In the Fire of the Eastern Front

by Hendrick C. Verton

  Munich was the training centre for the first of the Dutch and Flemish recruits. That was a good decision. The town, situated on the river Isar, with its happy rhythm of life and cultural attractions, would suit the ‘full of life’ Dutchmen. But not all who applied were accepted. The very strict Commission refused the majority of applicants, only accepting 45 from the first 455 Flemish volunteers. Hans Werner Neulen wrote, “The European volunteers were, in the majority not adventurers, foreign legionnaires, mercenaries or private soldiers.” They were from amongst the sons of diplomats and officials, from industrial families, aristocracy and high society, or gold med al list students from the Jesuit schools. In amongst those candidates, was the leader of a Belgian catholic students’ society, with the name of Leon Degrelle. More than half the recruits, from 1940/41, were aged between seventeen and twenty-five.

  My brother Evert followed the dictate of his conscience and belonged to those willing to make a sacrifice for his fatherland, in the Europe of the future. So he donned the uniform of the enemy, taking the opportunity offered to him by the Waffen SS and in September, arrived in Munich, at the Freimann barracks. At the turn of the century Ezra Pound, the American poet, had written, “when a man is not willing to take risks for his convictions, these convictions are of no worth and neither is he”. Those were the words of this idealist who was popular in the forties.

  For the Christmas of 1940, Evert, after three months of very hard training, marched through our garden gate in his field-grey uniform, a death’s head adorning his cap and on a black arm-band, the silver regimental emblem of the ‘Westland’. It was to be the first and the last Christmas that he spent at home, as a soldier. He passionately related how the previous three months in far-off Bavaria had been, to us his younger brothers and sisters, who listened intently.

  Despite strict Prussian drilling, which extracted the very last reserves that the men could give, my brother was very enthusiastic about everything that he had seen, from his superiors and from the comradeship among those young men. He told us just as passionately, about the motives of his comrades and brothers-in-arms and those motives corresponded with my own opinions. There was definitely no connection, for the volunteers, with National Socialist ideology. Political lessons were given, just once weekly, for an hour.

  For my brother Evert, it was very doubtful that I, his younger brother would, or could withstand this very hard training. I was not grown up enough, an opinion which I would not accept. I decided to follow him and nothing would deter me. My parents did not object although, naturally enough, they had their worries. At the same time they decided that a form of training with the accent on athletics would not do any harm. The war was not in fifth gear by any means. The majority thought that it would end shortly, but nonetheless Evert and I did not want to miss out. Our ambitions for a new Europe, we knew, would not be realised by lounging around in dressing gowns and slippers. A few months later, I presented myself at the recruiting centre at number 60, Queen’s Canal and was received by German Waffen SS Officers, experienced in front warfare. They were a very strict selection board, every second candidate being rejected.

  Ten days later, on 30 April 1940, the recruits had to muster at the Zoo in the Hague, with their cases, rucksacks and cardboard boxes, where they were given a farewell with an official speech and flowers. Only a few days before, I had taken part in my mother’s birthday party, decorating her chair in family tradition with green leaves and flowers, then going my way after a happy celebration. The sound of martial music mixed with that of the whistle from the steam-engine, as our train pulled out of the ‘Staatsspoor’ railway station, in the direction of Germany. My war-wandering years had begun.

  CHAPTER 8

  My Training in the Waffen SS

  Although the British Air Force had not produced any significant damage up to the spring of 1941, the BBC broadcasts exaggerated reports of successful bombing raids over Germany. According to those reports, the Reich’s armaments industry had been destroyed and the cathedral in Cologne razed to the ground, although when travelling in the Ruhr, everything was just as normal as the day before. Happy farmers smilingly waved as they worked in the fields, smoke issued forth from factory chimneys and when driving over the Hohenzollern Rhine-bridge, the cathedral could be seen stretching into the sky, as usual.

