Unlikely Warrior (10 page)

We took turns going out to repair the shot-up cables and connections. After two days, barely any snow remained in the village. It had either turned black from the powder or been blown away by the force of the shelling. Many of the houses were burning; the kitchen had received a direct hit.

The first Russian infantry attack began in the early morning hours. I happened to be in one of the foremost houses, replacing a telephone that had been shot to pieces. The Russians, hundreds of black dots on the surrounding hills, stormed down the slopes, roaring fiercely as they ran. The German machine guns fired among the masses, and I could see them falling. Enemy artillery continued to cover the entire village with heavy fire, and new waves of Russian infantry poured down the hills.

When the attack finally halted, the ground was spread with dead and wounded Russians. Soon thereafter they put their antitank guns into action. These fast and low-shooting weapons could draw a bead on each separate man, on every house, on every hole with a German inside. This knowledge had a horrible psychological effect on our troops. The Russian guns produced very high casualties.

All day long new waves of Russians rained down the hill. The Germans drove them back, but each time it was more difficult, and they were coming closer.

The next day began with a bombardment of heavy artillery, after which not a single house remained intact. One of our team, out fixing a cable, was killed. A hit blasted the wooden door to the cellar, where we sat huddled around the switchboard.

Then, incredibly, the waves of Russians began streaming down again. It was a bloodbath, and our ammunition was becoming scarce. The wounded stumbled or were dragged, bleeding, to the rear. At noon the Russians took the front lines and the first row of ruins. This time we in the communications squad were also called on for the counterattack. Once more we succeeded in driving them back, but with very heavy losses. We began hearing reports of self-inflicted wounds. Others were trying to desert, but there was no way out. There was that order from the Führer—“to the last man”—and he meant it. A row of MPs armed with pistols stood at the rear of the village and stopped everyone. It was either back to the front or be shot on the spot.

The Germans rushed in more men, but our lines were becoming visibly sparse and ragged. The Russians kept coming all day. Morale had sunk to the lowest possible point, and all were close to exhaustion. In our cellar, I couldn’t stop shivering, and it wasn’t from the cold.

We had to make test calls to the front line every ten minutes so that the officers back at the command posts could keep tabs on how well the lines were holding. The situation became more critical by the hour. Obermaier was wounded and carried away; Haas was ordered right into the first line as a machine gunner. Five of us plus the sergeant remained in the cellar.

A telephone line running across the main square was interrupted. Kramer scrambled out with pliers and electrical tape. He didn’t return, and the connection was still down.

An indignant officer called in from the rear, “Why haven’t you lazy pigs repaired the line yet?”

Glatz went out next. Sergeant Burghart and I crept up the stairs from where we watched him jumping from cover to cover, always following the wire. The break must have been on the far side of the square, for he squatted down there, but before he could even fit the two ends together, he simply fell forward on his face.

“Who’s next?” the sergeant asked.

Neumann glanced around at us helplessly and climbed slowly out. He didn’t even make it to the square before he fell. The sergeant’s cool and distant manner was starting to crumble as he realized that only he, seventeen-year-old Baby Schmidt, and I were left. Suddenly it became very clear to me that my own life was about to end very soon if I didn’t think of something fast.

I sketched a map of the area, including the ruins, the lines, and the point where everyone was being shot down. The sergeant accepted my plan of laying a completely new line, and we went out together with a roll of wire. We used every possible pile of rubble as cover. By laying lots of wire and running in zigzags, we finally reached our goal to find—
nothing!
There was only an enormous crater surrounded by rubble. No man. No telephone.

Bent over double, we ran back to our cellar, where Baby Schmidt was reporting apathetically into the mike, “Appleblossom doesn’t answer. Pancake doesn’t answer either.”

An officer roared down from above, “Every man out on the double for the counterattack!”

We ran through the gathering dusk toward the front. I jumped in a hole where a corpse already lay and began shooting. The Russians came at us, and automatically I kept shooting. Load, aim, fire. Load, aim, fire. I could see their faces. The bayonet on my rifle was fixed and ready for them.

All of a sudden, long rows of tracer fire flew from directly behind us and over our heads. Three four-gun turrets from the German antiaircraft forces had been driven into position and were shooting into the haystacks sheltering the enemy, into the masses of Russians. What was taking place in front of my eyes was incredible, and it had a terrible beauty all its own—the last light of dusk, the blazing piles of straw, and the innumerable burning points of unending tracer fire. I lowered my trembling hands, which had been primed for the man-to-man battle, and watched as the Russians whirled around and fled back up the slope.

The attack had collapsed, but for half the night we dragged the wounded and dead. Finally we staggered, a little pile of broken survivors, past the replacement tank platoon that had come to relieve us.

Two socks, two holes. The result of innumerable night marches.

The East, January 24, 1944

Dear Mutti,

Finally I have some peace and quiet again in which to write you a more detailed letter. Well, I am out of the really thick fighting. These were eight very unpleasant days. When you take up your position with about 250 men in your battalion and witness how all but twenty-one are killed or wounded, especially when you are at the switchboard continually hearing the commanders using expressions like “to the last drop of blood” or “not one meter without blood,” it’s difficult not to wonder when your turn will come.

