Inside the Factory. On Monday, May 29, the five of us assembled in 4. Zug after two weeks in 5. Zug. We had not heard from our teacher. There would have been no class on that and the following morning anyway because American bombers were in the air, hitting cities like Leipzig and Cottbus on the 29th and Halberstadt, Dessau and Oldenburg on the 30th. We spent senseless hours on the platform. Once we thought we saw Mustangs and Thunderbolts flying bomber escort, but way out of our range. heavy flak did its best on them. We saw no German fighter planes.
A first happened on June 2. All of us Flakhelfer in the battery were marched by the sergeant-major to the Hüls factory to test our gas masks. Military guards opened the gate. We stepped into a different world, a world shadowed by the umbrella of layers and layers of camouflage nets that closed off the sky and the outside. It was eerie, unreal yet real. We marched down a street, passing buildings on both sides. Workers walked from place to place with purpose. We had heard that many men of different nationalities were employed in the factory under guards, supervised by German technicians, engineers, and scientists. Some of these were supposedly prisoners of war, others forced laborers from Russia and occupied Western countries.
We saw a group of prisoners under guard marched by. They all wore striped clothes and caps in blue and white and had detached, emotionless, forlorn faces. It suddenly struck me that they had to be concentration camp prisoners, the first I ever saw. Their eyes glanced over us as they passed. Lifeless. What might they think of us in our uniforms? Fanatical Nazi kids? It came as a shock to us, certainly to me. I remembered how Brownshirts and police had arrested men in our neighborhood who were believed to be prominent in the Communist and Social Democratic Parties back when I was six years old in April-May 1933. These men had disappeared without a trace. And I remembered my father telling me that Jewish citizens were gathered up, put on trains and sent away. Was this where they went? To this place and others like it? Had they been sent into slave labor?
The testing of the gas masks was nothing. In a closed room we put the masks on and some sort of gas was blown in. Afterward we went out and removed the masks.
But what I had seen stayed with me. As Flakhelfer we were not prisoners like the workers in the factory or our Hiwis. We had some freedom, even got furlough to see our families. But in a way, we were also prisoners of the State and its system. We thought we defended our cities. But without the war our cities would not be bombed, would not need defenses. Yes, there was a war going on, many people dying. Who was responsible? My parents knew. I knew. Most of my buddies didn’t dare think that way. What could you do when you know what is wrong? The Nazis executed those who openly questioned the government. In the Hüls factory, I had suddenly been confronted with the truth behind the system we were serving, a truth hidden from the outside. We had just wandered in and seen. Now we were expected to erase it from our memory.
During the following weeks there was a lull in air attacks on Germany. The Allies pounded fortifications on the French coast, submarine bases, rail yards, supply centers, airfields, bridges, and other targets deemed important for the German war effort. It was thought that this was in preparation for an Allied invasion. Expected for weeks, it came on June 6. We stood in Sieber’s radio room. We listened to the news that the Allies had landed in Normandy. Another phase of the war had begun. We had heard the Nazi propaganda for months. Enormous fortifications had been built to reject the invasion. Elite troops had been assembled near the coast. We were pretty confident the Allies would be thrown back into the sea. We didn’t know about the strengths of the American, English and Canadian forces, thousands of ships lying along the coast and blasting the defenses, thousands of Viermots walking bomb carpets inland. After a week it became obvious that the invasion was slowly succeeding. In Russia and Italy our troops were retreating. Could this be the beginning of the end?
During these weeks the RAF flew only one attack on the Ruhr. They struck Gelsenkirchen, twelve kilometers south of us, on June 12-13. Perhaps they intended to remind us that we had not been forgotten during the turmoil in Normandy.
Despite all of this, four of us were granted the vacation that each Flakhelfer was guaranteed by law. Wenner, Thei, Hannes and I left for Düsseldorf on Saturday, June 24, to see our parents before traveling to vacationland.
