Authors: Japanese Reaping the Whirlwind: Personal Accounts of the German,Italian Experiences of WW II
Nigel Cawthorne (8 page)
Many American tanks were knocked out by bazookas fired from covered positions the Germans had prepared.
In their attempt to avoid rocket fire, the American tank crews used to put any suspicious shrub or the like under machine-gun fire until they could be flattened with their caterpillar tracks. Of course, that could not be done with all shrubs in the area, particularly extended hedges. So the bazooka-ists had the possibility of raising their ‘stove pipes’ unseen from their covered holes and to fire at the attackers. This naturally required great courage in the face of the superior fire power of tanks on their approach with their loud roaring engines.
The ‘stovepipe’ bazooka – Raketen-Panzerbüchse (RPzB) 54 – was extremely effective, according to Lieutenant Zeplier. But, otherwise, the Germans were ill equipped.
Neither motorcycles nor bikes were provided to the messengers carrying orders. Rather they had to cover long distances on foot. As a result, the company commander was unable to coordinate the action of his platoons in the course of anti-tank combat. Not only that: the platoon-leaders’ influence on their platoons and bazooka squads involved in action was very nearly nil.
Even a successful attack could bring trouble in its wake, as when the lead tank of an American column was knocked out.
A soldier came running towards us and shouted: ‘I’ve got him, I’ve got him.’ He was a member of the 12th Tank Destroyer Battalion and as the company’s battlefield observer he had been watching from a shell-hole a little beyond that road. Those tanks had arrived there on their way from somewhere near Werth, but had obviously not yet advanced into the firing range of one our 7.5cm anti-tank guns waiting to kill them from the flank. After that one tank had been silenced, the others had turned and slowly moved back to Werth. Dusk was coming on when, armed with two
Panzerfausts
, we rushed after the tanks. Through a messenger I ordered a bazooka team of the tank destroyer group to the spot. Passing the knocked-out tank, we saw the exhaust flames of the retreating tanks in front of us as the darkness increased … It was dark when we approached the outskirts of Werth and an American sentry challenged us with the words: ‘Hey, Charlie!’ He might have mistaken us for crew members from the killed tank. He soon saw that, by our number, we could not possibly be the expected tank crew but rather a German tank destroyer party and we soon received fire from a submachine gun, or perhaps a machine gun, which we immediately returned with our burp guns. We were now fired at with anti-tank guns and machine guns, but they were firing too high. A little later American artillery and tank gun fire set in. Tier after tier came down and hit the area of the crossroads behind us. We stopped our advance and took cover on both sides of the street. The shells got us anyway and out of the five men who had advanced with me, Sergeant Tonagel, two messengers and one man of the bazooka crew were wounded.
However, Zeplier’s tank destroyers proved themselves very effective. Returning to the battlefield in September 1946, after the war was over, he found the remains of 14 Shermans. But American fire power eventually proved too much for them and nothing could stop the Allies advancing into Germany. The villages of Volkerath, Hastenrath, Scherpenseel and Werth were all completely destroyed.
THE LAST OFFENSIVE: COUNTERATTACK IN THE ARDENNES
Hitler had one last trick up his sleeve, an operation he called
Wacht am Rhein
(‘Watch on the Rhine’) and later
Herbsnebel
(‘Autumn Fog’). One of those involved was H. Rammes. He had trained as an aircraft wireless operator, but the
Luftwaffe
had few planes left and he was retrained as a forward artillery observer for the forthcoming German winter offensive in the Ardennes. Launched on 16 December 1944, it would be known to the Allies as the Battle of the Bulge. Rammes recalled:
I cannot say that we were excellently equipped. The radio equipment was intact, and the Volkswagens were in working order, but the heavy Büssing lorries were obviously completely unfit for cross-country rides, and their camouflage was good for desert warfare in Africa rather than for a winter battle. On 14 December we were in a forest near a road leading to Prüm … At this place we saw for the first time a V-1 passing overheard. Was this the famous wonder weapon? With a feeling of utter dislike I noticed the strange and disgusting screeching of this remote-controlled device.
