by Japanese;Italian Experiences of WW II Reaping the Whirlwind: Personal Accounts of the German
This was the password. The man approaching was a messenger who brought the order: ‘Immediate – blow up tanks and follow.’
I wake up my crew. It does not take them long to realize what is up. Erich Miechen, that loyal tank-driver of mine, jokes: ‘All you need is sound sleep and pleasant dreams and you are bound to attract another alarm.’ The blasting compositions are fixed within a few minutes. There is no time left to take anything with us except for the clothes which we have already been wearing for the past weeks, day and night. With pistols already fixed to our belts we quickly fill our pockets with some oval hand-grenades, grab our machine pistols and run across country towards La Gleize. We have hardly made 100m when we hear two detonations – our tanks have blown up.
One of Wortmann’s crew found some footprints in the snow and they caught up with the column:
Everyone is standing stock-still, so we would not hear them. Some have taken off their boots and shoes and are walking in their socks to avoid making any noise on the hard-frozen ground. Bringing up the rear is not an easy thing to do in this situation. Each of us thinks the enemy is hard on his heels … Passing by the last house we see the outline of a tall and massive viaduct and close to it a small wooden footbridge which is still undamaged. It leads across the River Ambleve.
Wortmann learnt from whispers passed down the column that they had with them an American, Major Harold McCown. Their commander, Colonel Peiper, had made a deal with him. They had left behind the other Americans and the German wounded, along with medical officer Obersturmführer Dittman, who would be exchanged for McCown if the breakout was successful. McCown was then to advocate the return of the German wounded.
The steep and narrow forest path demands of everyone the very last ounce of strength. You hear panting and groaning. Small wonder all of us are weakened by more than a week without food. Our knees dodder; each of us is near collapse and ready to drop … After a fairly long time we have reached a height which allows us to pause for breath. We are standing in a clearing and the eyes of 800 men turn back to where La Gleize lies. What we can see is like a burning graveyard.
Peiper walked down the column to assess morale and offer encouragement.
Overcome by exhaustion most of our men have sat down on the cold and frozen ground or have laid themselves down under the big trees … Gradually it has become day – it is dawn of 24 December, Christmas Eve. Everyone is exhausted to the limit and nobody knows the end. Our single goal is to escape captivity. Surrendering to the Americans would have meant this hour to be kept alive and decently fed … Even in the heart of Russia I never experienced Christmas in such a way. The only thing we are offered as some sort of Christmas atmosphere is the charm of wintry mountain scenery … Meanwhile it has become late afternoon. Nearly all the comrades have laid themselves down under the big conifers. The wide branches, heavy with snow, are sagging almost down to the ground and make good cover. There is a long silence; everyone is too worn out to talk. Then, from everywhere, a low tune can be heard: ‘Silent Night, Holy Night.’ One of the 800 has subconsciously begun to hum the tune. Others have joined in. In no time the melody has sparked over from man to man. It is like a large choir singing in a cathedral. The emotion the song evokes touches our hearts. At this moment each of us knows that it really is Christmas. My thoughts wander back home to my relatives, and I feel sure it is the same with all the others.
We are still half dreaming when there is a loud booming from the sky …The noise grows louder and louder and we have already realized that it is three formations of heavy American bombers on their way east. There are more than 40. They paint long condensation trails in the sky. Our hearts bleed watching them fly past in parade order towards Germany.
ARE THE AMERICANS CELEBRATING CHRISTMAS?
Wortmann was sent ahead with a scouting party – ‘with my machine-pistol in firing position’. He reached a deserted asphalt road at the edge of the forest and wondered: ‘Are the Americans celebrating Christmas at this moment?’ Returning with the main column, he got his answer.
