The Forgotten Soldier

PROLOGUE

July 18, 1942. I arrive at the Chemnitz barracks, a huge oval building, entirely white. I am much impressed, with a mixture of admiration and fear.

At my request, I am assigned to the 26th section of the squadron commanded by Flight Commandant Rudel. Unfortunately, I fail to pass the Luftwaffe tests, but those few moments on board the JU-87s will stay with me as a glorious memory. We live with an intensity I have never before experienced. Each day brings something new. I have a brand-new uniform, which fits me perfectly, and a pair of boots, not new but in first-class condition. I am very proud of my appearance. The food is good. I learn some military songs, which I warble with an atrocious French accent. The other soldiers laugh. They are destined to be my first comrades in this place.

Basic training in the infantry, where they send me next, is less amusing than the life of an aviator. The combat course is the most severe physical challenge I have ever experienced. I am exhausted, and several times fall asleep over my food. But I feel marvelous, filled with a sense of joy which I can’t understand after so much fear and apprehension.

On the 15th of September, we leave Chemnitz, and march twenty-five miles to Dresden, where we board a train for the east.

We cross a large piece of Poland, stopping for several hours at Warsaw. Our detachment goes sightseeing in the city, including the famous ghetto — or rather, what’s left of it. We return to the station in small groups. We are all smiling. The Poles smile back, especially the girls. Some of the older soldiers, more daring than myself, have arranged to return in most agreeable company. Once again we set off, to arrive finally at Bialystok.

From Bialystok we march another ten miles to a small hamlet. The weather is cool but unbelievably beautiful. Autumn is already well under way in this pretty, hilly countryside. We tramp through a forest of enormous trees. Feldwebel[1] Laus loudly orders us to fall in, and we march in quick-step into a clearing, where a fairy-tale castle rises up in front of us. We proceed along an avenue of trees singing in four parts “Erika, We Love You.” We are met by a group of ten or eleven soldiers, one of whom is wearing the gleaming epaulettes of an officer.

Perfectly timed, we draw up to this group as we sing the last notes of our song. The feldwebel shouts once again, and we freeze. Then another order, an impeccable quarter turn, and the air rings with the sound of three hundred pairs of boots clicking together. After an official military welcome, we march into the walled court of this formidable fortress.

In the courtyard roll is called. Those who have already answered form another group which grows larger as ours shrinks. The yard is jammed with every kind of military vehicle and with five hundred fully equipped soldiers who seem to be waiting for departure. We are sent off to our quarters in groups of thirty. An old man calls to us: “Relief troops, this way.”

We conclude from this that the men massed by the trucks are leaving this regal habitation, which would explain their rather sullen faces.

Two hours later I learn that their destination is somewhere in the immensity of Russia. Russia means the war — of which, as yet, I know nothing.

I have just put my bundle down on the wooden bed I have chosen for myself when we are ordered to return to the courtyard. It is now about two o’clock in the afternoon, and except for the biscuits we were able to pick up in Warsaw, we haven’t had anything to eat since the rye bread, white cheese, and jam we were given the evening before as we were rolling toward Poland. This new order must be connected with lunch, which is already three hours late.

But not at all. A feldwebel wearing a sweater proposes with an ironic air to share his swim with us, as an aperitif. He makes us trot at a brisk gymnastic pace for about three-quarters of a mile to a small sandy pool fed by a tiny stream. The feldwebel, who has lost his smiling face, orders us to strip. Feeling somewhat ridiculous, we are soon naked. The feldwebel plunges into the water first, and waves us after him.

Everyone bursts out laughing, but in my case, at least, the laughter is somewhat forced. The weather is certainly beautiful — for a walk, but not for a swim. The temperature of the air can be no more than forty, and the water, when I reluctantly dip my foot into it, is really very cold. At this moment, a violent shove, accompanied by a mocking laugh, propels me into the water, where I swim vigorously to keep from fainting. When I emerge, shivering, from the plunge, convinced that by evening I shall be in the infirmary with pneumonia, I look anxiously for the towel which is indispensable after such an experience. But there isn’t one! Nobody has one! Most of my comrades have nothing but the long-sleeved undershirt that also serves as a shirt in the Wehrmacht, and their fatigue jackets, which they put on next to their bare skins. I am lucky because I have a pullover, which protects my child’s skin from the rough cloth.

