They took us to Nennig for our first interrogation. There were already about ten men there, including the captain and battalion commander from Kreuzweiler, who had found their way into captivity surprisingly quickly. The artillery forward observer went in first, then myself about a quarter of an hour later. In passing, the forward observer whispered: ‘Watch out for the blows!’
In the room were an officer who spoke good German and a bullish sergeant. They knew me by name, as the Americans had been listening in to our telephone line. That was easily possible technically, as we had no double lines, only one strand with an earth. His first question: ‘Where is your fire position?’
I said: ‘I will not betray it. You cannot force me to.’
The officer pulled back and the sergeant gave me a blow with his fist. All the same, it was not very hard and only meant as a warning shot. The officer then said: ‘Now will you tell me? Here is the map. Show me where your fire position is on here.’
Then I realised what to do. Without hesitation I showed him the place where our first fire position had been. ‘No,’ said the officer, ‘there is no fire position there. Our tanks are already there.’
I did not let my answer wait. ‘Then we have moved it. I had no verbal contact any more. Fire was only called on with Verey lights and tracer.’
To my relief he accepted this outrageous lie and I was taken back to join the others. Although Sergeant Schultz was nominally the senior forward observer, they left him alone. Thus we survived the first critical hours. Towards evening they took us by truck to the rear. The battle for Schloss Thorn was over, and for us the war. And the most important thing was that we had survived!
EPILOGUE
To round off this account, a small postscript. I could not forget Schloss Thorn, the memories of 20 February 1945 were too strong. I first passed by again in 1953 when there was a fire brigade festival in Kreuzweiler. The castle still looked in a bad way, but at least the roofs had been restored. I returned to the Moselle in 1956 and 1959 and could see the progress made in the arduous process of restoration. Finally, in a visit to the castle in the autumn of 1995, I made myself known. The ‘lord of the castle’, Dr Baron von Hobe-Gelting made me very welcome and called me the ‘last defender of the castle’. We talked in his office for a good hour then went on a tour of the premises that brought back old memories.
I discovered that several veterans of our former opponents, the 94th US Infantry Division, had also been here, the place having a similar meaning for them as it has for me. They had even funded and erected a Peace Monument at the strategic point between Sinz and Oberleuken, the inscription being signed by the then-President Bush. Veterans from both sides had come to the unveiling. Unfortunately I had not been among them, although I was apparently the only member of the 256th Volksgrenadier Division to have survived the fighting here and later.
The so-called Orscholz-Switch, the land between the Saar and the Moselle, had suffered a lot in the months-long fighting; all the villages had been largely destroyed, burnt, and the fields laid waste. But through the untiring industry of the inhabitants, the villages have been rebuilt and the countryside is flourishing. Schloss Thorn is a vineyard today. Even Kreuzweiler has been rebuilt. The evacuated inhabitants were only able to return to their destroyed village the following April. The men searched the neighbourhood for the dead that had been left lying around after the Americans had left. Twelve men were found and buried in the Kreuzweiler cemetery. When several years later the German War Graves Commission wanted to move them, the villagers objected, so the fallen still lie in the earth that they defended. Today, above the cellar in Kreuzweiler where I spent the night, stands a magnificent guesthouse with comfortable rooms and excellent cuisine. Unfortunately, in the years after 1945 there was a string of deaths and injuries arising from our mines, but this is all now forgotten.
Many of my former comrades lie in the military cemetery at Kastell, where I spend many hours of reflection and also lay flowers. My former regimental commander, Lieutenant Colonel Gliemann, found his last resting place here. They fought and died in the faithful fulfilment of their duty in accordance with the oath demanded by the law. May the earth lie lightly upon you, comrades!
THREE
With Our Backs to Berlin
GERHARD TILLERY
I originally obtained a copy of Gerhard Tillery’s manuscript from Joachim Schneider, an amateur historian from Frankfurt/Oder, and found it extremely useful in piecing together the events portrayed in my book Zhukov at the Oder. Later I was able to establish contact with the author in Bremen and obtained his permission to reproduce this remarkable account of his experiences as a rifleman on the Oderbruch battlefront, in the retreat to Berlin, the fighting in the surrounded city and the breakout to the west.