Tyrol. On Monday, June 26, the four of us met at the Düsseldorf main station. Feldpolizei (military police) checked the papers of every soldier on the platform waiting for the special train. That included us. A sergeant, with the oval metal shield on his chest that identified him as a military policeman, searched our papers and looked us over. He noted our medals and the silver cords on our shoulder straps. He also observed that we wore the full complement of our dress uniform, including the swastika armband on our left arm. We had slipped the armbands on before we entered the station; we didn’t want to give the Feldpolizei a reason to penalize us. He was satisfied, saluted and moved on. There was quite a crowd at the station, soldiers returning from furlough to go back to their units in Italy and elsewhere, their girls or wives and children, some mothers and fathers. It was a bitter good-bye for them all when the train came into the station. We noticed that a Vierling gun was on a flatbed car behind the two locomotives and another at the end of the train. The train came in from the north and was nearly filled with returning soldiers. We climbed aboard and settled in a compartment with four soldiers from Duisburg. They looked at us with disdain. Perhaps they wondered about the swastika armbands, perhaps they saw us as Hitler’s young guards. We were able to correct their misconception during the journey south. Two of them were in their early twenties, one in his thirties, one a bit older. Two of the younger ones wore the Iron Cross Second Class and the Infantry Combat Badge, the oldest, the black medal that meant that he had been wounded in combat. They were not talkative. They were thinking of the bombed-out city where they had been, of the combat they were returning to. The farther south the train rolled, the quieter they became. We, in contrast, were in a fine mood, happy to get away from it all and go on vacation in Austria.
The train picked up soldiers in all the major cities, from Köln through Bonn, Koblenz, Mainz, Stuttgart and München. From the train’s windows we could not avoid seeing the terrible damage done to these cities and some of the smaller ones we passed through. Eventually we became as quiet as our companions. Was there really an escape from this? Already by Koblenz, all the train’s compartments had filled up and men settled with their gear in the aisles. As the train hurried through the night we caught some sleep piled against each other.
We reached our destination, Innsbruck, in the early morning. The city, the old capital of the Tyrol, was undamaged and a wondrous sight to see. A beautiful city! We walked from the station to the center of the city, admired the famous Goldene Dacherl, the Golden Roof, the celebrated landmark, and sat on a bench, taking it all in. I don’t remember whose idea it had been to go to Tyrol, but it had been the right one. We munched sandwiches we had brought with us and plotted how to proceed. We decided to spend one night in Innsbruck and then move into the Stubai Valley for our vacation. We took a room in one of the best and best-known hotels (!) in the city, the Weisses Kreuz Hotel. After all, we had accumulated money from our Flakhelfer pay and been given more from our parents. Transportation to Innsbruck had been paid by the military. We had money to burn. We had a wonderful day and a peaceful night. On the following morning, we took a slow train into the Stubai Valley to the little town of Neustift, 40 kilometers south of Innsbruck.
Neustift sat in a lovely valley below the Stubaier Alpen twenty-five kilometers northwest of Brenner Pass and the Italian border. We found a little hotel with friendly people who treated us as their own. Perhaps they were sorry for us. The war was a distant menace in this green valley nestled in magnificent mountains. We spent four marvelous days, hiking, climbing, swimming, and without concern for the rest of the world. A vacation from ourselves or, perhaps, to ourselves. This was life as it should be lived. I r
emember my time in that place as one of the most precious of my teenage years.
Of course, we removed our swastika armbands. They were as unpopular among the locals as they were with us. But when these days ended we experienced a rude surprise as we entered the Innsbruck railroad station for the trip home. We had not bothered to put the armbands back on and caught the attention of a Feldpolizei lieutenant. He barked at us, forced us to stand at attention. First he threatened to arrest us. That of course made no sense because we had to be back in the battery in three days. He looked at our medals and changed his mind. He informed us that he would report us to our battery chief for punishment. That didn’t scare us, but it put a lousy finish on a grand vacation. When, three days later, after one day with our parents, we stood before our battery chief, he asked, “Jungens, what did you do?” We told him. He nodded and made a contemptuous gesture with his hand, dismissing the incident. He was glad to have us back.