On the double, we catch up with our leader, who is already more than halfway back to our enormous residence. We are all frantically hungry, and our avid faces look desperately for some sign of a dining hall. As it seems we are to be abandoned to our fate, a young Alsatian built like a giant accosts one of the noncoms, staring at him as if he wished to devour him.

“Are we going to have anything to eat?”

A thunderous “Achtung!” assaults our ears. We all freeze, including our champion.

“Lunch here is at eleven,” the noncom shouts. “You arrived three hours late. In threes, to my right. It’s time for target practice.” Gnashing our teeth, we set off after our “foster mother.”

We take a narrow footpath through the woods. Our marching rows break up, and soon we are walking in a single column. I notice a slight disturbance about ten men in front of me, which quickly develops into a wild tumult. I press forward, as do those behind me, and there are soon about thirty of us piled up beside a thicket where three men in civilian clothes — three Poles — are standing, each carrying a basket of eggs. Everyone is asking the same question: “Do you have any money? I don’t.”

I can’t understand a word the Poles are saying, but all the same I grasp that they are trying to sell us some eggs. It is our bad luck that we haven’t been paid yet. Very few of us have any money of our own. This is like the torture of Tantalus, as by now we are desperately hungry. In a sudden rush, avid hands plunge into the baskets. Eggs are broken and blows exchanged in silence: both sides fear reprisals. I don’t do too badly. One of my feet is brutally trampled, but nothing worse happens, and at the end I have seven eggs.

I run to rejoin my group, and give two eggs to a fat young Austrian, who stares at me in stupefaction. I consume the five eggs that are left, together with a good part of their shells, in less than a hundred yards.

We arrive at the shooting range. There are at least a thousand men, and the firing is nonstop. We march up to a group of armed men coming to meet us, and take over their guns. I draw twenty-four cartridges, which I will fire when it’s my turn — not as many as some men, but about average.

The eggs begin to work in my stomach, and I don’t feel altogether easy. Night falls. We are all ravenous. We leave the shooting range with our guns on our shoulders. Other companies set off in other directions. We march down a narrow graveled road which does not appear to be the same one we took when we came.

In fact, we shall have to tramp four miles in quick-step, singing, before we get back to that damned castle. It seems that singing while marching is an excellent respiratory exercise. As I am not dead, my lungs must have turned into bellows that evening. Between songs, I glance at my breathless companions, and notice a look of anxiety on every face. As I plainly don’t understand, Peter Deleige, who is one diagonal step ahead of me, points to his wrist, where his watch gleams in the dusk, and whispers: “The time.”

Good Lord! I catch on. It is almost night, well past five o’clock, and we’ve missed supper.

The whole section seems to react, and our pace accelerates. Perhaps they’ve saved something for us. We cling to this hope, dominating the exhaustion which threatens to overwhelm us. We outdistance the feldwebel by one and then by two paces. He stares at us in astonishment, begins to shout, and then collects himself: “So you think you can leave me behind, do you? Well, let’s go then.”

On orders, we break into “Die Wolken ziehn” for the seventh time, and, without slackening our pace, cross the massive stone bridge which straddles the moat. We peer into the shadowy courtyard, faintly illuminated by a few dim bulbs. A column of soldiers carrying mess tins and drinking cans is queuing in front of a sidecar which carries three enormous caldrons.

At the sergeant’s order we halt, and wait for his next order to break ranks and fetch our mess tins. But, alas, that moment has not yet come. This sadist obliges us to put our guns back in the gun rack, in their proper numerical order, which takes another ten minutes. We are frantic. Then, abruptly: “Go and see if there’s anything left, and in order!”

