We were a mortar platoon equipped with 80mm mortars. I was the platoon range-finder and so ended up a maid of all work, mainly, however, as a forward observer. I found myself a really good sleeping place in the cellar, sharing a worn-out sofa with two other soldiers. As I was dropping off to sleep, I heard two officers talking and my name was mentioned. I pricked up my ears and discovered that I was to go to Schloss Thorn as a forward observer with Staff Sergeant Witt. I nearly had a fit. Witt was about forty years old, a professional musician who had been conscripted into a Luftwaffe orchestra and gained the rank of staff sergeant with it. Then at the end of September 1944 the orchestra was disbanded and Witt was transferred to combat duty. I had never then or since come across anyone who lived in such a constant state of panic as Staff Sergeant Witt. His escapades in Holland and Haganau were known throughout the division, but that is another story.
From Kreuzweiler a narrow road twisted down toward the valley, made an almost ninety degree turn to the left, then about 150 m further on another similar turn to the right, then went straight on again to meet the road alongside the Moselle (today the B 419). In the angle formed by these bends lay Schloss Thorn, an imposing rectangular building, now, however, totally destroyed. It was not surprising, as this had been the front line for almost five weeks. The road leading from the valley had a small stream running parallel to it on the right that had cut down to about four metres at the deepest part, thickly overgrown but dried out at the moment. The light reverse slope, relatively good cover and road close by, ensured our ammunition resupply.
Several days later two enemy ground-attack aircraft made a low-level attack on Kreuzweiler and strafed our fire position as they flew off. They had apparently not seen our fire position as such, only some soldiers running around. However, we thought that we had been discovered and moved further to the right, where a track led to a small gully nicely concealed by a copse. There our mortars were to perform magnificently.
Neither Witt nor I had anything to do with the first fire position nor the change over to the new one, as we were by this time already in Schloss Thorn. We followed the road to the first sharp turn to the left, where we turned to the right and came across two half-destroyed buildings. We went through a hole in the wall to the right again and along past a long, destroyed building to a big arched gateway (without the gates) through which we came to the castle’s inner courtyard. As the whole area was strongly mined, we had to keep strictly within the denoted paths. As I said, it was a rectangular building with one side to the south and another to the west overlooking the Moselle. There were the remains of a thick tower, the top half of it shot away, and a long connecting building to a more slender tower, still intact, from where I was later to do my observing.
There were also two big cellars, the first used as a toilet, the second, reached by a flight of steps, served as accommodation for about fifteen soldiers. From the latter a passage led to another, smaller cellar, where Witt and I made our home. It had a small stove, for which our predecessors had knocked a hole through the ceiling. There was an artillery forward observer in the big cellar and a heavy machine gun team. The forward observer had two radio operators with him, through whom he had radio contact with his battery. From the big cellar a narrow flight of steps led to a platform with an arrow-slit-like view of the road leading down to the Moselle, and then a few more steps to the long corridor on the ground floor, from which one entered a big corner room with views to the south and to the west over the Moselle to Luxembourg.
We received almost exclusively only cold rations, occasionally also meat, which we had to cook ourselves, about which no one knew anything except Witt. He was an exceptional cook but, because of his permanent anxiety, had no appetite. I still remember him making a delicate goulash, which I stirred endlessly. Normally a cook would be pleased when others praise the food he has prepared, but not Witt. He even once called me a hog.
I spent a lot of time in the narrow tower, from where I had a good view of the destroyed bridge leading across to Remich. There was a small customs house on the German side with an American forward observer in it. When they changed men over, they would have to run about 50m across open ground, which they always did flat out. But my narrow tower required a special skill in climbing it. The spiral staircase leading up had long narrow windows on the enemy side under which one had to crawl on one’s belly, or the Americans would see you and immediately open fire, something which would set Staff Sergeant Witt off into a panic.
