Hans Von Luck - Panzer Commander

by Unknown

  Hally Momm complained in particular, “I opposed Hitler and because of that was demoted and put 'on probation' in the notorious”Dirlewanger Brigade.“ So why have I been sent here?” Slowly the rumor gained ground that our stay at the collecting camp was to end and that we were to be transferred to a punishment camp. A Russian ocer told us, “You are going to a punishment camp and will be sentenced there.” Was it malice or the truth? He proved to be right. From the end of 1948 to the beginning of 1949 transports were assembled which left Tiflis for an unknown destination. We too were on one of them. Again a truck, again closed doors, and once again unfriendly guards. Hope gave way more and more, to apathy. We trundled north, back over the Elbrus mountains, and ended up in the region of Kiev, the capital of the Ukraine.

  On the long railway journey we discussed what had become of Lenin's worker and peasant state: a state capitalism of the worst kind, the apparatus of power ossified and only maintained by an ingenious system of supervision. What had come into being was a state of functionaries, in which on the “toady principle,” treading on those below and cringing to those above, everyone tried to work his way up out of the mass. I didn't come across any officer or functionary who treated his people humanely. The less Marx's ideas and Lenin's program could be realized, the more the system had to be maintained by force and supervision.

  Any relaxation would in the long term lead automatically to collapse. Great disappointment was evident in those of our fellow prisoners who in Germany had been enrolled members of the Communist party, who had had to endure much suffering for their ideology. Their faith had been shaken.

  A few days before our removal to Kiev, I had a further unusual experience. On my way to get food a young man suddenly stopped in front of me.

  Punishment Camp: Hunger Strike and the KGB 313 “Colonel! My God, you here! Don't you recognize e?” It was the orderly officer on the staff of my I st Battalion of the Panzer Grenadier Regiment 125, which on 18 July 1944, had been in the thick of a hail of bombs during “Operation Goodwood” and had been completely wiped out. At the time I had tried in vain to make contact with this battalion and was afraid even then that casualties would have been heavy.

  “Good heavens, where have you come from? I didn't think you were still alive. Tell me what happened to you.” We arranged to meet that evening and he told me his story.

  “As we were well dug in and kept our heads, our losses were not all that heavy. Then, after putting up fierce resistance, we were all taken prisoner by the British. For some unknown reason we were handed over to the Americans. I ended up eventually in the USA, more precisely in the Middle West. Our treatment was first class. I was even able to continue my geological studies and take my exam before a Swiss commission. We didn't have to work, it was on a voluntary basis. I did work and earned so much money that I was able to buy all the books for my studies and have suits made at the tailor's.”

  “Then how in the world did you get here?” I wanted to know.

  “In 1948 we were released,” he went on. “I was allowed to take all my things with me, which I packed up in several boxes. The boxes were then shipped by the Americans. When I arrived in Germany I produced my discharge certificate and was asked by an' American officer where I wanted to be discharged to. I told him I wanted to go to my mother in Dresden. ”For God's sake," he replied, 'that's in the Russian zone. You'll have problems.

  Stay here in our zone.“ Relying on my discharge certificate, I stuck to my decision. ”All right, I wish you luck. I hope you won't regret it."

  "I never got to my mother's. As soon as I had crossed the demarcatioh line between the Americans and the Russians, I showed my discharge certificate and asked for permission to go to my mother, but my request was to land me in trouble.

  “'Certificate from Americans no good fiere,” was the Russian reaction. “You German officer and revanchist, go to Russian camp.”

  “Next day I found myself, along with a lot of others who had made the same mistake, in a train for transportation here,” he said, ending the account of his unfortunate journey.

  My young orderly officer at least had the good fortune to be able to work as a geologist outside the camp at Tiflis, although not under as good conditions as with the Americans.

  In the Tiflis camp I had another, rather amusing experience. At the end of 1948 a few POWS arrived there who had previously been in a camp in Romania on the Black Sea. One of these men, also deeply disappointed, told us his story.

  “I belonged to a brigade that was supposed to repair some slightly damaged houses in what was once a spa. Russian occupation officers were then going to move into them. At the house on which I was working a Russian lieutenant-colonel turned up every day with a little wooden chest and his day's ration of dried salted fish. ”'When house finished? I sleep in car, want to move in here."

  “”In a few days. There's no water supply yet in the bathroom," I said, each day giving the same answer.

  "One day his patience came to an end.

  “He turned up again, but this time with the words, ”I now stay here. I no need water in bathroom, I wash outside at well' which didn't exist).

  “He set down his little wooden chest, took his salted fish and said, ”You no kultura, no well, no water in house. Where I can wash salt from fish?"

  “I showed him the lavatory. ”This is the only place where the water is already running."

  "I went back to my work. Suddenly I heard a terrible cursing and shouting from the lavatory.

  “'Fish gone, damned kultura here. You find me fish.”

  "I tried to tell him how pointless it was to look for his fish, but he grabbed me by the hand and rushed with me from one story to the other.

  “Eventually he gave up and went to get himself another fish.” Who can blame this man for his disappointment? Even a lieutenant-colonel was not necessarily familiar with this kind of kultura, but rather with a draw-well somewhere in Russia.