We hold ourselves in as far as the armory door. But, once outside, nothing can stop us. We surge wildly toward our quarters. Our hobnailed boots throw off sparks as they clatter against the courtyard pavement. We rush up the monumental stone staircase like eighty madmen, driving ahead of us the few soldiers who are trying to come back down. In the dormitories the melee increases, as no one is yet entirely sure which room and bed he occupies. We run in and out of the rooms as if possessed by demons, and it seems inevitable that someone is trying to get out exactly as another man is trying to get in. We crash, swear, exchange blows. I myself receive a bash on the helmet.

Some lucky devils who have had the good luck to find their mess tins right away run back down the stairs at a triple gallop. The swine! They’ll eat everything that’s left! Finally, I find my pack, but as I am unhooking my mess tin someone jumps onto my bed with his dirty boots, and knocks everything to the floor. My mess tin rolls under the next bed, and when I dive to retrieve it, my hand is trampled.

I return to the courtyard, and there, under the benevolent gaze of our noncom, I take my place in line, relieved to see that there is still one caldron with something in it.

In this momentary respite, I inspect my companions. Every face wears the same burning look of exhaustion. The thin ones, like me, have huge circles under their eyes, and the plumper ones are ashen.

I catch sight of Bruno Lensen. He has already been served, and is wolfing down his food as he walks away with careful little steps. Fahrstein, Olensheim, Lindberg, Hals: they are all doing the same thing. When my turn comes, I open my mess tin. I haven’t had a chance to wash it since my last meal, and traces of food still cling to its interior.

The cook empties his ladle into my tin, and puts a large helping of yogurt on my plate. I sit down a little way off, on one of the benches which stand against the wall of the kitchen block. Our galloping return at least had the advantage of making me get rid of the eggs I had devoured so precipitately that afternoon. I bolt my meal with ravenous hunger. The food isn’t at all bad. I get up and walk over to the light of an unshaded window, and peer into the tin. It contains what looks like a mixture of semolina, prunes, and chunks of meat. It will all be gone in a few minutes.

As we haven’t been given anything to drink, I go over to the horse troughs like everybody else, and swallow down three or four cups of icy water. And I take the opportunity to rinse my plate. Evening assembly and roll call takes place in a large hall where a corporal addresses us on the subject of the German Reich. It is eight o’clock. Lights-out is sounded on a small bugle. We go back to our rooms and fall into a dead sleep.

I have just spent my first day in Poland. It is September 18, 1942.

We are out of bed at five o’clock the next morning, which is how it will be for the next two weeks. We shall also be undergoing intensive training, and shall cross that damned pond every day, no longer as bathers but with full combat equipment.

Exhausted, soaked to the skin, we fling ourselves onto our mattresses every evening, overwhelmed by a crushing sleep, without even the energy to write to our families.

As a marksman I am making rapid progress. I must have fired over five hundred cartridges, on maneuvers and at the shooting range, during the fortnight, and hurled at least fifty practice grenades.

The days are gray. From time to time it rains, and I wonder if the rain is a foretaste of winter. But it is only the fifth of October. This morning it is clear, with a light frost. The rest of the day will probably be beautiful. We salute the flag at dawn, and take off for our daily footwork with our guns slung.

We cross the moat on the stone bridge, which resounds with the hammering of our sixty pairs of boots. Laus doesn’t order us to sing, and for half an hour I hear nothing but the sound of our tramping feet — a sound which pleases me. I feel no desire to talk, and take deep lungfuls of cool forest air. A marvelous sense of life flows through my veins, and I make no effort to understand why we are all so splendidly well after such intense daily exertions. We run into a company quartered about six miles from us in a village with a name something like Cremenstovsk, and salute as we pass, we with heads left, they with heads right. Without any dispersal or change of position in the ranks we shift to the double, to ordinary marching pace, to the double again. When we get back to the castle we see a crowd of new faces.

All the sergeant-instructors have jumped on these greenhorns. We remain standing by the entrance. After an hour, as no one has done anything about us, we stack our weapons, and squat on the courtyard pavement.

