Thousand Days: Fragments of a Soldier's Life of 1939 and 1940 (part 6 of 6)

the final preparations for battle

read part 1 here, read part 2 here, read part 3 here, read part 4 here, read part 5 here.

The days resembled each other in waiting for an hour to pass and hoping for the evening. We were trained with rifles, pistols, hand grenades, machine guns, gas masks and mines. We threw ourselves a thousand times into the sand, which was still hard from the cold, and held the rifle with our arm outstretched until we were exhausted, we did long endurance runs with gas masks over our faces, we dug hundreds of foxholes, we learned tactics and built sandpits, we stood motionless in the cold for hours for the slightest offense, we hardly had time to eat anything in the morning when we got up in the dark, we ate our miserable food at lunchtime and our crumbling bread and sausage in the evening, and this often didn’t happen until 9 o’clock when after duty we were shown tactical films of attack, defense, the close-quarters combat and the types of tanks from all over the world were shown. The music to all these things was the gruff command voices, the marching steps and the clatter of weapons that reached our ears from every corner of the courtyards and corridors.

New men arrived almost every day. Some were even older than us, very few were younger. After two or three weeks we were 50 to 60 men strong. Gradually we also noticed that there was something going on for us outside our wing: three rooms full of young, active boys who received daily technical lessons on engines and were destined to join us at the moment of our departure for the front to accompany us as drivers. In the large halls of the mechanists I saw long rows of cars, heavy Ford V8s and small, maneuverable Ford V Eifels, which already had the symbol KB for “War Correspondent” on their fenders. New instructers joined us as well. Most of them had been wounded in the Polish campaign, and they all wore the ribbon of the iron cross. At the time, it almost caused a stir. Even I was still self-conscious enough to tell myself that when I stood in front of such a man, that I should at least respect his bravery. There I also learned the extremely strange story of Unterscharführer Holiday [Feiertag], who was one of these new Unterscharführer. Holiday was a stocky, burly man whose height of six feet was unmistakable. He was wearing the Iron Cross for the second time. When he had been awarded it during the storming of some Polish city right at the beginning of the campaign, he immediately offered a Wehrmacht officer a few slaps, possibly for good reason, and then allowed himself to do a few more things that would have landed him in a concentration camp under the extraordinarily strict discipline the LAH. His company commander very kindly gave him the choice of returning the iron cross or facing the court-martial. It was, after all, a curious interpretation of the law, this undoing of an act of bravery; I often encountered such drastic impromptu measures in the Waffen-SS. Holiday stood calmly in front of his company commander, unbuttoned the ribbon and gave it to him. Now his Hauptsturmführer was a little taken aback and perhaps looked at Holiday with sympathy for a moment. But the Unterscharführer consoled him with the words: It doesn't matter, Hauptsturmführer. I'll get it again tomorrow.—A few days later he had to be awarded it for the second time for his exceptional bravery in the face of the enemy. He offered many more slaps and later, as far as I know, went down quietly; he is said to have died in a probation battalion.

A new non-commissioned officer who joined us around this time was Mormann, whom I have already mentioned. He was Oberscharführer and took over as first sergeant. Rudeck then became 3rd platoon leader. Mormann was a huge, massive Nordic guy who had half his jaw blown off, and as a result he had to speak at the front in a very strange, tragicomic manner. As far as I can remember, he was always rough, but extremely fair and very good-natured. As many noble qualities as he had in him, he also had in him as many shrapnel. He could hardly sit or lie down. Incidentally, he was the first to request that he be transferred back to the active troops soon afterwards. Many other characters came, the connection became looser, the friendship with some of them became closer and closer. It was the time when our great marches began.

Every day we marched our 25 km, packed with weapons. The active NCOs marched at the head of the company. There I learned for the first time what it means when the Leibstandarte marches. It was the case that the small, older gentlemen ahead of us had to cover the first few kilometers in a steady run and then collapse on the road. Before all these things, we had developed such an overwhelming fear that we could not get rid of the thoughts and anger about our predicament. Many evenings when we still had the strength, I walked up and down in front of our window for hours with Werner Klähn (the vice squad officer for the “Green Post”) and our conversation went round and round like a mill wheel about the same thing over and over again. Nothing happened in the outside world to make it clear to us that all this was necessary. The war was asleep, many claimed it was dead. I still remember very well how we often talked about Hitler, and Klähn said: “I want to tell you something, Achim, it’s completely pointless to look for the big word. He is simply a bad person, a bad person.”

