I was instructed to take over at that time and to remain there until I, in turn, was relieved, unless special developments justified my deciding to get back to my unit. When it was time to go, I slung my rifle onto my back, passing the strap over my head and shoulders so that I could crawl freely and move as unobtrusively as possible.
When I reached my comrade, he gave me a brief run-down on what he had seen of Russian troop movements and advised me to watch out for a build-up of forces. He also warned me that he thought the Russians had become suspicious because several times over the last hour he had noticed soldiers looking directly his way through binoculars.
I was now left on my own on a tedious stint that could easily last until nightfall. The foxhole was very deep, so I had to carry out all observations standing up. The only redeeming feature was the almost idyllic location. A narrow stream between me and the Russians meandered through the small valley and behind it the rising ground was lightly wooded. It was also pleasantly warm; there was a light breeze with clouds scudding across the sky. If the view had not been spoilt by the military array, it would have been perfect. I could see no human habitations and, if any work was being done in the fields or the woods, the Polish workers were keeping well out of sight.
Most of the Russian forces were assembled near the bottom of the valley, so I had a very good view of what was going on and would be able to make reasonably accurate estimates of numbers of troops and their equipment. The exercise ahead of me was going to be tiring, but relaxed vigilance might mean missing something important. I had some food with me and would, at least, not go hungry.
Standing in a foxhole in no-man’s land was a new experience. It was as if I was suspended in limbo between two worlds and I felt disturbingly vulnerable. I had enough room to move around and could lean comfortably against the edge of the foxhole while observing the Russians, but peering through the camouflage greenery was tiring and I began to get cross-eyed.
However, I was not alone in my vigil. Lying contentedly just a few yards away was a cow. She never moved from the spot, as she lay there chewing her cud and looking at me with her huge eyes betraying just a hint of dolefulness. I could not tell if she was hurt, or why she never moved, but felt glad that her presence was helping to alleviate any suspicions the Russian may have had of a German soldier being nearby. At the same time I was concerned that “Daisybell,” as I had now fondly christened her, might decide to move and block my view. It could turn out very hard to shift her without alerting the Russians to what was going on. That I called the cow “Daisybell” was just another example of the fact that I was still doing some of my thinking in English.
An hour passed while I made notes on Russian tanks, armoured vehicles, trucks and troop numbers, but then came a jarring development. I heard the whistle of a shell coming in my direction and knew it was going to hit the ground not very far from my foxhole. I ducked well down as it exploded about a hundred yards behind me. I was wondering whether the shell was meant to hit my battery or me, when more shells came whistling over, and they were getting closer.
It was now obvious that I was their target. Possibly they had seen either my mate or me as we crawled to or from the foxhole. The Russian fire continued over the next two hours, but I was puzzled by their method. The average firing rate was two to three shells a minute, with occasional short breaks in the firing. Although this was a low rate, it still added up to more than two hundred shells over the two-hour period. Surely a short and heavy barrage, using more guns, would have been a lot more effective and less wasteful of ammunition in the long run?
Despite the haphazard nature of the firing and the fact that the Russians had still not been able to score a direct hit, I was in a very sticky position. There I was, a sitting target, confined to my foxhole and without the option of taking alternative cover. There had been increased activity among the Russian units over the last two hours, so it was important that I keep up my observation.
Although my estimates of the strength of the Russian units did not indicate that there had been any increase, I was sure that a larger build-up of forces was taking place nearby. The sound of new arrivals could have been masked by the noise made by the running engines of vehicles within my field of vision.
Darkness was still a long time away and I foresaw my harrowing experience continuing for many more hours. Time passed and the Russians began to step up their rate of fire. Gradually their accuracy also improved and I found myself occasionally being showered with soil thrown up from small craters that began to appear around me. Then the situation began to get desperate.
The sudden, short whistle of a shell warned me that I was in for a direct hit and I flung myself down onto the bottom of my foxhole. The next moment there was a deafening crash as a shell exploded right beside me. I felt numbed and dizzy as my breath was whipped away by a blast of dust and fumes when one wall of the foxhole was blown in.
I was buried under a mound of soil until I groggily managed to force my body back up through it. Desperately gasping for breath, I began to choke when all I got was air still laden with dust and cordite fumes. Before I had fully recovered, I was urgently re-excavating my protective foxhole, now reduced to a shallow crater. Using my short army spade I worked as quickly as I could and then replaced the camouflage.
I could not believe my eyes when I suddenly noticed “Daisybell.” There she lay, as if nothing had happened, the expression on her large face quite unchanged. I myself was still numb and my ears had not stopped ringing, while I felt a claustrophobic helplessness, restricted as I was, to just a hole in the ground.
Over the next few hours the pattern of events was repeated without change. The Russians continued to fire in fits and bursts; I had more occasions to dig myself free after near-misses and “Daisybell” also survived, as inscrutable as ever. Amazing as it was that I had not been killed, it was an even greater miracle that my cow was unhurt and seemed to be immune to the shells exploding around her. She did not even utter one single Mooh! of complaint.
As it grew late, things became quiet and, with dusk approaching, I began to feel rage that nobody had come to relieve me. Eventually darkness began to fall and I decided to make my way back to the battery.
I had barely come to this decision when I heard the din of fierce fighting suddenly erupt from the direction of my battery. The sound of machine-gun and rifle fire mingled with heavy explosions and I could hear the hard revving of the engines of our self-propelled guns. The next moment I was sprinting for all I was worth across the churned-up ground towards the battle-scene.
When I got to the small wood, I slowed down in case I ran smack into any Russians. I thought it best to make a quick circuitous movement to the west of the scene of action and so have a better chance of joining up with my comrades. As I moved between the trees, I became suddenly aware of other soldiers around me who were walking in almost the same direction. To my horror, I realised that they were Russians! Even now, sixty-four years later, I have a clear picture in my mind of the outline of the trees and the spectral shapes of the Russians as I made my heart-stopping way among them.
There was no question of suddenly stopping or diving to the ground; I had to keep on moving and do nothing which could attract their attention. Slowing down slightly, I took advantage of a broad tree to whip off my steel helmet – its distinctive outline could easily betray me. As I concentrated on following the deepest shadows I gradually managed to work my way out of the group, praying that nobody would decide to speak to me. Once clear of the soldiers, I stopped to take stock of the situation.