I was one of the few who got away without the slightest injury, except for tiny splinters. Thanks to a kind of bulletproof vest that I procured from a dead Russian, I found only two splinters that had managed to penetrate my outer clothing and get caught in my shirt. The quilted vest is made of very hard, thick felt and holds off almost everything, but it is very stiff.

My canteen, hanging on my rear end, also took a hit, and the water ran out. My cap too has a hole from a splinter. I have a blue bump on my temple received when the beam in the cellar fell from a mortar hit.

When a mobile tank unit came to relieve us it was certainly a wonderful feeling. In a hut two villages away the mother immediately had to cook two chickens for four of us. And then, four blissful hours of sleep, without a shot, in a warm room.

We were able to look at our faces in a mirror there. They were completely black. Each face was covered with a thick soot from the smoke and dirt, except for two white lines running from the eyes, over the cheeks, and down to the mouth, the result of the tears brought on by the soot. I suspect that a few private tears may have followed the same path.

In the morning three weeks’ worth of beard had to go. Then it was off to the new positions. I have been placed here with my buddy as telegraphist at the artillery advanced-observation post. We are situated in a bunker one hundred meters behind the foremost trenches and are sending back firing orders. The Russians are relatively quiet, and the bunker is pretty safe. A little cold, but otherwise okay. I have time to put myself in order mentally, since barely a shot is fired. In addition we have tanks and artillery again to support us. That’s very reassuring.

I read with horror in your last letter that you’ve decided, on Papi’s advice, not to send anything baked, but that is exactly what we all desire the most: a few cookies or the like, baked by Mutti, that one can nibble on and think of home.

It is already dark. Excuse the terrible writing, but my pencil is only four centimeters long, the support for my paper is the lid of my wireless, and it’s also very cold.

Many good and loving kisses from your Georg, who thinks of you so much.

Thinking back over the experience of Marianovka, I realized that the tank unit that had arrived to relieve us at the last moment was a unit of the Waffen-SS, an elite troop fitted with the best weapons and training. All of the men were blond and measured at least six feet tall. Hitler’s darlings, at the final German victory they were destined to be matched up with equally blond and perfect girls to produce masses of Europe’s future ruling race. That village must have been important indeed for such a unit to be sent to save us. The SS had the reputation of being cavalry to the rescue among us simple, earthworm soldiers.

I was reminded of a school day back in Vienna when I was seventeen. The teachers had dismissed all the boys from the two highest grades and sent us to an assembly in the darkened gymnasium. We sat on the floor, squeezed closely together, wondering to what we owed our good fortune on this occasion.

A few times in the previous couple of years, the entire school had been marched over to the Ringstrasse, two blocks away, to provide Hitler with appropriately cheering throngs as he approached the Imperial Hotel on one of his periodic visits to Vienna. On these occasions the students’ enthusiasm had been decidedly lukewarm. One just did as ordered and enjoyed being released from classes for the day.

But years earlier, when Hitler’s soldiers marched into Austria, the skies had been filled with hundreds of droning airplanes. We children had been permitted to crawl over the tanks and cannons that suddenly appeared in the streets and squares. Now, that had been exciting! I could still remember the music, the flags and uniforms, and how much they had impressed me.

At the gym meeting, three SS officers in black uniforms now marched up to the improvised podium. They cracked their heels together, raised their right arms simultaneously, and yelled the obligatory “Heil Hitler!” Then the highest ranking of the three began to speak.

“We’re going to show you a series of slides that will give you some idea about the different branches, training, wartime assignments, and recreational activities of the Waffen-SS. You are all seventeen or more years of age. If you have the required minimum height, you may volunteer at the close of the presentation to be accepted by one of our branches. You require no special permission from your parents. You will receive this year’s report card ahead of time, and in a few days, we will summon you to one of our training camps.”

Thereupon followed a half hour of slides that depicted SS soldiers waving from tank turrets, presenting arms on parade as they goose-stepped past the Führer, zooming down a Parisian boulevard on snazzy motorcycles, and handling heavy machine guns in action at the front. The last slide showed a fellow with a black cap bearing a skull and crossbones jauntily perched on his straw-blond hair. He was holding an equally blond and very pretty uniformed girl in his arms, and they were singing in front of a campfire.

After the slideshow, many of the unsuspecting students enlisted in the SS, primarily because they were bored with school or because they were fascinated by the German victories and wanted to take part in them. I am certain that none of the boys had any idea then what sort of orders they would later have to carry out, bound to that oath they had sworn.

Following the battle at Marianovka, our quiet time in the bunker wasn’t to last for long. One day after lunch Haas was lying outside observing the slope across from us through a pair of binoculars. Since no one else was available at the moment, we were also in charge of directing artillery fire, should it be necessary.

Haas called down into the bunker, “Rauch, come here fast!”

He pressed the binoculars into my hand, pointed in the direction of the distant hill, and said, “Can you see what I see, over there on the horizon?”

“Russians,” I answered, “and lots of them.”

“Call up the firm,” Haas said. “This is going to be a hot afternoon.”

The East, January 27, 1944

Dear Mutti,

For four days I was engaged as telegraphist at the observation posts and felt like an artillerist. It was cold, cramped, and there was almost nothing to eat. The Russians were attacking constantly. I kept yelling firing orders into the microphone, and was able to observe immediately the effect through the telescope. It is horrible to see how stupidly the Russians come running in herds of two to three hundred, and when we let fly, there’s hamburger. The losses are enormous.