When the time came when we were allowed to leave the barracks from seven or eight in the evening until the curfew and go into town, things almost got worse. I often sat at home in the evenings on a chair, motionless and still, unable to bring myself to change clothes. The hand of the clock moved forward tirelessly and the whole world around me no longer seemed believable. That someone didn’t have to look at the clock or listen for the trumpet signal, that he could lie down in bed in the evening and get up in the morning as freely as an animal, seemed outrageous to me. I then ate a little of the things that were not available in the barracks, let my gaze wander over the rows of books, over my Corot, the Hofer and my Corinth drawings, and then got up again, frightened because it was nine o’clock. Again and again, every evening I calculated the travel time on the tram. I rarely visited friends back then, mainly because I was afraid that I would have to speak and formulate all these things.

Sometimes I was too tired to go out in the evening. I would then go down to the canteen, where a radio was playing shrill music and there was a muffled babble of voices. Some of the other companies already knew me and waved to me, and I sat down with them. At first I was in constant fear of showing my dejection, but I soon realized that many of the gigantic fellows in the other companies felt the same way, although their inner attitudes would have been considerably different from mine.

Only the old active soldiers, most of whom were already NCOs, or at least of the rank of corporal, which in the barracks yard was already a colossal rank compared to the recruits in the LAH, spoke lightheartedly about the things that had happened within these walls, because for them it was the past. All the training is no longer of any use, they consoled themselves, it is all very harmless now. But before the war, during the time when the Leibstandarte became the Waffen-SS, until the outbreak of the war, during these few years you should have been here! We all still had black uniforms back then, and of course we only had one. If the drill kit was wet or if the platoon commander otherwise enjoyed it, he had us drill in the black uniform five days a week, and then he held dress roll calls twice a day, at lunchtime and in the evening. I can tell you, this sounds harmless, but was maddening. If he found the slightest stain, we would re-exercise until we dropped. We “shined” into the night. You don’t even hear the word shine anymore. What you’re doing here isn’t shining, it’s simply a form of punishment. That didn’t happen before. We used to “shine” someone if they stood crookedly, if they had a stain in their pants during roll call, if they shot badly, if they dropped their rifle once, and if they overlooked a superior when saluting. We shined from half an hour to two hours. Most of us only lasted half an hour or an hour, and you can’t exactly say that we’re weak. If after half an hour we fell over and collapsed into the sand, we were put on a stretcher and taken to the infirmary. There we were treated like a sick person, completely normal, and when we reported for duty again the next day, we were re-exercised for the rest of the time. And if that was another half hour, then we would fall over again. We were hounded to such an extent that the NCOs had to relieve themselves during this punishment. And some just stood there and, instead of giving commands, kept turning their thumbs up and down. We stared at that thumb and kept jumping up and down in the sand as it suggested. We carried 25 pounds of luggage on our backs and of course the steel helmet on our heads. After we had jumped up and down a hundred or two hundred times, we did a endurance run with a gas mask on. Then we dug a foxhole, shoveled it back up, dug it open again, shoveled it shut up, dug it open again, shoveled it shut again. Then we did five hundred squats with a gas mask and in winter by a hot stove. And then we were usually finished. I can only remember one case where one lasted the longest time, two hours. He was a very strange man and his story caused a colossal stir at the time. He had exceeded the curfew, and at that time we had half an hour of “shine” on him. He did it. Then he went over the curfew again and got two hours of “shine.” The special attraction was that he first had to do his entire day’s duty and then go to the punishment at 6 or 7 o’clock. So he shined for a quarter of an hour, half an hour, then another instructor came. Another quarter of an hour passed and then another, and now the news had already spread that someone had been shining for an hour and was still not finished. Entire companies were already watching from afar. Some looked out the windows, others who had an exit, stood at the fence and couldn’t get enough of the sight. After an hour the instructor changed for the second time. The NCOs were usually very exhausted too. After an hour and a half, they had tried everything. The man had dug up half the barracks yard, sweat was streaming down his face and his drill suit was a single lump of dirt. When he was chased from one end of the area to the other, you could see that his movements were already slowing down. The instructor had long since become hoarse. Everyone who saw the man shining couldn’t believe it. The two hours passed and he was still standing upright and smiling. The paramedics had already prepared a stretcher and he patted them on the shoulder and put them off. Then he went into his room, washed up, changed his clothes and reported to the office. At first the clerk’s assistants thought they weren't seeing right. They asked him what he wanted. He wants to sign out. Then the platoon leader came over and asked him, completely aghast, what he wanted to do out in the city in this state. Then the man grinned and said: Oh, now I really have to go see a girl. Yes, that’s how it was back then. Today it’s all child's play. If you miss curfew today, nothing will happen, at most you will be whistled at, and the second time you might have to do a few squats. How we longed for squats! Squats were something so delicate, we started with them and did them until three hundred, five hundred, without even bothering to think about why we got them hung up. For many people, doing a few hundred squats is much easier than thinking about it.