  Hans Von Luck - Panzer Commander

  So now to Kiev.

  Weather conditions were far worse than in the south-Caucasian lowlands. We were freezing in the new camp, which'was also far worse equipped than the previous camps. We tried, however, to make ourselves at home. It was still not clear to us why staff officers even here were lumped together with “war criminals.” But our common fate united us and we got on well together.

  Although it Punishment Camp: Hunger Strike and the KGB 315 was not official, I was called in as interpreter for the camp commandant's interrogations and addresses. The commandant and guards were recruited solely from the NKVD, which had its own units parallel to those of the Russian army.

  I made friends with the Russiaq woman interpreter, the camp doctor. From her I learned something about the regulations from Moscow with regard to foodstuffs and other matters. According to these we were entitled every day to butter, sugar, and more bread than we were receiving. So, hardened as we had gradually become, I demanded in the name of the camp the fulfillment of these regulations. But the complaint was rejected.

  Remembering how successful the Hungarians had been,. I suggested a hunger strike. L4ong discussions arose. Many were hesitant and fearful. But the argument that things couldn't get any worse but only better, and that we had nothing to lose anymore, was conclusive.

  So one morning we refused to accept our miserable meal. After two days of the hunger -strike, the commandant realized that we were in earnest, whereupon he became “active.”

  “You stop, sons of whores, or I shoot some.” This again caused a few of us to waver, as to whether the action was now right or not. The rest of us encouraged them to keep their word and 90 on.

  When the commandant saw that his threats were having no effect, he tried the friendly approach.

  “Good, tomorrow you get butter and bedclothes, if you stop.” To which we replied, “As soon as our conditions are met we will end the strike.” Next day nothing happened. Nor could it. As the interpreter confided to me, there were no
supplies of either butter or bedclothes. So where was the commandant supposed to get them from?

  “All right,” we decided, “the strike goes on.” After another five days, a commission appeared from Moscow.

  Hunger strikes were an alarm signal. There might also have been concern about their former Allies, for news from Kiev reached the West faster than from the mountains of the Caucasus. So I was hauled out of bed in the night and summoned before the Russian commission as the German interpreter for the German delegation. As interpreter on the “other side” was the woman doctor. An NKVD officer, a man in his mid-thirties, sat opposite us with some civilians, doubtless also from the secret service. His facial expression was less threatening than that to which we had become accustomed.

  “Why a hunger strike?” he asked in a calm voice. “Why not talk to the commandant, then everything will be settled.”

  “But it wasn't,” I replied through the interpreter. "That's why we're striking. We drew the commandant's attention to the regulations, but received only a negative response and were abused into the bargain.

  “We know the Geneva Convention,” I went on. "We know the instructions from Moscow about how prisoners of war are to be treated. We know that letters which we have sent to Moscow have been received and noted. We know also that negotiations have been conducted between the governments of the USSR, the USA, Britain, France, and China to the effect that German prisoners should be released in accordance with the Convention.

  "We are in a position to get reports through to Western governments which state the real nature of the situation, especially in this camp. Don't ask how we shall manage this, but we shall. It won't be very nice for Mr. Stalin to have to hear from his Allies what conditions are like here.

  “We merely demand that the regulations be followed, neither more nor less.” The reaction was astonishing. After a brief consultation with his companions, the NKVD officer gave us his answer.

  "Your conditions will be met. Owing to the poor state of food supplies and transport not everything has worked as it should.

  We are not inhuman, so you can end the strike." All right, he had saved his faci!, and we agreed to end the strike as soon as our conditions were met. After two days we did in fact receive bedclothes and the stipulated food rations.

  What is more, we saw with relief that the commandant was not angry with us.

  Much to my surprise, the NKVD officer expressed a wish to speak to me alone in the presence of the interpreter.

  “Polkovnik,” he said, “a question: how many convinced Communists do you think there are in this and the other German POW camps?” Was it a catch question? It was hard to answer, and it also seemed to me dangerous to give my own views. So I said, “About ten percent, I should think.”

  “Oh, no; at most six to seven percent,” he replied. “And Polkovnik, how many do you think there are in East Germany?” Punishment Camp: Hunger Strike and the KGB 317 “Since you have been in Fast Germany now for nearly five years, it might be some eight to ten percent.”

  “At most three to four percent. And what about West Germany?” Surprised by his figures, I suggested, “Less, about two to three percent.” To which he gave an even more astonishing reply, “Nill You see, we are realists in Moscow. And because we are, we see no chance of being able to convince the German people of communism.” His Conclusion, “Neither the Italian nor the French Communists can be numbered among us. They are first and foremost Italians and Frenchmen. Britain is on the other side of the Channel, the.Americans are far away. But we do have to reckon with you.” And then his words held doubt and fear again, "One day you will want to have an army again, with which you will invade us again.