The potential officer course in Lübeck, which should have lasted until 15 March 1945, was broken off on 16 February. We were already in Cleverbrück on a ten-day field exercise when the orders came through. We had all hoped to become sergeants on 15 March and get some leave, but the Russians had already crossed the Oder, the Americans were also getting closer, and every man was needed at the front.
On 15 February I had gone with my comrade Hinnerk Otterstedt to a cinema in Bad Schwartau, and when we got back to the field positions at Cleverbrück at eleven o’clock our comrades were all ready to march back to barracks. We packed our things quickly and then marched back to the Cambrai-Kaserne, where we exchanged our old kit for new and gave away everything that was not absolutely necessary. I packed my personal stuff and had it sent to an acquaintance in Lübeck.
Then we marched in formation singing loudly to the railway station. Now that we were going into action, we were filled with enthusiasm. We were all young potential officers, most of us corporals, and 18 years old, and we could not wait to get out there. None of us would have believed that the war would be over and lost in the next three months and that soon, many of us would no longer be alive.
We were loaded into goods wagons and set off at last at dawn. We had been discussing whether we would be going east or west. Now at last we knew; we were going east. By midday we had reached Hagenow in Mecklenburg. Next day we reached Berlin and then Potsdam that same evening. Here we detrained and went to a barracks. Next morning we were inspected and issued with rations for the journey, weapons and ammunition. In the afternoon we could walk out. I went with Warrelmann and Gessner to the Garrison Church and then to the Palace. A few days later there was a heavy bombing raid in which much of the town was destroyed.
From Potsdam our journey took us to Werbig. The nearer we got to the front, the more heartily we were greeted by the inhabitants, who all hoped that we would be able to stop the Russians at the Oder and throw them back.
From Werbig we marched via Friedersdorf to Dolgelin, where the command post of the Division ‘Berlin’ to which we now belonged was located. We were assigned to the Officer-Cadet Regiments ‘Dresden’ and ‘Potsdam’. Together with 15 comrades from Lübeck, I went to Regiment 1234 ‘Potsdam’, where the others were from various training courses and officer cadet schools.
We marched to Sachsendorf, where our battalion commander, Captain Albrecht, greeted us. Sachsendorf lay in the Oderbruch, a completely flat landscape. We looked for something to eat in Sachsendorf, as our travel rations were long gone. At a bakery we each got half a loaf fresh from the oven, then sausage from a butcher’s, and tobacco from a pub.
I sat down apart from my comrades in a roadside ditch, ate my bread, smoked my pipe and wrote a short letter home to my parents. It was my birthday. I was 19 years old.
The front line was still about four kilometres away. Several Russian fighters and ground-attack aircraft appeared in the cloudless sky, but soon fled when our own fighters appeared. Our divisional commander gave a speech: ‘It is the Führer’s wish that the Lebus bridgehead be eliminated as soon as possible. Not without reason, our best regiments are here, and you can be proud to belong to these regiments.’
&n
bsp; That evening we had to go to Rathstock, immediately behind the front line, to dig trenches. We left our packs with the company quartermaster-sergeant, taking only the absolutely necessary items, such as weapon, haversack and rations. We did not even take our washing and shaving kit, believing that we would be coming back.
That night a long convoy of carts removed potatoes and grain from Rathstock, which had been completely evacuated of its inhabitants. The Russians heard the noise and started laying down fire on the road, but long after the convoy had gone. We were marching silently forward in our ranks when several explosions bringing vile smoke suddenly struck quite close to us, and we vanished into the roadside ditches like lightning. As the explosions gradually got closer, our enthusiasm disappeared. Eventually Ivan quietened down and we could continue on our way. We had survived our baptism of fire well.