For me it was like a holiday. The hard weeks in the Vosges Mountains with deep snow, icy temperatures and hard fighting in the woods, were forgotten. Here at Schloss Thorn we had shellproof accommodation, thanks to the vaulted cellars, and adequate rations. We did no sentry duties, as that was for the infantry, their heavy machine gun being in the big corner room covering the bridge and Nennig. I often chatted with the machine gunners. The No. 1 was a Sergeant Flinn (or Flint), the No. 2 a little chap with the Iron Cross First Class. Our mortar target area ‘Anton’ lay close behind the ridge beyond the road, in what was dead ground for me. My attempts at getting Witt to bring the target area directly on to the road were brusquely rejected.
There were also some incidents. Once an American reconnaissance aircraft, similar to our Fieseler Storch, circled over us and Kreuzweiler. We opened a ferocious fire on him and the lad hastily turned away and was not seen again. Now and then a couple of ground-attack aircraft would come back and strafe Kreuzweiler. Pulling up again they had to pass over Schloss Thorn, and we fired with everything we had. Staff Sergeant Witt threw a fit, saying that we should not provoke them, or the Americans would reply with their heavy artillery. However, nobody took any notice of him any more.
But there was an even better incident to come. One night two men from the Propaganda Company were brought to us, who naturally wanted to see some action. So the infantry had to creep through the rubble with grim expressions and weapons at the ready, jump up and lie down again, and occasionally fire a few bursts with their assault rifles. The shots had to be taken all over again, because one or other of them had grinned at the wrong moment. One of the Propaganda Company men also wanted to film a mortar bomb exploding in no-man’s land, so we climbed up the narrow tower, I going on all fours as usual but not noticing that the Propaganda Company man was walking upright. I gave the order for a salvo on ‘Anton’ and the hits were easily visible in the foreground. The cameramen filmed eagerly away, even turning the cameras on me, but then I heard the incoming fire; ‘Quickly down below! There’s going to be a row!’ I shouted, and we slipped down the spiral staircase, not a moment too soon, as some heavy shells landed on us. The propaganda men enjoyed their stay and that night were led back again through the minefields.
It must have been about 15 February that we had an experience with bad consequences. An extra heavy machine gun fired across from the Luxembourg side on Kreuzweiler and strafed the battalion command post. The battalion commander ordered us tersely to engage the machine gun immediately. Engaging a machine gun with mortars when it is firing from behind cover is almost impossible, apart from which the 80 mm mortar is intended for open spaces, with pin-point firing practically an impossibility. But orders are orders. If one drew a straight line from the crossroads in Kreuzweiler right past Schloss Thorn into Luxembourg, that would give the approximate location of the machine gun. I climbed the tower, taking the usual precautions. Staff Sergeant Witt remained below. My fire order was: ‘60 degrees less, down 200, key mortar one shot!’ The fire position reported: ‘Fired!’ I heard the explosion but did not see it. I reported this to Witt, who exploded with anger and swore at our mortar crews. I repeated my fire order with one degree change and this time I saw the hit, which was on the slope of the Moselle, almost in dead ground. Now it was simple. Again: ‘15 degrees less, down 300, fire two salvoes!’ The hits occurred either on the buildings or on their roofs. Marvellous! The machine gun stopped firing.
I reported to the fire position: ‘Situation
fine, cease firing!’ Peace returned, but only for a moment, for the battalion commander had heard everything. We all depended on a single line, sometimes the whole regiment, as signal wire was in such short supply. The captain called Witt everything under the sun and, as the worst punishment, transferred him to the infantry. As he was being relieved of his post, the relief would take place that night. Witt asked me to escort him through the minefields that evening. He was a broken man. I was sorry for him. Although our relationship had not always been of the best, there was still a comradely bond between us. We shook hands on the road to Kreuzweiler for the last time and wished each other luck. He was convinced that he was going to his death, but in fact he was to survive, although, yet again, that is another story.