Sweet Seventeen. During the next four weeks we returned to the passive role of observers of the continuing air war. We witnessed the emasculation of hydrogenation synthetic oil plants in the Ruhr, the shredding of industries left in the doomed cities, and the wilful destruction of civilian populations there. These targets were attacked dozens of times day and night. We wondered what was left in Hamburg and München, in Leipzig and Stuttgart, in Frankfurt and Kiel, in Berlin and Königsberg, in Düsseldorf and Cologne and Braunschweig, worthy of raid after raid. If the Allies wanted to demonstrate that their unbelievable power made a continuation of the war sheer folly, we would have agreed, but we were not asked and were in no position to act upon it. We felt like sitting ducks in our foxholes in Hüls. We thought Hüls should have been a prime target, but it was spared.
We wondered about that a lot. We were glad no attack had happened yet, but still expected one at any time.
Still, we were shifted every fourteen days from one Zug to another. During these next four weeks, daytime raids hit no less than 21 cities and the RAF contributed six night- time raids. The one that came closest to us was an attack on Wanne-Eickel, twenty kilometers to the south. We sat in our foxholes, thinking this might be us. When we were told that red and green Christbäume flared above Wanne-Eickel, we crawled out of hiding and watched what we could see. It seemed this was just another night, a night such as we experienced over and over.
We got our math teacher back for a total of six class meetings. We still needed Sasha’s help. One day he brought us two elaborate bird figurines, carved by one of his comrades who had done the work with a simple pocket-knife. It was gesture of thanks for the sweet soup and the bread and artificial honey we gave Sasha from our rations that he shared with the others.
I went on furlough on Saturday, July 29. My 17th birthday was on the 31st, so my parents and I had to celebrate a day earlier, Sunday. In the morning we went to church. My mother thought it was appropriate. I wasn’t sure, but saw no reason not to accept my mother’s wish. Again there were a couple of soldiers on furlough present. I guess I was one, too. The priest read the names of fallen members of the congregation from the pulpit, “Gefallen für Führer, Volk and Vaterland.” The Catholic Church had no trouble calling Hitler “Führer.” She was right that the fallen had indeed been sacrificed by and for the “Führer,” but not for the Vaterland: The Fatherland was slowly being demolished piece by piece. I didn’t see any indication that the Church, the Vatican, tried to intervene to stop the carnage or supply a genuine message of hope. Prayer and sweet incense were not enough to change the mind of the “Führer.” My father and I looked at each other. We were thinking the same thoughts, I believed.
Our midday dinner was a feast. My parents had doubled the skimpy meat ration by buying horse meat instead of beef or pork. My mother had made delicious Sauerbraten (marinated roast in sweet and sour sauce), and my father even produced a bottle of white wine. Before we sat down to eat I was given a little parcel for my birthday. I unwrapped it eagerly. It was a book I didn’t know of, Franz Werfel’s Die Vierzig Tage des Musa Dagh (“The Forty Days of Musa Dagh”). It was a novel about the dramatic resistance of a small Armenian community during the massacres of Armenians in Turkey in 1916.
I was very surprised. How had they gotten it? The government had put Werfel and his books on the list of forbidden literature and, with many other authors and their works, prohibited bookstores and libraries from having copies. My mother had talked with our old librarian friend at the Unter den Eichen Stadtbibliothek. She had removed Werfel and other outlawed authors from the shelves as had been demanded, but she had not destroyed them. Instead, she kept them for the future, she said. She had given the Werfel from her treasures for my birthday. The book was a 1st edition, published by Paul Zsolnay Verlag in 1933.
We didn’t talk much about the war. My parents, of course, wanted it to end. If not, I would probably be sucked into the maelstrom. They were always afraid for my life. They knew my days in Hüls were numbered. Soon I would go to the RAD (Reichsarbeitsdienst – Reich Labor Service) for few months, and from there into the Heer.
Still, it was a memorable birthday crowned by two days and nights without air raid alarms.
