Hans Von Luck - Panzer Commander

by Unknown

  “Stop, stop,” shouted the pilot, and already the first salvos of flak were whistling past us. The Italian air defenses took us for a Heinkel captured by the British. Luckily, their aim was not very good. My pilot fired recognition flares, the Italians stopped firing, and we were able to land.

  “Thanks for the flight,” I called to the sergeant. “Next time, I'll bring my own 2cm cannon.” That same day, I flew to Rome on a shuttle plane, was allotted a room in the famous Hotel Excelsior on the Via Veneto by the German liaison officer, and given an appointment with Kesseiring for the following morning.

  Rome seemed almost undisturbed. There was no blackout, as in Germany, there were hardly any military vehicles to be seen, and the famous Via Veneto was pulsating with lifeas in times of peace. In my faded tropical uniform, I felt out of place.

  At the hotel, I gave the letters of my Italian friends to the porter, who at once congratulated me with great respect on the Medaglia dargento. After a bath, the first for so long, I decided to eat at Chez Alfredo. Alfredo was famous for his spaghetti and had received from the Italian royal family a set of golden cutlery with which he himself served the great personalities of the day. The walls of his little restaurant on the Pin7,7-a Colonna were covered with the photographs and dedications of famous politicians, actors, and writers; his Golden Visitor's Book offered a cross-section of the prominent from all the world.

  When Alfredo saw me, he rushed across to me.

  “Comandante, what an honor and pleasure, congratulations on the Medaglia dargento. I will serve you personally with the best spaghetti, which is still to be had here, in spite, of the war.” From all the tables, people looked across to me as Alfredo drew his golden cutlery from his pocket to serve the spaghetti.

  Then the climax; the lights went out, the head waiter brought a flaming omelette surprise to my table and Alfredo cried out in delight: “Ecco maestoso.” There was applause from all the tables. I had to get a grip on myself. that morning, I had still been on the last battlefield in North Africa, now a ceremony here that had nothing whatever to do with war and death.

  I thanked Alfredo, “Wonderful, first-class, we could only dream of such things in North Africa. Now we'll cap the festive meal with a nice mocha.” Alfredo almost wept. “Comandante, there is a war on, we've had no coffee now for a long time. How sorry I am, this damned war!” I put my hand in my pocket and took out a little packet of real coffee.

  “Here, Don Alfredo, here's our mocha. It's for you, the chef, and a cup for me, Okay?” Alfredo's eyes shone. Shortly after, he invited me into the holy of holies, to the chef in his kitchen. There, the three of us sat at the chef's table and enjoyed the mocha, an honor for me to sit with the chef in person.

  I was not allowed to pay, but had to be entered in the Golden Visitor's Book, where my name now stood modestly beside that of so many prominent people. Relaxed and at peace, I strolled through the night up the Veneto, to enjoy a bed again after so long.

  Next morning, a car from the liaison officer took me to Frascati, the wine center near Rome, where Kesselring had his HQ. There, time had stood quite still, not a trace of the war.

  It was already spring there and, surrounded by its vineyards, the romantic town nestled against a hill.

  I was admitted at once to Kesselring; he was apparently fully The End in North Africa, 1943 149 informed. He was a charming man of medium height with warm and sympathetic eyes. We respected him as he was the only high commander to come to Africa.

  “How was the flight,” he asked. “Did Seidemann's Heinkel bring you safely over the pond?” He had a good laugh when I told him the tale of the 20mm cannon.

  "I haven't much hope of getting our plan through with Hitler, but we must try it, with the further signatures of Schmundt and Guderian. You can still fly to Berlin today, by courier plane.

  Every day counts. Good luck." And he shook my hand.

  Still in my dusty, faded tropical uniform, I landed in Berlin, after sending off a report to von Amim from Frascati.

  What a contrast to Rome! The city presented a picture of destruction, many of the houses were now just ruins and the faces of the once busy Berliners were gray. One could see that they no longer believed in the

  “Final Victory” of Hitler and Goebbels, though no one dared say-as much; the danger of denunciation was too great.

  That same evening, I was admitted to General Schmundt. He, too, was well briefed. Responsible for the personnel side of the evacuation measures, he signed the plan without even reading it.