I talk to a Lorrainer, half in French, half in German, and the morning goes by. The lunch bell rings, and we put away our guns before going into the dining hall.

It is now afternoon. Still no duties, no maneuvers. We can hardly believe it. There is no question of going down to the courtyard; they would only send us off on fatigue. With one accord, we slip up to the third floor, where there are more dormitories. We see a ladder which takes us up to the attic, and then to the roof. The sun is beating down onto the massive slates. We stretch out full length, and brace our heels against the gutter so that we won’t roll into the courtyard.

The day is magnificent. On the roof it is almost painfully hot, and before long we are all stripped to the waist, as if on a beach. However, after a while the heat becomes disagreeable, and like many others I abandon my roost. Up to that moment though, it is quite amusing to look down at the frenzied maneuvers of the greenhorns under a torrent of abuse.

I find myself back in the courtyard in the company of that damned Lorrainer, who never talks about anything but his medical studies. As I am supposed to work as a mechanic with my father, I find all his chatter quite boring. What’s the point of thinking about a civilian future when you’ve just gone into the army?

There are still no orders for us. I walk about quite freely, and for the first time observe the details of this massive edifice. Everything about it is on a colossal scale. The smallest staircase is at least eighteen feet wide, and the whole mass is so imposing that one almost forgets its sinister character.

Beyond the entry and parallel to it rise the battlements. Another block composed of four towers like the towers of the porch completes the group of buildings. The entire mass both pleases and impresses me, and I feel in this Wagnerian decor a sense of almost invincible power. The horizon touches the vast dark-green forest on all sides.

The principal characteristic of the days which follow is a kind of robust pleasure. I learn to drive, first a big motorcycle; then a VW, and then a steiner.[2] I grow so confident that driving these machines seems like child’s play, and I am able to manage them under any circumstances. There are fifteen of us passing around orders among ourselves without submitting to any authority, and we enjoy ourselves, like the boys we are.

October 10. The weather is still beautiful, but this morning the temperature is only twenty-five degrees. For the whole day we practice handling a small tank, driving it up some pretty steep slopes. There are fifteen of us aboard a vehicle intended for eight, which is quite uncomfortable. We manage to stay inside only by performing some extraordinary acrobatic contortions. We laugh all day, and by evening any one of us can handle the machine. We are dead tired and ache as if we’d all been given a good thrashing.

The next day, as we fling ourselves headlong into exercise, without calculating the cost of energy, and to counteract the cold, Laus calls out: “Sajer!”

I step forward.

“Lieutenant Starfe needs a Panzer driver, and as you particularly distinguished yourself yesterday… go and get ready.”

I salute, and take myself off at a gallop. It’s not possible… I, the best driver in the platoon! I literally leap with joy, and, in less than no time, am dressed and back in the courtyard. I begin to run to the command quarters, but that proves unnecessary, as Lieutenant Starfe is already waiting for me. He is a thin, angular man, but does not look disagreeable. It seems that he was gravely wounded in Belgium and has stayed in the army as an instructor. I snap to attention.

“Do you know the way to Cremenstovsk?” he asks.

“Jawohl, Herr Leutnant.”

To tell the truth, I am only guessing that this is the road on which we sometimes run into companies who seem to be coming from that village. But I feel too pleased to hesitate. For once I am being asked for something more than a simple exercise.

“Good,” he answers, smiling. “Let’s go, then.”

Starfe points to one of the tanks we were using yesterday. Something that looks like a four-wheeled trailer is attached to it. In fact, it’s an 88, covered with a camouflage net. I settle into the driver’s seat and turn on the engine: the gauge shows only two and a half gallons, which isn’t enough, and I ask permission to fill the tank. Permission is granted, and I am congratulated for this elementary observation. We start a few minutes later. My vehicle proceeds somewhat nervously past the porch and over the bridge. I cannot bring myself to look at Starfe, who must surely have noticed my deplorable beginner’s technique. About 600 yards from the castle I turn off toward what I think must be the road to Cremenstovsk. For about ten minutes I roll along at a moderate speed, in a state of considerable anxiety about my itinerary. We pass two Polish carts loaded with hay. They take one look at my Panzer, and make for the side of the road. Starfe looks at me and smiles at their precipitate flight.

