Nigel Cawthorne (10 page)
Authors: Japanese Reaping the Whirlwind: Personal Accounts of the German,Italian Experiences of WW II
On Christmas Eve, C Company of the 12th SS Panzer Regiment assembled in a small woodcutter’s shack in the wood near Loseheimergraben in Belgium. ‘In view of the particular character of the evening, and also because of the cold, we have lit a fire which, taking into account the possibility of airborne observation, has to be very small, thus involving the development of much smoke,’ said
Untersturmführer
(Junior Storm Leader) Engel.
We remember our dead comrades and send our thoughts to our dear folks back home. But my thoughts also wander along to the woods beyond Büllingen and Bütgenbach and to the ridges around Elsenborn. Perhaps the boys from New York or Kentucky, from California and the Colorado River are having their Christmas services right now. Perhaps the commander of an American tank is cursing the war and the blasted krauts who have spoiled his quiet Christmas celebration in one of the snowed-up Ardennes villages. Others, a No. 1 behind an anti-tank gun or an infantryman on his outpost, may curse the cold or hum a carol or a boogie. Above all, they should be thinking of home – just as we do.
Despite the hardships, the
Führerbegleitbrigade
(Leader’s Escort Brigade) was feeling festive too. One of their number, named Meins, recalled:
Our infantry was actually smashed up – to say the least. Poor sods – I knew most of them from our time at Cottbus. Very few of them were older than eighteen. But on that day the fighter-bombers were obviously not keen on bothering us. Even the artillery spotter plane which, day by day, was hanging around overhead like a kite did not show up. This was a bright winter day and we were on the verge of dreaming of peace on earth. There was only one thing that detracted from this. From behind the corner of a building there protruded the long barrel of a 7.5 anti-tank gun controlling a road that led to Eschdorf.
Christmas brought with it a certain complacency.
We listened to the morning air and our first impression was that a group of Mickey Mouses was approaching … The jabbering became louder and turned out to be American. On the road a steel helmet of a shape we disliked became visible. More and more followed. An assault party of ten with their Tommy guns hooked up approached along the middle of the road. We waited motionless and Second Lieutenant Ovenbeck whispered: ‘Never saw anything more stupid during my whole time with the army.’ … Nearer and nearer the Yanks came, in Indian file, one after the other – it’s a wonder they did not sing. But they were loud enough anyway, obviously thinking erroneously that we had gone home to celebrate Christmas. But no such instructions had been issued to us – much to our regret.
In the meantime, the Yanks had advanced to a point close to our positions and a sharp ‘Hands up!’ terminated their stroll. Nine of them laid down their arms and lifted their hands, as requested. Only the leader of the group had a different view. Bringing his Tommy gun into firing position, he pulled the trigger and shots rang out from both sides. The second lieutenant of the anti-tank platoon was shot in the thigh. And now the two opponents had to be taken to hospital as fellow sufferers, while the remaining nine, accompanied by comrades from the anti-tank unit, march on into captivity.
This was the calm before the storm. It seems that American observers had watched their men being taken prisoner and ‘waited until their comrades were out of their firing range’.
The surprise fire came in all of a sudden and we thought this was the end of the world. During the previous days we had got some idea of the squandermania shown by the American artillery, but these season’s greetings definitely left behind everything we had experienced so far … The earth thrown up by the impacts formed something like a curtain – a horrid sight – steadily moving towards us … Obviously the Americans had not yet found out that ammunition can be handled in a more economic matter.
The Americans quickly overran their positions and Meins was captured.
The Yank told us to move to the road. At the moment we were going to move, I heard someone call my name, and I made the American understand that I had to look after a comrade. In front of the foxholes I found a comrade from our platoon who asked me to take him along. He was in an awful condition. A splinter had torn open his abdomen, one of his arms was smashed and one of his thighs was slashed. I tried to help him up, but he yelled in pain.