Another time someone told me an experience of their own. He had also stayed past the curfew and had been caught. He “shined.” After a few days he stayed out all night and only climbed over the fence in a place that was already known to the old initiates before reveille. As he sneaked along the buildings, he was caught for the second time. He shone for two days in a row and was given a confinement. But one evening he could not stand it any longer and went out again. However, he resolved to be back in the barracks before the curfew. Shortly before the gate he suddenly saw a NCO lying in a corner of the wall. It was a good friend of his and he was of course very scared. But, he realized that he was just senselessly drunk. While he was still occupied with him, the clock struck ten and the gates were closed. He then decided to go over the wall with the helpless drunk at the familiar spot. However, an armed guard who had very strict orders constantly patrolled the courtyards. This guard came just as the man had pushed his friend over the fence and swung himself over. The guard flashed a flashlight and tried to raise his rifle. Then the man pulled out the pistol, pointed it at the guard and hissed at him: Hands up. The guard dropped his rifle and raised his arms. The man, with the pistol in his right hand and the drunk man in his left, didn’t know who he was looking at because he couldn’t see the guard’s face in the darkness. But he knew it was serious. He ordered him to turn around and not make any movement. Only after 10 minutes was he to pick up the rifle again and continue his rounds. “I’m telling you that if you turn around sooner or if you betray me, I’ll put a bullet in your ribs,” he whispered. The guard turned around without a word, his hands raised high. The man dragged his comrade into an empty room, laid him on a cot and crept unnoticed into his bed. The story never came out.

Why did the guard obey? I asked, because he knew that you, in extremity, wouldn’t have shot him? The man narrowed his eyes a little and then said: I would have shot him, you can count on it.

Gradually I got a perhaps one-sided, but on that side a clear picture of what had taken place within these red walls. There was a cruel legality and a strange justice. The young people who served their time as soldiers or volunteered in this LAH regiment went through a terribly harsh military school. They were treated like raw steel that was mercilessly stuck into the embers again and again and subjected to tensile tests until they hardened or cracked. The strange thing is that the officers loved the men, just as the engineer loves his steel. Some of them broke. Some resorted to the strangest means to get released after the first few months, which were the worst. The story of the man who one day pretended to be crazy was still alive in my time. He acted very harmlessly, only from time to time he said “Gick” right in the face of even the highest superior, stuck out his two index fingers as if he wanted to measure something, held them up to a cupboard or a window or a piece of bread or at least in the officer’s face and then said sadly: “It doesn’t fit.” Despite all the sophisticated investigations, he persevered until the battalion commander decided to release him from his service obligation after a month. An officer fetched him, the man also measured this officer and sadly stated again that it didn’t fit, then appeared before the battalion commander and said “Gick” just like he had been doing for a month. The commander explained to the otherwise quite normal speaker that he was being dismissed from the Leibstandarte and handed him the certificate of discharge. When he had it in his hands, he measured it with his index fingers, smiled and said: “It finally fits.” I doubt whether the story happened like that, but it is possible. Some resorted to means that are actually even more implausible and yet they happened: they committed suicide.

At the time, I understandably thought a lot about these things, about duty and guilt. I no longer know what thoughts I came to beyond a cheap, quick judgment. Today I would no longer use the words right or wrong.

THE END.