Neither were V-1s the invincible, war-winning weapons German propaganda had promised, as Alfons Strüter recalled:
En route we experienced for the first time a V-1 being shot down. Some of these ‘things’ did not go very far and crashed soon after they started. The V-1s that flew on were fired at by the Yanks with all barrels.
Emil Bauer also visited Prüm on the way to the front.
I have been here before, but I do not recognize this place. It is totally destroyed. Undestroyed a few weeks ago and now only ruins. The situation here must have been very severe. American prisoners are standing in a courtyard … They looked like a bunch of tramps … The company are confident; we are moving forward again. ‘The Americans clear out in their underwear,’ people are calling to us.
Bauer did not share their optimism.
Civilians talk a lot about magic weapons, new assault divisions – ‘Soon you will be at the Channel!’ I tell them: ‘Listen, it’s impossible, we cannot win any more. I’ve been in Stolberg, Aachen, Venio, Roermond, Arnheim and so on. I know the Americans and I am aware of what they have and what we have not. In 14 days we will run past you again in a long-distance race.’
The night before the attack there was something of a celebration, as Klaus Ritter of the 12th Volksgrenadier Division recalled:
Dinner was comparatively opulent that evening. Additionally, every two men received a bottle of wine and 20 cigarettes were allocated per head. We younger people were soon getting euphoric. Four weeks to get to Paris, the Champs-Élysées, pretty girls, the Eiffel Tower. And hundreds of German combat planes of the latest design would support us in this assault of decisive importance for the whole German nation. Finally, after so many weeks, we shall send our greetings to the Yanks … The older men were silent. Many of them had seen the invasion. They seemed to feel what was ahead of us.
While Klaus Ritter was partying, forward observer Rammes was moved into position with the
Nebelwerfers
– German rocket launchers.
Suddenly our foxhole was as light as day. The recoil fire of the rockets cast a ghostly light over the country … In the light of the recoil fire we could see infantry companies, part on bicycles, on their way to the front. Our gunners worked until the last rocket was fired … The onset was a bad surprise to the Americans. The front units immediately involved in the fire strike ran for their lives.
Rammes said that, for him, the attack on 16 December did not hold ‘any further excitement or events of particular significance’. However:
In the late afternoon the first ambulances came back from the front line, heading for the dressing stations. My first thoughts: Are they badly wounded? Have they died in transit?
Even so Rammes shared none of Bauer’s pessimism.
In the late evening a trailer stopped at the entrance of our pillbox heavily laden with foodstuff. Rumours went round that large quantities of American petrol had fallen into our hands, that progress was fast, and that Liège would be taken very soon. General Eisenhower was said to have his HQ there, and once he had been taken prisoner, the war would be over pretty soon. We were also told that new German jet planes were about to intervene in the battle, identifiable by yellow waving lines on their body sides. On no account should we fire at them. Rumours, opinions, latrine talk spread fast …
The following day, the 12th SS Panzer Division ‘
Hitlerjugend
’ were ordered to take the Meuse. They were promised the upper hand:
New types of aircraft are available to cover you and to support your operations with efficiency. V-weapons will cause embarrassment in the rear areas and eliminate the supply centres …
The general purpose of the attack was ‘to force the Americans out of France’. The unit history recorded:
That was it! We now knew what was ahead of us. That order of the day reminded us of glorious times. Anyway, we felt this all looked so definite as if this would be the last possibility of getting this war to turn in our favour.
Gunther Holz was more cynical.
We could not believe in a winning blow of this kind. During the recent months we had gained only too clear an idea of the inexhaustible material supremacy of the enemy … We were even told that the
Luftwaffe
was available at full efficiency.
That day the troop movements towards the front line seemed incessant. But Rammes had more personal concerns.
