Nigel Cawthorne

by Japanese;Italian Experiences of WW II Reaping the Whirlwind: Personal Accounts of the German

  I cannot say that we were excellently equipped. The radio equipment was intact, and the Volkswagens were in working order, but the heavy Büssing lorries were obviously completely unfit for cross-country rides, and their camouflage was good for desert warfare in Africa rather than for a winter battle. On 14 December we were in a forest near a road leading to Prüm … At this place we saw for the first time a V-1 passing overheard. Was this the famous wonder weapon? With a feeling of utter dislike I noticed the strange and disgusting screeching of this remote-controlled device.

  Neither were V-1s the invincible, war-winning weapons German propaganda had promised, as Alfons Strüter recalled:

  En route we experienced for the first time a V-1 being shot down. Some of these ‘things’ did not go very far and crashed soon after they started. The V-1s that flew on were fired at by the Yanks with all barrels.

  Emil Bauer also visited Prüm on the way to the front.

  I have been here before, but I do not recognize this place. It is totally destroyed. Undestroyed a few weeks ago and now only ruins. The situation here must have been very severe. American prisoners are standing in a courtyard … They looked like a bunch of tramps … The company are confident; we are moving forward again. ‘The Americans clear out in their underwear,’ people are calling to us.

  Bauer did not share their optimism.

  Civilians talk a lot about magic weapons, new assault divisions – ‘Soon you will be at the Channel!’ I tell them: ‘Listen, it’s impossible, we cannot win any more. I’ve been in Stolberg, Aachen, Venio, Roermond, Arnheim and so on. I know the Americans and I am aware of what they have and what we have not. In 14 days we will run past you again in a long-distance race.’

  The night before the attack there was something of a celebration, as Klaus Ritter of the 12th Volksgrenadier Division recalled:

  Dinner was comparatively opulent that evening. Additionally, every two men received a bottle of wine and 20 cigarettes were allocated per head. We younger people were soon getting euphoric. Four weeks to get to Paris, the Champs-Élysées, pretty girls, the Eiffel Tower. And hundreds of German combat planes of the latest design would support us in this assault of decisive importance for the whole German nation. Finally, after so many weeks, we shall send our greetings to the Yanks … The older men were silent. Many of them had seen the invasion. They seemed to feel what was ahead of us.

  While Klaus Ritter was partying, forward observer Rammes was moved into position with the Nebelwerfers – German rocket launchers.

  Suddenly our foxhole was as light as day. The recoil fire of the rockets cast a ghostly light over the country … In the light of the recoil fire we could see infantry companies, part on bicycles, on their way to the front. Our gunners worked until the last rocket was fired … The onset was a bad surprise to the Americans. The front units immediately involved in the fire strike ran for their lives.

  Rammes said that, for him, the attack on 16 December did not hold ‘any further excitement or events of particular significance’. However:

  In the late afternoon the first ambulances came back from the front line, heading for the dressing stations. My first thoughts: Are they badly wounded? Have they died in transit?

  Even so Rammes shared none of Bauer’s pessimism.

  In the late evening a trailer stopped at the entrance of our pillbox heavily laden with foodstuff. Rumours went round that large quantities of American petrol had fallen into our hands, that progress was fast, and that Liège would be taken very soon. General Eisenhower was said to have his HQ there, and once he had been taken prisoner, the war would be over pretty soon. We were also told that new German jet planes were about to intervene in the battle, identifiable by yellow waving lines on their body sides. On no account should we fire at them. Rumours, opinions, latrine talk spread fast …

  The following day, the 12th SS Panzer Division ‘Hitlerjugend’ were ordered to take the Meuse. They were promised the upper hand:

  New types of aircraft are available to cover you and to support your operations with efficiency. V-weapons will cause embarrassment in the rear areas and eliminate the supply centres …

  The general purpose of the attack was ‘to force the Americans out of France’. The unit history recorded:

  That was it! We now knew what was ahead of us. That order of the day reminded us of glorious times. Anyway, we felt this all looked so definite as if this would be the last possibility of getting this war to turn in our favour.

  Gunther Holz was more cynical.