The American pushed me aside. Two shots into the head of the tortured comrade put an end to his pain. I was stiff with horror, and I could have strangled that brute with my bare hands! But things got even worse. We had to pass the other foxholes, but this time I simply could not look at the places holding the bloody remains of what had been human life.
When we arrived at the road, everything, including cigarettes and handkerchiefs, was taken from our pockets and stamped in the mud. They were not only Americans, but Poles with them too. After everything had been taken from us, we were ordered to move in the direction of Eschdorf. I had to march ahead, my comrade behind me, and we were followed by a gang of utter killers in American uniforms.
We had not even moved 50 yards when I heard a rifle firing at me. The bullet went through my clothes to the left. A second shot, and my comrade yelled with pain and collapsed. I stopped and slowly turned around; the chap lay at my feet. What now happened before my own eyes was simply unbelievable to me – the work of merciless criminals. Right in front of my eyes, Tommy guns were emptied into my comrade, and still today I see the blood-red bullet marks on his snow-jacket. Turn around, move on! At that time I did not give a dime for my life and waited for the bullet with my number on it. I have never been a coward, as anybody who knows me can tell. But with those killers behind me I soon learned what fear means.
Meins feared that his captors would throw him into a burning building or run him over with a tank. However, he escaped with his life and was loaded on to a truck and taken into captivity.
On the way, we passed one of our assault guns, or rather, what was left of it. It looked like a skeleton. Then we saw the American gun position in an open field, uncovered, gun by gun, arranged in a staggered pattern. Unbelievable, these masses of material! And what did we have against all this? The courage of despair? …
At Bastogne we, about 15 men, were put into a chicken pen. Obviously the building itself accommodated some staff. There was a Christmas tree behind one of the windows, reminding us that it was Christmas Eve … When the Americans dropped the remains of their meals into the dustbins, I was suddenly aware that we had not eaten anything all day long. I remembered the parcel sent by my mother which I had seen the day before in the company office.
But the company sergeant would not give it to him on the grounds that it was not yet Christmas.
Karl Wortmann, commander of an anti-aircraft tank, had witnessed even more American ruthlessness during a counterattack against the small Belgian hill village of La Gleize the night before. His tank was hidden in a hollow, and he watched as the Americans brought up a large artillery piece.
Shell after shell follow at short intervals, and after the fourth shot the spire of the church subsides and crashes to the ground. This sends shivers down our spines. The church, school and all the cellars are full up with our own as well as American wounded. The civilian population have also sought shelter in the cellars of their houses. Right in the centre of the village … 164 American prisoners are also accommodated in two cellars.
According to the group’s commander, Waffen SS Colonel Joachim Peiper, the church was ‘conspicuously marked with the red cross because some rooms served as a clearing station’.Wortmann looked on helplessly.
Considering our short range and the good position we are in, it should not have been difficult for us to destroy the enemy gun. But without a single shell left, the best of positions and the closest of ranges are no good. Uninterruptedly, the Americans keep on firing deadly incendiary shells into the village. On this afternoon in December we witnessed La Gleize being completely razed to the ground … When it gets dark I try once again to reach the command post but smoke and rubble make any advance impossible. I am confronted with a dreadful sight. Comrades to whom I try speaking are hardly able to utter a single word. On the way back to my tank I remember my crew jokingly shouting after me, when I set out, to bring back something really good to eat. Thank God they have not yet lost their gallows humour …
The night that is closing in is going to be colder and some snow is falling. Freezing and starving we lie there in our foxholes. Of course, we must not fall asleep. Every now and then I doze off. Each night we have to spend out here seems longer and more unbearable than the one before. Then suddenly I do not know whether I am dreaming or really making out someone calling from a distance … I run towards the caller, saying ‘Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas.’ I hear them repeating twice, ‘What’s going on? Christmas is tomorrow.’ I give the reply, ‘No, it’s right now.’
This was the password. The man approaching was a messenger who brought the order: ‘Immediate – blow up tanks and follow.’