  A scene that never ceased to impress us was that of the Rhine banks, the 200 kilometres between Cologne and Mainz in particular, with its steep rock cliffs on either side, medieval ruined castles and the picturesque wine-producing villages, nestling on the river bank. When surrounded by the cherry orchards in full bloom in the spring, it was particularly beautiful. So was the region around Sennheim in upper Alsace. Our destination for our battalion’s training was at the foot of the Vosges, not far from Mülhausen, our barracks being a converted, former psychiatric hospital. One of the seven large stone houses surrounding a towered building became our home.

  After a welcoming speech, we were separated into companies and our colourful civilian clothes exchanged for the field-grey, Prussian, ‘straight-jackets’. We took care that every button and hook was fastened, even when the collar was too tight and rubbed. Sport played a very large role in Sennheim, sports clothes being issued too and suddenly we realised why we volunteers had been so rigorously selected. ‘Praise be to all that toughens!’ being the favourite saying, which we were to hear time and time again from our instructors. They were all very experienced athletes, never expecting anything from us that they could not demonstrate themselves. This not only gave them a strong air of authority, but it spurred us on as well. Needless to say, by boxing, my first injury was a broken nose and it was not to be the last, by any means.

  Throughout our training as recruits, individualism and common initiative were not wished for and were forcefully suppressed, our ‘backs being broken’ and carefully put back together again, piece by piece. We under -stood that we belonged to a military unit in wartime and everyone could not ‘cook their own soup’, but it was not easy at the beginning. It was the reality of being a soldier and our idealistic dreams being miles apart. We had to grit our teeth to come to terms not only with our spartan lifestyle, but also the bodily and mental stress. On the other side of the coin, we knew what it meant to belong to such an elite organisation and so we took one step at a time.

  The author as a recruit in 1941

  Every morning, on the stroke of five, we were wakened by a non-com-missioned officer with a very shrill whistle, who drove us to the wash-rooms in the barracks, to wash in cold water and a very sticky soap. After our hurried wash, we had to muster for morning gym, in a cold May morning mist in shorts and T-shirts, shivering through our teeth. After a trot around the block a few times, we were rewarded with a sparse breakfast of bread, artificial honey, and artificial coffee made from chicory, to us however, welcome and tasty.

  So the order of the day was gymnastics, sport and theoretical studies. Up at the crack of dawn, it was not to be wondered at when sometimes an eyelid dropped, in a warm and airless room. A verbal crack of the whip aimed at one of us, woke us all and made us pay attention once more. Hour after hour, the commands rang out over the barrack-square from zealous instructors, mercilessly driving the panting recruits, in whirling dust and in the burning sun.

  We had another problem at first, which was our ‘schoolboy German’, which simply was not good enough. The commands in Prussian-German could have been Spanish for all we knew. Only by hearing them repetitively, learning them off by heart, and learning the songs that soldiers sang, did this improve. After only a few weeks, we had no more problems in understanding what was said, or of communicating. Our German instructors had their hands full with us too. Our typical Dutch liberal mentality caused comments. There was a refusal here and there, instead of the quiet acceptance and wished-for obedience that was very important for the instructors. Our suitability had to be proved, and to fit in with their unspoken choice that was forming for choosing future officers. However
, not all the ‘ambitious’ ones were chosen. Transfers and exchanges were made.

  “Pre-conditions for suitability are, heart, passion, capability of solving even the extreme and unusual of problems, and of personal example.” (Quote from Felix Steiner). General Steiner’s comments on leadership, in 1942, on the Russian front were, “With the foreign replacements within the division, the diversity of mistakes that can be made informing a close comradeship, will have far more dramatic results, than with a German unit “. He meant us. “The most important pre-requisite for human leadership, is untiring and enduring care from commanders for their men, ensuring complete faith in them and to convince them that he is their best friend. His men should love him. In particular, platoon and company commanders should always be an example to their men. When reasonable, thoughtful, and with a warm heart, then the stronger will be the solidarity and fighting spirit. I beg of all my officers, to nurture a human relationship within their companies, and I mean that most earnestly”.

