Composure and endurance had been shown by all the troops in Breslau. Those two human constituents are not innate, they have to be learned. We were spurred on nearly every day with first-hand experiences of personal fates, which brought anger when someone we knew was involved. The personal fate of such as a young comrade from the Rhine, brought us to the edge of frustration, thick-skinned as we had become. Our long-awaited post had been delayed for a long time, not surprising under the circumstances. The joy of receiving a letter from his girlfriend, his bride-to-be, was great indeed. He had proudly shown me a photograph of her. She was fresh, she was pretty and photographed in her labour-service uniform, astride her bicycle. His happiness overflowed at the thought of seeing her again, but three days later he was dead. We had had a night visit from the Bolshevik infantry. The next morning, we found him with his distorted face in the rubble, but he had not died from his splinter-wounds. He had been shot, in the back of the neck. The long-awaited letter, now stained with his blood, was taken by one of his comrades. Whether he outlived the war, to take it to his comrade’s girl friend, and inform her of the last few days of his life, is also unknown.
We had now been under siege for three months. One day, one of the messengers from the supply unit brought us news that our troops were fighting “for Berlin”. No one, but no one in our besieged city, so far away from our capital, had reckoned on this. We simply had not envisaged an end to the war, and most certainly not at the end of the month of April. Our own situation had not given us time for thought of anything outside of the city, except for fleeting moments and then without up-to-date military information. Why should we? We were stunned with this information and alarmed. The Red Army had still not achieved the success of Breslau’s capitulation, after three months of aggressive defence measures from our side. Therefore to hear that in between times they had reached Berlin, after we had engaged, in part, the best of the Red Army troops, was devastating for us. And when Berlin fell?
From the military point of view, we had no cause at the moment to give up the fight. But the situation back home gave us our first serious doubts as the first cracks appeared in our ability to hold on. However, what should we do? Firstly, we had given an oath, one which was ‘holy’ for us. Secondly, we would rather die than be taken prisoners, at least not by the Reds. Added to that, we dare not think of the terrible fate of civilians, such as that they had already faced in East Prussia and Silesia. We dare not give up. However, for most of us this latest news could not be ignored. It was clear to us that the final battle for the fortress was very, very near.
In the military reports of this time, in what was now stereotyped repetition, it was stated that our,
troops in Breslau had bravely fought off renewed attacks from the Soviets in the southern and western sectors of the front. It was an example to us all, in view of the fact that they moved fast in face of overwhelming superior masses of material.
Since Easter we had had cooler weather which, on 27 April, returned to the former beautiful Easter weather of 25° in the shade. We had a balmy, cloudless night with full moonshine. The moonlight and single flashes of muzzle-fire lit the sky. We could see through paneless windows the towering ruins making a bizarre and ghostly scene on that relatively peace fulnight. But it was suddenly and repeatedly shattered, by exploding bombs of a heavy calibre. The enemy artillery took no consideration of their own troops, who were lying on the opposite side of the road to us.
We could not seal off the front-line, broken at Posenerstrasse, the enemy having barricaded themselves into unusual corners. For this particular night, I decided against using double guards here and there, and posted half of our squad with machine-guns and a good stock of hand-grenades, on the main line of resistance. We could determine if Soviet shock-troops were sneaking up on us by using the rays of the searchlights.
We could hear machine-gun fire from somewhere, as well as single shots from a rifle. Both were designed to keep us awake, and to keep us from our well-deserved sleep, meaning that we should not be fit for the next day’s battle. In the diary of the Wehrmacht, the report for 28 April read, “In Breslau, the Soviets were successful in breaking through our front in several sectors”.
