In the Fire of the Eastern Front: The Experiences of a Dutch Waffen-SS Volunteer, 1941-45

CHAPTER 15 Silesia

There was a natural hurdle between Stalin’s mighty advance to the eastern borders of the German Reich and Berlin. It was the river Oder. The giant Russian offensive was one that threatened Silesia and the target was Breslau, Silesia’s metropolis in the southern sector and a key position for the Red Army. It was stated at that time “Europe’s fate will be decided at the Oder”. Therefore strongly concentrated defensive measures were decided upon for that theatre of war, and we too were sent there.

Suddenly, the Kampfgruppe was sent on a long train journey, from East Prussia to Pomerania. It lasted a few days. We were newly equipped, had packed, and were sorted into new units. Then express trains took us from our old barracks, in the School for Subordinate Commanders, in Lauenburg, direct to the Oder. Without knowledge of strategic plans, we all wondered why the Kampfgruppe ’s destinations were so very often changed. Even as we were underway, we would find ourselves relocated to places where originally we were not meant to go, but then became urgently needed. “The wheels had to roll to victory!”

As the convoy of trains finally reached the rolling Silesian countryside, snowflakes had fallen, framing the carriage windows, for winter had arrived in Silesia, in the middle of December. We arrived in the evening and wondered at the peaceful, undisturbed atmosphere and obvious daily routine in this, for us, unknown city of Breslau, for it held no signs of war. Cars and trams still fully lit, drove through glittering snow. A queue of people stood patiently outside a cinema, with its coloured posters. Children were skating on the town’s frozen moat. The trains still ran to their scheduled times from the main railway station in the town, and from Freiburg to the west.

Next to Dresden, Breslau was the only large city, until the end of 1944, that had not been bombed by the Allies. This important east German city grew during the war, from a population of 630,000 to nearly a million, with the storing of its industry’s war material, which had been transferred from the west. Both the government departments and the officials of the Ministries of Finance and for Foreign Affairs, were moved after heavy bombing raids on Berlin, to this eastern province. Breslau, as well as surrounding small towns and villages, was also the home of evacuees from heavily raided areas such as the Rhine and the Ruhr. It was the air-raid shelter of the nation, for thousands who had been bombed out of their homes.

It was time for us to find our barracks. They turned out to be in the ‘School of Infantry Replacement Training Battalions’, in Deutsch-Lissa, 8 kilometres west of Breslau. The three-storey, stone complex had been extended, with wooden-built houses for the regular army. It was of all places in one of those that I was quartered. It was no use wishing for our lovely warm quarters that we had left behind. We were, after all, outside during the day and were only in this ice-encrusted barrack to sleep. After we had given it a thorough clean, it was heated in the evenings after duty, by using a large, ugly, iron stove, until it glowed. It only left enough space in the middle of the room, so that the straw-sacks for our bunk-beds never caught fire.

Every day we exercised outdoors, with the infantry howitzers and mortars. Our numbers had grown and totalled a full battalion, with men from Pomerania and East Prussia, plus many from other units. Most had Front experience, but there were others who had just finished their training and were waiting for their baptism of fire. Some couldn’t wait for ‘a piece of action’, and others only said so to hide their fear. From our own 11th Company, we were now 120 men and grew into a close and faithful clique.

Unexpectedly, as we were exercising at the daily terrain training, a messenger reported that we must all return to camp straight away. There we had to assemble on the parade ground, in the snow. The assembled battalion was then informed, in few words but of military tone, the reason for our hasty return. We were then given our marching orders, but not before we were reminded that “every man must fulfil his oath to his flag and do his duty to protect his fatherland from the storm of the Bolsheviks”. Iron rations, live ammunition and extra daily rations were issued to us. Personal items, considered to be superfluous, were stored in the attic of the barracks. The post office suddenly filled with telegrams and hurriedly written letters to family and friends back home. For some, they would be their last letters. Others would eventually return home. We were sent off to the Breslau garrison, on the same day, as an independent regiment, SS Regiment Besslein, to ‘combat ready’ positions.

It was from southern Poland that the Russian Marshall Zhukov approached Breslau, with a strong and superior force. Despite ferocious German defensive actions, his advance could not be stopped. Marshall Koniev was also advancing, just as strong and supported by uncountable tanks, having crossed the Oder at Baranov. Both used bridgeheads to cross the river, which had been no hindrance, neither hoped for nor expected.

Stalin, fully aware of the problems on the Western Front, with the Ardennes offensive, asked the Allies if he could anticipate his own plans by eight days. He had dropped reconnaissance troops by parachute, in small groups, behind our lines. They were equipped with powerful radio sets, with the receiving range of two to three hundred kilometres. He knew precisely every move that we made. Our coded information, on fortification, strength of units, troop movement and, in particular, the combat areas of the Waffen SS who were feared by the Russians, was used against us for their plan of attack, by their military chief of staff. Information was also received from his undercover network of Russian workers in Breslau. They, amongst other things, befriended the refugees for the slightest information which would be of help, and that could also be passed on to our enemies.

With Breslau having been declared a ‘fortress city’ in the summer of 1944, it was therefore not surprising that the whole of the population was still there at the beginning of January 1945. As a junction for traffic, Breslau, which was in the heart of Silesia, was an open city and only wishful thinking could make it the classical fortress that it had once been. It was now protected by only a few lightly-built bunkers on the left bank of the Oder. Unfortunately, its military worth was vastly exaggerated.

The ‘fortification order’ from Berlin, had not been taken seriously enough by the region’s Gauleiter, who did very little for the defence of the town. The Gauleiter, Karl Hanke, did order anti-tank ditches to be made. But those were put near the former German/Polish border, along with other defensive installations, as part of ‘Operation Barthold’. All of it was too far away, and as it proved later, of absolutely no use in hindering the advance of the Russians.

Despite directives of evacuation for the city having been long since received, the plans to evacuate its citizens to safety, over a period of days, using hundreds of trains, were not put into operation until the town was already encircled. On 20 and 21 January, the echo of loudspeakers was to be heard on the streets, not only in the centre of the town, but on the outskirts too, advising the women and children to make their way to Oppenau and Kanth, but on foot.