I wake up my crew. It does not take them long to realize what is up. Erich Miechen, that loyal tank-driver of mine, jokes: ‘All you need is sound sleep and pleasant dreams and you are bound to attract another alarm.’ The blasting compositions are fixed within a few minutes. There is no time left to take anything with us except for the clothes which we have already been wearing for the past weeks, day and night. With pistols already fixed to our belts we quickly fill our pockets with some oval hand-grenades, grab our machine pistols and run across country towards La Gleize. We have hardly made 100m when we hear two detonations – our tanks have blown up.
One of Wortmann’s crew found some footprints in the snow and they caught up with the column:
Everyone is standing stock-still, so we would not hear them. Some have taken off their boots and shoes and are walking in their socks to avoid making any noise on the hard-frozen ground. Bringing up the rear is not an easy thing to do in this situation. Each of us thinks the enemy is hard on his heels … Passing by the last house we see the outline of a tall and massive viaduct and close to it a small wooden footbridge which is still undamaged. It leads across the River Ambleve.
Wortmann learnt from whispers passed down the column that they had with them an American, Major Harold McCown. Their commander, Colonel Peiper, had made a deal with him. They had left behind the other Americans and the German wounded, along with medical officer
Obersturmführer
Dittman, who would be exchanged for McCown if the breakout was successful. McCown was then to advocate the return of the German wounded.
The steep and narrow forest path demands of everyone the very last ounce of strength. You hear panting and groaning. Small wonder all of us are weakened by more than a week without food. Our knees dodder; each of us is near collapse and ready to drop … After a fairly long time we have reached a height which allows us to pause for breath. We are standing in a clearing and the eyes of 800 men turn back to where La Gleize lies. What we can see is like a burning graveyard.
Peiper walked down the column to assess morale and offer encouragement.
Overcome by exhaustion most of our men have sat down on the cold and frozen ground or have laid themselves down under the big trees … Gradually it has become day – it is dawn of 24 December, Christmas Eve. Everyone is exhausted to the limit and nobody knows the end. Our single goal is to escape captivity. Surrendering to the Americans would have meant this hour to be kept alive and decently fed … Even in the heart of Russia I never experienced Christmas in such a way. The only thing we are offered as some sort of Christmas atmosphere is the charm of wintry mountain scenery … Meanwhile it has become late afternoon. Nearly all the comrades have laid themselves down under the big conifers. The wide branches, heavy with snow, are sagging almost down to the ground and make good cover. There is a long silence; everyone is too worn out to talk. Then, from everywhere, a low tune can be heard: ‘Silent Night, Holy Night.’ One of the 800 has subconsciously begun to hum the tune. Others have joined in. In no time the melody has sparked over from man to man. It is like a large choir singing in a cathedral. The emotion the song evokes touches our hearts. At this moment each of us knows that it really is Christmas. My thoughts wander back home to my relatives, and I feel sure it is the same with all the others.
We are still half dreaming when there is a loud booming from the sky …The noise grows louder and louder and we have already realized that it is three formations of heavy American bombers on their way east. There are more than 40. They paint long condensation trails in the sky. Our hearts bleed watching them fly past in parade order towards Germany.
Wortmann was sent ahead with a scouting party – ‘with my machine-pistol in firing position’. He reached a deserted asphalt road at the edge of the forest and wondered: ‘Are the Americans celebrating Christmas at this moment?’ Returning with the main column, he got his answer.
Having reached the edge of the forest again, we meet with an unexpected and unpleasant surprise: Americans come out of the forest, jump at us and try to pull us into the thicket. The comrades who are immediately behind us become aware of the attack and the Americans are frightened and let go of us. There is a wild shoot-out. The better part of the column has not noticed what is going on ahead. The sudden shooting gives them a fright. Some of the guys panic and part of the column run towards the slope and scatter. There are wounded and shouts for medics. Major McCown takes good advantage of the situation … Our confusion, combined with the terrain and the darkness, give him a chance, and he makes a dash for freedom.