  We could not believe in a winning blow of this kind. During the recent months we had gained only too clear an idea of the inexhaustible material supremacy of the enemy … We were even told that the Luftwaffe was available at full efficiency.

  That day the troop movements towards the front line seemed incessant. But Rammes had more personal concerns.

  Who might be thinking about me? Do my parents know anything about our onset? … But they do not know that I am here. Better perhaps. I smoke my first American cigarettes and can even select the brand – Camel or Chesterfield. Strong stuff on the lungs …

  By evening I am in the pillbox, along with Hermann Brambrink, Gregor Kehrer and some other comrades. First Lieutenant Freitag enters, sad and depressed, and says: ‘There’s Second Lieutenant Deparade lying in a Volkswsagen outside – hit by an explosive bullet during a low-level raid’ – our first dead … Is that war? Who will be next? Why just he? He was 20.

  Moving up to Grosslangenfeld, they found some buildings on fire.

  We move on, our pistols drawn for the sake of safety. You never know. At the other end of the village we find three armoured patrol cars and a jeep outside an old house. We search the fully packed vehicles. In one of the patrol cars we find a heap of sleeping bags, food – all tinned – and cigarettes – bars and loose packs. I walk over to the entrance of the building, hear some noise and go inside, finding some pigs in a pigsty – but no Americans … The company commander is more than happy with the sleeping bags – enough for the whole battery.

  BEHIND THE LINES

  Willy Volberg was in charge of a unit of paratroopers landed behind the lines in the Ardennes, but high winds had dispersed them and caused some injuries.

  During the dawn of the following day some of us were resting in a ditch beside the road when suddenly a column of US trucks approached. It was too late to hide. We unlocked the automatic rifles, ready to fire. But nothing happens. Passing our position, the GIs sleepily wave their hand comrade-like and we quickly respond in the same way. They must have been deceived by the shape of our paratrooper helmets which look like US steel helmets.

  But they soon found themselves perilously low on ammunition.

  What will become of us? The whole stock of ammunition available will only allow us to fight for five seconds. So there is no need to mount a guard. We are all going to sleep. If our hiding place is discovered by the Americans, nothing can be done but surrender … What a windfall. Next morning, when one of us penetrates the wooden terrain to relieve nature he discovers a parachute container full of ammunition … The magazines of the rifles and machine gun are filled, and everybody gets a belt with 300 rounds to be carried around the neck. Hand grenades are put into the big pockets of the parasuits. We cannot take all the ammunition with us … One of the men who is a specialist in preparing booby-traps proposes making such a device by using a hand grenade, the ammunition container and the rest of the ammunition we cannot carry with us. Due to the possibility that the trap could be found and opened by civilians, I forbid him. They would have paid with their life, and there already had been enough harm done to the population.

  Soon, as Klaus Ritter recalled, the advance of the 12th Volksgrenadier Division was halted:

  On the top of the bridge crossing the Alfbach, short of the village, the column stops. American mortar fire lies on the entrance to the village. Some of the vehicles are already on fire. The ammunition on their platforms explodes and spreads a
shower of steel into our own files. Cries, curses and groans are mixed with the sound of impacts. I flop to the ground and try to find shelter between the wheels of our gun. Four weeks to get to Paris? The hell with Paris! I want to get out of this inferno alive …

  In the late afternoon we are back at Brandscheid, dog-tired … And there – the first groups of captured Americans … Well-fed men in warm winter clothing, their boots in rubber overshoes. I hardly dare to make the comparison with our equipment. Near the church another larger group of prisoners, embarrassed, frightened, and surrounded by very young German soldiers … Greedily we make for the chocolate, the ration packs and the numerous tins with cheese, ham and eggs and other dainties. And heaps of cigarettes. Soon all pockets are stuffed with Camel, Chesterfield and Lucky Strike.

  On a Dodge troop carrier I search the kit bags for warm underwear. In no time my worn and damp underwear is off, and I put on Bill’s or John’s comfortably warming things, if I only had not to pull back on my damp and dirty uniform. And then my sore feet slip into a pair of brand-new shoes with rubber soles and fist-high leather spats – how comfortable. I hurl my old and worn-out Wehrmacht slippers on the street. Like a newborn child, I feel in that army outfit ‘Made in the USA’.