It was at dawn that Soviet infantry, supported by a mass of tanks, attacked our front lines. Because of the lack of ammunition, we had no support from our own infantry. We did have local support from a handful of infantry gunners in open positions, who were guarding one of the city’s gates. Their very last shell killed one of the enemy’s forward artillery observers, who obviously wanted to defy death. Our losses on that day were simply horrendous. Our battalion had to retreat to Leuthenstrasse and it was there that I was wounded. It was the third time and only eight days before the end of the war. I cannot say that I saw the end of the war in those seconds, but I re member in my unconscious that I was terrified at the thought that I had not lived to see its end. Our group had been in the ground floor of a block of flats badly damaged by tank-fire but which gave us protection. We had a very good view of the enemy. In fact we had the upper hand, except for a sniper who gave us a bad time. We could not replenish the ammunition badly needed by our grenadiers. So I decided to handle this problem myself, without any thrill of victory or the courage of a hero, but because I was just frustrated and angry.
In a series of jumps and leaps I reached the third floor of the half-destroyed staircase and fired a whole machine-gun magazine into the dark windows opposite, in the direction I thought he was to be found. If this action of mine were to be examined under a military microscope, the first criticism would be that it should have only been carried out by one of our snipers, who had marksman experience. The result was obvious. As if I had received a blow from an iron bar, my rifle fell suddenly from my hand. In reflex, I grasped at thin air for support. I felt absolutely no pain. Perplexed, I watched blood pour from the arm of my jacket and I looked at my lifeless arm, hanging towards the ground, without any strength to move it. I had received a shot through my lower arm.
The phenomenon of not feeling pain for some hours after being wounded, is ‘not unusual’, to quote Dr. Peter Bamm, military doctor and surgeon from the Second World War. “We were to experience this phenomenon time and time again. It is causation. The brain is able to block off the effects from the cause. It blocks the entrance in the middle part of the brain responsible for pain, even during the physical efforts of battle. The pain begins only hours after”. That is exactly what happened with me, but aft er this had happened I was overcome with a dread of dying, almost knotting my throat together.
I found a first aid station in the Andersen School, in the cellar, visible to the outside world with a small white rag with a red cross. It showed us the entrance to which I had been accompanied by a comrade. On the schoolmaster’s desk a towel had been spread, upon which an array of instruments had been laid, scalpel, tweezers etc, but I was only to receive two injections here, one in my upper-arm and one in my buttocks. A Red Cross sister undid my trousers which had been newly issued to me. Without any ado, she administered the injections, hung a card around my neck and sent me packing to the nearest surgeon. The impression I received was one of robots working on an assembly line. The wounded were in the school, where the desks had been piled one on top of the other, along the wall, to give space for them. After being attended to they had to wait for transport. The doctor, the nurses and the medics were oblivious of the shuddering walls and floor, when a shell landed nearby. There then followed an epilogue, the moans of the wounded, echoing the suffering of mankind. I was happy to leave that place. We, for I was accompanied by two other walking wounded, made our way in the direction of Schweidnitzerstrasse, to where we all had to go. On the way, near the main line of resistance, we heard gramophone music which became louder and louder, coming from the ground floor of a bomb-damaged house.
One could not call it a pub, but at first sight we saw soldiers and civilians indulging in a release of feelings, emotion or worry, call it what you w
ill. They were drinking and enjoying themselves and forgetting the war. One can really say that they were dancing on top of the volcano, and not very far away from hell! We could only stand, stare and wonder at the paradox of lustiness that we saw. Perhaps my injections had dulled my senses, for I, together with the other two, indulged in a beer. I had just missed death by a hair’s breadth. I believe that one can understand that I wanted, just for a moment, to switch off from the gruesome daily routine and enjoy the frivolity that we had found in what was a very strange place. It was a ‘dive’, perhaps that would describe it correctly and it might have housed deserters. I did not care about the past, with its examples of composure, or stiff upper-lips. I just did not want to know. The wounded soldier is also a member of mankind, and in the split second that he is wounded, he is thrown from the warrior’s tracks and becomes a helpless creature. A creature who had given his innermost, making his contribution to world history, giving his energy in the direction of the enemy without thinking about himself, until he sees the flow of his own blood. He is then not able to help himself.