Kanth for instance, lay twenty-five kilometres away from Breslau to the west. It was difficult enough to reach under normal circumstances, but by then it was plain murder, especially for women with small children. Temperatures of minus 20—30 degrees were nothing out of the ordinary in Silesia, or to have the Oder frozen over until March. In the previous two weeks over two feet of snow had fallen, always accompanied by bitter hoar-frost, and it lay on the roads. Many women did not even try to leave Breslau under those conditions, but many thousands did. They packed food and drink, wrapped themselves and their children in wool blankets over thick coats, and tied scarves over their heads. They packed their children in prams, small carts or sledges, and taking the older ones by the hand, they left the town. For them it was a fearful Odyssey, an inferno of ice and snow.

The women managed only the first few miles. Although the countryside was bathed in weak but cold winter sunshine, at mid-day the thermometer read no more than between 16—20 degrees below freezing. A wind began to howl, a cutting icy wind coming from the east. With incredible determination they tempted fate under unimaginable odds. They were to fail, despite their motherly instinct driving them further and further, to the point of exhaustion. They could no longer push the prams against the wind and even the sledges could not be pulled through knee-deep snow. So the mothers carried the children in their arms. The milk froze in the bottles, and some mothers faced the storm to breast-feed. The bitter wind knew no compassion.

The babies and infants were the first sacrifices. No blankets, no cushions could have given them the body-warmth of life. So they died, ‘sleeping’ in their mothers’ arms. They were carried miles in this belief, many mothers not wanting to accept that their baby had died. The iron will of some of the mothers broke with that bitter realisation. They were to be seen shovelling away the snow with their hands, to make a grave for the little one. Some of those too busy battling against the wind, did not see mothers lying beside their babies delivering them both into the hands of ‘mother nature’. Only later did others see those dark mounds covered in glittering snow, but did not possess the strength to clear their path of the dead or dying. No one counted those from Breslau. The statistics on those who died on that trek have never been recorded. Many were refugees who had sought shelter in the countryside, not knowing that they would meet their death much earlier than those they had left behind in the city.

The Russians had advanced to the Oder and very near to our new location of Kirschberg. The Wehrmacht and Waffen SS units, under the leadership of Rittmeister Speckmann, could not deter their forging of a two kilometre-wide bridgehead on the western side of the river. Despite bitter fighting the Russians widened the bridgehead, until they had reached the forest area south of Peiskerwitz. As the Regiment’s reserve, we had been waiting for orders, just three kilometres from the front line. We had seen how quickly the Russians had increased this bridgehead, with all of the military strength that they possessed. The heavens over Peiskerwitz glowed. From fire and flames, and from the continuous tumult of exploding shells, one could assess the enormous firepower used by both sides. During the moments of a pause in the duel of artillery, red flares provocatively lit the sky heralding the next barrage.

The wounded were brought to us to wait for ambulance transport to field hospitals, and there were those separated from their units who also found their way to us. All told us of the desperate battle on the banks of the river, and that part of our battalion was trapped. They were engaged in close combat in the rubble of the houses. A messenger arrived reporting the hopeless situation in Peiskerwitz, resulting in our combat order. As a company of 120 men, we were be used as shock troops. We were expected to go in, clean up and not only rescue our comrades from the main sector of the front, but push the ‘Ivans’ back over to the other side of the Oder.

It was on the afternoon of 28 January that we left Kirschberg, equipped with the usual firearms, light machine-guns, and very many hand-grenades and Panzerfäuste. We marched cross-country through Wilxen, in the direction of the Trautensee estate. We joked with one another, to relieve a little of the tension that had built up with waiting. Now the waiting was over and we made progress.

The clang of rifle-butts hitting our bayonet-sheaths and the crunch of our boots in the snow, mixed more and more with the noise of battle from the front. Very soon we met the first of the wounded on foot. There was a look of shock on their grey faces. They had staring eyes, blood-smeared uniforms and signs of provisional first aid. Some moaned in pain with every step that they took as they passed us. We, the 11th Company, had nothing more to say or to joke about.

After a short rest in the grounds of the estate, the company hurriedly crossed over open ground, in a line of skirmishers, to the edge of the Peiskerwitz woods. By keeping our heads down, and with long intervals between each man, we raced over the open ground. Miraculously we all reached the protection of the woods. However, our relief was soon shattered, as the Russians discovered us. All hell was then let loose. In seconds, we seemed to be in the middle of a fireball. Artillery spewed at us from all directions, from light and heavy emplacements in the area of the banks of the Oder, who were firing without consideration of their own men in the woods. Many Russian infantry were hidden behind trees and bushes, and all joined in the assault on our detachment.

Apparently unafraid, our company leader Obersturmführer, later Standartenjührer Zizmann, urged his men on with a hand-grenade in his left hand and a sub-machine-gun in his right. My group had the order to stay right behind this calm and experienced officer, who somehow gave us the self-confidence that we needed. We strode forward with fixed bayonets. The enemy too was grim and determined, they were ready for hand-to-hand combat. Lively rifle-fire flew around us from snipers who had waited, hidden in the trees, to fire on us as soon as we were in range. Some were hanging in the trees, apparently dead, but we could not know if they were or not. We had to be damned careful!

Forest fighting was always dangerous, particularly for those entering, not knowing where the enemy lay. The racket from the firing was intense — mortars, uninterrupted firing from the infantry, to say nothing of whistling bullets, as they ‘pranged’ against the trees like messengers of death, and rebounded through the air.

As if they had done nothing else all their lives, our grenadiers crept through the snow-covered wood, to every leaf that gave cover, winning ground, yard by yard. It was now important to keep together and not let the Reds strengthen their defensive line. With a doggedness that surprised the Russians, the 11th Company gradually began to push them back, shooting from behind trees, from kneeling positions or, as they moved forwards, from the hip. We advanced deeper and deeper into the wood. We saw the Reds running in panic, leaving ammunition and equipment behind them, including a very antiquated water-cooled machine gun on wooden wheels. There were the odd one or two ready for close-combat with fixed bayonet, but their retreat continued, until they reached the edge of the wood on the far side. Then they stopped.

