Hans Von Luck - Panzer Commander

by Unknown

  The British didn't seem to have spotted us. In the early morning of 27 May my battalion, on the right wing of the 15th panzer division, turned north in the direction of Knightsbridge on the Trigh Capuzzo, a track parallel to the Via Balbia, which we soon reached. We were in the best of spirits; the surprise appeared to have worked. It was only a few kilometers to the Via Balbia, our objective. It looked as though the British in the Gazala position and in Tobruk were going to be encircled.

  Toward midday on 27 May I suddenly saw a British tank column approaching from the east. They were new tanks that we had never seen before. (Only later did we discover that the tank in question was the American Grant, a tank superior to our Panzer IV.) Suddenly some of the Grants turned south and opened fire on my advanced units from a range that was too great for our 5cc antitank guns.

  I stopped the advance at once and ordered the setting up of a defensive front to the north. To coordinate the use of our defensive weapons, I left my command tank and ran'to the antitank guns. Shells were bursting all around. I suddenly felt a powerful blow to my right leg and fell at once to the ground. A shell had hit an armored car and a piece of shrapnel had cut my upper right thigh. Blood welled out from my trousers. I lost consciousness for some seconds. A scout car came alongside, picked me up, and took me a few hundred yards further back to our doctor. A bad wound. I was angry and in despair. Had my time in North Africa come to an end already?

  “You are lucky in your bad luck, Major,” said the doctor after his examination. "You've got a hole the size of a fist in your right groin. Another few centimeters and you would have lost your manhood, but no vein or bones or nerves have been hit.

  Which is just as well, as I would never have been able to apply a tourniquet on the spot. There's no question, you must go to the nearest field dressing station for treatment." That was easier said than done, for in the meantime the Afrika Korps had obviously encircled the British in the Gazala position, but it had not taken Tobruk. On the contrary, we ourselves were now encircled. To get out of the envelopment from the east was hardly to be thought of. With the help of morphine injections I managed to resume command in my jeep, fr to some extent from pain.

  “Captain Everth, in case I can do no more, you will take command. I'm trying to establish radio contact with Rommel, to hear how things stand and what orders are being given.” Thank goodness the connection with Rommel went through. The situation was extremely dangerous. At Knightsbridge, southwest of Tobruk, the attack by the Afrika Korps had petered out under fire from the British artillery and the relays of attack by the Royal Air Force. So too had the frontal attack by the Italians in the north.

  I managed to set up a defensive front to the east. Luckily for us, the British attack from the east was directed more against the two panzer divisions of the Afrika Korps. The British assumed that Rommel would try to break out to the east. That was the basis of their dispositions in the days that followed.

  Rommel now made one of his rash decisions: He ordered the Afrika Korps to escape from the encirclement, not to the east, but to the west, through the mine fields of the Gazala position. My orders were to guard against a breakthrough by the British from the east and prevent a possible outflanking movement in the south.

  For five days I sat in my jeep,-still under morp4ine-until in the morning of I June Rommel succeeded with the help of the army engineers in clearing passages through the mine field and in releasing the whole of the Afrika Korps from its encirclement, although many vehicles had to be abandoned for lack of fuel. We were the North Africa, 1942: Rommel, the Desert Fox 101 last to disengage from the enemy and reassemble behind the Italian lines.

  My wound did not look good.

  “I can no longer take responsibility,” said our doctor. “You must now go to Derna as quickly as possible, to our casualty clearing station.” I realized that I couldn't go on as I was, but hoped that in Derna they would soon get me fit for duty again. With heavy heart I handed over command to Everth and, close to tears with anger and disappointment, let myself be driven to Derna by good old Manthey and my faithful Beck. An examination by the Germans revealed to my dismay that the wound was not only severe but that during the five days in the jeep, and from the dust of a Ghibli storm, it had become infected.

  “You must go to Germany at once, an Italian hospital ship is in harbor. It will take you to Europe tomorrow.” That was the doctor's lapidary verdict. Deeply disappointed, I was carried on to the ship the next day. Adieu, Africa, but not for long.

