has been rebuilt!’

22 MARCH 1945

We spent the night in a factory. Then the order came from Regiment to move into the suburb of Speyer and prepare its defence.

The garden of a convent seemed to us a suitable site. We rolled up the fence and set up our gun. The nuns from the convent received us in a friendly manner, bringing us food and drink, and also giving us the opportunity to wash, etc. We ate, drank, sunned ourselves and were happily at ease.

Then the sirens sounded the tank alert!

‘I don’t understand you,’ said the priest. ‘Everyone is rushing around like mad chickens, not knowing what to do, and all worried about the future, but you just sit there peacefully and smoke at ease. Aren’t you keyed up for action, excited?’

‘No, your honour,’ grunted Friedrich, offering him a cigar: ‘Have a smoke and you’ll be just like us!’

We chatted up the village beauties who were besieging us and were interested in our gun. Then came: ‘Change location!’

It was hard to leave, but we only went a short distance, as far as the Speyer cemetery, entering it from the south and driving up to the northern side. A loophole was then smashed through the cemetery wall with a pick. Beyond the wall were some trenches and an RAD flak battery.5 There were some freshly dug graves near us. We were not superstitious, but still were shy about looking at them.

‘We won’t have far to go!’ quipped Sergeant Limburg drily.

‘We can fall into them straight off the gun!’ capped Martin Frede.

We had only just settled down when the order came: ‘Change location!’

‘Damn it! That’s three times in one day!’

And once more we drove off through the night, through Speyer and past the venerable cathedral.

We stopped at Berghausen, where we found quarters and slept well.

23 MARCH 1945

In the morning came the order: ‘Dig in!’

‘I’ve had enough of this!’ ranted Frede. ‘Always having to dig in! It’s killing me!’

Meanwhile my hand had gone septic. ‘There’s dirt in it,’ said the medic. ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t get worse.’

I climbed up into an attic to keep a look-out for tanks, as they had been reported and we could hear their tracks faintly in the distance. I was getting hotter and hotter. I threw up a plate of pea soup that occupants of the building brought me. I felt dizzy and unwell.

At the end of my one and a half hours’ tour of duty I reported to the medic, weak-kneed like a drunk. My temperature was 39.9°. I wrapped myself up on a feather-bed and slept.

That afternoon the call came again: ‘Change location!’

I dressed as if in a dream and put my gear on the truck. Second Lieutenant Elbinger came along and announced: ‘So, comrades, we are to cross the Rhine at Germersheim, and apparently we have to fight our way through. Cock your weapons! Helmets on!’

A shot of white wine eased the blow, but I was trembling and my skull was throbbing. I was only half conscious, seeing everything through a veil. My head ached like mad and at times I was completely unconscious.

We stopped short of Germersheim and I came to for a while. There was artillery fire and ground-attack aircraft activity. The road was blocked. We took cover on the roadside. Heavy artillery was firing on the bridge and the explosions were towering up.

At about 9 p.m. we were taken by ferry across the Rhine, but I was no longer conscious. The convoy stopped in Schwetzingen. Second Lieutenant Elbinger and the battery commander came and asked after me. I was unconscious with a temperature of 41°. I was taken to a field hospital, but it was over-full and they were not accepting any more patients, so I was taken on by motorcycle to a second one, where I was given a bed.

Next morning the doctor came to see me. ‘How are you?’

‘Better, better than yesterday, sir.’

‘Still pain?’

‘My head is clearer.’

‘In that case we can release you back to your unit today. All you needed was some sleep.’

So I was thinking myself recovered, until the nurse showed me the thermometer reading 40.5°! I stayed.

On 24 March we were moved to Sinsheim, the Americans having come considerably nearer after crossing the Rhine farther north. At times I was high with fever, and at times it abated, but I was vomiting constantly. The diagnosis was food poisoning.

Then I began to feel better, could even taste the food, and started helping in the kitchen.

The Americans were already occupying the Heidelberg area, were thrusting towards Würzburg and threatening to encircle us. At about 10 p.m. on 30 March came: ‘All those able to walk report to the quartermaster sergeant for leave passes!’

I was now fully recovered with convalescent leave from 31 March to 13 April. So, home to Potsdam!

I packed my things – there were not many as my pack had gone with the battery – and got away from the field hospital. We took a truck and climbed aboard, the quartermaster sergeant too, roaring drunk. When it stopped unexpectedly he fell out and rolled down the embankment without hurting himself. A sober person would have broken his neck, but he just scrambled back up, swearing.

We arrived at Heilbronn at about 7 a.m. and at about 10 a.m. transferred to Wehrmacht jeeps heading for Stuttgart.

Air activity increased, so we kept a sharp look-out. We had hardly left Heilbrunn when twelve machines flew over and we had to dive for cover in the ditches. This happened every ten minutes.