Very soon the proportions of the Red Army were visible and we knew that we were at a numerical disadvantage. The Reds had called up fresh reserves, reformed, and were defending their positions in houses and barns, most of which had been set alight. Despite their numbers, this made them very easy targets and we picked them off, as they hopped from house to house in the flickering light of the flames. It also applied to us, as we moved away from the flames and choking smoke. We ourselves then became a sacrifice of the ‘Ivans’, and the losses of the 11th Company, in dead, missing and wounded were very heavy. With the dawn however, we had driven the Russians back to the banks of the Oder. The remnants of Kampfgruppe Speckmann, who had been fighting for days in Peiskerwitz and were now totally scattered, could be relieved.

The Reds still had to be pushed back to the other side of the river. That could only be done after we had stormed the river’s near-side banks, and held them until reinforcements arrived. Part of our detachments had to lie in readiness, in the terrain between the edge of the woods and the bank, waiting for a new order. Scattered shelling kept us pinned down, lying in deep snow, until we no longer felt that biting cold. But, in between the bombardment, cries and moans were to be heard from those who had been hit and wounded. There were also shouts of Vpiröd!Bysstro, bysstro! i.e. “forwards, quicker, quicker!” Presumably some of the political commissioners in the Red Army were a little nervous. Between orders, those with the tempo of a snail were encouraged to quicken their pace, with a shot or two from a pistol.

As our company commander at last gave us our order to attack, he moved forwards a couple of steps, then turned and came back as no one was following him. Few had heard the order and others had hesitated. We knew what was waiting for us over the rise and somehow our limbs had been frozen. We felt our hearts pulsating in our throats and a cold sweat creeping over the back of our necks, but it was not for the first time, and the order came again. Obersturmführer Zizmann shouted at the top of his voice, and the order was followed with a scream of “Hurra!” We rose as one man, to advance as best we could in fresh knee-deep snow. We fired like wild men, without aim, and with only yards separating us from the enemy.

Close-combat lasted only a short time. Some of our men, without orders, returned to their former positions. Both sides sank in the snow as they climbed over their dead comrades in order to escape. Obersturmführer Zizmann knew that this action was plain slaughter and so he gave us the order to dig-in. In frozen ground, with our short-handled spades and under artillery fire, the fallen had to lie where they were. The wounded who could crawl to our positions did so. Others were dragged back under extreme difficulty by our medics, to be given first-aid. We had obviously surprised the Reds who did not risk a counter-attack. It would have meant disaster for us, but they could not know that, thank God!

With the information that shock troops were attacking the left flank, we retreated into the foremost houses of a village. From my squad of twelve men, only six remained. I chose a small farmhouse which had a cellar, and a barn which had been badly burnt. The cellar provided a place to sleep for two men at a time, while the remaining four kept guard at the windows, the glass of which was non-existent. Not that sleep was possible in the next couple of days and nights, for the Soviets tried, time and time again, to storm our positions. They gave us no peace. It was in such conditions that we could only send messengers to neighbouring groups at night, to receive information as to our situation and because our ammo and rations were very low.

It was during the third night in this farmhouse that an unexpected delivery, of ammo and rations, came in the form of my faithful friend Georg Haas, who was the company’s accountant. He had not forgotten us. He reached us with his provisions on a sledge drawn by a sweating Panje pony. He had found us, guided by the flames from the houses and the noise of the front. He was not to be deterred. Having himself been wounded in 1942, he was accompanied by a comrade who had also been wounded. They had come cross-country over snow-covered fields to find us.

We also had a very long wait for support from our own artillery. However, heavy shells were being sent over our heads, in the direction of the enemy, by an 8.8cm gun battery from the Reich Labour Service (Reichsarbeitsdienst, or RAD) who were positioned very close to us. The gunners and all the very young privates did a great job. Enormous fountains of earth erupted skywards. Trees too were tossed upward, having been torn out of the earth by their roots. Every shot had hit its target. The boys had very little ammunition. They used what they had sparingly and only in small amounts, making every shot hit home. Not so far away from us was a high, narrow transformer house in which an enemy artillery spotter had made himself at home. But it did not last long before those lads found him. They blasted him and the house in the direction of Heaven.

In order to bring some excitement of another nature into our daily routine, fate decided that I was a good candidate. Unwillingly, but it really wasn’t my fault! We were forced to make permanent lavatory conditions in the back yard of our temporary ‘fortress’ because ours had been shot to pieces. In the form of a cesspit, it was a ditch with ‘thunder’ beams placed over it and well out of view of the enemy. As a soldier with front-line experience, one’s ears attune to the whistling tones of an oncoming shell and can estimate when you are in the line of fire or if the projectile will land in another direction. This saved my life, one day, as I was in the yard. It ‘perfumed’ my life for the next few days however, for I had to dive into the cesspit and I did not come out smelling of violets. I unfortunately did not possess an extra uniform at that time, much to the annoyance of my chums, who avoided me like the plague. It was only some time later, with the melting of the snow, that I could discard my white snow ‘cammo’ so that this unwilling air pollutant was once more an acceptable member within his circle.

The features of the landscape had altered overnight. The untouched white snow of the battlefield was now a dirty grey carpet, a morass of soft earth. The wet snow made crawling and hitting the ground a wet and messy business, but a wet stomach was far better than one with a bullet-hole in it. We had to crawl around the farmhouse yard in it too, during the day, for the Reds were not giving us any peace. A grey light, blocking out the weak winter sun, hung over the smoking ruins of Peiskerwitz, where our fallen comrades still lay in their half-frozen field-grey uniforms. We, with red-rimmed eyes and totally exhausted, kept watch from the glassless windows in our small farmhouse. Frozen from the cold moist air we dozed unwillingly, not having the will to stop ourselves. The young unshaven faces of my chums were thin now and angular, and our uniforms gave us no warmth. Outside was grey, only grey, and in the grey of the evening, one could not determine where the earth ended, and where the heavens began. It matched our fighting-spirit.