Having reached the edge of the forest again, we meet with an unexpected and unpleasant surprise: Americans come out of the forest, jump at us and try to pull us into the thicket. The comrades who are immediately behind us become aware of the attack and the Americans are frightened and let go of us. There is a wild shoot-out. The better part of the column has not noticed what is going on ahead. The sudden shooting gives them a fright. Some of the guys panic and part of the column run towards the slope and scatter. There are wounded and shouts for medics. Major McCown takes good advantage of the situation … Our confusion, combined with the terrain and the darkness, give him a chance, and he makes a dash for freedom.
Somehow Wortmann and the bulk of the column managed to disengage.
About half an hour later, after the exchange of fires, we make a jump across the road as one body. We land in a very deep ditch with a lot of tree-roots in it and a small streamlet at the bottom … The comrade next to me has been shot through his right shoulder. Another had his thigh grazed by a bullet. He is groaning in pain. Hardly recovered from the shock, we hear a vehicle coming nearer. ‘It never rains but it pours,’ someone whispers to me. The vehicle comes near. We slip even deeper into the mud. There is dead silence. An American armoured scout car is passing by us at low speed … Small wonder the Americans are searching for us after our escape from their encirclement. More than 800 men simply cannot vanish into thin air.
After waiting a few minutes to see if any more American vehicles were coming, they continued their march.
The comrades take turns linking arms with or carrying the wounded. The Americans’ assault has noticeably stirred us up. No wonder we have almost forgotten hunger and cold. Now somehow we must cross the Salm River … All the bridges are watched closely by the enemy. On either side stands an enemy tank. We continue on our way – again steeply uphill. The silence of the ‘Holy Night’ is every now and then broken by the barking of dogs. From the near distance we can hear American machine-gun fire. We hear the yells for help from comrades who have been shot …
Ahead the path leads steeply downhill. The ground is frozen and slippery. We sit down on our behinds and slide from tree to tree downhill. Down at the bottom we talked in a whisper. In front of us the River Salm runs along the valley and we can clearly make out the rushing water of the mountain river.
On the river bank, they started chucking rocks in, in an attempt to create a ford across the torrent, then the swimmers began to form a human chain.
The water is cold as ice and with all our remaining strength we lean against the strong current. Though I stand 1.93m high the water reaches my chest. We balance on the big rocks that lie on the river bed. The 30 to 35m width of the river seems endless. The chain gets broken frequently by the strong current. Some comrades are carried off and drowned.
On the opposite bank, the forest lay close to the river’s edge and they took refuge among the trees.
By the time the last comrades cross the river, it has become day. All the time an American tank has been along the road beyond every 20 minutes. This time will be sufficient.
They crossed the road and went up a steep path on the other side.
When the American tank returns we have already reached a considerable height. The wags we are wave good-bye to ‘the comrades below with the enemy Field Mail Number’. Some hours before we would rather have said a silent prayer. It is about 10am on Christmas Day 1944. We are in no-man’s land and feel safe. The path leads over an open plain. A biting wind blows the snow in our faces and we are soon frozen in our wet rags.
Wortmann and his men then suffered a heavy bombardment of artillery fire and watched the landscape being ‘ploughed and sown with the blood’ of his comrades. They managed to contact advanced German units at Wenne. With six comrades – the survivors of two tank crews – he was billeted in a farmhouse that boasted ‘a stove, a table and chairs, and even two beds’.
Baggage of
our own we do not have. All things that were part of our personal outfit we had to leave behind at the hurried escape from La Gleize. Only things that we had on us were left. Not even a shirt for changing, no pants, no socks, no razor, not even a bar of soap were left in our possession – absolutely nothing!
But they knew where they could get supplies.
On a nice clear afternoon between Christmas and New Year’s Eve we start out to search for the American trenches. Some days ago the Americans had dropped everything and rushed out of them … The fresh fall of snow over the last few days has almost covered them and hidden them completely. Suddenly we find a large area, covered deep communication trenches, storage silos, covered with thick stems and made weatherproof.