  In Sennheim, we did not possess any weapons. We only had our bayonets attached to our belts and the ‘front’ atmosphere, naturally enough, was not present. It was our basic training, consisting of exercising, drills and marching, by day and by night, which increased from week to week. Up front, the columns were led by our superfit sportsmen as instructors. At the rear came a medical orderly who marched with us, to give first aid to the ‘new-born’ in this test of maximum resilience and constitution! In searing heat, marching for anything between 20 and 40 kilometres daily, we no longer sang ‘It’s so great to be a soldier’, as we marched with taut muscles back to the barracks. Our shaking legs took us, totally exhausted, through the gate, at the end of our strength, but not for a well-earned rest. Shortly after we had to muster once more, to the whistle of the orderly, freshly washed for the evening distribution of orders on the barrack-square.

  The author (far left) during training on a heavy machine gun

  The toughening process under open skies and in the lap of ‘mother nature’, did not allow however for time to appreciate the magic of picturesque Alsace. We could climb, for want of a better word, the 957-metre-high, Hartmannweilerskopf in the south of the Vosges for instance. It was clearly to be seen from our barracks, but only in the course of duty in a hurried march, and when bathed in sweat.

  Sightseeing could only be done when we had permission for free time, which we used among other things to visit towns that were historic to the 1914—18 war. In particular, we saw the 18 metre memorial surrounded by bunkers, showing signs of the bitter fighting between French Alpine and German troops. Our barracks was no cloister and its inhabitants no pillars of holyness. Theme number one was the longing for feminine company, for the daughters of Alsace. At our age it was natural and for us no taboo. But weeks went by before our company officer released us to follow the ‘lust for life’, and not before he ‘talked’ to us for hours on end, on how to behave in the civilised world outside! We patiently listened to the preaching we heard, about our intimate bodily hygiene, and dangerous and doubtful sexual relationships. The language was sober, factual, everything in its place and being named. The guards at the barrack gates also had a part to play within the framework, for they inspected us before we enjoyed ‘Happy Hour’. They saw that our boots and leather belts were polished like mirrors, that we had a freshly washed and ironed clean handkerchief, and a condom.

  When, at last, we were no longer under control and inspection, we swarmed like bees into freedom. We explored our surroundings, singly or in small groups. Alsace was a land torn constantly in the past between Germany and France, between their cultures. It resulted in a split personality of French nonchalance and German exactitude. The inhabitants, in answer to the question as to were they an imprinted folk because of it, said that in the years in between, they had found their own identity, of which they were proud. The relationship between them and the Waffen SS recruits was nothing but the best.

  Sunday was a day when we stormed the bakers. It was no surprise that the few bakers open on Sunday in Sennheim and Mülhausen were quickly sold out of their delicacies, cakes etc. We followed our instincts and found what we were looking for. After the doors of the barracks were opened we hungry soldiers were let loose, for the Sunday bakers sold their wares without the obligatory food coupons. Once our stomachs were filled, the ‘attractive’ lads in the field-grey uniforms then went on an amorous patrol. In the few hours of freedom at hand, it did not take long for them to make contact, even when the somewhat strange mixture of French and Alsace-German dialect, was a ‘palaver’ to their ears.

  I had no problem with Annette, a pretty girl with hair the colour of chestnuts, who came from Thann. I had a stroke of luck, inasmuch as her older sister was the flame of my platoon-leader and her youngest sister a sympathetic ally and girlfriend of our sergeant. She organised many an exceptional pass to visit. The sisterly solidarity for romance determined that our longed-for meetings were therefore not confined to just Sundays. The romance with that pretty ‘amourette’ in the peaceful Vosges nearly made me forget about the war. Together with Annette, walking along ‘lovers lane’ and with the ring of her gentle Alsace dialect I decided that without doubt, the land of Alsace was the pays d’amour. The spit and polish atmosphere however, very quickly sobered ‘this romantic’ upon his return to the very unromantic barracks!

