Hitler's Final Fortress - Breslau 1945 (34 page)

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Authors: Richard Hargreaves

Tags: #History, #Europe, #Germany, #Military, #World War II, #Russia, #Eastern, #Russia & Former Soviet Republics, #Bisac Code 1: HIS027100

BOOK: Hitler's Final Fortress - Breslau 1945

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The paratroopers were foisted on Hans von Ahlfen. The fortress commander did not want them – but Karl Hanke did. He used his Party connections to ensure the
Fallschirmjäger
were flown in. Until now, Ahlfen had been given a free hand to direct the battle for Breslau. But with the fighting now devouring the city’s suburbs, the
Gauleiter
was a constant presence at the general’s daily conferences in his new headquarters in the cellars of the Liebichshöhe, an ornate folly built on a hill overlooking the city’s historic moat.

Ahlfen did not impress Hanke. The general was defeatist: in private he conceded that the war was lost. His defeatism had clearly infected the men, for in barely a week’s fighting, the Russians had advanced to within two miles of the city centre. He had opposed the use of paratroopers. But his greatest sin was to challenge the
Gauleiter
over the location of a new airfield for the fortress. The Russians were already closing in on Gandau, and its loss meant the fall of
Festung
Breslau. Work had begun on a replacement in the east of the city on the site of the 1938
Sportfest
. The fortress’s Luftwaffe liaison officer, Wilhelm von Friedeburg, and a civic engineer scoured the city. They came up with one alternative location: along the Kaiserstrasse and across the Scheitniger Stern. The street was lined with apartment blocks and lampposts, trees ran down the central boulevard and tram wires overhead, the imposing gothic Lutherkirche with the tallest steeple in the city dominated the landscape. All would have to be flattened by tons of explosives and thousands of people. It would create “a swathe of destruction” – and one usable only in favourable wind conditions. Ahlfen rejected all thoughts of blasting a runway down Kaiserstrasse, but not Karl Hanke. The
Gauleiter
prevailed.
⁴⁵

Hans von Ahlfen may have disagreed with Breslau’s
Gauleiter
on many issues, but he quickly adopted Karl Hanke’s motto – who fears an honourable death will die in disgrace. A platoon leader who left his men and looted a flat, stealing a bizarre haul – two swords, a travelling manicure set, hair lotion, an officer’s belt, perfume and tins of powdered milk – was condemned to death. The standing court martial went even further: it also condemned him to lose his
Wehrwürdigkeit
– worthiness to serve – and the loss of civil rights for life, which was now not especially long. A drunken reservist officer who was half an hour late carrying out an order was treated more leniently. Stripped of his rank, he was committed to the front line as an ordinary soldier. And any man who abandoned his post and fell back without orders, Ahlfen ruled, would be executed.
Pionier
Franz Polak did just that. He was shot. So too
Gefreiter
Richard Misof.
Feldwebel
Richard Brener loitered in an abandoned apartment rather than rejoin his men. He too was shot. The sharp tongue of fifty-five-year-old
Volkssturm
man Martin Mayer earned him the death penalty for “subversive remarks”.
Obergefreiter
Alfred Lieske,
Gefreiter
Paul Piontek, and
Kanonier
Josef Smolka and Anton Drong decided to desert
en masse
, downed weapons, tore up their pay books and tried to cross to Russian lines. Courage deserted them when Soviet troops opened fire. The following morning a reconnaissance party found them hiding in a stable. All four men were shot on Ahlfen’s orders.

These death sentences should serve as a warning to every soldier and at the same time give decent soldiers – and the entire fortress as well – the satisfaction that cowardly traitors face a merciless, shameful end. The summary execution of cowards and shirkers not only eradicates them, it also brings down shame upon their families by wiping out their honour and condemns them to poverty, depriving them of all benefits.
⁴⁶

The fortress commander could praise as well as chastise his men. He singled out Walter-Peter Mohr’s regiment for inflicting casualties “at least fifteen times higher than our own death toll” on the Red Army in fighting in the south of the city. “Comrades,” he urged, “keep fighting like this.” The general continued:

Every house of Fortress Breslau, which has been entrusted to us by the Führer, will cost the enemy rivers of blood. Always remember how the Bolshevik foe has raped our wives, murdered our children and brothers or led them into forced labour.
⁴⁷

It would be one of the final orders Hans von Ahlfen issued.

Hermann Niehoff was returning to his command post near the Upper Silesian town of Ratibor, looking forward to the cup of coffee prepared for him by a staff officer. Niehoff was pleased with his work this first day of March: his 371st Infantry Division, a
Feld, Wald und Wiesen
– bog-standard – division, had cleared up a Soviet penetration and thrown the Russians back to their starting positions. The
Generalleutnant
had twice led these men, mostly Westphalians and Rhinelanders, firstly in the Ukraine when he had brought them out of encirclement, then through the winter of 1944-5 and the retreat from the Vistula to Upper Silesia. As he approached his makeshift headquarters, he noticed the staff car of the army group commander parked outside. Perhaps, he mused, Ferdinand Schörner had come to congratulate him on correcting the front line. He had not. “Your division is an undisciplined mass and that is solely and only down to the failure of your supervision,” the general scolded Niehoff. The divisional commander was taken aback. Schörner’s tirade continued. One by one, officers were called in and arrested or dismissed. Niehoff spoke out. “Schörner, who up to now had ranted and raved, now began to roar,” he recalled. “
Generalleutnant
Niehoff, you are hereby relieved of command. Go immediately to Mährisch-Ostrau and await my further orders!” he bellowed. Schörner turned on his heels and walked out.

