For the Waffen SS it was no problem, their very sober and professionally trained superiors taking care of this. “Much later, this cleft between the Waffen SS, constantly at the heart of heavy fighting on the front, and the inexperienced ‘home-guard’ could not have been greater”, to quote Felix Steiner, from his book Die Freiwilligen.
“Produce a fully functional motorised division to our present quality and in six months!” was the order received by General Steiner in 1940, in forming the ‘Wiking’ division, to be made up mostly from volunteers from west and northern Europe. “This duty was a novelty, the planning of which in face of the heavy psychological fundamentalism, being a venture in itself,” wrote Steiner later. That he was the right man, in the right place and time, was with the trust and devotion of his men proven, at a later date, with his military success.
The cadre of the new division was made up of non-commissioned officers and officers from peacetime and two campaigns. They cared for their westerly comrades in an almost brotherly fashion, without any signs of arrogance towards their men. On the contrary, frankness was nurtured and they moulded their young volunteers, who were willing ‘to go to hell and capture the devil’, into iron-hard soldiers, not only in a professional way but also as comrades.
Munich was the training centre for the first of the Dutch and Flemish recruits. That was a good decision. The town, situated on the river Isar, with its happy rhythm of life and cultural attractions, would suit the ‘full of life’ Dutchmen. But not all who applied were accepted. The very strict Commission refused the majority of applicants, only accepting 45 from the first 455 Flemish volunteers. Hans Werner Neulen wrote, “The European volunteers were, in the majority not adventurers, foreign legionnaires, mercenaries or private soldiers.” They were from amongst the sons of diplomats and officials, from industrial families, aristocracy and high society, or gold med al list students from the Jesuit schools. In amongst those candidates, was the leader of a Belgian catholic students’ society, with the name of Leon Degrelle. More than half the recruits, from 1940/41, were aged between seventeen and twenty-five.
My brother Evert followed the dictate of his conscience and belonged to those willing to make a sacrifice for his fatherland, in the Europe of the future. So he donned the uniform of the enemy, taking the opportunity offered to him by the Waffen SS and in September, arrived in Munich, at the Freimann barracks. At the turn of the century Ezra Pound, the American poet, had written, “when a man is not willing to take risks for his convictions, these convictions are of no worth and neither is he”. Those were the words of this idealist who was popular in the forties.
For the Christmas of 1940, Evert, after three months of very hard training, marched through our garden gate in his field-grey uniform, a death’s head adorning his cap and on a black arm-band, the silver regimental emblem of the ‘Westland’. It was to be the first and the last Christmas that he spent at home, as a soldier. He passionately related how the previous three months in far-off Bavaria had been, to us his younger brothers and sisters, who listened intently.
Despite strict Prussian drilling, which extracted the very last reserves that the men could give, my brother was very enthusiastic about everything that he had seen, from his superiors and from the comradeship among those young men. He told us just as passionately, about the motives of his comrades and brothers-in-arms and those motives corresponded with my own opinions. There was definitely no connection, for the volunteers, with National Socialist ideology. Political lessons were given, just once weekly, for an hour.
For my brother Evert, it was very doubtful that I, his younger brother would, or could withstand this very hard training. I was not grown up enough, an opinion which I would not accept. I decided to follow him and nothing would deter me. My parents did not object although, naturally enough, they had their worries. At the same time they decided that a form of training with the accent on athletics would not do any harm. The war was not in fifth gear by any means. The majority thought that it would end shortly, but nonetheless Evert and I did not want to miss out. Our ambitions for a new Europe, we knew, would not be realised by lounging around in dressing gowns and slippers. A few months later, I presented myself at the recruiting centre at number 60, Queen’s Canal and was received by German Waffen SS Officers, experienced in front warfare. They were a very strict selection board, every second candidate being rejected.
Ten days later, on 30 April 1940, the recruits had to muster at the Zoo in the Hague, with their cases, rucksacks and cardboard boxes, where they were given a farewell with an official speech and flowers. Only a few days before, I had taken part in my mother’s birthday party, decorating her chair in family tradition with green leaves and flowers, then going my way after a happy celebration. The sound of martial music mixed with that of the whistle from the steam-engine, as our train pulled out of the ‘Staatsspoor’ railway station, in the direction of Germany. My war-wandering years had begun.
CHAPTER 8
My Training in the Waffen SS
Although the British Air Force had not produced any significant damage up to the spring of 1941, the BBC broadcasts exaggerated reports of successful bombing raids over Germany. According to those reports, the Reich’s armaments industry had been destroyed and the cathedral in Cologne razed to the ground, although when travelling in the Ruhr, everything was just as normal as the day before. Happy farmers smilingly waved as they worked in the fields, smoke issued forth from factory chimneys and when driving over the Hohenzollern Rhine-bridge, the cathedral could be seen stretching into the sky, as usual.
A scene that never ceased to impress us was that of the Rhine banks, the 200 kilometres between Cologne and Mainz in particular, with its steep rock cliffs on either side, medieval ruined castles and the picturesque wine-producing villages, nestling on the river bank. When surrounded by the cherry orchards in full bloom in the spring, it was particularly beautiful. So was the region around Sennheim in upper Alsace. Our destination for our battalion’s training was at the foot of the Vosges, not far from Mülhausen, our barracks being a converted, former psychiatric hospital. One of the seven large stone houses surrounding a towered building became our home.
After a welcoming speech, we were separated into companies and our colourful civilian clothes exchanged for the field-grey, Prussian, ‘straight-jackets’. We took care that every button and hook was fastened, even when the collar was too tight and rubbed. Sport played a very large role in Sennheim, sports clothes being issued too and suddenly we realised why we volunteers had been so rigorously selected. ‘Praise be to all that toughens!’ being the favourite saying, which we were to hear time and time again from our instructors. They were all very experienced athletes, never expecting anything from us that they could not demonstrate themselves. This not only gave them a strong air of authority, but it spurred us on as well. Needless to say, by boxing, my first injury was a broken nose and it was not to be the last, by any means.