  Decades after my recruitment, the description “the volunteers from Sennheim were adventurers and criminals”, was to be found in an official war document. It came from a Dutch historian, who most probably was the only one who knew the truth, whilst turning chronicler and whiling away his time as an exile in England. As such, he could not have been further away from first-hand knowledge. One should remember Friedrich Nietzsche’s philosophy that “The historian is spoilt, for he has the power to alter the truth which the gods cannot.” It cannot then be said, by those who regard the duty of a soldier as defamatory, that it was the generation of the twenties who had kindled a war.

  It was in 1966, in his book Soldaten wie andere auch, that General Paul Hausser, a man worshipped by his men and respected by former opponents wrote, “I respect the opinions of others and of authors, who write against the Waffen SS because of their convictions. I object, when their work is taken as “pure knowledge”, “sober and objective” or “the matter fair and just”, and is discussed or examined as such. In particular “ when they gather only discriminatory material and/or compensate everything of a positive nature, with defamatory comments, which is unmistakably evident”.

  Within two years of the end of the war, unqualified and damning literature appeared, such as in the National Socialist newspaper Het Parool. This important instrument of the movement wrote, “since our liberation, there is a chasm of hate and contempt between the National Socialists and the rest of our people. The right to hate, when allowed, is the right of those who personally suffered under the occupation, or were actively resistant. It is noticeable however, that the hate was never as strong with that group as with the average citizen who remained untouched by the invaders. During the war the true resistance members, who chose their own destiny, themselves stood psychologically closer to the Dutch volunteers who also risked their lives, as they had done.”

  Our training slowly came to an end in Sennheim, which was not the case with the war. Although we could not say that we had lived like a god in France, to leave its land and people was hard; in particular, to leave the daughters of Alsace was very hard.

  In between times, Germany’s theatres of war had extended to North Africa, which was not particularly desirable. Often during the war, Germany’s allies such as Italy, were not, as expected, competent enough to perform their military plans, either due to leadership or quality of troops.

  Mussolini’s ‘sword’ proved to be somewhat ‘blunt’, in his lust for expansion, and turned out to be nothing but a burden. Hitler was forced to give him military support in Africa and the Balkans. Still eager for some of the bounty, Italy found it
self on the side of the victors during the last hours of the war in the West. After a successful lightning attack during three weeks in southern Europe, German soldiers hoisted their flag of war in Belgrade, and in the Acropolis in Athens. From Tunis, and nearly to the Nile, the Swastika fluttered in the wind, but only after Erwin Rommel and his Afrika Korps had rescued Italy’s warriors from a military catastrophe. On the Mediterranean island of Crete, German soldiers were also the ‘victors’, after their paratroopers under General Student suffered terrible losses against overpowering odds of 6,000 Greek and 27,000 British soldiers.

  Standing in the wings and before we could act in that war, we had another very hard ‘Weapons and Terrain Course’ before us, in the mountains of Austria, in Carinthia. Lendorf, near Klagenfurt was our new posting. In the summer of 1941, our train steamed over Munich and Salzburg into, for us, a strange land, with its Alpine folklore dress of felt hats and leather trousers. We had assumed however that we were destined for the Balkans. Underway and when stopping, the teams of Red Cross nurses quenched our thirst with chicory coffee at the railway stations, and wished us ‘brave soldiers’ a healthy return.

  We had been impressed with the hills of Alsace, but we ‘flatlanders’ were overwhelmed with the gigantic mountain world of Carinthia. Standing in front of them was for us an alpine nightmare, one which cut us off from our homeland and was unimaginable from pictures seen in school. In comparison however to our makeshift quarters in Sennheim, our barrack here at the foot of the Ulrich mountains consisted of modern, two-storied buildings of pristine-pure cleanliness, and conscientiously placed against an idyllic background. Specially built for the Waffen SS, the exaggerated and monumental expression of power was missing. Only the huge dining room, which was also the assembly room in the main building, offered the appropriate martial radiance of architecture of that era. Gigantic wall-paintings of battles showing the new German army, decorated the walls between the tall windows and were certainly intended for the motivation of the recruits. I made a return visit to those barracks, used by Austrian mountain troops in 1959, and the wall-paintings were still there.