The author’s medical record from Sanitätsstützpunkt 5
We found Medical Centre No.5, between the Church of St Dorothy and the City Theatre, in the ante-room of the wine cellar of the restaurant, “The Hansa Cellar”. A military doctor, two Red Cross sisters, a medic and other auxiliaries attended to about fifty wounded soldiers. My arm by now was really painful and extremely swollen. My dressing was changed and my arm put into a splint. I was then given a bed in the damp cellar, where the wounded slept in bunk beds, three on top of one another and I was allocated one on the top. The cellar ceilings were low and I had to fold myself up in order to climb into it. Those badly wounded slept on the lowest bunks. My neighbour, who had a blood-drenched bandage around his head, offered me as a welcome relief a flask which was against all of our regulations, but which contained brandy.
After a while I could ascertain that we were a very mixed bunch, from the air force, army, and Volkssturm. Two sailors were there, who at the time of the siege had been on holiday in Breslau, and afterwards were conscripted into the infantry. I was the only member of the Waffen SS, despite the fact that we had had very many wounded.
On the whole, I could build a very good picture from the reports of the men from different sectors of the front. It did not look very rosy. I gleaned something else from their reports about mankind. The actions of those men, in their reports of the situation at the front, were tinged with smouldering anger. What could not be ignored was the furious rage of the attacking enemy, always without consideration of their own men, which was confirmation of my own experience. We exchanged experiences in cold facts, almost without emotion and I heard incredible stories, almost unbelievable. That they themselves had been in battle, under primitive conditions for months on end, was spoken in a whisper. It appeared that they had forgotten that they were former labourers, farmers, clerks or students. That was all a long time ago, it seemed. Now they were highly qualified specialists in close-combat. For stratagem, spirit of comradeship and quiet acts of heroism, when mentioned, were without a hint of pathos.
The doctor and his assistants, despite primitive conditions, attended to our needs in the damp rooms of the cellars, twenty-four hours a day. They used their medical know-how and technical guile to save lives, which in another part of the city were being destroyed. Every day the newspaper of the Festung, the Schlesischen Tageszeitung, was still being printed. On the first page of the edition for 28 April 1945, the conditions at the front had been reported in detail. In the edition of the following day, the 29th and the day that I was wounded, one could read, “There was once again bitter fighting, during Friday night, from the Bolsheviks. After strong artillery fire aimed at the northern flank of the west front, penetration by them was achieved on a small scale. They were quickly forced back, almost closing the front once more. Our troops had a success in another sector, winning back in a counter-attack a block of flats which the Bolsheviks had taken the day before, and forcing the enemy back to their original positions”.
On the same page, in large print, were the headlines, “Stronger support measures for Berlin”. Under this heading was the report that our troops had turned their backs on the Americans at the river Elbe to start the battle for the centre of Berlin. “Whilst we in Breslau are busy with the continuation of a successful defence of the fortress, we look, together with the German people and the rest of the world, at the fierce battle in and around Berlin”.
Like an ebb tide, the battle area at the end of April in the rest of Silesia moved backwards and forwards, to and fro. In the region of Bautzen-Meissen, the German counter-attacks were surprisingly successful. We won back our territory of Kamenz and Königsbrück. We won and we lost, and so did the Russians. The Russians lost on 30 April, in Brünn, so heavily that they retreated. The day before, they took Austerlitz, where Napoleon in 1805 had won a victory over Austria and Russia. Despite giving all that we had left to give, rumours of the forthcoming capitulation of Breslau became heated. An ecclesiastical delegation from both persuasions visited the fortress commander on 4 May, for earnest discussion on capitulation. The delegation was headed by the Diocesan assistant bishop, Bishop Ferche, dressed in his bishop’s regalia.
