Paul returned to his quarters. He slumped into a wooden chair in front of his makeshift desk and struggled to compose the letter of condolence that would accompany Werner on his last leave home. October 12, 1941, he wrote, addressing the correspondence to Herr and Frau Friedrich. It is with sincere regret that I write to advise …
Paul dropped his pen and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, intuitively trying to suppress the tears that threatened to flow. Memories of the day’s early hours filled his mind and tore at his heart.
This may be the first condolence letter I write, but I doubt it will be the last.
His wounded forehead throbbed, reminding him to be grateful that the bullet only clipped his helmet. He shuddered and reclaimed his focus. It is with sincere regret that I write to advise, he read. His pen found its place on the coarse paper and continued its task.
Paul was injured twice more the following year—a stray bullet lodged in his left side, the brunt of its impact absorbed by his ammunition belt; and shrapnel that pierced his right thigh, lodging deep into a muscle. Both injuries required minor surgery and some stitches, and a few days’ medical leave that ended when bleeding and risk of infection had passed.
During the many months that followed, Paul continued to lead his men, scouting the Eastern Front and engaging in random skirmishes. He had been forced to write two more letters to loved ones of men whose lives ended early. After each such occasion, he assembled his men and discussed the consequence of those deaths.
“Not only are we forced to fill the vacant positions,” he scolded them, “but we must train those men and learn to trust them.” He concluded his lecture with a reminder that he did not appreciate having to write letters to accompany bodies home, and that he expected his men to not only take care of themselves, but of each other.
“I don’t want to be writing another letter,” he said firmly. He paused, glaring into the assembly. “No one’s family should have to receive a regrets letter from me. Understood?”
“Aye, Captain,” the assembled men mumbled en masse.
“Good! Dismissed.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
IN AUGUST, 1944, Hitler declared that the city of Breslau would be his fortress, and it was to be defended vigorously. As Paul and his men were already stationed in the area, he was invited to speak to arriving forces and assist with the coordination of a defence plan. At the same time, he was grateful that he and his platoon were not to be party to the round-ups and impromptu executions organized by the generals.
Early one morning in November, as his platoon returned to Breslau from a night foray, they came upon a group of six school girls who were walking down the middle of a road.
He motioned for his men to take cover in the trees before the girls could see them. As he watched the girls, he realized that something was amiss.
“Franz,” he whispered to the spotter who had replaced Werner, “use your glasses. What do you see?”
Franz Keitel was quiet while he peered through his field glasses, studying the young girls. As he spoke, his ire increased. “The girls look to range in age from six years to fifteen years—school girls.”
He looked at Paul briefly, then returned to his binoculars. “They are clearly not dressed for this time of year. They should be wearing coats and boots. See how their clothing is rumpled and torn? And look! They’re filthy, covered in … Why, it’s blood! Sir, they’ve been harmed!”
He lowered his binoculars and looked wide-eyed at Paul. “Commander, is it possible that they have been violated?”
Paul grabbed the field glasses and examined the girls himself. He immediately thought of his younger sister, Gerda, and imagined her in a similar situation. “Gott im Himmel! I’ve heard rumours, but … they’re just girls! They must have been caught up in some skirmish.
“Tell the men to circle them, but keep their distance,” Paul whispered. “Ensure no danger: to them or us. Report back when the area is secure.”
When Paul had the all-clear, he crept with stealth through the bushes until he was ahead of the girls. He removed his weapons, helmet, and overcoat.
“Cover me,” he said, whispering his command to the soldiers within hearing.
In shirt sleeves, with arms extended in the air from his sides at shoulder level, he stepped from the trees and walked slowly along the road into the girls’ line of vision.
The first girl to see him shrieked and ran to another, older girl, hiding her face in the girl’s shoulder. The girls quickly huddled together behind the eldest. Some shook, others cried. One stopped in her tracks and did not move.
“Hello,” Paul said in a gentle voice. “Do you speak German?”
The oldest girl nodded yes.
“I’m a German officer,” he said trying to assure them. “My name is Captain Paul Lange. Can you tell me what has happened to you? Why you are so close to the fighting?”
The oldest girl looked up from comforting a small one. “We are from Brieggen,” she said. “The Russians came to our school two days ago. They took the boys and men away in trucks. The girls were assembled in the auditorium with the women.”
The girl’s lower lip quivered, and tears traced down her dust-streaked cheeks. “They started with the teachers, then the older girls.” She covered her face and sobbed.
Paul reached out to reassure her.
Collectively, the girls took two steps away from him and huddled closer together.
“Please,” he urged, dropping to one knee to bring himself within eye-level of most of the girls, “don’t be frightened. Let us help you.”
The girls’ heads jerked up. They had been solely focussed on Paul; it was not until he said “us” that they looked around them and saw the other men. The youngest one screamed.
“What is your name?” Paul asked over the din, trying to maintain eye contact with the oldest girl.
“Nayda,” the oldest girl said, hugging the others to her.
“Nayda, we are German soldiers. We are here to protect you.” He paused, searching for a way to win their trust. “Let us get you somewhere safe.”