“They think you did that on purpose. They’ll never believe it’s because you haven’t mastered the machine.”

I don’t know whether I’m supposed to laugh at this observation, or take it as a warning. I feel more and more nervous, and jolt the poor lieutenant as if he were riding a camel. Finally we arrive at a decrepit group of buildings. I look desperately for a signpost, but all I can see is the gang of tow-headed boys who have rushed out to see us go by, at the risk of falling beneath our treads.

Suddenly I catch sight of about a hundred German vehicles parked in the road, and Starfe points to a building with a flag flying in front of it. I heave a sigh of relief. We were on the road to Cremenstovsk after all.

“You’ll have at least an hour to wait,” Starfe tells me. “Go to the canteen and see if they can give you something hot.”

As he speaks, he pats me on the shoulder. I feel very much moved by the friendliness of this lieutenant to whom I have just given such a frightful journey. I would never have guessed that this man whose face is somewhat frightening would be capable of a quasi-paternal gesture.

I walk over to a building which looks like a town hall. A notice board carries a white-on-black inscription: SOLDATENSCHENKE 27^e KOMPANIE. Soldiers are continuously going in and out. As there is no sentry, I walk in, and through a room where three soldiers are busy unpacking crates of food. Beyond this room is another, with a counter at the back, beside which a group of soldiers are standing and talking.

“Could I have something hot? I’ve just driven an officer over here, but I don’t belong to the 27th.”

“So,” mutters the soldier behind the bar. “Another one of these damned Alsatians pretending to be German.”

It’s plain that I speak hideously badly.

“I’m not Alsatian, but half German, through my mother.”

They don’t press me. The one behind the bar goes off into the kitchen. I stay where I am, planted in the middle of the room, wrapped in my heavy green overcoat. Five minutes later, the soldier is back with a steaming canteen half filled with goat’s milk. He pours a full tumbler of alcohol into this, and hands it to me without a word.

It is burning hot, but I drink it down all the same. Every eye is fixed on me. I have never liked the taste of alcohol, but I am determined to finish this liter at any price, so that I won’t look like a green girl.

I leave this bunch of louts without saluting, and find myself out in the cold once again. This time I feel certain that the Polish winter has arrived. The sky is overcast, and the thermometer has fallen to twenty degrees.

I don’t really know where to go. The square is almost empty. In the surrounding houses, Poles must be warming themselves in front of their fires. I walk over to the parking lot, where some soldiers are busy with the trucks. I venture a few words, but they reply without enthusiasm. I must be too young for them: these characters are already in their thirties. I continue my aimless wandering, and catch sight of three bearded men wearing long overcoats of a strange brown color, who are cutting a tree trunk into lengths with a large all-purpose saw. I don’t recognize their uniforms.

I walk up to them, smile, and ask them if everything’s all right.

Their only response is to stop sawing and straighten up, and I guess that they are smiling behind their heavy beards. One of them is a tall, strapping fellow; the other two are short and stocky. I ask two or three questions, but get no reply. These characters must be laughing at me! Then I hear footsteps coming up behind me, and a voice says: “Let them alone. You know that talking to them is forbidden, except to give them orders.”

“Those wild men didn’t answer me anyway. I was just wondering what the hell they’re doing in the Wehrmacht.”

“Teufel!” says the fellow who’s come to dress me down. “I can see now that you’ve never been under fire. Those fellows are Russian prisoners. And if you ever do get to the front and you see one of them before he sees you, fire without hesitation, or you’ll never see another.” I am astounded, and look again at the Russians, who have resumed their sawing. So those are our enemies, who shoot at German soldiers, soldiers wearing uniforms like mine. Why did they smile at me then?