Our comrade, Szibulla, who came from Upper Silesia, understood a little of both Polish and Russian, and he kept us up-to-date with the movements of the Reds, for they were to be heard, loud and clear. When he heard something that meant they were on the move, or we had a combat order, then we were suddenly very wide awake. Mostly it was the bad language from our counterparts which he translated and which we did not want to hear such as “F ... your mother”, or tantalising attempts to win us over to their side, “Come to us comrades”.

Then we had real cause for alarm as we heard the faint squeak of a tank-track coming from the riverbanks, which became suddenly louder and louder as well as the loud ‘brumm’ of its motor. A recce detachment confirmed that it was a heavy Stalin tank that could worsen our situation badly, for apart from Panzerfäuste, we had no other anti-tank weapons. It was Scharführer Harry Kähler, a very experienced ‘front-man’, who solved the problem for us, taking the responsibility on to his own shoulders. Under cover of fire from my squad, he emerged from cover only thirty metres away sending two shots broadside into the giant from his Panzerfäuste. The roar of the detonation produced a crescendo in which our own weapons could not be heard. Thick black smoke soared through the turret as it opened, followed by tongues of flame. Then a succession of ear splitting explosions emerged from the 46-tonner, as its ammunition exploded. It was a daredevil mission that could have ended in the death of our chum from the south-east of Germany. But like David and his sling, his pluck paid off. Scharführer Kähler was presented with the Iron Cross 1st Class for his bravery, on that same day, and our fighting spirit was sent soaring. Yes, I must admit that we were proud to have stopped the westwards advance of the Reds on the Oder, whose numbers and material were superior to that of our own forces.

At the same time as we, the 11th were holding strongpoints, another part of our Regiment narrowed and eliminated another bridgehead near Peiskerwitz. The Wehrmacht General Hans von Ahlfen and General Hermann Niehoff, commanders of Festung or ‘Fortress’ Breslau wrote about those incidents. “The elimination of bridgeheads around Peiskerwitz was successfully conducted by the best organised Regiment of the garrison, Waffen SS Regiment Besslein, on 8 February. Many attempts before this had failed. The bravery shown by the troops and the necessary support they gave, stems from a tried and tested pattern of combined skill and tactics in the line of fire. The Peiskerwitz success had and still has a symbolic meaning. The whole garrison, not only Regiment Besslein, found faith in themselves, one another and their subordinate officers, and we could not have survived without them.”

Two days before we were to be relieved, we had found ourselves in a critical situation stemming from a bitter attack on us from the Reds. My squad found itself separated from the rest of the Company as they moved out. Before we knew where we were, the trap closed in around us and we knew that we were left to our own devices, having missed the withdrawal. We had no other choice but to fight to the last bullet. In order to give the impression to the enemy that we numbered more than we actually did, we hopped from house to house, window to window and other positions, firing as we went, in the hope that we could hold out until we were relieved. We didn’t even think about being taken prisoner, of receiving a bullet in the back of the neck, or, even worse, submitting without a fight. We knew that the revenge of those outwitted Russians, having been cheated of success, would have been terrible.

The Company did not forget us however. This time it was another known daredevil, of the same calibre as Kähler. It was our platoon leader Erwin Domke from East Prussia, who came to our aid. He was not going to leave us in the lurch. With a handful of men, this highly-decorated subordinate officer, managed to free us at dawn on the second day. He surprised the sleeping Red Army men with Panzerfäuste, hand-grenades and small arms. Under protection of their fire we could retreat. We lost one of our younger men, a machine-gunner whom we had to leave. But we were able to take Szibulla with us. He had been wounded in the thigh at the last minute. We willingly handed over the position to our relieving troop, without further losses to the 11th Company.

Numbering over a hundred men, we had stormed and held this position for eleven days. We left it without many words, exhausted and sad at the thought of having to leave our fallen comrades behind us. Peiskerwitz had been their fate. Only a few had been spared the hell of it all. We slowly made our way along the country roads, and met many of the company’s wounded at the first-aid station in Trautensee. They included one soldier who, since seeing him last, had turned grey overnight. Separated from his unit and totally alone, he had hidden in the loft of a barn as a band of Russian soldiers made it their quarters. He lay there for the next three days. He had to lie almost motionless for those three days, in the fear of being discovered by them, and in fear of what they would do to him. He watched their totally intoxicated antics through the slits of the loft’s wooden flooring. He had to listen to their singing. The Red soldiers enjoyed themselves for those three days, ignorant in their stupor, of his existence. Finally, they moved on. He was so thankful that they had not set the barn alight, thankful and grey.

We stood once more on the parade ground in Kirschberg, the Regimental headquarters, where twelve days before, we had started our march to Peiskerwitz. Apathetic and freezing with the cold, we let the following proceedings wash over us. We stood with deathly-grey faces, forced to accept how many had not returned with us. The names had no ring to them as they were read out on that occasion. Many, very many, did not answer “here” to their names on being called out, for here they were not. The voice answering with “wounded”, “missing”, or “fallen in combat”, was exactly as lifeless as we felt, for from a proud company of 120 men, only 26 were “here”!

It was on 15 February 1945 that an announcement was to be heard on the radio, with information that the Red Army had been beaten in Lower Silesia. As in Breslau, there had been bitter fighting from our attacking troops. Many were decorated for this feat, with the Iron Cross, or the Infantry Assault Badge. Our company commander shook our hands, without uttering a single word. We were then released to go to our beds, where totally exhausted, we slept solidly for the next 48 hours.

Sometime later we were to be found once more in our old barracks of Deutsch-Lissa, having been brought back to full strength, with new men from all arms of the services. We were kitted out with only the best of equipment and arms, as well as a new platoon commander, Leo Habr. This SS-Scharführer was well-known, an experienced front-line fighter, and one with whom I formed a good relationship, as his second-in-command. This amicable native of the Ostmark left the day-to-day duties to me, but in combat he was an example to us all. Our old company leader Zizmann had been promoted to and had been given the command of the 11th. Together with the new men, we were all posted to Johannisberg, to defensive positions on the western banks of the Oder and only a few kilometres from Peiskerwitz.