We crawl into the storage silos. Our hearts leap with joy at what we find there. It seems as if we have come to paradise all of a sudden – unimaginable. If we did not know that the Americans have fled from here we would assume that the troops have gone to the leave centre or the front-line theatre for a few hours.
The wealth presented gives us difficulty in choosing. In the ghostly darkness of the silos, we ransack the sea-bags that we find in large quantity. We dash out the contents to fill the bags again with things that we need and that our hearts desire. We have enough to choose from: unused clothes, food, toilet articles, chocolate, cigarettes in whole packets, best alcoholic drinks and many more things. We have put on some American furred uniform parts. On the whole, we are totally Americanized, only the language is not right. In our joy we act crazy, talk double-Dutch to each other, partly American, Russian, French – and German, some of everything. The things we are saying have no sense or meaning. We are suddenly so jolly and cheerful like little children who have been surprised by a belated Christmas present.
Carrying two bags each, Wortmann and his comrades walked back to Nieder-Emmels in rapture, enjoying the clear winter afternoon and a glorious sunset. Then they noticed ‘a wall of clouds that seems to be getting larger and larger’. It was smoke, with ‘the bitter and acid smell of something burning’.
When we are to enter the house we meet inhabitants and we ask them for the cause of those mysterious thick dark clouds. We learn about the disaster that had come upon Saint-Vith a few days ago. We find it hard to believe and understand what is covered by the impenetrable wall of cloud that we had seen in front of us. Still there is smoke rising from the burning and smouldering ruins and the remains of the houses, under which a lot of people are buried.
On the first day of Christmas, in the afternoon, a sentence of death was carried out upon the small German-speaking town of Saint-Vith. Countless American bombs had turned a small town completely into rubble and ashes on the day we talk of peace on earth – an event of which no sense can be discerned even in the cruellest war.
A GOOD CHUCKLE
Other German soldiers managed to secure their Christmas goodies from their own side, by subterfuge. Traugott Schmidt and his prisoner-escort detail were sent to a rest area in Luxembourg, about 15km (9 miles) behind the lines. They had no food and there were no civilians in the village, only soldiers. ‘What was to be done now?’ asked Schmidt.
Sergeant Geiger, a man from Swabia, had an idea. We started digging holes in the hard-frozen ground – as if we were going to defend the village. A captain approached and enquired what we were doing. Geiger explained that we were the rearguard – the Americans had broken through. He unfolded a map and showed the captain a ‘gap’ of about 5km which they could escape through. His unit, he said, was going to defend the place to the last man … Ten minutes later a combat-ready company on bicycles, young fellows, rushed out of the place with their commander in an attempt to escape through the ‘gap’. Everywhere inside the buildings they had left behind meals they had prepared. So we had plenty of food and a good chuckle too. Furthermore they left four Type 42 machine-guns and several Panzerfausts that we could use.
Emil Bauer’s crew were denied the spoils of war when they were billeted in a civilian’s house.
When I came back to the kitchen I can see that my crew have made themselves comfortable. They have unbelted and are now lying on beds which they have organized. My row about it makes them jump up. ‘Gentlemen, we are at the front now. Now there is no more unbelting. Everyone stays with his belongings. Put your steel-helmets on.’
Suddenly a shell hit somewhere near the house. We stumble into the basement. It is deep and crowded with civilians. They look at us with anger. ‘C’est la guerre,’ I say apologizing. But I cannot stand to stay down there very long. I go back upstairs. There I find soldiers plundering. I chase them off and tell the civilians to take their belongings down into the basement. They do as I say and thank me kindly.
Even when the soldiers tried to treat civilians kindly, accidents still happened, as engineer Alfons Strüter recalled:
The house was full of soldiers. The inhabitants, however, had a room in an upper storey. A soldier sat with his gun in front of him. While falling asleep, his finger touched the trigger and the gun fired. The bullet went through the ceiling and through the leg of a woman upstairs who had lain down in bed.
After the shelling Bauer was ordered on a mission to attack three tanks that had been menacing the German guns.