Niehoff’s batman grabbed his general’s possessions, put them into a staff car and drove his master the twenty miles to the industrial city. The general hardly spoke a word on the journey. Barely had he arrived in Mährisch-Ostrau than a teletype was thrust into his hand. “A new mission in a most difficult location is planned for the general at the suggestion of
Generaloberst
Schörner.” At that moment the telephone rang. It was Schörner. “Niehoff, I have big plans for you,” he said. “The Führer himself has ordered that you should fly to Breslau immediately. Take over command from
Generalmajor
von Ahflen. Niehoff, you must hold the fortress to the last man and to the last round.” Schörner paused, then added chillingly: “If you fail in your task not only will you face the death sentence, but your family too will also bear responsibility.” The army group commander gave Niehoff a few minutes to collect his thoughts. He used them to write a brief note to his family:

My Dear!

In this hour of the hardest decision I send you and our children my most heartfelt wishes.

God give me the strength to survive.

I know what is expected of me. Live well!

Your father
⁴⁸

Before leaving for Breslau, Niehoff was invited to dine with Seventeenth Army commander Friedrich Schulz – “a final meal before execution” – he wryly observed. “Schörner has also asked me to pass the following on to you,” Schulz imparted. “If you succeed in holding Breslau for three or four days, then he will reach you by road and extend his hand to you.” Schulz leaned forward. “Between us,” he whispered, “the first attempts to form such an assault group have been made. But in three to four days, that’s an illusion. If you perform your miracle and, shall we say, hold on for fourteen days, then this thrust might come to something.”
⁴⁹

After dark on 3 March Hermann Niehoff arrived at an airfield – “little more than a crudely flattened field with old barracks on the edge” – just outside Schweidnitz. The flight into the fortress was brief – Breslau lay a mere thirty miles to the north-east, but more than half of the territory his Junkers would cross was occupied by the enemy. His pilot warned him the flight would be “ticklish”. To Niehoff, the Junkers seemed too large, too cumbersome, too slow for the job. He asked for a parachute. “There’s only one for me and my radioman,” the pilot told him. “But if my crate is caught by the batteries of searchlights I won’t be able to get out and will go down with it in a spin.” The general took his place in the cabin and placed his trusted Mauser pistol on his knee. And then the cabin was bathed in light. Outside there was “a huge circle of flames, an inferno of bright fire.” Anti-aircraft guns flashed and the fingers of searchlights groped. The sound of exploding shells was drowned out by the droning of the Junkers’ three engines. Suddenly the pilot turned to Niehoff. “We’ve got to go back. My engines are hit.” The transporter returned to Schweidnitz. Another was sent at 3am. It was not far from the city when it too turned back: icing made control impossible.
⁵⁰

It was late on the fifth before Niehoff made another attempt to enter the fortress. The flight this time was uneventful, but not the landing. As the Junkers 52 rolled to a halt on the runway at Gandau, rifle bullets ricocheted off the fuselage. Niehoff, a veteran infantryman, jumped out of the aircraft and threw himself on to the ground. Rifle and machine-gun bullets struck all around. “Wonderful reception,” the general muttered. Dashing from one pile of rubble to the next, a staff officer guided Niehoff to safety. “Travelling on foot is not advisable,
Herr General
,” the officer told Niehoff, pointing to a motorcycle and sidecar. The two men lifted the vehicle over the cadaver of a horse, then set off for the command post, carefully skirting around the craters in the streets. “The accompanying soundtrack,” Niehoff recalled, “consisted of exploding artillery shells and bombs. The gaps between them were filled by the rat-a-tat-tat of machine-guns.”

The new fortress commander was led into his headquarters on the Liebichshöhe. He walked through an old beer cellar, now empty, then down two flights of stairs to the offices from where the battle for the city was directed. The damp concrete walls were covered with situation charts and street maps. Niehoff’s own room was equally spartan: small with a single table, a couple of chairs and a wire bed. He was introduced to his staff: his deputy
Oberst
Kurt ‘Papa’ Tiesler, a former headteacher from nearby Oels and holder of the
Ritterkreuz
– “a typical, dependable front-line soldier”; the operations officer, the one-armed
Major
Albrecht Otto – “an exceedingly sympathetic officer, whose first glances radiate confidence and calm”; his adjutant Martin Boeck, the supply officer
Major
Fuchs, and the other members of a staff which Niehoff immediately realized was too small for the task. And finally there was the crestfallen von Ahlfen. As he sipped a cup of tea and shared a few slices of bread with his predecessor, Hermann Niehoff told his old friend from infantry school in Munich that he had orders to send him out of the city on the next aircraft. Von Ahlfen nodded silently. But far from curtly dismissing von Ahlfen, Niehoff would allow him to command for several more days while he got a feel for the struggle for the Silesian capital. It was a wise move. For the first time, Hermann Niehoff learned of the megalomania of the
Gauleiter
. “Despite little combat experience and having only spent a short time in the field, Hanke believes he’s the supreme commander in the fortress,” Ahlfen warned, adding dolefully. “The judgment of the
Gauleiter
counts more than the judgment of the military commander.”

As the two men conferred in their bunker, Soviet loudspeakers blared their propaganda from Russian to German lines:
Hoff nie auf Niehoff, bevor der Hanke hängt
– Don’t put your hopes in Niehoff before Hanke hangs him.
⁵¹

Notes