From our recent experience, and in our naivety, we were convinced that we could hold the Red Army here too. Having done it once, then we could do it again. What did not occur to us was that then, and now, we had no knowledge of the strategic plans of the campaign as a whole. Because of that, our convictions were to prove to be very, very wrong.

The pattern was the same as before, and we were given quarters in the deserted houses to be found near our defences. There we found to our joy that the larders were full of food. We helped ourselves and for once we altered the tone of our cuisine, which was such a change to the meals from the military ‘gulash-cannon’, or mobile field kitchen.

My platoon-leader and I took a short walk to acquaint ourselves with the surrounding area and found that a biplane had taken a nose-dive into one of the fields. We inspected this ‘sewing-machine’ which had caused us so many pestering moments in the past, and then we found the pilot. Whether he had been flung from the plane or had crawled out of it we couldn’t tell, but we found this red-haired Russian a few metres away from his biplane, dead in the snow. We buried him the next day. As German soldiers, so to speak, we gave the pilot a soldier’s grave, complete with a wooden cross which we made from branches of trees. In doing so, we gave him more than we could for our own soldiers at times, but at that moment we had the time. When the roles were reversed, would this have happened with one of ours? We hoped so!

We could still hear the noise of combat coming from around Peiskerwitz, but in our own sector the enemy was surprisingly quiet. In fact it was a little too quiet on the other side of the riverbank. Red flares gave their nightly performance and lit the heavens. Now and again we heard the faint sound of motors, but the war did not seem to want to have anything to do with us. The longer that situation lasted, the more suspicious we became. Was something brewing that we didn’t know about? Was it to be a nasty surprise? An order came from our company command-post, to send a recce detachment from our right-hand side of the sector, to the other side of the river. Strength of troops, weapons and positions, and perhaps a prisoner for inter rogation were needed. I volunteered, together with our platoon-leader, Leo Habr who came from Bavaria. We were both curious. Apart from that, a boat-trip at night was a welcome change to guard-duty in the trenches.

There was a Volkssturm battalion some kilometres away from us, positioned in the lowlands of the Oder. They were to provide us with a boat. It was also to be our starting point. The battalion’s commanding officer was an older man, a major, who was not enamoured with our task when we reported to him. “One should not challenge the enemy unnecessarily,” was his critical comment. But we needed his support and we argued that the information would also be of use to his sector too. He had no choice but to give us his support and as it was not quite dark enough, we enjoyed a drink in the command post. We left some time later, leaving behind our pay-books, ‘dog-tags’ and private belongings, for obvious reasons. Among the grey-haired Volkssturmmänner who manhandled the rowing-boat to the shore, was a young HJ lad of perhaps no more than fifteen years who wanted to come with us. The planks of the rowing-boat, which was old, seemed to be somewhat porous, but it would certainly bring us three over to the other side of the stream and back. We were rather sceptical as we left the Volkssturm and so were they, as they wished us “good luck with the return”. They themselves returned very quickly to the cover of the command post, perhaps thinking that someone might make the suggestion of sending some of them too!

Although there was thin ice on the shores of the river bank, the river flowed to our benefit rather sluggishly, so that we did not have to strain on the oars. So we rowed as silently as possible in the quiet of the night, until the boat hit sand. It was the shore on the easterly side of the river. Armed with hand-grenades and pistols, we slowly and tensely made our way through overgrown shrubs and trees, making signs to one another as we went. Flares lit the night sky now and again. Then we froze to statues until it was dark once more. We had advanced quite a way and there was no sign of the enemy. Not knowing how far we had moved away from the riverbank, we became a little uneasy. The darkness seemed to envelop us, as if it would swallow us up and we would not escape.

“We cannot walk to Warsaw, in the hope of seeing the ‘Ivans’,” whispered Habr, breaking the spell. Our mission seemed to be at an end, but almost at the same time, he saw a glimmer and it was back to sign language. It turned out to be the red, flickering glow of a camp-fire. We watched, having crawled on our stomachs for a closer look. From the look of things, a small band of very unconcerned Russian soldiers were enjoying themselves, laughing loudly and enjoying themselves as only Russian soldiers could. But we could not understand what they were saying. I lay there and thought “if only we had Szibulla with us”. His knowledge of the Russian language would have helped us so much in that situation, but we didn’t. It was clear to us that the sector was very thinly manned indeed and now having what we came for, we could depart. Could we take a prisoner? We decided against this order under the circumstances, and left those very happy men of war. Besides that, there were more of them!

We had fulfilled our mission, and happy that Habr had said that we could return to the boat, our march back was much quicker. Very soon, we saw a band of shimmering water and so that the Volkssturm men were warned of our return, Habr lit a cigarette in mid-stream. Alighting from the boat, they all slapped us on the back when we told them how far away the enemy were and how peace ful too. The major seemed to have been relieved from a nightmare and then invited us for a ‘moist’ night-cap, in his command post.

Incidentally, the Volkssturm was officially initiated into active service with the Wehrmacht on 25 September 1944. All men between the ages of 16 and 60 years of age, competent in the use of firearms, would be active in the de fence of German territories. The enthusiasm of the young was huge. Sometimes that enthusiasm had to be curbed so that it did not develop into care less, boisterous, high spirits. Many of the ‘infant’ soldiers proved themselves with heroic acts, but on the whole the military performance of the Volkssturm was minimal.

I must point out that a continuous front-line did not exist along the Oder. Very many soldiers were left to their own devices, became lost, and fought in the bleak and wretched winter countryside without adequate supplies. They had to fight against an enemy that was superior in numbers and material. Very often a single tank, or a group of them, would suddenly appear from the north-west sector, and in the rear of troops holding defensive positions. The attacked units never had a chance. They were destroyed like seeds between two millstones.

