Here we fought with the stubbornness so much admired by the High Command, solely because we still hoped there might be some sort of launch left at the end to take us out after the last civilian had been evacuated. We had to hold on, even if despair had separated us from all other human conditions. At Memel, no one could stay out of the fighting; children and young girls dried their tears and helped the wounded, distributing food, resisting their desire to devour it, and suppressing horror and fear which were so fully justified. They performed tasks which their overburdened elders gave them, without argument or complaint. One either died or lived; no intermediate condition could be given any consideration. The children all felt this fact, without discussion or explanation. Those who survived this dramatic training would never be able to take the normal difficulties of normal life seriously. The German people really experienced the depth of things, and left me with an ineffable feeling of respect, which I can describe no further.
In the disorder of our advanced positions, civilians sometimes became directly involved in the fighting beside the soldiers; these civilians were often women. At the price of heavy sacrifice, the front held. By “held” I mean that it did not crumble altogether. In fact, it was constantly yielding in one or several places, and constantly shrinking. The long anti-tank trenches we had dug beforehand played a large part in the consolidation of our defense. The Russians depended above all on their aviation and their heavy artillery — which they strengthened constantly to knock us out.
Nonetheless, their attacks cost them heavily. The contraction of our front allowed us to concentrate our defense. Memel was ringed with innumerable carcasses of Russian tanks, and there were as many anti tank gunners as there were ordinary soldiers. Carloads of mines were driven out by civilian volunteers and placed in front of our defenses by the infantry in the course of small counter-attacks organized solely for this maneuver. We were defenseless only against aviation. Russian fighterbombers flew over continually. To the northwest of our position the remains of several dismantled railway carriages underwent eight attacks in two days. What was left of our anti-aircraft defense was concentrated around the piers, where the peril was greatest. This target constituted a real danger to the Russian pilots, who preferred to attack the rest of the stronghold, where there was no serious resistance.
Thus, despite the hell of cold and fire and shortage, despite the names scratched daily from our lists, Memel, almost incredibly, held. Then, one gray afternoon, some elements of our famous division were regrouped at a precise point. Ammunition for an offensive was handed out, and we were given two tins of food each, without regard to the contents. Some received a pound of apple sauce, others a pound of margarine. However, these variations seemed insignificant compared to the fact that the ghost of German military organization was still functioning during those days of grace on the fringes of a disintegrated city, which would still be known as Memel for a short time. Supplies, although obviously rationed to the limit, were still distributed before an offensive. Incredible as it may now seem, the vestigial remnants of the German Army in Memel were to attempt an offensive to the south, whose aim was to re-establish contact with the front at Cranz and Königsberg. The officers who prepared the maneuver issued their directives to the disillusioned ears of combat veterans.
Hals and I were jolted from the void in which we had grown used to living. We were accustomed to the most astounding orders, but this time the fact that we were going to hurl ourselves into an assault with the incredibly slender means available to us made us tremble and reel with uncontrollable vertigo.
A few tanks which were still intact would support our progress. Materiel which belonged to the Courland soldiers, and even some from Germany, had been delivered. We were to proceed to a village some ten miles to the south, on the road which followed the coast, beside a large bay. The commanding officer of the operation chose a moment of appalling weather to launch his offensive. It was simultaneously snowing and raining. The atmospheric conditions were so disastrous that even the Russian artillery had practically stopped functioning. It was this circumstance which our leaders hoped to exploit on our last, lunatic expedition.
A dozen dirty-gray tanks went out to meet an inexorable fate. The black crosses painted on their gray sides, the color of our misery, were scarcely visible. Inside the turrets, the “Ride of the Valkyrie” was coming over the short-wave radios — a fitting accompaniment to supreme sacrifice. Decrepit trucks carrying field pieces and heavy machine guns followed close behind, replacing the full-track caissons of Panzergrenadiers of our prosperous days. A mass of infantry, mixed with the remnants of naval and aerial groups, ran along beside the motorized materiel. My group, in which, to my joy, I recognized the faces of Hals and Wiener, were clinging to the exposed chassis of an automobile which had been stripped of its skin.
With ludicrous ease, our point units surprised a camp of Russian armor lined up under the snow as if on parade. The Russians. staggered by this absolutely unforeseen blow, abandoned the camp, which we burned, using one of our special incendiary techniques. A supply of Soviet fuel allowed us to think of pushing our offensive even farther, and we went on, despite the gusts of wind which lashed our hands and cheeks. Several concentrations of Russian troops gave way before our surprise thrust.
However, the enemy was massed around Memel in depth, and as soon as they struck back, our thrust came to an end. We could hear the first Russian reaction, and knew that we would soon be inundated by a merciless rain of fire, and that the first Russian tanks were already rolling toward us.
As things were reaching a critical point for us, we heard artillery fire from the sea. The bad weather prevented us from seeing the ships just off shore, but their providential fire fell on the Red tide as it moved toward us. Two or three destroyers or torpedo boats had come especially to support us. Despite zero visibility, the coordinates supplied by our tanks in forward positions enabled the ships to fire with considerable precision, and the Russian thrust was more or less stopped. It was also possible that the Russians, who were further inland, misjudged the source of our fire, and supposed that we possessed more ground artillery than we actually did.
However, none of this made any real difference. The Russians possessed infinitely greater means than we did. Toward the end of the day, our meager operation was attacked along a flank of some six miles. This was much more than we could take. Soon half our tanks were on fire. As foreseen, we had failed and were ordered to return to Memel — six miles back the way we’d come — which was far more difficult than the way out.
We abandoned the road we had followed for our last, epic attack except for our motorized materiel, which separated as widely as possible when the Russians fired. In the darkness, striped with thousands of lights, breathless troops were running across the dunes from one hole to the next, valuing each step which brought them closer to Memel. As a crowning blow, the column had to cross a stretch of road we ourselves had mined that morning.