The relief was Sergeant Schultz. He was in his mid-forties, an East Prussian, a reserved type, but a good comrade. We were on ‘du’ terms, having survived the severe fighting in Holland, Hagenau and in the Vosges together. He had had a very sketchy education because of what had happened in East Prussia after the First World War, and his reading and writing were at best indifferent; a map was a complete mystery to him. As before, he left all these things to me. He was even more withdrawn than usual, as he knew what the Russians were doing to the unarmed civilians in East Prussia.
From 18 February onwards things began to happen. We could hear the artillery fire from the Saar to our left going on nearly all day, easing up a little at night and resuming fully on the 19th. Something was happening there, and although it was quiet where we were, we were on high alert. Shortly after dusk a sentry reported sounds of movement on the street leading from the Moselle. We peered out into the night from the big corner room. Things were certainly moving down there. Our heavy machine gun fired two belts into the gully, the noise stopped and it was quiet once more. I could not give any fire orders as the flashes from the firing mortars would have given their location away.
We went back into the big cellar. Shortly afterwards a runner appeared with orders for the heavy machine gun and the remainder of the infantry to go back to Kreuzweiler. Behind remained Schultz and myself, the artillery forward observer with his two signallers, and another two or three men, apparently signals fault finders. We stayed quiet. Outside it was exceptionally quiet.
I woke at dawn on 20 February to unusual sounds. I went through the small stairwell up to the big corner room, from where we had the best view of the gully and the road leading up from the Moselle. I leaned out of the window with a stick grenade. I caught my breath. The little road was buzzing with activity. American infantry, with the occasional Jeep, were making their way up. I hurried back to the cellar. A corporal from a section of infantry occupying a cellar outside our yard burst in from the inner courtyard, grabbed an assault rifle and left the cellar again by the outside steps. I told them in the cellar what was happening and slipped back up again. In the castle courtyard, seen at close range from the landing, an American tank drove in with a man on the back behind a heavy machine gun or quick-firing cannon. He was not being heroic, just damn’ stupid. Only the fact that I had left my rifle in the cellar saved his life. So back to the cellar, grab my rifle and back up again, but the tank had gone.
Even today, after several post-war visits to the castle, I still cannot understand how it got in and then vanished again. It could not have come in through the arched gateway, as it was too narrow. But through the gateway I could see a Sherman tank with its gun pointing toward us. I turned round again, crossed the corridor and went down the narrow steps, stopping at the intermediate landing. Through the arrow-slit I had a good view of the road and the hilly ground beyond. American infantry were coming through a narrow gap in this hilly ground and jumping down on to the roadway. That was what we had heard the night before. Sheltered by the hills, the Americans had dug a communications trench parallel to the Moselle river bank road and made the last cutting during the night.
The first steep difference in height had to be covered with a two-metre jump down, the remaining four or six metres by sliding down as best they could. Strangely enough, the GIs were not even looking at the castle, where their enemy was. They saw their problem as being that first jump. Without hesitation, I set my sights at 100m and took aim at the first one. He looked down, jumped, and I squeezed the trigger. Hit as he jumped, he bent his knees and slid on his stomach down to the roadway, where he lay still. I reloaded and already the next candidate was preparing to jump. He was a small, fat chap. I squeezed the trigger and he slid down on top of his comrade. A third man had already appeared. The game was repeated; he jumped and I fired. Now some medical orderlies appeared. At the same time a Jeep drove up the road and an officer in the front passenger seat started giving instructions with many gestures. From the white stripe on his helmet I could see that he was a Lieutenant. After my shot he slumped forward and slid down. Because of the medical orderlies that attended to him straight away, I held my fire. Apart from this, I could hear the crunch of footsteps from outside. If the Americans were already there and one of them threw a hand grenade through the arrow-slit, that would be my lot. Despite these thoughts, I still tried to bring a machine gun into position, but the slit was too narrow. I could not set up the bipod properly, nor could I lean forward into it enough to take the recoil. My attempt failed miserably. The recoil ripped into my right shoulder and the machine gun fell clattering to the ground. Now I had had enough. I went down to the cellar, where the lads looked at me questioningly. I gave a brief account and concluded: ‘We are sitting like rats in a trap!’