  FIELD GREY AND KHAKI

  In Schönberg, Klaus Ritter noticed traces of fighting on the walls and abandoned enemy vehicles in the side streets.

  Here and there I see killed soldiers – in field grey and khaki. Frightened civilians are standing at the front doors of their homes. The street had provisionally been cleared of battle equipment. Dead horses have been pushed aside. They formed an obstacle to the war machine. And now the tracks of our RSO grind over human bodies rolled flat, a pulp of flesh and bones, mixed with uniform rags and what has been left of their equipment. I feel like vomiting.

  Ritter was then mortared with phosphorous shells.

  The rain of fire can still be seen as glowing dots of light after minutes. The impacts are very close to one another. The first curtain gets steadily nearer. The impacts are now hitting the road as I flop into the hard-frozen ditch. Others take shelter beside or on top of me. A whizzing and the night is as light as day. Paul Richter, lying on top of me, yells: ‘My eyes! My eyes!’ My face feels like burning, like a thousand red-hot pins sticking into my face. The smell of burning flesh! Those nearby jump up and leave the ditch with loud screams. I jump to my feet, frightened to death, and dash into the darkness, tearing the blanket off my shoulders and pulling off my heavy overcoat. ‘I’m burning! I’m burning!’ I yell, and try to find a building with a Red Cross flag. There are more human torches in the yard, rolling to and fro on the ground, when I arrive.

  Funnily enough, the feeling of fright eases down, although my face aches … Funnier even are my thoughts: this injury will certainly get me that black badge, perhaps even a bronze one. Medical orderlies take care of me. And then I faint. Hours later I wake up in a dimly lit hospital room … My fingers are so cold that they hardly can feel the thick bandages around my face. Mouth, nose and eyes are uncovered, the pain is negligible. With some effort I lift my head, look to the right and left. Wounded lie everywhere, groaning here, screaming there.

  ‘Oh man, was I lucky! Shot through the arm – should be just sufficient to get out of this shit. And you?’

  ‘Phosphorus burns,’ I reply.

  Again loud groaning and rattling comes from a corner of the large room.

  ‘All belly shots,’ my neighbour remarks. ‘Safe tickets for a better world.’

  The early morning sends its light into our room. I have sat up and now I see all the misery which a war can bring. Wounded Americans are sitting and lying about among the field grey.

  Aircraft approach. I crouch against the wall. Several wounded Americans have leapt to their feet, trying to find shelter, their eyes horror-stricken.

  ‘Don’t be afraid. They are your own fighters,’ I shout at them with some sarcasm. But I am just as frightened as they are.

  Medics instruct us to move into the basements. Field-grey clusters of buddies, bandages around their heads, their arms, jostle to the exit – a stumbling, jerking and swearing mass of human beings. The air in the basement is cold and stuffy. I find a place near some thick heating pipes. The muffled noise of explosions and a screaming comes close and a deafening crump. The walls shake. Dust and dirt. The air now becomes insufferable. Breathing becomes hard. Someone tears the door open. A mud-covered human queue jostles outside, yearning for fresh air. Outside clouds of dust are hanging over the major portion of the hospital, covering the ruins. Along with the others I hasten into the street, away from the hospital area. Who knows when another formation of these damned Americans may come again to unload their deadly burden.

  A few hours after the bomb raid, the wounded are instructed to assemble. From all corners they arrive, panting and limping. A doctor, his overall still covered with dust, announces: ‘The major part of the field hospital attached to the general hospital of Saint-Vith will be dissolved. Assembly areas for the disabled are Bleialf and Gerolstein. Those who think they could manage to get to the Andernach main hospital [on the Rhine] should try.’

  Apathetically I move into the next street. Undamaged in the middle of the crossing is a group of sign-posts – German and American. One catches my eye. It reads; ‘Prüm 33km.’ This entirely clarified what I should do – go home to Meinsheim, 5km from Prüm. It is Christmas 1944. On 3 March 1945, American soldiers overrun the place, but I escape captivity.