To me this is a death-command, and I start thinking of how I could escape from this danger. I will certainly ‘not find’ the tanks and my crew will never betray me if I do not carry out the order …the whole show will end in total failure for sure. It can only take a few days before the enemy has enough reinforcements to beat us to hell. Our dash has come to an end. We have spent ourselves completely. For replacements we have a lot of airmen who can hardly handle a machine-gun. The first sergeants with the German Cross and a war-fighter badge cannot even be appointed section leaders, because the old soldiers will not follow them.
We have only a few tanks and we have no more assault guns. So we depend on our infantry weapons only since Guderian took the heavy trench mortars and heavy machine-guns away. In Russia, the Panzer Grenadier Company still had 32 light machine guns, four heavy machine guns and four heavy trench mortars. That was a force that represented something. But now it means nothing any more … It is getting towards the end.
Soon after Christmas the Americans struck back in the region of Bastogne. According to Wehrmacht Major Loos:
The advance made by the Führerbelgeitbrigade [Leader’s Escort Brigade] was met by a concentrated American tank assault which penetrated and again encountered the left flank of the blocking unit with full force. Needless to say they pushed though the time switch-lines, causing heavy casualties. Three companies were rolled up and only a few soldiers were able to escape to safety. From my battalion command post I could watch the assault rolling on, and helplessly I saw the American tearing a wide gap into our front line. With breakneck speed on a motorbike and sidecar, my adjutant and I advanced behind the gap in the front line in an attempt to close it. This was the first time I encountered panic among German soldiers. In a stampede, with no one to lead them, and in utter confusion they ran about and made the situation a complete mess. Only here and there a few determined people clustered around leaders who had not yet lost their nerves. I saw officers and NCOs literally steam-rolling their soldiers under cover. This all happened in a matter of a few minutes.
Some were captured, including Leonhardt Maniura, who volunteered for the Luftwaffe in July 1944 but at the age of 18 found himself in an infantry unit in the Ardennes.
We had been encircled by US troops. There was no escape after the ammunition ran out. At about 0900 hours we showed the ‘white flag’ and the Americans stop firing. In the barn we put down our weapons and belts. I tried to hide my pistol somewhere with the intention of picking it up in the near future. Then we left the barn … The GIs were close to the door already. We never thought they were so close to us. One of them tore the helmet off my head. At once my fellow soldiers took off their helmets … We unhinged the doors and carried our wounded on them. I st
ill remember that, when we were marching to the rear, the last American to the rear was hit by a German shell and disappeared completely. We were all white from terror. Continuing the march we noticed a V-1 which tumbled down the rear side of ‘Haussart’ hill. We were only 200m from the place of impact. Fortunately the rocket did not explode. All of us, including the GIs, were paralysed with fear … German guns and mortars continuously exploded near the column. Could it be that we were the target of our own troops because of our ‘capitulation’? We were very angry. Then we thought that could not be the reason, for they would not have been able to identify us from such a distance. But there was a rumour that German soldiers who had been taken prisoner without being wounded would be called to account at some later date …
We arrived at a road crossing. There we were shown shot US soldiers, half-covered by snow. We had to pass to and fro in front of the killed, still with our hands raised, and a one-star general addressed us about this being done by the SS. There were war reporters present too, and we were filmed and photographed marching up and down the scene with our hands raised … I felt something like being shot could happen to us. In my confusion I took the star on the general’s helmet to be that of a Bolshevist commissar. However, nothing happened to us. We wondered about being so many reporters and staff officers so close behind the front line. I had never seen a thing like this on the German side. Then we had to continue the march towards Malmedy, our hands about our heads all the time. They had taken our gloves and so we had to suffer from cold … I found myself a prisoner of war instead of having a furlough at home. However, a vacation at home at that time would not have turned out a pleasant one in so far as my home town Beuthen in Upper Silesia had been occupied by Soviet forces on 22 January 1945.