  Next morning, I was with Colonel-General Guderian, the newly appointed chief of the general staff of the army. I had not seen him since the beginning of the war. He looked tired; only his eyes had their old sparkle.

  "Luck, I'm glad to see one of the old hands of the panzer force again, alive and well. How many from the early days of our proud force have already gone! We've just lost Stalingrad. You know, perhaps, how many experienced officers and men have fallen there, or been taken prisoner.

  “And now the same thing is looming in Africa. I can't even think about the seasoned members of the three divisions of the old Afrika Korps with their desert experience, or the new divisions sent ”That is why I agreed at once to the evacuation plan, which had, of course, already been drawn up by Rommel, though we all had little hope that Hitler would agree to it. The idea of sending you to him, as an old trooper from the front, carries more weight, at any rate, than our opinion, which is regarded by Hitler as 'defeatist." into Tunisia.

  You can still go today, by the night train, and be in Berchtesgaden tomorrow morning."

  “Colonel-General, one question before I leave: Why have you come back now, after Hitler had fired you? It's something we often ask ourselves.”

  “Listen,” Guderian replied, “if I had refused, as I would have much preferred, someone else would be sitting in my chair, who might have known nothing of panzer tactics, or who might have been just a yes-man to Hitler's ideas. As it is, I can try to save what is to be saved and make some attempt to prevent the worst from happening. There is now, more than ever, the threat of an invasion by the Western Allies in Italy or southern France, or both. For that, I need an intact, experienced panzer force. Whatever I can do for all of you, I will do.” Guderian then made a surprising request.

  "Luck, you have very good relations with Rommel, haven't you?

  As I've not come across him for some years, I would be very interested in a talk with him. If you should meet Rommel at Fuehrer HQ or anywhere else, please ask him whether he would agree to a meeting, preferably in Munich. No one must know of it. Hitler would at once suspect a conspiracy, with dire consequences for us. You've caught my meaning?"

  “Of course, Colonel-General. I'll do what I canand let you know.” With his winning smile, he dismissed me.

  Once again, I sent off a radio message to von Arnim and told him I would be visiting HQ the next day.

  Through a long night, I rolled south in a sleeping, undisturbed by air raids.

  The first person I met in Berchtesgaden was Lieutenant-Colonel von Bonin, whom I had last seen on New Year's Eve 1942, when he accompanied Rommel to my command post in the desert.

  “What are you doing here?” he greeted me. “I thought you were fighting your last battle in Tunisia.” In confidence, I put him in the picture about my mission and asked through or via whom I could best get to make my plea to Hitler.

  “My friend,” he replied, “we're not on the battlefield here; here even Rommel has no say. Here, bureaucracy rules. That means you must first go to the 'officer-in-charge, Africa,” a certain Colonel X, who will then announce you to Colonel-General Jodi. He will get the okay from Field Marshal Keitel as to whether and when you will be allowed in to see the Fuehrer.

  Come, as a start, I'll take you The End in North Africa, 1943 151 to the first link in the chain of command. But from 1230 to 1400 hours there's the midday break, when no one at all can be seen. That's the way things are. In Africa, well over a h
undred thousand men are bleeding and fighting for their lives, but here, the midday break must be observed, while the war comes to a stop!" Colonel X received me in very friendly fashion. I stated my business and asked to be announced at once to Jodi.

  “Listen, my friend, you can forget about the evacuation plan; the North African theater of war has already been virtually written off. We are still trying, of course, to send over as much materiel as possible, to continue the struggle, but we have no great hopes. Be glad that you are out of the mess; your mother will be thankful to see you again safe and sound.” I was shocked. It was as easy as that, apparently; the theater of war was simply “written off.”

  “Have you any idea,” I replied somewhat sharply, "how things look down there, what we've been through, and that we are only losing the war because we have never received adequate supplies?

  Please arrange an appointment for me with Colonel-General Jodi for this afternoon." It was fixed for three o'clock. Over a meal in the bare mess, Bonin gave me Rommel's address and telephone number. Whatever happened, I wanted to tell him of the outcome.

