On the evening of 30 September we crossed the Dnieper, which in its upper reaches was a modest river. I climbed down the bank, thirsty. I scooped some up with the hollow of my hand. I had drunk water that tasted of the earth. On the western steeply climbing bank we found a position ready constructed. It proved to be a considerable disadvantage that the trenches ran at a point half way up the incline. There it had been hoped to stabilise the front. The trenches had been drawn in such a way, that blind corners were avoided in the field of fire in front of the position. When we evacuated it in the afternoon the disadvantage of the position became apparent. The enemy had already occupied the opposite bank and had brought some Ratschbums into position. With them they could fire almost directly down into our trench, which we would immediately have to evacuate again. It was a strenuous and exciting operation, to rush uphill in the trench accompanied by the impacts of that unsavoury weapon.
After we reached the top the reason for the sudden order to evacuate became apparent. On the left, to our rear, there were already Russians whom we could see advancing to a bridge. That bridge led over a tributary stream and also had to be crossed by us. As we realised the situation, we ran at the same time as the enemy, racing to see who could reach the bridge first. If the Russians had simply opened fire on us, we would have not reached the bridge alive. But since the enemy did not fire I did not take the trouble to bring the men to a halt. After the experiences of Woropajewo, I thought that to construct the security position on the other side of the bridge would be hard enough in itself. In the event I succeeded, but only with difficulty. My voice was hoarse from shouting commands, and cursing those running away. A portly Obergefreiter claimed he had a bad heart and had to go back. I answered him that he should not be running and had all the more reason to stay where he was, rather than go into the position. Then, when the pursuing Russians received our first aimed rifle fire, they gave up their pursuit and we had quiet until the evening.
During the night we retreated further. The company had loaded its goods on to a horse-drawn vehicle. Machine-guns, ammunition, blankets, and a couple of men with bad feet were loaded on one wagon as they had on previous nights. The little animal, in itself tough and more efficient than our thoroughbred army horses, was nevertheless at the end of its strength. Through deep mud and over bumpy ‘corduroy’ roads it pulled with its last ounce of exertion, urged on by cries, and beaten on by blows from sticks. Then it stopped with quivering flanks and collapsed on its knees. But the Landser, whose load he was helping to carry, did not give up. While one of them spoke to the animal lovingly and kindly in German and Russian, the other was already holding a stick ready to drive it on again. They continued until the horse once again moved forward with the courage and the power of desperation.
Then the nag collapsed again, for good, out of sheer exhaustion. The men began to curse and it took a long time until weapons and equipment were unloaded. When, years later, I read Dostoevsky’s ‘Crime and Punishment’, when I was reading of Raskolnikov’s dream I had to think of that image. The devastated Nikolka with blood-rimmed eyes swings the jemmy over his horse, breaking out into the cry of ‘It is my property, it is my property’.
My voice had become so hoarse that it was hard to make myself understood. It was the result of continually shouting out orders. For the longer my voice lasted the less the runners needed to run. Marches went on throughout the night, often as much as 30 kilometres. That meant even further for the runners, for in addition to the march that the unit had to make they had to cover even more ground in carrying messages. At the start of a march people still carried on conversations, but gradually the men fell silent, silent as the night.
At that time I was proud of the state of my feet. They showed no blisters or bruising and had nowhere been rubbed raw. To a certain extent I was an infantryman from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. In fact the soles of my feet were even more important than the top of my head. To the difficulties of the marches was added hunger. At one time it happened that for two days and two nights the field kitchen had not come forward. The baggage-trains lay too far to the rear so that in the heat of the day, and as a result of the long transport distances the food became sour. The bread and the Schmiere, proper margarine, had run out. The ‘iron rations’, a small tin of fatty meat and a little pack of hard tack, were not allowed to be touched. That would only have been allowed in difficult situations. In the villages, in so far as they were not already on fire or had already burnt down, there was nothing to find. The poor inhabitants had nothing to leave. One morning, one bright spark found some beehives. The company, that is we 20 men, licked and slurped with our bare hands at the sticky sweet mass. The powerful bitterness penetrated into your teeth and at first made your empty stomach want to throw up. At other times I can recall myself beside fences on which tomato plants were hanging. The tomatoes were green showing no red at all. We ate gherkins and kohlrabi raw, and hardly cleaned of earth, without ever the dreaded ‘shits’ setting in.
One day the men had sorted out for me a ‘beast of burden’. The ‘beast’ had a string as reins, but neither halter, bridle nor saddle. At first it quite docilely let me get on to it and with one jump I was up. At that time the battalion was marching in ranks through the night. To sit comfortably on the smooth horse’s back and to be carried by it was an almost uncanny feeling. But my satisfaction only lasted until we reached the next village. As I was riding past one of the burning houses, a glowing beam fell down and sparks flew up. My horse took fright, gave a jerk and bolted with me. It charged off at a gallop. I passed other fires and passed the long ranks of the battalion, marching slowly one behind the other. I was not able to subdue the nag and losing my balance came off its back. Slipping to the left I was simply unable to let go of the string that served as reins. With my right foot I hung over the crupper and held myself under the horse’s neck as it raced through the village with me. Then it calmed down or else the load on its neck had become too heavy. Snorting, it finally stopped, was calm again and let me remount as if nothing had happened. But the involuntary and dangerous comedy of my situation had a cheering effect, and the good-natured ribbing that I received did not upset me.
On 4 October, word came that we were reaching the final line and the withdrawal was completed. That news gave new life to our tired bodies and spirits. The battalion commander announced that the new position was well constructed and that the field kitchens were waiting with masses of food. Front-line combat packs and fresh lice-free underwear were to be issued. There were also additional rations and a few sweets. Still more important were the announcements that there were replacements for the company. We would once again be topped up to full company strength.
Two kilometres from the new main line of resistance there lay in our sector the little village of Puply. Because it could offer accommodation to the enemy and could affect our line of sight and field of fire, military necessity required that it should be destroyed. Such unchivalrous business had not, until then, been part of our war. But where was there room for chivalry in that war? My company was ordered to set fire to the houses on the right-hand side of the street. There, in the vicinity of Smolensk and the Bolschaja, the highway, the little wooden houses showed more signs of civilisation then we had seen until then. It was evident that we were close to the city, as indicated by a brass bedstead that I saw in one house.