We eventually reached Stuttgart, where we split up at the railway station, each making his own way home.

Mihan reached home on 2 April, Easter Monday, to the surprise and delight of his parents. While still on leave he experienced the heavy bombing raid of the night of 14 April in which Potsdam was severely damaged.

He had been lucky not to have experienced the fate of his battery. Two years later he received a letter from Martin Frede relating how only a few of them had survived the retreat. His story continues on page 161.

Notes

1. 20 kilometre north of Stuttgart.

2. 24 kilometre northeast of Stuttgart.

3. An air base in northern Denmark.

4. Weissenburg is the German name for Wissembourg, which lies on the Alsace side of the French/German border, but Alsace and Lorraine had been incorporated into the Third Reich in 1940.

5. Flak was primarily a Luftwaffe responsibility, although the Army had its own integral flak units. The so-called ‘Home Flak’ eventually included many units manned by schoolboy Luftwaffe auxiliaries under Luftwaffe supervision, but there were also some Reichsarbeitsdienst (RAD) flak units of Labour Service personnel.

SCHOOLBOY DIARY

FRIEDRICH GRASDORF

When his classmates, a year or two older than himself, were conscripted into the Home Flak as Luftwaffe auxiliaries in January 1944, fifteen-year-old Friedrich Grasdorf volunteered to accompany them, and thus became a member of the 9th Battery of the 36th Motorised Flak Regiment involved in the aerial defence of Hanover, his troop being equipped with 37 mm Oerlikon guns.

30 JANUARY 1945

The news has arrived. Despite the general upheaval, this still comes as a surprise to us. We are leaving, but no one knows for where. Our Russian prisoners of war have to report in, so we can guess that we are going east.

We work like madmen. The protective walls go down more easily than they did before, and from the searchlight position we attract the first curious onlookers, our girlfriends of the Reichsarbeitsdienst,1 whose curiosity will be satisfied once it gets dark. The atmosphere is somewhat depressed. ‘Bobby’ urges us to get back, for he has guard duty.

31 JANUARY 1945

The preparations appear to be complete, but there is still plenty to do, from the pumping up of the trailer tyres to the final packing of rucksacks. I take Mama’s bicycle, which I had used to return to duty from my last overnight leave at home, to the Ost family and say my goodbyes there.

Isn’t the truck going to come? It will soon be dark. Ah, here it comes. Working in the dark, one can quickly skip over the searchlight tasks. We say goodbye to our girlfriends on the searchlight and come back.

A woodgas-driven, museum-piece Büssing truck is standing at the battery command post. It can hardly move any longer and it takes a lot of effort to get it ready to start. It starts. The gun barrel begins swinging and goes as high as a street sign as we turn into Sandstrasse. We are loading on to a train, where bracing and wedging is carried out under arc lights. Sergeant Schumann gets us working here, Second Lieutenant Kern there. With some difficulty we find enough time to throw our kit into the goods wagon and get a glimpse inside. It looks a bit tight for thirty men and their kit, but it does have an iron stove.

1 FEBRUARY 1945

Midnight has gone and no one noticed. There is some straw in the wagon, in which we instantly fall asleep, all jumbled up together. The Old Man, Lieutenant Bommert (Battery Commander), and the Battery Quartermaster Sergeant (BQMS) come and rouse us in the morning. The whole battery is lined up in wagons with guns, trucks, field kitchen, office, etc., but the ammunition has yet to be loaded. Then we go for a wash. There is a standpipe in Sandstrasse. Except for ‘Jonny’, no one speaks to the people going past. He is good at this. Second Lieutenant Kern calls us: ‘Prepare to depart, all aboard!’ ‘Pongo’ is the last to appear. He had encountered his uncle, who as an infantryman was also waiting for a train.

We are off. The train stops again before the main station. Second Lieutenant Kern climbs down and the train goes on without him. We no longer have our officer, so Sergeant Schumann is appointed deputy troop commander. As we pass through the main station, I push myself forward to the open door. Old Weber, my former bandmaster, is standing there. I call and wave, and he recognises me. This is my last greeting from my home town.

The countryside goes past. Here and there are a few white patches, the last of the snow. The railway station signs read ‘Dollbergen’, ‘Öbisfelde’, so we must be heading for Berlin. The train stops from time to time and we even get fed, which is a pleasant surprise. Then we go on again. Karl Siebenbaum leads the singing, and a Luftwaffe auxiliary ‘choir’ forms in competition with the old hands. ‘Rathenow’, the name calls to mind the Berlin area, but it is dark by the time we get there, and we are in Spandau.

We spend a second night on the train and in uncertainty. Some sleep, others eavesdrop and try to discover what is going on. We move on slowly and everyone settles down in his own corner. I can’t sleep. I stoke up the fire and toast a few slices of bread.