Nayda reflected for a moment. “Do you have water? Food? We have had nothing to eat or drink.”
“Franz! Collect the canteens and any food the men have,” he ordered over his shoulder. A shuffling sound filled the space behind the trees.
The girls tightened their huddle as Franz mingled among the men, collecting what he could and carrying it back to the edge of the forest behind Paul. “I’m here, sir. What shall I do with it?”
“Nayda,” Paul said, holding her focus, “if it’s all right with you, Franz and I will bring the food and water and put it right there.” He pointed to a spot near the edge of the forest, midway between himself and the huddle. “Then we’ll step away, so you can take what you like. Is that acceptable?”
Nayda nodded, and Paul helped Franz relocate the food and water.
Nayda looked about the huddle and selected two of the older girls, giving them instructions to retrieve the bundles of food and water.
Paul ordered the men to stand down, but remain alert while they waited for the girls to eat.
“May I suggest,” Paul interrupted their consumption, hoping his smile would reassure them, “that you not eat or drink too much or too fast. Learn from an old soldier’s experience; it’s hard on an empty belly to receive too much food or drink too quickly. If you eat too fast, you will only throw it up again.”
With the last of his words, one of the younger girls retched. Nayda issued words of caution, and the girls slowed their eating.
“Save some for later,” Paul encouraged.
When Paul saw that the girls were finished eating, he said, “We should be going soon. It’s not safe for any of us to be here. It’s too open.”
Nayda acknowledged his concern.
“We are on our way back to Breslau. Will you come with us?”
Nayda spread her arms to encompass the girls, like a hen mothering her
chicks. They whispered amongst themselves for several minutes before she responded.
“The Russian …” Nayda began timidly, then straightened herself. “The Russians … they took turns violating every teacher and every girl in that auditorium. Even the little ones.”
Forlornly, Nayda reached for the smallest girls, who had begun to whimper, and hugged them to her. The other girls looked at their feet, no longer comfortable looking anywhere else.
“When they finished, they beat the teachers. Some of them died. Then they took the rest, one by one, to the end of the hall and put a bullet in their head. They made us watch. Blood was everywhere.”
Nayda paused, licked her lips, and sipped from a canteen. “I-I was to be next. But one of the soldiers came—an officer, I think. He said something to the others a-and they left. When the other soldiers were gone, the officer lifted his machine gun and started shooting. Somehow, we few survived.”
The men in the trees waited quietly, listening to Nayda’s words, gasping with shock. Some angrily kicked the ground at their feet.
“We waited until it was quiet outside. Then we walked together out of the school. We went to our homes, but no one was there.”
Nayda wrapped her arms across her chest and began rubbing them, as if to warm herself. “We didn’t … couldn’t think, not even to take coats or food. We just started walking.”
Her words were hollow, void of emotion. She looked at the other girls. The older ones nodded for her to continue.
“We will go with you,” she said. “I think … I think … we should see a doctor. The little ones especially.”
Paul rose slowly from his seat in the road and dusted his trousers. Franz stepped to the edge of the road with some of the men’s jackets.
“Please,” he said, holding them up to the girls.
The two older girls took the jackets, returned to the huddle, and passed them to the others.
“Nayda, we must be off. We are too exposed here. Can all of you walk? Does anyone need help?”
“We can walk for now,” she said, taking the hands of the two smallest girls. “Come on girls; let’s show these men that we can be soldiers, too!”
Each girl raised her head and stood more erect. They walked in pairs, holding hands, one older and one younger.
Slowly, the men fell into formation on either side of the road, with the girls walking in their midst.
“Move out!” Paul ordered, and the march began.
They had not walked far when a small farm vehicle came rumbling toward them.
“Private Scholtz went ahead in search of transport,” Franz said quietly in answer to Paul’s quirked eyebrow.
Paul raised his arm, a command for his men to halt. “Nayda,” he called quietly, “there is a cloister a few minutes up the road. Will you and the girls climb aboard?” He swept his arm toward the vehicle. “You can ride the rest of the way. It will be warmer for you, and faster for us. The nuns will take care of you, and I’ll arrange for a doctor to see to your injuries.”
Nayda consulted with the girls. “All right,” she said, “but we want you to come with us.”
Paul looked at his men, then back to Nayda. “We’ll accompany you until you’re safe inside the convent. Then we must be off.”
She nodded.
“Come,” he extended his hand to them, offering to help them up.
Ignoring his offer, Nayda lifted the smaller ones, then helped the older ones jump up. She allowed Paul to assist only her.
The vehicle rumbled back the way it had come, with Paul’s men jogging along either side near the forest edge.
When Paul returned to Breslau with his men, he reported to the commander, filling him in on the work his men had conducted the night before, and describing the encounter with the young school girls.
“Go back out tonight,” the commander ordered. “Investigate. If you encounter any trouble and can handle it, do so. If you need reinforcements, let me know.”
That night, Paul’s platoon set out for Brieggen. Cloud cover hid them from the moon’s shine.
In the false dawn of the next morning, they reconnoitered the town, discovering evidence that corroborated the girls’ story.
