The ear-shattering noise I had to endure all the while was almost unbearable. Worst of all was the firing of tank guns near me which sounded like huge timber boxes being smashed to pieces right beside my head. Several times I was quite close to the muzzle of a tank gun when it fired. Since it was almost at the level of my head, I always felt as if I myself had been blown up in the explosion and each time it became harder to shake off the numbness of my senses. Then again, if I ran around a tank I had to duck very low because the machine-guns were located far down and I did not want to get my head shot off.
The ground I was running on was terribly treacherous. One moment I could be on patches of deep snow and the next moment on smooth, slippery bits of ice and then again bounding over deeply churned up ground, trying to keep my balance. Tanks can swerve sharply and as I ran beside them I had to watch the turret for signs of danger on my side while trying not to fall flat on my face or be crushed under their tracks.
Once again, as on previous occasions, I experienced the feeling that tanks were like living creatures. There was the anguished squeal from over-stressed tracks, the sight of a tank backing away and spitting venomously like a cat at another tank bearing down on it, and then the “dead” tank with its gun askew and its life blood pouring out in huge clouds of black smoke.
As I strove to keep going, there seemed to be a pneumatic drill in my head getting louder and louder and I began to feel dizzy and see everything around me as if through a haze. At the same time I felt fully in control of the situation and I think this must again have been an occasion where my “computer mind” guided me. I always seemed to know what to do next and my actions were confident and deliberate.
I do not know how often I swapped vehicles or for how long I zig-zagged back and forth. It must have taken over a dozen swaps and a quarter of an hour before I was finally near enough to the edge of the battle-field to make a dash for safety. Diving into some bushes where I could safely recover my breath, as well as keep an eye on the fighting, I sat down to steady my nerves while contemplating my predicament.
Once again I was on my own, but this time there were far more Russians around and God knows how far their advance units had already progressed. What were my options? I could sit tight for a while and see how the battle went. With luck I might be able to latch onto a unit of my division that managed to survive the chaos. The alternative was to strike out in a westerly direction and try to get through one arm of the Russian pincer-movement in which I was caught. I would then have to keep going until I made contact with some German unit. My mind was made up by the appearance of Russian infantry who approached from my right keeping to a line between me and the scene of battle, now moving slowly away from me. It had become far too dangerous to stay, so I went for my second option and headed west, keeping to the limited natural cover available.
After walking for about ten minutes I was amazed to see Gerhard Wilkens ahead of me. He was sitting down talking with a soldier I did not know. They had not seen me and, as if guided by instinct, in a flash I had taken cover behind some bushes. In that moment I automatically made a decision that meant violating one of the cardinal rules that had been drummed into us recruits in Holland. If fragmented units have to break up into small groups in enemy territory, then the smallest viable number of men is three unless the circumstances are exceptional, in which case the number becomes two men. Nobody must be on his own if he can team up with at least a second man. I made up my mind to break the rule as the memory returned to me of how Wilkens had previously been prepared to jeopardise our lives for no good reason. Of course, I also knew nothing at all about the man with him and to what extent I could rely on him.
I could expect to be up against some very tricky situations and, if I teamed up with the other soldiers, Wilkens could always pull rank on me if I refused to support him in some decision of his. I was just not prepared to waste my life if I thought I had a better chance of rejoining my division on my own. Thinking back on the dangers I knew I would have to face, and remembering my decision in the light of it all, scares me now, but I recollect being quite calm at the time and absolutely resolved to go it alone. Seeing that Wilkens had a companion with him removed any feelings of guilt I had about not accompanying him.
I was not surprised that Wilkens had escaped the ambush. When the first tanks had appeared on the scene, a number of trucks and other vehicles managed to escape the line of fire by breaking out into the fields on our left and Wilkens had quite possibly been on one of them. There could have been any number of reasons why he subsequently abandoned his vehicle. I did actually feel awkward about not making myself known to the men, but then I would have had to give up my plan. So, being determined not to weaken, I just sat it out until they moved on a few minutes later.
I gave them a good start and then carefully set off in a direction a bit more southerly than the one Wilkens had taken. Natural cover became better and I was able to walk faster especially when I reached a thinly-planted wood. Now that the initial danger was behind me and I was moving freely, I experienced a lessening of tension. Suddenly I remembered, to my chagrin, that I had saved an especially large pat of butter for my tea and this had been with my kit when we were attacked. If only I had eaten it for my breakfast or put it in my belt-bag, it would not have been wasted! Ludicrous as these thoughts were, considering how lucky I was to be alive, they preyed on my mind for quite a while as I made my way.
After walking for about twenty minutes I was overjoyed to see a German open truck among the trees ahead of me. About a dozen soldiers were sitting on the back of it and a few more were climbing on. Just as I broke into a run, the driver started the engine and I waved frantically because I knew nobody could hear me if I shouted. I was still some distance away when the truck began to move and all I could do was to curse it as it disappeared from view. It was incredible that nobody had seen me and I was quite shattered that I had missed the truck by seconds. If only I had given Wilkens a few moments less of a head-start I would not have suffered this terribly bad luck, but now there was nothing for it but to continue my lonely walk.
Half an hour later I thought I was seeing a mirage. There was the same truck parked in a clearing ahead of me quite close to the edge of the wood; I easily recognised it by its identification symbols. But why was there not a soul in sight? Gingerly I stepped nearer; I did not want to call out and I initially thought that the engine had broken down and the men had to continue on foot. Suddenly I knew there was something terribly wrong and felt the hair rise on the back of my neck. Glancing around quickly, I noticed a grassy embankment just outside the wood. By making a small detour I was able to see round the other side of it.
A feeling of nausea immediately swept over me as my suspicions were confirmed. Over a dozen German soldiers lay dead. They had all fallen over on their faces and, clearly visible on the back of their necks was a neat bullet hole, a standard way Russian soldiers executed men they did not want to take prisoner. My horror at this discovery was mixed with another feeling that gave me an eerie sensation.
Schmidt had died in my place on the ammunition train, my observation duty in the fox-hole at Magnuszew had saved me when Russians attacked my battery, I alone had been transferred out of the suicide squad in which all the men must have perished, I had been on the fuel run when my other mates suffered casualties and now all soldiers on the truck that did not wait for me were dead. It was staggering to think that none of my mates had been hurt when I was around; it was only when some fluke had taken me away from them that they were harmed. Although all this had to be put down to pure chance, I clearly remember feeling devastated at the time and responsible for what had happened to the other soldiers, as if my absence had sentenced them to death. It is a fact that such guilt feelings among survivors of military action, or civil disasters for that matter, are perfectly normal even when they are not associated with strange flukes as in my case.