The artillery forward observer told me that he had ordered fire on our own position. I do not know whether we as forward observers for the mortars gave a similar order with Verey lights. It is unlikely, for the fire position must have been experiencing the same as ourselves. Schloss Thorn was being raked by our own weapons, and there was also heavy fire on the American infantry advancing on Kreuzweiler.
After a short discussion we decided to give ourselves up, otherwise we would be smoked out. One of us would have to go outside. Nobody wanted to be the one to go, but the lads picked on me as apparently I had once casually said something about speaking a little English. I opened the cellar door and climbed over the corpse of the corporal that had collected an assault rifle from us. He had been shot in the head by a sniper from the other side of the Moselle. The damaged screen that had sheltered us from view from the river had fallen down, and we had not found it necessary to put it up again last night. No one had felt responsible, and this poor devil died because of it.
My main problem was now the sniper across the way, for as I climbed the steps he would have me in his sights. Would the same thing happen to me as to the corporal on the cellar steps? I knew from my own experience how great the urge is to squeeze the trigger when one has an enemy in one’s sights. I raised my hands as high as they would go, climbed the first step and shouted out aloud: ‘American soldiers, we surrender!’
There was no reply. I climbed the next step with my hands stretched up high and shouted again. Then the third step, and the lad must be able to see my hands now, I thought. Then step four. I was sweating. With the fifth step he would surely see my head. Did he have me in his cross hairs? Would he squeeze the trigger? He did not, so I slowly climbed the rest of the steps and stood in the castle’s inner courtyard.
Calling out loudly I turned around and got a reply. From the adjacent cellar that we had used as a toilet came about ten Americans. They surrounded me and pointed their weapons at me. Their leader, whom I took to be a staff sergeant, cocked his big revolver and pointed it at my stomach. I was greatly relieved, for the sniper could not get me now. We looked at each other silently for a moment until I somewhat superfluously repeated: ‘We surrender!’
The section leader pointed toward the cellar. ‘How many?’
I shook my shoulders. ‘I don’t know, maybe six or eight. Some are dead like him’, and I indicated with my head toward the dead man. The Americans stretched their necks and looked down. That s
atisfied the section leader. ‘Let them come up, hands up and no weapons!’
So I called down below: ‘Lads, unbuckle, weapons away and hands up, then come out!’
The first was the artillery forward observer, who grinned at me and threw me a knowing look. (They had meanwhile rendered the radio unserviceable.) With me included, we were six men in all. The war seemed to be over for us, and we had survived. They led us from the inner courtyard outside through the big arched gateway. The Sherman tank was there further up with three or four others. Several other men came out as prisoners from the outer cellars. It was clear to all of us that there was no way out of this trap.
Then we heard the first rounds of our 105 mm coming. Everyone threw themselves down in the dirt, Germans and Americans, trying to bury themselves in the earth. Here would have been a chance to escape. It would have meant running back through the fire of our own shells, hoping that they would not get me and that the Americans would not shoot after me. By the time I had thought it through, the opportunity was gone. One has to do these things without thinking, but today I am glad that I did not do it.
With our hands clasped behind our necks, they led us down the road coming up from the Moselle. The dead enemies that I had shot were lying there. One of the guards pointed to them with a threatening gesture. I was the last in the line. As we turned into the Moselle river bank road, I stopped and turned round once more, looking at the destroyed Schloss Thorn. It was a wretched sight and I vowed to myself never to forget it. This vow I have kept. My guard, a lanky, gum-chewing lad, struck me sharply in the chest with the barrel of his sub-machine gun and said: ‘Let’s go!’, an expression I was to hear often.
With Our Backs to Berlin Page 2