  PERFECT TANK GRAVE

  On 18 December, the 12th Panzer Regiment made a disastrous attack on Rocherath-Krinkelt. Willi Fischer, a tank commander, said that they stumbled into the ‘perfect tank grave’.

  The tanks of A Company moved ahead, followed by our company with Brödel as the company commander. I was driving behind Beutelhauser, my platoon leader. When he arrived at a place near the church we were offered a cruel sight. Beutelhauser was shot down ahead of me, just when both tanks had passed the second crossroads. When Beutelhauser was knocked out, I could make out the probable location of the enemy anti-tank gun. Beutelhauser managed to get out and escape to safety. The gun loader was killed by rifle fire when he tried to escape. Under the cover of a building I moved my tank into position … Beside me I noticed Brödel’s tank burning slightly. Brödel could be seen sitting in the turret – lifeless. Ahead of me on the road all the tanks were shot out of action. Some of them still ablaze.

  They had been hit by a damaged Sherman tank which, though unable to manoeuvre, was otherwise in fighting condition. Fischer managed to withdraw, though a shell destroyed one of his tank’s tracks and the radio equipment. Even so, he covered the escape of the surviving tank crewmen and captured 20 Americans. However, he was threatened with a court-martial for retreating and spent Christmas taking shelter in a farm building ‘as the cold inside the tanks was much in excess of what a man could stand’.

  At 3pm on 18 December 1944, gunner Horst Helmus watched as American Mustangs came under attack by Me109s.

  It comes to a wild fight. We watch it with scissor telescopes and binoculars. Every knockout arouses applause, like at a sports game. One American after the other buzzes off. Later we learn six losses have been inflicted on the enemy to one on our own … Five hundred metres ahead of us an American two-motor plane has been forced down. Unfortunately it has burned out completely. The landing ground is totally wrecked, the meadow torn up, fences broken down and torn to pieces. The crew is charred beyond recognition and the bodies have shrunk. They can only be identified as such by the helmet.

  But the victory was short-lived.

  The sky gets dark, plane by plane, close together, not even a span’s space between. Each plane has transport glider in tow. We get frightened. What would happen if these fellows came down in our line? A real nasty feeling. No soldier is running around any more. Everybody is staying inside their holes, looking upwards.

  Next to me is an eighteen-year-old infantryman I had been on
guard with last night at the window. Suddenly there is an aircraft attack. I jump into the entrance hall and rush into the last room to lie down flat in front of a wardrobe … But my fellow infantry soldier got it. A splinter went right in the carotid and he bled to death.

  On the afternoon of 19 December, Rammes and a party of four left for a reconnaissance mission in the Bleialf area.

  Moving through brushwood, we find a German infantryman lying on the right-hand verge of the road – shot through the throat. On the left of the road, we discover the remnants of an American camp, slices of white bread lying around, empty tins, tents partly dismantled.

  Crossing a railway line, they found a village.

  Things look ugly here, the buildings around are more or less damaged. We look to the left and see the church – or what has been left of it. And wherever you look – German tanks and soldiers. A depressing sight.

  On 21 December, Rammes went to an area near Schönberg where 9,000 Americans had been captured. The following day, after a hearty breakfast of American rations, he and his men were ordered up to Saint-Vith in Belgium. On the way they commandeered an American half-track.

  It is cold and the countryside is covered with a thin layer of snow, the bright sunshine goes into even the remotest corners. It is noon and our ‘tractor’ is parked in the yard of a mill. A quick-fire gun is mounted on top of the driver’s cabin. A belt of ammunition is inserted. We wonder whether the thing is ready to fire. Suddenly a fighter-bomber dives towards the mill, out of the sun. Second Lieutenant Bauer jumps onto the bonnet and grabs for the gun. I and a few comrades escape to safety, taking cover in the barn. The plane’s guns fire. Bauer fires back – a terrible noise all around. No bombs – we are having some luck. I see the impacts of explosive shells around the vehicle. Again Bauer pulls the trigger. The plane crosses overhead and takes a curve over the valley for a repeat attack. Our second lieutenant opens fire at once, but unfortunately fails to hit the aircraft. Luckily the plane turns away …