Ferdi Leaves. On the early afternoon of Tuesday, August 1, Ferdi’s father suddenly arrived at our 4. Zug tower and came up the stairs. It quite surprised us. He brought his son’s enlistment order for the RAD. We were stunned. We had not expected this to begin so soon. Because he lived next door to my parents, Ferdi’s father had asked my mother before leaving for Hüls if a letter from the RAD had come for me, too. It hadn’t. Now Ferdi had to go to battery headquarters, show the enlistment order, and get his required discharge papers. He also had to deposit his Flakhelfer gear there, being a civilian again, at least for a few days. He changed into his civilian clothes and we went with him to turn his stuff in. Each item was counted and duly registered. After the discharge papers were signed and stamped, he was free to leave. We walked with him to 4. Zug for the last time. After we said good-bye, and watched him and his father walk away on the road to Recklinghausen, we had the feeling of real loss. Our close-nit group of five that had been together for years and had weathered so many bad nights and days, had been cut to four. Which of us would be next, and when?
Two days later our gun was removed, as were one gun each from 1. Zug and 3. Zug. It seemed they were more urgently needed elsewhere. Thus the already reduced firepower of the 4th Battery, Leichte Flakabteilung 881, was further diminished. 1. Zug and 3. Zug retained one 2cm gun each. As before, only 5. Zug kept the full complement of three Vierlings. We of 4. Zug had a French machine-gun captured in the early phase of the war set up on our tower. It made a poor replacement for the fine gun we lost. We wondered what this all meant. Were we expected to try to repel an Allied low-level attack with a puny machine-gun like this? We thought it was time for all of us to move on.
The news from Normandy was terrible. On August 12 an American offensive broke through the western sector of the German front and our troops were in retreat. On August 19, US forces had reached the Seine River and by August 25, Paris was taken. Often we stood around Sieber’s radio and listened with him. We didn’t understand the sudden collapse. The Allies had not made major gains for over two months. But we knew what it meant. If they couldn’t be stopped in Normandy, they couldn’t be stopped anywhere.
Despite what was going on during these weeks in France, the RAF flew seven night raids, hitting Köln again on August 23-24. American Viermots flew no less than 32 sorties, including Köln (August 15) and Gelsenkirchen (August 26). I was traveling on furlough that day. When the train reached Bochum, air raid sirens howled, the train stopped, and all on board had to run to a bomb shelter near the station.
We spent two hours there, wondering whether it was Bochum again. It wasn’t. It was Gelsenkirchen, twelve kilometers away. The impact of the bombing reverberated through the ground level and could clearly be felt in the shelter, an unsafe basement. I lived through an anxious time there. I wasn’t used to bei
ng cooped up during an attack, confined in a closed space packed with fearful people. I was used to be in the open. In Reisholz we never went to cover. We stuck it out with the guns.
This was especially urgent when our city or a neighboring city was hammered. Because the fighter arm of the Luftwaffe, with too many fronts to cover and terribly outnumbered everywhere, was unable to stem the Allied air assaults, the Flak seemed the one and only line of defense. We stood and fired as well as we could. Even in Hüls, where we were useless with a 2cm against a high level attack that never came, and had to take to the foxholes when one threatened, we were still in the open. Our insubstantial foxholes were out in the “open.” We fretted when we hunched there, but we preferred to have air and sky above us, hoping that our holes would not take a direct hit if it came to that. But in the Bochum shelter, the fear that emanated from the press of people, old and young, women and children mostly, was infectious. It lay over us like a cloud. I wondered how these helpless civilians could take it over and over on so many nights and not go crazy. They suffered their misery quietly, with expressionless faces, even the children. Life had become a condition of waiting, listening for the bomb that might come for you or might go elsewhere.
When the all-clear signal sounded we all trudged from the shelter and drifted to the station and back to board the abandoned train. It took some time until it started and slowly took us south. I disembarked in Düsseldorf.
That evening my parents told me my cousin Annie had been killed a few days before. There had been an alarm but no raid materialized. Only a few bombs had fallen, perhaps jettisoned by a Viermot crippled by Flak somewhere. One had struck a house on Benderstrasse in upper Gerresheim. In the first floor of the house was a store of the Reichelt chain of food stores. Annie was the manager. She and others there at the moment the bomb struck were buried in the wreckage. I remembered her as a friendly, out-going woman of about twenty-five, married to a Luftwaffe pilot. She was the last of the three children of my father’s sister Anna to die. Willi was killed in action in Russia, Paul in Italy. The war was getting closer all the time. It was a melancholy weekend.
Flakhelfer to Grenadier: Memoir of a Boy Soldier, 1943-1945 Page 13