They found the executed bodies of the town’s women, old and young, and small children in the nave of a local church. But for infants and very young boys, all had been raped and shot. Bodies of elderly men were found in a heap in the narthex, all executed with one shot in the centre of their brow.
Paul’s platoon scouted the town and surrounding area, looking for tracks. Once they discovered the direction taken by the “Reds,” Paul sent two spotters back to Breslau with a report and a request for reinforcements. He led his men out of town, following the Russians who had taken the missing men and boys of Brieggen.
When the last of his men had cleared the town, Paul said a prayer, crossed himself, and set fire to the school and the church. A kilometre beyond Brieggen, he caught up with his men.
While they waited for him to catch his breath, they watched black plumes of smoke, slashed by licking red flames, billow over the skyline of the town. Moments later, as small bits of ash began to fall on them, Paul gave a signal to move out.
By noon, the spotters and another platoon caught up with them, thereby doubling their manpower. Together, the angry soldiers pressed eastward, searching for the Red Russians who had ruined the town of Brieggen.
Before darkness set again, two scouts who had been sent ahead rejoined the search party and reported to Paul that they had tracked the Russians to the next town.
“The Reds have set up camp outside the town, but don’t seem to be in a hurry to harm the townsfolk,” one scout remarked.
“Good! We’ll catch them unawares,” he said. “Pass the word to stand down for twenty minutes. Eat, sleep. Do whatever you need to be fresh when I give the order to move.”
Twenty minutes later, Paul gave the anticipated order. Cloud cover camouflaged their movement, giving them stealth and an element of surprise.
By early morning, they were engaged in a quiet skirmish with the unsuspecting Russians troopers.
During the mêlée, Paul trapped a junior Russian officer who had sought shelter in a church near the outskirts of the town. They exchanged gunfire. A bullet pierced Paul’s upper left arm, not far from the injury he had sustained in the Trondheim battle, before he silenced his opponent.
When the fighting subsided, Franz applied a temporary treatment to Paul’s arm that would enable him to return to Breslau before having to seek medical attention.
As the sun rose, Paul called for an inventory. “Bring me survivors,” he said, “and find me the men from Brieggen!”
“Captain Lange.” A sergeant, unknown to Paul, saluted as he approached a while later. “You wish information about the men from Brieggen, and the survivors.”
Paul returned the salute. “If you have it …”
“Sir, we were unable to find the men from Brieggen. We interviewed the townsfolk and searched the area, but we found no evidence of them being here. One of the Russians, before he died, said that the captives were at the front of the line, and this camp here”—the sergeant turned to view the bloodied landscape—“was the rear. The others are at least another day, if not two, ahead.”
The sergeant paused, allowing Paul the opportunity to question him further. When Paul said nothing, the sergeant added, “Sir, given the direction we’ve been travelling, I’d say they’re well into Poland by now.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Paul said, dismissing him before bellowing into the camp. “Shoes!”
Moments later, Private Joachim “Shoes” Lothar appeared at Paul’s side.
“Sir?” he said.
“Shoes, round up the officers again. Tell them that we need to revise our plan.”
Shoes saluted smartly and disappeared.
Two days later, the soldiers who had set out to find the Brieggen men returned to Breslau empty-handed. No prisoners accompanied them
, and, although some of his men had been injured, to Paul’s great relief none had been killed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
WORD HAD TRICKLED down from high command that the battle for Breslau was heating up. If the first campaign of 1945 was to be as intense as predicted, Paul wanted his men fresh. Leave was hard to come by, but a word in the battle commander’s ear won Paul’s men a two-day stand-down. A furlough was not possible, the commander told him. “We need to have every man prepared by the 20th,” he said.
When Paul explained his concern for an aunt and uncle who owned a farm in Liegnitz, the commander agreed that Paul could borrow a car from the motor pool on two conditions: he must return with fresh provisions, since he was visiting a farm, and he must be back in Breslau no later than January 19th, battle-ready. He could leave at the end of the week.
Paul saluted his acknowledgement and departed the office quickly, before the commander changed his mind.
Paul leaned against the brick wall of the old church located at the edge of the city’s market square, contemplating the journey to Liegnitz. He drew on the cheap cigarette that dangled between his thumb and forefinger and attempted to create smoke rings as he exhaled.
He had begun smoking after the battle in Trondheim. It helped pass the time while he and his men recovered. Now the habit helped pass the time between missions.
The evening was cold and still. Crystals of ice floated to their death under the light of a full moon in a cloudless sky. His smoke rings floated briefly then dissipated into the crystal dark.
A young woman, scarf wrapped around her ears and hat pulled down snugly, hastened toward him, the heels of her boots clacking on the cobblestones.
He straightened, dropped the cigarette, and ground it out with the ball of his boot. Damn things, he chastised himself, don’t know why I bother. They’re nasty. He released the last smoke from his lungs as she approached, aiming it away from the woman with a turn of his lips.
“Good evening, Captain,” she said in greeting before stopping directly in front of him. She wrung her gloved hands.
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