In Rathstock, which had been badly damaged by the shelling, we reported to the battalion command post. However, it was now two a.m., so we were no longer required to dig trenches. Instead we could take it in turns to sleep while some of us kept watch.
The battalion command post was located in the Rathstock manor farm, the only big farm in the area, and surrounded by small buildings. The Russians could naturally assume that soldiers would be accommodated in these buildings, which is why they shelled them from time to time. The previous day observers had established that the enemy were bringing forward reinforcements and an attack was expected, which is why we were being kept in reserve at the manor. We had to keep watch for two hours and then could sleep for four. I stood watch in the morning and had a good view of the area from a window on the first floor. However, I did not see any Russians, as we had snipers out firing at a range of 600 metres. I had just finished my watch when the Russians fired on the manor farm again. Hit after hit struck home, and gradually the building began breaking up. We had gone down into the cellar and were waiting for the firing to end, but it seemed that this would be the end of us instead. The cellar ceiling started to crack and chalk fell down on top of us. Another hour of this and we knew for certain that we would be buried under the rubble.
I had nothing left to smoke and so borrowed eight cigarettes from Hinnerk Otterstedt. I never got to return them. At last, when nothing was left standing of the building, the Russians stopped firing.
That evening we went into the front line and were divided up among several companies. Otterstedt, Hintze, Bebensee, Thode, Schoone, Meieringh and Borstelmann went to the neighbouring company, while I stayed with Gessner, Warrelmann, Erhardt, Bücklers, Pohlmeyer, Krahl, Gillner and Pfarrhofer in 4 Company, where our company commander was Second Lieutenant Reifferscheidt, and my platoon leader Staff Sergeant Lauffen.
The further forward we went, the heavier was the machine gun fire. Explosive bullets were going off all around us. We would get to know their horrific effect later. They were exploding with loud bangs in front, behind, near to and above us in the trees. We came to a communication trench that we had to crawl through on all fours and eventually reached the front line without casualties.
The company command post was in a dugout about two by three metres and one metre high. The company commander greeted us and divided us up among the platoons. Warrelmann and myself went to 2 Platoon. The position ran through a wood. There was no through trench system, just a foxhole every 12 to 15 metres. The Russians were about 30–40 metres in front of us. On the left of our position was a stream about eight metres wide, which was the Alte Oder, a tributary of the Oder River. A railway embankment formed our right-hand boundary. We were dug in on one side of the stream, Ivan on the other. That is where the company commander sent me first. My hair stood on end when I heard that the Russians were so close. We could only talk in whispers. Every sound from the Russians, every loud-spoken word could be heard clearly. Hand grenades were being thrown night and day, and casualties sustained here every day. Fortunately a machine gunner was needed on the left flank and I got the job. I was lucky, for several days later when the Russians attacked, no one survived on the right. I got my machine gun and moved across to the company’s left flank, where I became the link man to the neighbouring company.
However, there was not much to be seen of our wood, as nearly all the trees had been reduced to stumps by the shelling. Branches and twigs lay around on the ground and were used by us as camouflage.
The other bank of the Alte Oder on which Ivan sat was higher than ours, so the Russians could always overlook us, and we dared not leave our foxholes during the day. I was paired with an old, front line-experienced corporal, Albert Schimmel, who had been in the Russian campaign since the very beginning. He showed me all the tricks that we newcomers had to learn. He had dug himself a hole about 1.60 metres long, 80 centimetres wide and a metre deep, but there was already ground water in the hole, so we constantly had wet feet. I had been issued with a camouflage suit in Sachsendorf that was very warm and rainproof. The weather was pretty bad; it rained a lot, and several times we had snow.
My feet froze and we never had a chance to tend to them. We could not leave our hole because of the snipers, who fired often. At night I had to make contact with the right-hand man of the neighbouring company every two hours.