Who might be thinking about me? Do my parents know anything about our onset? … But they do not know that I am here. Better perhaps. I smoke my first American cigarettes and can even select the brand – Camel or Chesterfield. Strong stuff on the lungs …
By evening I am in the pillbox, along with Hermann Brambrink, Gregor Kehrer and some other comrades. First Lieutenant Freitag enters, sad and depressed, and says: ‘There’s Second Lieutenant Deparade lying in a Volkswsagen outside – hit by an explosive bullet during a low-level raid’ – our first dead … Is that war? Who will be next? Why just he? He was 20.
Moving up to Grosslangenfeld, they found some buildings on fire.
We move on, our pistols drawn for the sake of safety. You never know. At the other end of the village we find three armoured patrol cars and a jeep outside an old house. We search the fully packed vehicles. In one of the patrol cars we find a heap of sleeping bags, food – all tinned – and cigarettes – bars and loose packs. I walk over to the entrance of the building, hear some noise and go inside, finding some pigs in a pigsty – but no Americans … The company commander is more than happy with the sleeping bags – enough for the whole battery.
Willy Volberg was in charge of a unit of paratroopers landed behind the lines in the Ardennes, but high winds had dispersed them and caused some injuries.
During the dawn of the following day some of us were resting in a ditch beside the road when suddenly a column of US trucks approached. It was too late to hide. We unlocked the automatic rifles, ready to fire. But nothing happens. Passing our position, the GIs sleepily wave their hand comrade-like and we quickly respond in the same way. They must have been deceived by the shape of our paratrooper helmets which look like US steel helmets.
But they soon found themselves perilously low on ammunition.
What will become of us? The whole stock of ammunition available will only allow us to fight for five seconds. So there is no need to mount a guard. We are all going to sleep. If our hiding place is discovered by the Americans, nothing can be done but surrender … What a windfall. Next morning, when one of us penetrates the wooden terrain to relieve nature he discovers a parachute container full of ammunition … The magazines of the rifles and machine gun are filled, and everybody gets a belt with 300 rounds to be carried around the neck. Hand grenades are put into the big pockets of the parasuits. We cannot take all the ammunition with us … One of the men who is a specialist in preparing booby-traps proposes making such a device by using a hand grenade, the ammunition container and the rest of the ammunition we cannot carry with us. Due to the possibility that the trap could be found and opened by civilians, I forbid him. They would have paid with their life, and there already had been enough harm done to the population.
Soon, as Klaus Ritter recalled, the advance of the 12th Volksgrenadier Division was halted:
On the top of the bridge crossing the Alfbach, short of the village, the column stops. American mortar fire lies on the entrance to the village. Some of the vehicles are already on fire. The ammunition on their platforms explodes and spreads a shower of steel into our own files. Cries, curses and groans are mixed with the sound of impacts. I flop to the ground and try to find shelter between the wheels of our gun. Four weeks to get to Paris? The hell with Paris! I want to get out of this inferno alive …
In the late afternoon we are back at Brandscheid, dog-tired … And there – the first groups of captured Americans … Well-fed men in warm winter clothing, their boots in rubber overshoes. I hardly dare to make the comparison with our equipment. Near the church another larger group of prisoners, embarrassed, frightened, and surrounded by very young German soldiers … Greedily we make for the chocolate, the ration packs and the numerous tins with cheese, ham and eggs and other dainties. And heaps of cigarettes. Soon all pockets are stuffed with Camel, Chesterfield and Lucky Strike.
On a Dodge troop carrier I search the kit bags for warm underwear. In no time my worn and damp underwear is off, and I put on Bill’s or John’s comfortably warming things, if I only had not to pull back on my damp and dirty uniform. And then my sore feet slip into a pair of brand-new shoes with rubber soles and fist-high leather spats – how comfortable. I hurl my old and worn-out
Wehrmacht
slippers on the street. Like a newborn child, I feel in that army outfit ‘Made in the USA’.