Just as in East Prussia, the raging, merciless fury of the Russians was also felt in the areas that they conquered in Silesia. Even the dead were not spared their fury. The 19th Panzer Division in Blüchersruh, south-west of Breslau, found a skull just ‘lying around’ in the street. It had been removed from the tomb of Marshall Blücher also known as Marshall Vorwärts, the freedom-fighter from 1813—15. Not even he could rest in peace.

The fight on the Oder was one of continuous movement of troops. With the threat that Russian tanks could break through our front-line, the 11th was moved to Frobelwitz and the winter returned, in all its spiteful-ness. The Leuthen-Frobelwitz road leading to the north is a very straight country road. We had sentry duty along this road, in a snowstorm. Placed at an interval of 50 metres, we stood alone and deserted as the wind whipped the snow around us. It created a white screen that obstructed our view. We could not see one another. If a tank had appeared then it would have been too late. We tried with half-closed eyes against the biting wind, to find our next comrade, either to the right or the left of us. But we couldn’t. So we tried oral contact, calling to one another. But the cry of the wind swallowed our calls. Our hands froze around our rifles and the storm really raged.

We held our positions that afternoon, through into the evening and the night, without being relieved. Some of us stood there and asked ourselves if we were the only ones, perhaps the last ‘Sentries for Europe’ who were left. I was reminded of the winter of 1941/42 whilst standing there. I remembered the snowstorm raging unhindered over the flat and endless Russian Steppe. There was however a very big difference. The enemy was still the same, but now his advance was on German soil. We held our posts, all of us. Only with dawn the next morning, did a messenger arrive with our marching orders.

The village of Leuthen, which lies south of Frobelwitz was our next position. It was practically deserted. Those who had remained in the village were women and children, who looked at us through cellar windows as we arrived. We were not expected and were not welcome. They had all hoped that the war would spare their tiny village, which was of really no importance. We took up our positions behind stonewalls, and pyramids of harvested turnips and parsnips. Although we understood the fear in their eyes, for them, our presence also meant the presence of Russian soldiers. We tried our best to warn them of the danger that they were in, as women, if the village were seized by the Russians. But our reasons were ignored by those few who even talked to us, and many didn’t. We were to leave and then they would be left in peace, was the way that they interpreted the situation. Such ignorance caused some of the men to wish them to the devil. One couldn’t really blame them, for this was the first time that we were not welcomed by our own, in our own land.

A little time later a Russian lorry drove leisurely past the vili age and came under fire from us. The driver and his companion were killed after a short fight and the lorry burst into flames having been hit in the motor. Before being fully enveloped, we were able to see that it was laden with feather beds, furniture and other household articles, ready to be sent back ‘home’ to Russia. It had been stolen from German farmhouses in the area, the ‘liberation’ had begun, with German goods and chattels, which were certainly luxury articles for them.

At midday, the low-lying sun cast a faint red glow over the snow. Through our field-glasses we saw Russian tanks advancing towards the village with their infantry on board. Their progress was indeed slow, perhaps because they mistrusted the peaceful impression the village gave. Suddenly, fire spewed from a gun-barrel and the first shell exploded in the vill age. Then the tanks stopped in their tracks, staying at a respectful distance. The in faniry alighted in order to seek projection behind the white-painted tanks.

Once more we were in a position which offered very little protection, for Leuthen lay like an island, in the middle of flat terrain, in a farming area. There was also little or no protection for reserves on their approach to the village, if we called for them. It was so small it really was not worth defending for any length of time. A direct hit on one of those pyramids of turnips would flatten you too, if you were hiding behind one of them. It was then that we saw white bed-linen on the west side of the village being waved by the women surrendering. The situation altered dramatically. We received the order, with some bitterness, to retreat. We reformed, just a couple of kilometres away and dug-in separately on the road to Saara, which was not an ideal place to dig-in either. We would have preferred to have sought protection on the edge of the wood but the infantry were there. So we found ourselves in no-man’s land but between the line of fire from the infantry and that of the enemy. To say that we were uneasy would be an understatement.

All was quiet until the next morning because the Russians were busy looting the houses in Leuthen. That was confirmed by one of our recce detachments who had made their way under cover of darkness to the village. Upon their return they told of the cries for help from the women and children, who were easy prey for the Russian soldiers. They were now paying for their obstinacy, unfortunately. We were rudely awakened at dawn, with an ice-cold greeting from the Russians, as was to be expected, as a shell exploded somewhere behind us in the woods. We were now wide awake. More followed, hitting the road and the fields in front of us at the same time. The higher the sun rose on that day in late February, the more intense the barrage became. Heavy artillery began to plough the terrain, and we had no other choice but to cower in our dug-outs and let it roar over our heads. We were helpless.

We closed our eyes tightly against the flashes of detonating shells, but had no remedy for the decibels bursting our ear-drums or the clouds of choking gun-powder causing us to cough and splutter. Our dug-outs rose and fell and shook with every explosion. The timpani began as steel splinters, sods of earth, sand and stones hit our steel helmets, with the barrage coming from the Russians. In the pauses between the impacting rounds our infantry returned their fire and we had to duck once more against the blast of whistling shells whipping around our ears, although they did their best to fire over our heads. I dared to take a quick peep from my dug-out to find that the terrain had now another face. It was almost ghostly, as banks of smoke hung over a landscape of craters. My neighbouring comrade to my left lay lifeless in his dug-out, which was no longer a dug-out but a crater. He had received a direct hit. On that occasion there were no wounded, only the dead. To my right lay a legless comrade, who had perhaps tried to leave his dug-out, unable to hold out in such hell. The price was losing his legs and his life. He no longer moved. In doubt, I called out to others who may be living. Almost in slow motion, one after another steel helmet rose out of the ground. The faces of my young comrades had eyes wide open in fright. They were hardly able to speak.

We then had a pause in the firing. It was still, it was sinister, and not a good sign. We knew from experience that our infantry would attack immediately. Already they were to be seen, about a battalion in strength. We saw the soldiers in Sturmangriff, in assault formation and widely spaced from one another. The dark figures in contrast to the white landscape, came nearer and nearer, and became larger and larger. For once, the Russians considered their own men and did not fire. We showed ourselves too and left our holes in the earth. We had swallowed the first ‘potion’ the Reds had served, but we were not going to sell ourselves so cheaply. We were ready, come what may.