  Then, with my large envelope, I was standing before Jodi. We knew he was an experienced staff officer, but we frontline troops didn't like him, as he was such a toady to Hitler. I explained my mission to him and why von Arnim had chosen me as intermediary.

  “Things look very bad, Colonel-General,” I began, "we're no longer equal to the pressure of the British and the Americans.

  The RAF, in particular, hinders almost all our movements, except when it's raining. The long front from Gabes to Tunis cannot anywhere near be covered by us. To prevent a disaster as many men as possible should be evacuated at once, to be available on fronts where the Western Allies are sure to land. For this purpose, I have an evacuation plan to deliver which has been carefull worked out by Rommel and von Arnim and countersigned by kesseiring, Guderian, and Schmundt." With that, I handed him the envelope.

  “I have been sent here,” I went on, “as an insignificant field officer in the hope that this would make some impression on the Fuehrer.” Jodi looked at me for a long time, without opening the envelope.

  “Listen, Luck,” he finally said, “there is absolutely no question of evacuating elements of the Africa Army, or of considering a”German Dunkirk," as you call it. The Fuehrer is not ready to think of retreat. We won't even let you see him personally. He would have a fit of rage and throw you out.

  Besides, we're glad to have the Fuehrer on the political tack for a few days, as he is just having a state visit by Antonescu of Romania." Without pausing, Jodi took my arm and led me to a huge campaign map that covered one whole wall.

  “Here, you can see the front in Russia, when we were about to lose Stalingrad. What do you think about Stalingrad?”

  “Colonel-General, we have so much trouble with our own theater of war, that we have no time to concern ourselves with Stalingrad. We merely ask ourselves whether it is necessary to abandon 200,000 battle-tried men to their fate. The word Stalingrad is, for us, a provocation, as we fear a similar fate, unless an attempt is made to save what is left to save.” Jodi was silent. After a short pause he gave me his hand.

  "I can understand you all, but your 'mission' is of no avail.

  Inform von Arnim to that effect." When I left Jodi, I saw in his eyes a helpless sympathy for the Africa Army.

  Deeply disappointed, I went to the radio office and sent off my message to von Arnim. “Not admitted to Fuehrer, plan rejected by Jodi, flying back to Rome and from there to Tunisia.” I reported my departure to Colonel X and met Bonin once more.

  “Please tell Rommel about the failure of my mission; I will try to fly back to Africa. If that proves impossible, I'll get in touch with Rommel,” I told him.

  There was nothing more to keep me in Germany; I wanted to be with my men. In Rome, I was told by the German liaison officer that strict orders were in force to allow no further personnel to fly to Africa; only supplies were to be flown to Tunis within the bounds of what was still possible. I didn't give up hope, however, of being able to get across; I stayed for the time being in Rome and was at the liaison office every day.

  The daily news from the front was alarming. The Mareth position had been lost, but the remains of the Africa Army were still holding out at Gabes and the 5th Panzer Army west and southwest of Tunis. The Americans failed to push into the huge gap between The End in North Africa, 1943 153 the two armies, and thus separate them from each other. In the first half of April, it would still have been possible to move a large part of the troops to Sicily via the Cape Bon Peninsula and from north of Tunis. Earmarked for this were all the Junkers 52s (“Auntie Jus”) that were flying in supplies and flying out empty, torpedo boats and the famous “Siebel ferries,” large flat ferries that were driven by old aircraft engines. But, apart from the wounded, no one was allowed to leave Tunisia. One day in April, I met with General Gause in Rome-he had been sent to the Commando Supremo (I believe von Arnim wanted to save this seasoned general-staff officer for Rommel)-and General Bayerlein, who was very ill.

  By the end of April, the front in the south was on the point of collapse; hardly any ammunition, fuel, or replacements were getting across. Suddenly, an order from Fuehrer HQ arrived in Rome: “A start is to be made at once with the evacuation of German and Italian troops from Tunisia; all available means of transport are to be employed.” And what followed was the very evacuation plan that I had delivered to Jodi weeks before. Junkers, torpedo boats, and Siebel ferries were brought into action. My battalion was still in the south with the Africa Army; it would have had no chance of getting through to the north to the Cape Bon Peninsula. I received a last radio message from Captain Bernhardt.

