by Georg Rauch
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 s
pecial 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.
We were sitting in a tiny bunker one hundred meters behind the first lines, which were very thinly occupied. The Russians kept penetrating our lines, often without either their or our noticing. That’s why those of us farther back had to keep a good watch out; otherwise someone could simply have tossed a grenade into the bunker.
Now, since the battalion has been exterminated, my detachment has pulled out. Staff and supplies retreated twenty-five kilometers during the night and I along with them.
Our departure was rather hasty. Ivan hit us with artillery fire as never before, then bombers, tanks in large amounts, and finally masses of infantry. Everyone took to his heels.
The entire supply unit, including fifty vehicles, stormed over a cliff with no cover whatsoever, and the antitank guns were shooting in among us. I really don’t know how I got out of all that. End result: the regiment is dissolved for the time being.
For about eight hours now I’ve been sitting here in absolute peace in a very cozy Russian house. I have washed and shaved, eaten, eaten, eaten, and slept. What happens next, nobody knows. We haven’t a clue. By now I’m considered one of the old-timers, one who has chalked up enough days in short-range fighting and assault to qualify for those medals on the chest. Pretty soon I’m to be promoted to private first class. Ho hum. Twenty-five Pfennige more per day.
In my section it’s rumbling pretty well at the moment. Ivan is trying to break through, and he keeps succeeding for a few hundred meters. The 282nd division has already been hit very hard, but I think we’ll be getting replacements pretty soon. In any case, for the moment it is peaceful around me, and that feels good.
A lot seems to be changing in Vienna, with air-raid precautions and so on. Well, I hope it will still be a long time with no bombs in your area. I already know much too well how unpleasant they can be. Bye for now.
Greetings and kisses,
Your Son
Russia, January 29, 1944
Dear Mutti,
Yesterday I was at the first-aid station for a harmless problem with my knee. They gave me an elastic bandage and prescribed four days of rest. It was there I realized how good I have it as a telegraphist. Of all the guys on the train out of Krumau, all that are left are four telegraphists, three telephone operators, and one infantry soldier—and they carried that remaining soldier with a head wound into the first-aid station while I was there. Suddenly I became pretty sick, what with all that blood, plus the realization of how few of us are left.
At any rate, it’s the officers and those in the communications squad who survive the longest here at the front. Add to that some humor and a lucky star, and you’re on top again.
Last night I slept so marvelously on a bed of straw in a warm hut. Who could wish for more? The whole day long we’ve nothing to do but wash, shave, hunt lice, eat. The rest of the time we lie on the big stove and scratch since we all have scabies.
There I dream of those things I remember as wonderful and beautiful. I dream of a splendidly white tablecloth and clean dishes, with a big dumpling and a real goulash, cucumber salad, and the good chance of a pudding with raspberry jam for dessert. To go with all that, a clean glass of clear water and a few colorful flowers on the table.
Here you let a day from back home pass in front of your eyes, one like so many that were taken for granted, and you notice for the first time all the things you used to ignore, but that were so marvelous.
For instance, just to be able to sleep in a bed with a clean blanket and pillow, freshly bathed, all by yourself, without having to bump into somebody else right and left or have his snores blown in your face.
Or, when you get up in the morning, the coffee and milk are possibly already waiting in the kitchen, and you can begin to do something that gives you satisfaction and lets you know you’ve come a little bit further. But not like here, where one doesn’t know why or for what, and when evening comes you can only observe the one feeble result: “I’m still alive.”
The world and its people are so small and meaningless compared to the universe and to the great and beautiful thoughts some people are able to produce. One shouldn’t rack one’s brain over such silly, stupid things as wars and weapons. You only become gloomy, probably melancholy, and it is a strain on the nerves. I think good nerves are the most important thing one needs in this godforsaken country.
You write that you’re getting along so peacefully at home. That makes me very happy. When I know that things are okay at home it makes everything a lot easier. Who knows, maybe I’ll be with you pretty soon. My greetings to the whole gang there in Vienna, and don’t worry.
Many loving kisses, Your Boy
ACCORDING TO HAAS
Since the regiment had been disbanded, we survivors were quartered twenty-five kilometers to the rear while we waited for reinforcements.
I, along with Haas and Baby Schmidt, our seventeen-year-old, six-foot-three-inch giant, shared a house with two guys from the infantry. Altogether about 150 soldiers were housed in the village. It consisted of two long rows of houses lining a muddy street that stretched in a gentle curve across a small valley surrounded by hills.
Those January days were unusually warm. A southerly wind was blowing mild air from the Black Sea, and a light rain had washed away the remaining patches of dirty snow. With a little effort I imagined I could almost smell spring, though I knew it was still at least two months away.
Outside our hut the sun was shining. I saw soldiers sitting on the doorsteps in front of the houses, writing letters, looking for lice, or patching their ragged uniforms. Not a shot could be heard, no rattling of machine guns, not even the usual distant rumble of the artillery. The Russian women in our house were carrying out Haas’s orders: sweeping the floor, keeping the kettle hot, and washing the clothes. All in all, a pleasant scene, both inside and out.
Rus
sia, January 31, 1944
Dear Mutti,
Today was a good day. Two of us took off first thing in the morning with a cart and two fiery horses to a shut-down sugar factory that the Pioniere have planned to blow up. It was quite an adventure, crawling over all the pipes, distilling barrels, steam engines, and whatever all that stuff is called, and always taking good care to avoid the explosive charges that were already in place.
When we finally got to the door of the storeroom, we simply blew it open with two hand grenades and there, right in front of us, nothing but sugar and more sugar! And even though we took three hundred kilos, we felt as though we were just sampling with a teaspoon.
But we couldn’t take any more with us, and what should we do with more? The next time we get stuck in the mud we’d just have to throw away everything that is unimportant anyway. This time too we’ll probably eat sweets for two weeks and afterward be dreaming over our bitter coffee about the sugar factory in Mala Vyska.
The sky is blue and the sun is shining down quite pleasantly. I am also in such a good mood today, and I don’t even know why. I have always had my worst time between November and February. Add to that, this year we have the winter war. My good humor is probably the sun’s fault. All the soldiers are so happy, whistling and singing all over the place, and I think I even heard a yodel coming from somewhere. Actually there isn’t any reason for all this. In a few days it’s up to the front again. The replacements are already close by.
Love, Georg
Russia, February 2, 1944
Dear Folks,
I’m laughing myself silly. In our digs there are two women, one forty years old, the other seventy-six. In addition the five of us from the detachment and a sergeant who is visiting. Each of us already speaks a little Russian, but the women no German. The old one is incredibly funny. She talks all day long, and every two minutes crosses herself three times. She calls us all by our family names, which she has picked up from listening to our conversations. She scolds when we go outdoors without our caps and praises our “culture” when we blow our noses in our handkerchiefs instead of on the floor. She drinks our sweet tea (tshey) and begs our candies off of us, and she also praises our culture when we wash every day, because the Russians don’t do that.