With targeted firing from our machine-guns and machine-pistols, we fired directly into the screaming masses of oncoming Red infantry, including ponies pulling the carriages of anti-tank guns. They halted now and again to allow the ‘Urra’-screaming gunners to fire a salvo or two in our direct ion. Our officers in the foremost lines fired tracers, aiding us to concentrate our fire in the right direction. Although our own bitter attack may have delayed the impetus of the enemy’s attack, in the end there were too many of them. We were outnumbered and the situation was hopeless. A few of our comrades still lay in their dug-outs and used their last ammunition. In front of us we had the attacking enemy, behind us flat terrain giving no protection, and all of two hundred metres before we hit the woods. We had no choice. The prospects were grim. We had to fight to the end, and it appeared on this occasion that that would be the case.

Death was so near that I do not believe we fought as perfectly trained soldiers in that situation. A careless instinct took command, guiding us almost in a trance. I certainly was no longer aware of what I was doing, but I re member that my life replayed before my eyes with great speed. Because of that, it took some time before I heard the calling from the edge of the wood. Company and platoon leaders were signalling towards a stream, running in a straight line through the fields to the wood. Together with others, I used the last of my strength to spring into the ice-cold water, with machine-gun fire whipping around our ears. Although splinters and fragments landed in the water and only light wounds were received, under such freezing conditions it meant the end for many of us.

We reached the wood and the protection that it gave. We were soaked, and with chattering teeth. We saw the ‘Ivans’ spring into our dug-outs. In looking back at our dead comrades lying on the road who we had to leave behind, the scene blended into the battlefields of Leuthen in December of 1757. Troops of Fredrick the Great, numbering 34,000, had reached Silesia to fight the invading Austrians. They were outnumbered by 2 to 1 with 70,000, and won. 188 years later German nationals, together with volunteers from westerly lands, in a futile attempt, tried to do the same against an Asiatic power threatening not only Silesia, but the whole of Europe.

We received orders to move to Saara and make new positions there. We found it to be deserted, except for two very old ladies, sisters, wrapped in woollen blankets in one of the farmhouses. We found them when looking for something to eat. Like many others, they did not want to leave their home. Equipped with more than enough food, they were going to acquiesce to their fate, whatever it was to be. An odd cow roamed around the village, giving a bellow now and again and the cats greeted us with a purr and cuddled around our boots, hungry, just like us.

Our next stop was once more the garrison town of Deutsch-Lissa. The companies of the battalions collected together on the parade ground of the barrack complex to receive new orders. We had very little time, for the Russians were at the door. They had advanced very quickly. We had just enough time to change our still clammy uniforms, as Russian tanks roared over the parade ground. Together with the infantry we managed to delay their advance with well-aimed firing, but only for a while. Continuous defensive tactics could not stop them. So we retreated once more, through the back door, to the outskirts of the town and the river. There was a stone bridge over the river Weistritz.

It was the only river crossing in the direction of Breslau and was of strategic importance. Situated on the eastern riverbank it led to the main road, which the Russians must use. I was given the order to occupy with my group a two-storey house to the right of the bridge in the southern terrain. They were terraced houses parallel to the river, the gardens of which were now overgrown and which stretched down an incline, to the riverbank. We took up positions at the back of the houses, digging in just a few feet away from the cellar door. I put six men to digging trenches, others attended to the machine-guns and others made themselves comfortable and familiar with the contents of the cellar pantry. It was full of conserves for the winter, and we helped ourselves. We had profited over the last few weeks from such housewifely customs, adding to our meagre provisions with fruits, pickled meats including chicken meat and many other commodities including eggs, a feast for us.

Our combat engineers prepared to blow the bridge as soon as the last of the German troops crossed it. Because we were in close proximity, we promptly took cover in the cellar. Suddenly the explosion was deafening. The dark cellar suddenly became a hall of light and the floor shook. The candles flickered so violently that they were almost extinguished. We held our breath as it rained chunks of brick and roof tiles. We heard it all hitting the house, as well as the sound of splintering glass. The cellar then filled with clouds of dust particles and the biting stench of gunpowder. It was so intense that it robbed you of your breath. We nearly choked. Our lungs full, we all started to cough and splutter as we rubbed the dust from our eyes.

We left the cellar and went outside. It looked as if a hurricane had hit the houses. None had roof tiles anymore. They lay on the cobbles, strewn together with glass splinters and other rubble. A large part of the bridge had disappeared, the large blocks sinki ng into the river. But other parts remained. They would all be used in a rebuild. The Russians were experts. They began to rebuild the bridge the same night.

The whole time, of course, they worked under fire from our infantry, and paid a very high price for their bridge. They worked away with death-defying stubbornness. Many Russian engineers fell screaming into the dark waters of the Weistritz, having been hit as they worked to repair the bridge. The loss in men for the Russians must have been enormous. But they only had themselves to blame, for they had begun the work without prior safeguards. Naturally we had everything under fire that was in close proximity to the approach of the bridge. However, I have to admit that an efficient defence was not possible. We then had a surprise ‘cease-fire’ order from a Leutnant of the combat engineers. He was giving continual progress reports to the Festung commander. “Let the ‘Ivans’ alone to build their bridge”, he told us. That was bewildering to say the least. He was going to have the pleasure of destroying the bridge, when finished, with his Goliath tank. That was news to us, and yes, it was a tank, of a sort, but not in the usual sense of the word.

This tank was no more than 67cm high and had a length of 160cm. It could carry however 75 kilos of high explosives and was remote-controlled. It was a mini-tank and not sensitive to infantry fire. It was a piece of equipment developed to save lives in situations where large obstructions, be it bridges or other obstacles, needed a solut ion, other than manpower. Radio-controlled by radio waves or a wire connection, it could strike from a distance of 600 to 1,000 metres and was controlled by specially trained soldiers. We couldn’t wait to see what this wonder-weapon could pull out of the hat! They were indeed ‘wonder-weapons’, for there were three. With the eyes of a engineer and the instinct of a hunter, the Leutnant observed the progress of the rebuilding. As soon as the bridge flooring was laid with planks, the Goliaths, at all of 20 kilometres an hour, drove into position.