When I went to make contact the first time, I became so lost in the dark that I could not find my way back. I came up to the Alte Oder and the Russians heard me and opened fire. I sought cover from their machine guns in a shellhole, but this was not so comfortable when hand grenades started coming over. Fortunately Ivan soon quietened down again, but the shellhole was full of water and I had to lie in it for about five minutes, getting soaked through. My teeth chattering, I carried on, cursing, until I made contact with the neighbouring company, which was only about 30 metres away. To my delight, I found Bernhard Meieringh there with Otterstedt and Pohlmeyer lying to his left. I said I would visit them again next day.
No one was allowed to sleep at night, and there were only four hours sleep in daytime, as we had to stand eight-hour watches. Thanks to plentiful cigarettes and good rations, we did not suffer too much from fatigue during the first few days. The body still had reserves, which, however, were soon used up. There was always something going on at night, hand grenades flying here and there, rations and ammunition being issued. There was no movement at all in daylight, as the whole area behind the front line was under observation by the Russians.
I did not have to keep watch that morning and so could sleep, but I was frightfully cold in my wet uniform. Albert Schimmel had dug a small hole next to our foxhole, covered it with beams and lined it with straw, where I lay now. Albert had given me his greatcoat, but I still could not sleep. My clothes dried out slowly. Then punctually at 12 o’clock the Russians resumed their midday concert, plastering us with mortar fire as we crouched down in our dugout.
After about half an hour the firing eased off and Albert lay down to sleep, while I wrote a letter to my parents. Now and again a shot would whip past whenever one of us moved incautiously.
That evening I went back to our neighbouring company to see Meieringh. The first thing he told me was that both Hinnerk Otterstedt and Pohlmeyer were dead. Pohlmeyer had left his foxhole and been shot in the head by a sniper. Otterstedt had gone to help him and been shot too. So now after only two days we had already lost two dead, and when I spoke to Warrelmann and Bücklers later, they both said the same thing: ‘Will I be next?’
Thoroughly depressed, I returned to our foxhole and told Albert Schimmel about it. He commented that they would not be the last.
I was then supposed to go back to the company command post and pick up the rations, but as I did not know my way around in the wood, Albert volunteered to go for me. I waited half an hour, an hour, but he did not come back. The Russians were firing again with all calibres, and we were not saving our ammunition either. I was firing at their muzzle flashes with my machine gun.
As Albert still did not return, I reported to the platoon leader, who sent off the platoon runner, Heinz Warelmann,
to find him. Albert had been shot through the arm. As Albert’s replacement, I got Sergeant Gillner, who had been posted into the company at the same time as myself.
There was no opportunity for us to get a wash or a shave. Gradually we became more relaxed, not ducking with every shot or explosion. You became hardened to it all, you got used to this kind of life and just faced up to whatever was coming. After a while, the effects of fatigue began to show. My face had fallen in and the fat that I had accumulated in the peaceful days of Lübeck was soon gone. But the rations were quite good. Every day we got half a loaf of bread and something to put on it, and every evening we got something from the field kitchen, although it was always cold.
The Russians shelled us regularly at noon, so that we could practically set the time by it. Werner Bücklers was wounded by one of these bombardments when he failed to reach the bunker fast enough, getting a splinter in the thigh.
By the time we had been out there three or four days, the third one of us Lübeckers, Bernhard Meieringh, had been killed and Bebensee wounded in the neighbouring company. We had not yet been a week at the front and had already lost three dead and two wounded.
Whenever the weather was favourable, the Russian fighters and ground-attack aircraft came and dropped bombs and fired their guns. However, they did not bother us much, as these attacks were mainly directed to our rear. The Russians resumed their concert punctually on 2 March, but much more heavily than before. When the bombardment had gone on for over half an hour and started intensifying, we knew that an attack would surely follow. There was a frightful noise out there. I sat in the bunker with Gillner. There was a howling and banging with splinters whistling around and striking the tree stumps, branches flying about, sand and muck flying everywhere, and a hot smell in the air. In between, one could hear the cries of the wounded. At last, after nearly two hours, the firing stopped abruptly. Then we knew: ‘They are coming now!’
With Our Backs to Berlin Page 3