In Schönberg, Klaus Ritter noticed traces of fighting on the walls and abandoned enemy vehicles in the side streets.
Here and there I see killed soldiers – in field grey and khaki. Frightened civilians are standing at the front doors of their homes. The street had provisionally been cleared of battle equipment. Dead horses have been pushed aside. They formed an obstacle to the war machine. And now the tracks of our RSO grind over human bodies rolled flat, a pulp of flesh and bones, mixed with uniform rags and what has been left of their equipment. I feel like vomiting.
Ritter was then mortared with phosphorous shells.
The rain of fire can still be seen as glowing dots of light after minutes. The impacts are very close to one another. The first curtain gets steadily nearer. The impacts are now hitting the road as I flop into the hard-frozen ditch. Others take shelter beside or on top of me. A whizzing and the night is as light as day. Paul Richter, lying on top of me, yells: ‘My eyes! My eyes!’ My face feels like burning, like a thousand red-hot pins sticking into my face. The smell of burning flesh! Those nearby jump up and leave the ditch with loud screams. I jump to my feet, frightened to death, and dash into the darkness, tearing the blanket off my shoulders and pulling off my heavy overcoat. ‘I’m burning! I’m burning!’ I yell, and try to find a building with a Red Cross flag. There are more human torches in the yard, rolling to and fro on the ground, when I arrive.
Funnily enough, the feeling of fright eases down, although my face aches … Funnier even are my thoughts: this injury will certainly get me that black badge, perhaps even a bronze one. Medical orderlies take care of me. And then I faint. Hours later I wake up in a dimly lit hospital room … My fingers are so cold that they hardly can feel the thick bandages around my face. Mouth, nose and eyes are uncovered, the pain is negligible. With some effort I lift my head, look to the right and left. Wounded lie everywhere, groaning here, screaming there.
‘Oh man, was I lucky! Shot through the arm – should be just sufficient to get out of this shit. And you?’
‘Phosphorus burns,’ I reply.
Again loud groaning and rattling comes from a corner of the large room.
‘All belly shots,’ my neighbour remarks. ‘Safe tickets for a better world.’
The early morning sends its light into our room. I have sat up and now I see all the misery which a war can bring. Wounded Americans are sitting and lying about among the field grey.
Aircraft approach. I crouch against the wall. Several wounded Americans have leapt to their feet, trying to find shelter, their eyes horror-stricken.
‘Don’t be afraid. They are your own fighters,’ I shout at them with some sarcasm. But I am just as frightened as they are.
Medics instruct us to move into the basements. Field-grey clusters of buddies, bandages around their heads, their arms, jostle to the exit – a stumbling, jerking and swearing mass of human beings. The air in the basement is cold and stuffy. I find a place near some thick heating pipes. The muffled noise of explosions and a screaming comes close and a deafening crump. The walls shake. Dust and dirt. The air now becomes insufferable. Breathing becomes hard. Someone tears the door open. A mud-covered human queue jostles outside, yearning for fresh air. Outside clouds of dust are hanging over the major portion of the hospital, covering the ruins. Along with the others I hasten into the street, away from the hospital area. Who knows when another formation of these damned Americans may come again to unload their deadly burden.
A few hours after the bomb raid, the wounded are instructed to assemble. From all corners they arrive, panting and limping. A doctor, his overall still covered with dust, announces: ‘The major part of the field hospital attached to the general hospital of Saint-Vith will be dissolved. Assembly areas for the disabled are Bleialf and Gerolstein. Those who think they could manage to get to the Andernach main hospital [on the Rhine] should try.’
Apathetically I move into the next street. Undamaged in the middle of the crossing is a group of sign-posts – German and American. One catches my eye. It reads; ‘Prüm 33km.’ This entirely clarified what I should do – go home to Meinsheim, 5km from Prüm. It is Christmas 1944. On 3 March 1945, American soldiers overrun the place, but I escape captivity.