  The ship was a large liner, painted white and identified as a hospital ship by a large red cross. I heard later that the ship had been sunk on its way back to Africa, supposedly because it had taken on war materiel. I was put in a little cabin, and there I raged at my fate. The following morning we cast off for Sicily.

  As my wound was severe, I was one of the first to be taken to the operating theater, which was run by an Italian surgeon and his team, who, as a nurse told me in a whisper, came from one of the best Italian clinics. The bandages were taken off, the pain grew worse, the more so as I had had no morphine since the day before.

  We can't have you becoming addicted,“ my doctor had said. ”The lwl ound is not serious, thank goodness. We'll clean it up a bit first and go on from there." It was then decided to perform a small operation and I was told that the limited anesthetics were needed for very severe cases.

  “Clench your teeth, please,” I was instructed, short and sharp.

  While two sisters held me tight, the doctor, who seemed to me like a butcher, began to cut away at my wound. I cried out like an animal and thought I would -faint with pain. Then I heard a voice.

  “Please stop a moment.” Beside me stood General von Vaerst, commander of the 15th Panzer Division. “What's up with you, Luck, why are you shouting so?” I explained the situation to him 102 PANZER COMMANDER and asked him to insist on an anesthetic.

  At his intervention the doctors agreed, so that the rest of the procedure was bearable.

  General von Vaerst told me that he too had been wounded not far from me. General Gause and Colonel Westphal of Rommel's staff had also been hit. The last he heard from Rommel was that the Afrika Korps, after its successful breakthrough to the west, was being marshalled anew to continue the offensive.

  After my wound had been treated, I sat with von Vaerst during the short crossing to the mainland. We discussed Rommel's chances of breaking through into Egypt despite inadequate supplies. In Naples I was examined again and pronounced fit to travel.

  Next morning an Italian hospital train bore me north. Although I couldn't stand, I still enjoyed the journey across the north Italian plain and over the Alps. The sun shone, the countryside looked peaceful, and there was nothing to show that Italy too was at war. Our treatment by the accompanying doctor and nurses was exemplary. After the hardships and battles in the desert, I was overtaken by a pleasant feeling of tranquility.

  At the Austrian border we were transferred to a German hospit'al coach, which was coupled to an ordinary train, and we finally ended up in Esslingen, a small industrial town near Stuttgart.

  There were now only three of us, including a young reserve officer from my own battalion. The municipal infirmary, lying romantically in the hills on the outskirts of the town, had been declared a military hospital. Until we arrived it had contained wounded from the eastern front only.

  So far Esslingen had been largely spared by the war, apart from the fact that there too the inhabitants could subsist only by buying food stamps. In addition, there was nothing to be had anymore. It was a good thing I had been able to provide myself with enough coffee and cigarettes before leaving North Africa, for these were more in demand than gold.

  I now made every effort to get back on my feet as quickly as possible. After a few weeks I was able to walk on crutches and then, cautiously, with a stick. My mother and sister came to see me from Flensburg. It was an onerous journey right through Germany, since the air raids were continually disrupting rai
l junctions or causing long delays. My uncle came also, from Stuttgart, and we enjoyed the warm sun on the terrace, with real coffee and substitute cakes.

  North Africa seemed far away. All the same, I was glued to the radio every day to hear news from the theater of war. We had

  North Africa, 1942: Rommel, the Desert Fox 103 in the hospital just two weeks when the special announcement came that Rommel had taken Tobruk, on 21 June 1942, and that South African General Klopper had surrendered the fortress.

  Nearly 30,000 prisoners had been captured and much war materiel had fallen into German hands, including considerable supplies of fuel, which the Germans needed so urgently. This was followed by the announcement that Rommel had immediately turned east and crossed the Egyptian border, on 23 June. Rommel, at the age of fifty, was made a field marshal. He commented to his wife that he wished Hitler had given him another division instead.

  We three “Africans” were naturally the cocks of the walk. When things looked bad on the Russian front, with the encirclement at Stalingrad beginning to loom, Rommel's exploits in North Africa at last offered people a ray of hope again. Nevertheless they sensed very well that the war would last a long time yet and result in heavy losses. So Hitler and his Propaganda Minister Goebbels didn't fail to put an undue value on Rommel's exploits, even though they treated our theater of war in the desert as of only secondary importance.