  There lies our whole interest in keeping Germany 'neutral.“ With a neutral Germany danger for us is banished. We can convince Europe of our desire, but also of our intention, never again to allow a war on our territory. That's how things look, Polkoynik.” This was one of the most interesting and instructive conversations I had as a plennl The view was in keeping with that of ordinary soldiers, Russian convicts, and civilians, who had already said to me previously, “Although it will be hard for us, we shall one day forget what has happened. But you will go back to your country. Then you will build up a new army and march into Russia, destroy our villages and kill or carry off our people.” How can this fear ever be removed from the people or from the “realists” in Moscow? All the noisy reactions to the rebuilding of the Bundeswwhr, the federal army, and to the alliance with the American superpower are to be seen against this background.

  The weeks and months went by.

  Hope of returning home dwindled more and more. It was especially depressing for us to hear that men had begun to be released from the “normal” camps.

  We, the “convicts” were clearly not among them. All the same, after our successful hunger strike, we were in no mood to give up hope. The outcome of the strike had been like a tonic to us.

  Since then we had no longer been sent to work; our day was made up of getting food and discussing the rumors that were going around.

  In the late autumn of 1949 the Russian winter was descending on the land and snow began to cover the broad expanse of the Ukraine. Then came the Russian interpreter's announcement that releases were imminent in our camp, too, albeit only up to 85 percent. The euphoria triggered off by the prospect of going home was unimaginable, but it gave way yet again to doubt. We had been fed too often with empty promises, with the monotonous saftra domoi (“tomorrow home”).

  Then at the end of October the first commission appeared from Moscow. The first prisoners were fetched for interrogation-as usual by night. "What did they ask you? Who questioned you?

  What was your impression?" No one knew the results of the interrogations. KGB people were impenetrable; they gave no sign of either benevolence or disfavor.

  Who would be among the 15 percent who were supposed to remain behind?

  The uncertainty, the hope, and anxiety remained. The commission disappeared again. It had interrogated only a proportion of the prisoners. What would be done with the others? Nothing happened. Our nerves were stretched to a breaking point. A deep depression settled over us all.

  Then, after a few days, NKVD officers appeared in our barracks.

  They had lists from which they read out names. Those concerned had to pack their things and assemble in the courtyard. As alwavs. by night. No one could sleep from excitement. When the rest of us crowded into the courtyard to see what was happening, we were Release 319 brusquely pushed back. Worst off were those, who had in fact been interrogated but then not called. We didn't know how to console them.

  Once more we heard the loud “Dayai!” From the windows we saw the small column move off and leave the camp. Where were they going?

  Next morning I met the interpreter.

  “What's happening?” I asked. “Are the others going home?”

  “I think so,” she said. “The train pulled out with the doors unlocked. That should mean domoi.”

  “And the rest, those who were questioned but not called, what will happen to them?”

  “I did tell you,” she said, “fifteen percent.” Even the interpreter could only guess, so hermetical were the workings of the NKVD.

  “Was that the lot?” I questioned her further. “The commission has gone away, after all.”

  “The next commission will come,” she said by way of consolation.

  “Then they will talk to everyone and decide who shall go home.” Shortly after, I came across a familiar face, a fellow prisoner from our old Camp 518/I. He was very downcast.

  “After all the years of privation,” he said, “and the heavy work in the mines, I was suddenly accused of having fought against the partisans and was told that I had to go as punishment to a special camp. I have never fought against the partisans and was in action in Russia for only a short time. But I can't prove anything. They must be mixing me up with someone else. I was brought here by a guard.” We were
terribly sorry for him. What a price for an individual to pay, and an innocent man at that.

  “How do things look in the old camp,” I asked him, “what are our friends doing?”

  "We were transferred to Camp II at the very beginning of 1949.

  After a short time releases were made. I hope that in the meantime everyone has gone home." A new commission arrived from Moscow.

  The same procedure took place once more: interrogations by night, selection and transportation. Then came a third commission.

  The camp was beginning to empty. Although we, the residue, were 11 of hope for the next commission, we tried to console waiting fu and raise the spirits of the fifteen percent who had been picked out to stay behind. Finally-after the val of the fourth commission -it was my turn and I had the memorable experience of my interroption.

  We who were called to pack our few belongings had first to go to the clothing room, where we were given new Russian winter clothing: padded jackets and trousers, as well as fresh foot-cloths, or foot-wrappings, which replaced socks.

  The stockings that I had knitted for myself, of which I was so proud and which I wanted to show my mother, were taken from me.

  “Nix kultura,” said the Russians.

  I did manage, however, to keep my Knight's Cross, which I had been able to hide from the Russians throughout those years. For a pair of my homemade stockings the German camp carpenter made me a little wooden chest, with a hollow space chiseled in one of its sides to take the Knight's Cross, which was then glued over.

  The irony of fate: my first lodgings in Hamburg were burgled shortly after I had moved in and the Knight's Cross, among other things, was stolen.

  Our train rumbled west across snow-covered fields, fields that five years earlier had seen the last stages of the struggle with Russia. Beneath them now lay the fallen, in hundreds of thousands.

  At Brest-Litovsk, the boundary between Poland and Russia, drawn anew in 1939, we came to the first stop of any duration. Again we changed from Russian into European wagons.