It was six o’clock in the morning on 18 February. With one almighty thunderous crash, the Goliaths spewed their 225 kilos of explosives at the bridge. The thick black cloud over the bridge slowly disappeared to reveal the devastation our little ‘giants’ had caused. Two spans of the bridge and a pillar lay in pieces in the Weistritz. It was all over in the blink of a Russian eye. We had only one wounded engineer.

That action however, only gave us a short pause. A little further along the riverbank from the bridge or what remained of it, 24 Russian soldiers had crossed the river in a rubber boat. They had landed on our side, unnoticed by our neighbours on the left flank. Our friend Domke, who had freed us from Peiskerwitz, then formed an assault detachment. In engaging in close combat with those Russians, he lost his life. In a dawn mist and in clouds of dust from hand-grenades, plus a little nervousness from one of his own men, he received a bullet through the heart, from the said soldier. Domke was posthumously awarded the German Cross in Gold.

In order to ward off surprise attacks of this nature in future, we organised ‘listening posts ‘. Near the river in no-man’s land, one man kept guard in a dug-out. Armed with pistol and hand-grenade, his duty was to report, without a fight, and give the alarm the moment that he recognised enemy movement. The guards were relieved at hourly intervals and were accompanied by the commander, so that he could inspect the situation at the same time. On a nightly inspect ion I lost my way through thick shrubs. The well-camouflaged guard could not be found. I ordered the relieving guard to lie low and wait. In absolute darkness, I made my way through the gardens to find myself at the water’s edge. I turned round to go back.

Suddenly a blinding flash hit me, a detonation threw me to the ground and my pistol flew out of my hand. Dazed, I felt myself from top to toe in order to see that I was still in one piece. On hands and knees I felt around for my pistol and called the pass words several times, before I received an answer. The guard who had thought that I was a Russian soldier, then answered. He was dismayed when finding that I was not Russian. I had splinters from his hand-grenade in my thigh. With blood staining my trousers, I limped back to our positions, hanging on to my two companions. I was given a tetanus injection. Then I slept for some hours in the cellar, with a provisional dressing on my wounds. De spite this I had to stay put, the criteria being that I had not bro ken a bone and could walk, albeit in a lot of pain, for every man was needed.

The guard, a Hungarian-German, would not admit that he had slept on duty. He had thrown the grenade in panic on being woken, without asking for the passwords. He had certainly slept at his post. I did not accuse him of doing it on purpose, for he was shaken to the core at what had happened. After all, I had escaped without serious consequences, but I still had parts of his hand-grenade in my thigh. He felt very guilty over the whole affair. Thereafter he ‘spoiled’ me with bottled eggs and pickled pork that he organised from the pantries of the other houses. We then received our marching orders.

We left the river. As we marched, we reviewed the situation of being constantly in combat for the previous few weeks, without a break. Our combat in flat terrain was bound together with high losses in men. The constant changing of positions had delayed the advance of the Russians to the Silesian capital, Breslau. While we were busy with such delaying tactics, other units were able to organise defensive measures. But only just in time, at least, so we were told.

The march for me be came unbearable with the splinters boring into my flesh. I had a stick and the support of two comrades who never left my side. They supported me in every way they could. We reached Schmiedefeld in the early morning hours. It lay to the west of Gandau aerodrome. It could not then be very far to Breslau.

We secured our positions between the greenhouses of nurseries, dug our trenches and set up machine-gun positions. My squad settled into a newly-built house on a new housing estate. The pantry was very well stocked. But no sooner had we cooked a warm meal for ourselves on a coal-heated cooker, and were looking forward to a couple of hours’ sleep, than the guards gave the alarm. Thick dark smoke was to be seen over Neukirch and we were bitter that the ‘Ivans’ were so close on our heels and could not give us a moment’s peace. It was only a couple of hours later that their shells started to hit us. The shattered greenhouses and their broken glass lay all around. Some of my men cut themselves very badly when hitting the ground amongst the shards of glass. Around the same evening the Russian advanced units reached our positions, trying to break through our lines in various places. Each and every time we drove them back. I lost one of my men, my best machine-gunner, in the bitter fighting. He had that day prophesied his own death. His prophesy became reality when he died from a bullet in the stomach. We also lost Leo Habr in the dawn hours. It pained us that we could not recover his body, for the Russians were too far advanced into the grounds of the nursery.

A sudden depression enveloped us, for Leo Habr was very popular with the men and was a good officer and comrade. He had possessed a typical Viennese charm, was a successful soldier and we had thought that he was invulnerable. His dry humour had turned the last experience with him, that dangerous boat-trip, to one almost of pleasure. I then was to replace him and take over his platoon. We could only hold Schmiedefeld for another few hours. Then we saw dark smoke from fires hanging over the Maria-Höfchen estate to the south, in the direction of Mochbern. The enemy was standing at the doors of the city. From the lowland around the town, their next target was the aerodrome in Gandau, to the west of Breslau. That aerodrome was very important as the supply link to the city’s garrison. But it was some weeks before they could take it. We were under pressure from the continual attacks and so we retreated to the outskirts of Breslau and into the grounds of the aircraft and motor manufacturer FAMO. That manufacturer was the successor of the famous Linke-Hofmann factory. It had a worldwide reputation and took over the armament programme during the war. Between the highly qualified staff, of whom there were 8,000, and the fighting troops, a very trusted and almost dedicated association formed. The extremely large factory premises provided more than enough protection from enemy shrapnel and infantry.

The houses around were already evacuated, apart from a few people who, in hope, had left it to the very last minute before leaving. Now the last of them packed the most precious of their belongings. They locked their doors, as if that last action was going to save their valued home from further damage.