For the next two weeks, life in the castle with my companions of the 19th Company continues as usual, and I obliterate the memory of the 27th, which seemed to be composed entirely of sullen, gloomy characters. To be fair, however, I must admit that the men in the 27th have been in service since 1940.

Winter has arrived, with its snow and rain, transforming the earth into sticky glue. When we come in at dusk we are covered with mud and exhausted, but still filled with the sense of joy that comes from youth and health. These small fatigues are nothing compared to what awaits us. Every evening we warm ourselves in our comfortable beds, and joke until sleep interrupts us.

October 28. The weather, which is not very cold, is nonetheless frightful. Gray clouds and squalls of wind and rain fill the sky for twenty-four hours a day. Our noncoms are tired of getting soaked to the skin, and have given up taking us to outdoor exercises. We spend most of the time perfecting our skills as drivers and mechanics. I don’t yet know anything more disagreeable than rummaging through an engine under a driving rain.

The thermometer remains more or less constant at freezing. October 30: raining and cold.

After saluting the colors, we are ordered to the supply store, where we proceed without thinking about explanations. At least it will be warm in there. In the store, which has been set up in a large shed, the first two sections of our company have just been served, and are coming out with their arms loaded. When it’s my turn, I am given four boxes of sardines, stamped in France, two vegetable sausages wrapped in cellophane, a package of biscuits enriched with vitamins, two slabs of Swiss chocolate, some smoked lard, and a half pound of lump sugar. Four steps further on, another attendant piles onto my already encumbered arms a waterproof ground sheet, a pair of socks, and a pair of woolen gloves. At the door one more item is added: a cloth packet inscribed FIELD KIT: FIRST AID. In the falling rain, I rejoin my group, which is clustered around an officer crouched on the back of a truck. He is well protected in his long coat of gray-green leather, and seems to be waiting for the entire company to assemble. When he judges that everyone has arrived, he begins to speak. He talks so quickly that I have a hard time understanding what he says.

“You will be leaving this billet to convoy several military trains to a more advanced post. You have just been issued with supplies for eight days, which you will now include in your equipment. You will assemble in twenty minutes. Now get ready.”

Quickly, silent with anxiety, we return to our quarters and gather together our possessions. As I fasten my pack to my back, my neighbor in the next bed asks: “How long will we be gone?”

“Don’t know.”

“I just wrote to my parents and asked them to send me some books.”

“The P.O. will forward your package.”

At that moment Hals, my enormous friend, hits me across the back. “At last we’ll see some Russians,” he shouts, grinning sardonically.

I sense that he is trying to build up his nerve. In reality everyone feels considerable emotion. Despite our perfect innocence, the idea of war terrifies us.

Once more we find ourselves standing in the courtyard in that damned rain. We are each given a registered Mauser and twenty-five cartridges. I don’t know if it’s a reaction to receiving these arms, but I notice that everyone is turning pale. Certainly we can all be excused for this: no one in the company is more than eighteen. I myself won’t be seventeen for another two and a half months. The lieutenant notices our confusion, and to raise our spirits reads us the latest Wehrmacht communiqué. Von Paulus is on the Volga, von Richthofen is near Moscow, and the Anglo-Americans have suffered great losses in their attempts to bomb the cities and towns of the Reich. Our officer seems reassured by our answering cries of “Sieg Heil.” The entire 19th Company stands at attention in front of the flag.

Laus, our feldwebel, is there, also helmeted and fully equipped. At his side he carries a long automatic in a black leather sheath, which gleams in the rain. We are all silent. The order to move out sounds like the abrupt blast of an express train’s whistle: “Achtung! Rechts um. Raus!”

In threes, we leave the place which was home during our first army experiences. We cross the stone bridge for the last time, and set off down the road which brought us here a month and a half ago.

I look back several times at the imposing gray mass of the ancient Polish castle which I shall never see again, and would have succumbed to melancholy if the presence of my comrades had not raised my spirits. We arrive at Bialystok, a sea of green uniforms, and march to the station.