The delegation had made their way through the burning city and were clearly dismayed at the sight of Breslau. They thought that now, as servants of God, and “before God and mankind” that it was their duty to approach the General. They wanted to appeal to him that he search his conscience and assess if he could be responsible for the further defence of the city. In view of the measures that these men of the clergy deemed necessary, and who had supported the defence of the city with their ‘Samaritan’ service, General Niehoff promised them that he would come to a decision, and soon.
It was thought at the time that the bishopric visit was decisive for General Niehoff. When the truth was known that he could have, for his sins, made a confession that he had already made his decision before their appearance, he did not. One does not capitulate with chaos, without thought or a structure for bargaining, in seeking the best from a deal and above all wanting to avoid despotic rule. Only with a front-line still intact, and obedience from both soldiers and the civilian population, was the successful bartering for an honourable capitulation of the city forthcoming. So it had to be kept secret for as long as possible.
The Russians were waiting by the hour. Their bombers still flew their routine sorties. Their artillery still sent their shells precisely according to their grid-map. We were left waiting for the final blow which did not come.
At that time our radio-bugging service overheard a broadcast sent by BBC London, that the British leadership recognised the performance of the de fending troops in Breslau. They were very much impressed and had therefore refused the request from Moscow, that British bombers deliver the final blow to bring Breslau to its knees.
Raw unadulterated reality informed General Niehoff’s plans for the capitulation of Breslau. His experience and his intuition told him that he faced a fait accompli.
CHAPTER 18
Capitulation and Captivity
On 30 April, we were to hear about the unbelievable death of Adolf Hitler, in a radio broadcast. “The Führer Adolf Hitler, who fought against Bolshevism with his last breath, died today at midday”. At the time of the broadcast, I was to be found in the remains of the Hotel Monopol, which lay opposite our medical centre. I had become good friends with the cook of the hotel, a Frenchman with whom I often heard the German broad casts, martial music, and the forbidden enemy broadcasts from the BBC in London, sent in the German language.
I was simply stunned by this news, the Frenchman too. In the moments after the initial shock, came the realisation that it was the fall of ‘The Third Reich’. For the French who were to be found in the city, it meant their return home. But for me it meant that after all I had given, all that I had sacrificed, it was now null and void. There was no saving Germany any m
ore. We had lost. Would Germany, would Europe, would the world suffer repercussions? The three questions why, what for, and how come, circled around in my mind like a carousel.
We in Breslau had not capitulated. I was still a soldier and here nothing had changed. We could not imagine anything else but fighting, defending, for as long as there was a German government to issue orders, and above all, as long as there was a corner of Germany that was still unoccupied. Even the Commander-in-Chief and Admiral of the Fleet, Admiral Dönitz considered his mission, as deputy head of state, to be one that was to be executed until the conclusion of the war.
Hitler had with his suicide, accepted the hopelessness of further defensive measures, not only for Berlin, but for Germany as a whole, and had made the way free for capitulation. That was a step that he personally was not willing to take, under any circumstances.
After every shipwreck, everyone has to swim for as long as they are able, in doubt and in hope of swimming to land. We were never prepared to go under, in the current of Russia’s flood. At the end of April, and the beginning of May, the propaganda over loudspeakers increased, broadcasting “the catastrophe to be found on the front-line”, as well as their already well-worn arguments, repeatedly, throughout the day.
Until the third week of April, Breslau’s front-line was still intact. Everywhere that the Russians appeared, they had been forced back and there was not a place in the belt of defences around the centre of the city that had been broken. Berlin had now fallen, and in embarrassment and frustration, Russian forces were drawn away from Berlin and posted to Breslau. The Silesian capital came under increased attack, being the only large city left that had not been conquered. We were honoured with an arrogant victory ‘parade in the sky’. It was a warning be fore the final dagger-thrust. Massed Soviet bomber squadrons flew majestically over the city, without dropping a bomb.
In the Fire of the Eastern Front Page 25