  “Have no fuel or ammunition left, immobile awaiting decisive attack. We greet our commander and our families, Panzer Reconnaissance Battalion 3.” When the first officers and men arrived at the airfields for evacuation, American tanks were already there: “Come on boys, it's all over,” they informed our troops. “Hands up!” At HQ, they had hesitated for over two weeks, only to attempt a “German Dunkirk” after all. Thousands could have been saved if Jodi had authorized our plan at once.

  On 6 May, after an all-out offensive by the Allies, the Germanitalian remains of the proud Africa Army surrendered; more than 130,000 German soldiers went into captivity.

  To be taken prisoner has been regarded, from time immemorial, as a “national” or personal disgrace. Although humane treatment could have been expected from the British and Americans, many tried to avoid capture. A few succeeded in adventurous ways.

  Some members of the paratroop division got to Sicily by tying themselves to the undercarriage of the few, overfilled Ju 52s.

  Lieutenant von Mutius, from my battalion, turned up in Rome.

  “Since we had no reconnaissance vehicles or ammunition,” he reported, "I was with our supply section in the Cape Bon Peninsula. When everything was coming to an end, I happened to discover a Siebel ferry in a bay, intact and well camouflaged.

  Technicians established that the ferry was ready to start. I asked the men, wandering around aimlessly in the area, who would like to come to Sicily with me. Nearly a hundred came forward, with whom I set off before dawn. Sailing only by my compass, we reached a port in Sicily without interference. There we were not allowed to land because we had no ship's papers. “All right then,” I shouted to the Italians, 'we'll put to sea again.“ We came ashore in an unguarded bay. Here we are, to rejoin our units.” Lieutenant von Wechmar, from my battalion, who, after the war, was a correspondent with the UP agency in Germany and is today our ambassador in London, years later, gave an account of his fate.

  “During the final days, I was in action in the north. After the surrender, I cleared off with another officer and found an American jeep, in which we tried to get through to Morocco. We had gotien no further than Algeria, when we were discovered by the Amis and taken prisoner as we were trying to organize some fuel. Like almost all German pris
oners, we were shipped to the USA, where I ended up in a POW camp in Trinidad, Colorado, and was well treated. Although, at the time, I much regretted falling into captivity, in retrospect, it may have saved my life.” Winfried von St. Paul, the nephew of a good friend of mine, was transferred to my battalion at the end of 1942, at my request, and saw action with the successful “Molinari” patrol. Long after the war, I met him again in Hamburg. He told me of the last days of my battalion.

  “Once, when we were still operating in the south of Tunisia, our patrol just managed to escape the British, though they did capture our little workshop vehicle. Next day, the vehicle turned up again. The crew reported that the British commander had said:”We really can't leave you in the desert without spare parts or water. Here's some water, get back to your battalion."

  " This was more evidence of fairness in this theater of war.

  “When you flew to Germany,” St. Paul told me, “Captain 3ernhardt took command. At the beginning of May 1943, we were still fighting in the southern sector. The battalion still had 90 men in The End in North Africa, 1943 155 action, but no scout cars and only a little fuel when, on 9 May, we had to surrender. The British officer, who took us prisoner, went up to Bernhardt and said:”It's an honor for us to capture you and Reconnaissance Battalion 3. Please keep your pistol. Is there anything we can do for you?"

  “Please don't make us walk to Tunis,” replied Bernhardt, 'we're tired." At that, British trucks were organized, which took us to the prison camp, past prisoners marching on foot, including a general.

  “From Constantine,” St. Paul went on, “we were taken by train to Casablanca, guarded by Americans with wooden truncheons. ”We aren't dogs,“ we called out to them, 'put the truncheons away.” From then on, we were well treated and came into conversation with the guards. As we traveled west, we passed huge dumps of fuel and ammunition, as large as football fi I elds. Our opinion was unanimous: With all this materiel, we never had a chance of winning the war. In the POW camp at Opelika, Alabama, in the States, we were treated really well, until we were discharged at the beginning of April 1946, unfortunately, to England, where it was another year before we were sent home." All the accounts that I heard, some still in Rome, others long after the war, traced the sad end of a merciless, but always fair, war in North Africa.