  After about,three weeks I had recovered sufficiently to be able to move about quite well with my stick. Bad Kissingen, my last garrison before the war, was not all that far away. I was able to persuade the medical superintendent to transfer me there until my recovery was complete. I wanted to recuperate in the neighborhood of my old friends and in the atmosphere of the spa.

  So one Sunday morning I was taken by ambulance to a clinic that had been requisitioned for convalescent frontline soldiers.

  As it was Sunday, only one nurse was on duty. She put me in a nice room with a view of the park.

  “I'll bring you some supper right away. I hope you'll be comfortable with us. The medical superintendent will see you in the morning.” With these words she left me to my fate.

  There was no telephone in the room. How was I to make contact with my friends? The clinic could not keep me. I found a broomstick and hobbled secretly out of the house to the Huber Bar, only a few hundred yards away.

  When I entered the bar in my faded tropical uniforrn-it was still early in the evening and only a few customers were sitting about-Huber looked dumbfounded.

  “No, it can't be! Our old friend Luck is here. My God, where have you sprung from? You've been wounded. Make room for our Major there! Come to the table of honor.” Sepp Huber and his wife could hardly regain their composure, they were so delighted.

  “Here's my last bottle of whiskey, which I've kept all these years for a special occasion. We'll crack it now.” The bar slowly filled and before long I was the center of a large circle and had to give an account of myself. Everything seemed unreal to me. There I sat as in the last year before the war, as though nothing had happened.

  Toward midnight Huber closed the bar. Only a few customers were left. Then I suddenly realized with a shock that I didn't have a key to the clinic. What was to be done? “Absence without leave,” ,.endangering recovery," etc., passed through my mind.

  “You can stay with us, Major,” said Huber. “As an African veteran you'll have no problems here in Kissingen.” Then someone knocked on the door.

  “Let me in, please,” came a peremptory voice from outside. It was one of the spa doctors whom I used to know well and with whom I had spent many an evening at Huber's.

  “I heard you were in Kissingen. Things soon get around here. I came over right away and am very glad to see that you're more or less all right. How long have you been here? What hospital are you in?”

  “I'm glad to see you too. Let's drink to that.” I gave him the name of my clinic and pointing to my broomstick told him how I had got to Huber's. “But I haven't got a key. That's the problem that's bothering me.” My doctor friend slapped his thigh and burst into laughter. “My dear friend, I'm the doctor in charge of the clinic.” I must have turned pale, for he went on, “That's all right, I've got my key on me. I'll take you there and tomorrow I'll see if I can get you a key of your own.” Things could not have turned out better.

  July went by. I was well on the way to recovery. It was thought that I would be passed as completely fit for duty by the end of August or the beginning of September.

  Over the weeks, equipped now with a proper cane instead of the broom handle, I visited all my old friends. To my astonishment the spa orchestra still played every day in the park. A peaceful world, if it were not for the daily bulletins from the eastern front and the reports of air raids on our cities. I was determined to make the most of my enforced leisure and suppress the unpleasant things, as all frontline soldiers do whenever they have the chance.

  North Africa, 1942: Rommel, the Desert Fox 105 In the meantime news came over the radio that Rommel had penetrated far into Egypt and had come to a halt near El Alamein, about 100 kilometers west of Alexandria. From telephone conversations with our Replacement Section near Berlin and from what was said by men who had come back from Africa, I learned that shortage of supplies through logistical failure was the main cause. I could well imagine how angry Rommel would have been at so little understanding at the Fuehrer's HQ and so little support from the Italians.

  During my time in Kissingen I often went to my old barracks, where I met many wounded men from my old Reconnaissance Battalion 37, which had been in action on the eastern front. A number of my people had fallen and left behind family and friends in Kissingen. The battles in the winter of 1941-42 and the rearguard actions had left the men washed out. No one believed anymore in a quick finish. I was naturally envied for my posting to North Africa. Many ordinary soldiers asked me to give their regards to Rommel.

