The following morning I was roused from a deep sleep at five o’clock. I felt refreshed, but my joints were still a bit stiff after the previous day’s long march and I could expect another equally long day of foot-slogging ahead of me. Before we started off, I purposely manoeuvred my way to a position near the head of the marching column because of what I had experienced on previous occasions. What had happened was that when the soldiers got to be extremely tired the columns became more and more strung out and gaps opened up. Although these closed again, it spoiled the rhythm of marching and I found it especially tiring having to close up repeatedly. Knowing that men who dropped out on forced marches often had to be left behind to fend for themselves, I was determined that I would not march under avoidably adverse conditions if I could do anything to prevent it.
The countryside we passed through was fairly flat, but it was densely wooded and very attractive in its covering of crisp snow. One drawback of the snow was the lack of contrast and the never-ending whiteness that spread as far as the eye could see. As I became more tired, the landscape lost its attractiveness and began to have a psychologically negative effect on me, in the same way as when I was walking through woods for days on end. There were times when my eyes became strained from the reflection of the sun on the snow, but I never actually suffered snow-blindness or saw snow turning red before my eyes as happened to men walking through snow for weeks on end. Marching in a column with my eyes fixed on the back of the soldier in front of me cut out a lot of the glare, but I still found myself closing my eyes for periods at a time, especially after I became very tired. As I became more exhausted during the day, I felt myself walking almost like a zombie with my legs moving automatically and my mind a blank.
I suppose that in a situation like this, a person will economise on any unnecessary physical or mental drain on his energy. Often, while I walked with my eyes closed, I had quite lengthy naps before being rudely awakened by my boots knocking against those of the man in front of me, or being kicked by the feet of the man behind me who was probably having a nap just like I was.
When our day’s march finally came to an end and I was able to let myself drop down exhausted, I wondered whether my weary limbs would ever obey my commands again. At the same time I knew that I had overcome the threshold of pain and had been able to continue marching for hours afterwards, so I supposed that the same thing would happen the next day and I would just go on and on for as long as was required.
That night we were again accommodated in abandoned buildings and after we had finished our evening meal an NCO came around to instruct us about new units to which we had been assigned. When my turn came I heard that I was to join an ammunition transport unit the next day; a few of the soldiers in my accommodation would join artillery units, while the bulk of the men were destined for the infantry.
Well, the Division Hermann Göring was obviously not going to produce new self-propelled guns by magic for my benefit, but how lucky that I was not to become a foot-slogging infantrist. Ammunition transport sounded like heavy work and I was surprised that they had picked a light-weight like me for it, but then I was probably just a number on a list when they made their selection.
At that point in time I knew nothing about the dangers I would be exposed to when going on cross-country supply runs, effectively unprotected on the back of a truck. All I could think of was that the new job suggested to me wheels and re-acquired mobility. Surely this was a sign that luck was still faithfully remaining on my side?
16
BEHIND THE RUSSIAN LINES
The following morning I got a lift from a truck that brought me to my new destination where I reported to the Oberfeldwebel (staff-sergeant) in charge of my new unit. He explained that we were part of a larger supplies system and that our unit consisted of eighteen men, including drivers and co-drivers. We had three trucks and our main job was the transport of heavy shells for flak-artillery, but it could also be medium and light shells, medical supplies or food.
Our trucks were all of Italian make, pride of place going to a huge, immensely powerful, open 7-ton Alfa Romeo which also pulled a large trailer. Then there was a 5-ton Lancia, again open-deck which was a great “mud-plugger,” that is it could keep going through terrible conditions of mud and slush. Finally, there was a 3-ton Fiat with a tarpaulin-covered loading area. The Fiat was our only truck with a petrol engine. In general appearance it was like a Volkswagen van with a rounded front end and no protruding engine bonnet, but it was much larger. The blunt front end made it tremendously manoeuvrable in woods and on narrow tracks and it could accelerate extremely quickly.
The purpose of our unit was threefold. Firstly, it was to collect loads from main supply depots and bring them to the ammunition dumps of batteries in action. Secondly, to shift shells from front line dumps to new action spots. Thirdly, to bring ammunition, food and medical supplies to German units cut off by the Russians. The 105-millimetre shells we carried were packed two at a time in timber cases which weighed just over one cwt (approx.. 51Kg) each, while the 88-millimetre shells were packed three at a time in wicker cases of similar weight.
On my first run we used the Lancia to bring shells to the front lines. Six of us, apart from the driver and the co-driver, travelled with the truck and I soon learned what a hard job I now had to do. During loading, two of my mates stood on the truck and two others stood at the stacked shell cases in the depot, while another man and I did the carrying.
The procedure was that a shell case was placed high up on my shoulders and I gripped the end above my head with both hands to steady it. The distance of some twenty-five yards to the truck was covered at a fast walk, almost a jog-trot, and when I got there, I had to turn around so that the bottom end of the case rested on the loading edge of the truck. The two men there took over my case and commenced stacking on the truck. Tough as the loading job was, the unloading turned out to be much more strenuous. First of all, the dump to which we delivered the cases was at least fifty yards from the approach road and, secondly, we had to carry the cases through undergrowth, over tree roots and rocks; and all this at a jog-trot.
On subsequent runs we used to switch around our tasks, but I found that handling the boxes on the truck itself was often even more strenuous since I had to do a lot of lifting while bending down. I also had to slide the cases along the truck floor and push or pull them into place where they were stacked, all of which was harder on the spine than the ordinary carrying.
How grateful I was for my logging training in the Labour Service, which had taught me to lift and carry with minimum strain to my back, because it was no mean task for a slim eighteen-year-old to handle one hundredweight loads under such difficult conditions and over prolonged periods. I did not mind so much carrying the wicker cases. Being flexible, they distributed the load evenly across my shoulders, but the timber cases were an absolute curse even though they were no heavier. Their sharp edges dug into my flesh, as if to the bone. Then, being so smooth, they tended to slide down my back, forcing me to uncomfortably bend lower and grip them harder during my already torturous journey. As if all this was not enough, it was normal to keep the truck’s diesel engine running during loading and unloading, so the atmosphere became heavily polluted. In conditions of winter fog I found myself choking on air saturated with exhaust fumes when I needed all the fresh oxygen I could get into my lungs. Sometimes the driver and co-driver would join in, but they were not obliged to and usually did odd chores on the vehicle while waiting for us to finish our job.