On the journey back, we went past the Loire castles spread out in the sunlight. The barracks of St Maixent, the French infantry school, had no attraction for me. My journey back was uneventful, apart from the fact that it passed through strange country, which was an event in itself. But the main event was Paris. At that time, there was an order that every member of the Wehrmacht who was travelling officially, to or through Paris, was allowed to stop there for 48 hours to see the sights of the city. With a Pionierleutnant from another Silesian garrison town I too made the visit. We were accommodated in a double room of the Grand Hotel de l’Opéra. It was the hotel requisitioned for officers’ accommodation. To our pleasant surprise there was running, even if only lukewarm water.
It was a Sunday and Monday that we spent in Paris and we raced through the main sights of the town, as I wrote on 9 April to Father. We saw Les Invalides, the cathedral of Notre Dame, the Louvre, the Champs-Elysées and the Trocadéro.
On the Arc de Triomphe, where the changing of the German guard was just taking place, I discovered, among the names of Napoleonic battles and engagements engraved there, the name of Hollabrunn near Stockerau. Father had climbed the Eiffel Tower two years previously, in two and a half hours, counting the steps up to the top. However, at that time, we could only climb up to the restaurant on the first storey. But the view from there over the huge city was over-whelming and confirmed my impression that Paris was far greater than Vienna and Berlin.
In my Easter Sunday letter to Father, I told him of a good Easter sermon by a preacher from the Confessional Church in the Schweidnitz Parish Church. I thought that Father would have a lot to do over the Easter holiday in Cambrai. I reminded him of Mother’s birthday on 11 April, as I knew that Father easily forgot such family events.
On the journey back from Paris I managed to trick myself a day out to Stockerau. It had been easy, because the army leave trains from the Paris Gare de l’Est, left in the evening after 7pm, with a quarter of an hour interval between them. The train to Vienna was the later of the two. So because I did not catch the Breslau train, I ‘had to’ travel with the Vienna train, so to speak. I was able to make this easily understood to the railway authorities, and the guard, an old Austrian Reserveonkel, nodded understandingly.
When I arrived back in Schweidnitz I learned that the father of my comrade, Leutnant Ludwig, had died suddenly. With Oberleutnant Liebig who was also from Lignitz, I travelled there in order to attend the burial. The Ludwig family owned Vaters Hotel in Lignitz. The mourners assembled there in the salon. Oberleutnant Liebig was a ‘12-Ender’. A former Unteroffizier, he had risen to the rank of officer. He had married in Lignitz, but only seldom visited his wife. In fact he had a relationship in Schweidnitz with a singer at the Theatre. Paulchen Vogt had a small voice, was thin in build, but had a lovely nature. In Martha she had sung the part of Frau Flut.
Liebig was commander of the so-called Marschkompanie of the Ersatz battalion. All officers and soldiers passed through there after they had been wounded and had been in the convalescent company. Once they had been certified fit for combat again, they waited there to be sent back to the front. Liebig himself suffered from a stomach complaint. He and the core personnel were ‘GvH’, i.e. garnisonsverwendungsfähig Heimat, which meant they were fit for garrison service at home. Unfortunately, to my disappointment, I was the same. I was longing to be at the front and did not much enjoy life in the barracks.
Meanwhile, I had found an enjoyable activity. I was responsible for the war training of a Marschbataillon that had just been formed. It was composed of people who had not been old enough to fight in the First World War. They had only just been called up. The platoon and company commanders had no experience of the Eastern Front. I had to set up the service plan and supervise the training operations on the training ground and shooting range. Men from those age groups formed the ‘secret weapon’, was what we said mockingly. But the new weapon that would decide the course of the war, for which everyone was hoping, was nowhere to be seen.
In my service in connection with the Marschbataillon I was under no supervision. For example, I could allow myself the advantage of prolonging the lunch break. I spent it in the officers’ mess, followed by a visit to a coffee-house. How important those few visits to the coffee-house became, I will relate later in another connection.
I got to know the commander of the Marschbataillon that I had to train. He was a man with a remarkable history. Major Norbert Freisler was born about 1890 and came from Neutitschein in Moravia. He had already been an active officer in the old Imperial Austrian Army. In September 1914, something of which he was proud, as an Oberleutnant, he had been awarded the Militärverdienstkreuz III Klasse. But at that time he had immediately been taken prisoner by the Russians and had been in Siberia until about 1920.
He was one of the few officers who went into the Czech army, or rather who was taken over into the Czech army. He struggled during his service to reach the rank of Staff Captain. He said it was the highest rank he could attain as a German. After he was taken over into the Wehrmacht he became a Major. Because of his excellent command of Russian he was used with the Russian volunteer units, the so-called Vlassow-Armee. In the context of that service he was made commandant of the group of Lofoten Islands off the Norwegian mainland. He was a small, white-haired man, a ‘wiry’ character with an expressive face and a lively temperament. He liked chatting with me and could tell riveting stories.
The officers’ mess of our infantry barracks was, as is usual in barrack buildings, a separate building with several large lounges. Naturally, you only went to table when the commander had arrived, and only began to dine when he had picked up his spoon. The German army at that time was the first army in the world that made no distinction between the portions of officers and men. But the advantage of the food in the officers’ mess was that a good cook ran the kitchen and she was able to use the rations that were assigned more economically and to cook more appetisingly. So the food cooked there for perhaps 20 to 50 officers was much better and of greater variety than the food provided for the 1000 or more members of the Ersatz battalion and the training unit.
In the kitchen of the officers’ mess I got to know the famous Schlesische Himmelreich that until then I had only known from soldiers’ tales. It consisted of very soft, almost melting, yeast dumplings with stewed plums or mixed fruit. The unique point was the addition of finely diced smoked meat, through which the dish received a distinctively spicy flavour. After lunch I usually withdrew into one of the many armchairs, where you could stretch out your legs and doze undisturbed. To me the gentlemen’s evenings were no longer as exciting as they had been in Mörchingen. The reason was that by then only a minimal amount of alcohol was dispensed. Only on 20 April 1944, for the Führer’s birthday, was there a celebration dinner and unlimited drinks. I remember that, for me and my close comrades, it was an hilarious celebration. I played the piano, and it lasted well into the night. ‘Enjoy the war, for the peace will be terrible’, was the sarcastic refrain.