  Even the mayor and most of the functionaries, who were all members of Hitler's Party, now saw things in a more sober light and wondered whether our march into Russia had not been a mistake. The propaganda tirades that Goebbels delivered regularly over the radio were insufferable. The talk was always of “subhumans,” the “Lebensraum” (“living space”) that was vital for Germany, and of “faith in our beloved Fuehrer.” No one dared to express his doubts openly; the network of informers was too large and too dangerous.

  At the beginning of September 1942 I was pronounced “fit for limited combat duty.” I went to my mother's for a week and then to the replacement section near Berlin, There I met a number of officers and NCOS who had been severely wounded and were now employed as instructors for the replacements. I even found my faithful Mercedes standing in the garage, repaired and spick-andspan. I used it a few times to go to Berlin to visit friends.

  Berlin was suffering most from the air raids and from the stringency of the food situation. The faces of the Berliners, who were once so cheerful and quick-witted, had grown gray.

  With their sense of reality they had no illusions.

  There was nothing more to keep me in Germany. I wanted to rejoin my unit. At the Personnel Office I finally received my movement orders in the middle of September. I was to report to the German liaison office in Rome and then fly to Tobruk via Sicily.

  Over the Alps to Rome I duly went, and from there straight on to Sicily. This time I flew in a vast Blohm and Voss flying boat, which was used for transporting materiel. Again we flew low over the water; the British air bases on the island of Malta were not far away. It was fascinating to lift off from the sea and land on the water, leaving a huge cloud of spray behind us.

  From the air I saw the town of Tobruk and its harbor, which had been hotly contested and badly damaged. Then we were down, alighting by a sunken British freighter.

  Moments later I was standing on the dock, breathing in the hot desert air that was so familiar to me. Now in September it was even hotter by day than in the weeks when I was wounded. A c
ar took me with my aluminum trunk to Rommel's HQ, which lay somewhere in the desert near Mersa Matrui.

  “We've had some hard but successful battles, Major,” the driver told me. “Now there's a lull on the Alamein front. Who will be the first to start things up again?” I had no idea where my battalion lay; without doubt deep in the desert.

  And then I was with Rommel. I reported my return fit for duty and congratulated him above all on his being made a field marshal and on his successful actions.

  “I'm glad you're here again,” Rommel told me. “Captain Everth has stood in for you very well and achieved great distinction with the battalion. For that I was able to present him with the Knight's Cross. Unfortunately he too has caught one of these insidious tropical diseases. He's only waiting for your return to be posted back home. It's essential for me to have treatment too. You've come just in time to say good-bye to me. I'll be back as soon as I can. Best of luck and have yourself briefed by Gause (chief of staff).” I took my leave and went to General Gause for briefing.

  “It's good that you're here, Luck. We were beginning to think you might not be able to come back.” Gause too looked tired and emaciated. It had been particularly hard for him to make the right decisions when Rommel was “leading from the front” and out of reach, often for days on end. He put me briefly in the picture, especially about the thrust into Egypt, which for lack of fuel and supplies had come to a halt at Alameinonly 100 kilometers from Alexandria. He told me of Rommel's deep disappointment over the slack conduct of the war by the High North Africa, 1942: Rommel, the Desert Fox 107 Command of the Wehrmacht, meaning Hitler, and over the halfhearted efforts of the Italians to ensure adequate supplies.

  “The Field Marshal struck me just now as disappointed and depressed,” I intedected. “Is that to do with his health or also with what was probably the last, unsuccessful attack on Cairo at the end of August? I wasn't able to hear much about that in Germany.,, ”With both,“ replied”Gause. “His state of health really is a cause for concern. Rommel needs rest and quiet. But you know what he's like. He won't leave his theater of war, especially not in the decisive phase that's coming. Then, to add to it, came the profound disappointment over the offensive at the end of August.” (Our rank and file, with their gallows humor, called it the “six-day race,” after the popular six-day bicycle race in the Berlin stadium.) “We knew that Monty (General Bernard Montgomery) was preparing a decisive offensive,” Gause continued, "but wouldn't start it until he had received all the materiel he needed for complete success. Rommel hoped to forestall him with an offensive of his own and be able to turn the tables on him yet again. The last chance was at the end of August, at-full moon. Marshal Cavallero had promised him that several tankers would arrive before then, and Kesselring had promised 500 tons of fuel a day by airlift.