They were not always empty. We coaxed the Red Army men hiding here and there, with cries of Tovarisch, idi syuda! i.e. “Come out comrade!” When they didn’t, we threw a grenade through the small windows. In its thin metal casing it caused more dust with its detonation and air-pressure, than damage. If lucky, the ‘Ivan’ came out, deathly pale, with raised hands and only a splinter or two in his wadded jacket, or some slight wound.
We left the houses, to the noise of MG fire and of mortars. The wounded, the numbers of whom were extensive, were transported away to the first-aid stations. The dead lay on the road, melting into the landscape just as the empty ammunition boxes, destroyed weapons and the black craters left by bursting shells. It was a picture of macabre madness, the reality of which we no longer assessed because we had seen such death and doom so often.
Despite everything we had reached our objective. The village was now in our hands, but the enemy did not fully retreat. We were still under fire from the furthest corners of the wood and from outlying houses. Then it was my turn. I was only slightly wounded and did not notice at first. I only noticed when my left glove, green in colour, turned red with blood. Very quickly my ‘cammo’ jacket was fully smeared as well. A bullet or a splinter, I do not know which, had grazed my thumb, cutting it open. The pity of it was that it was not grave enough for me to have ‘home rehabilitation’! It was none the less very painful, and pained me for years after, especially when being pressed, probably because a nerve had been severed.
The first-aid station I found to be a small wooden church. It had however not been used as such in a very long time. From the outside one could see it had been spared any battle damage. The damage was to be seen inside, for without respect for religion, the Communists had used it as a warehouse for their local Co-operative. It gave a very neglected appearance and once again deepened our opinions of the blunt and soulless Stalin regime. There was no longer a belfry, wooden slats hung on a nail, and the windows had been knocked out. Where any colour could be seen, it was now faded, or dry and peeling. In that ignominious house of faith, the wounded had been brought to the lap of God and they now prayed for help. One could almost believe that, for some, God was a delusion, a figment of the imagination, produced out of the very human fear of dying.
In taking the village, we now had to make ourselves comfort able in keeping it defended. We used any remaining houses with a roof and four walls that might offer protection from the bitter cold. With our losses we could not and did not think of following the enemy. We were happy to have fulfilled our mission and hoped to hold our positions for as long as possible. But sleep we could not. The enemy was not so considerate and had obviously sent for reserves, as the infantry fire had increased. Only at night did it subside a little.
Reserves we had none, either to give us support or to relieve us. Our base was too far away and they needed every ‘man-jack’ that they had. When we were out on our own the expectations were no less than the opposite extreme. As a close-knit unit we still gave our all. We were happy for the roof over our head, and the four walls to keep out the biting cold.
We were very happy therefore, when after a few days, we received orders from the regiment to with draw. From information from interrogated prisoners and from our scouting patrols, they knew that the enemy was drawing nearer to us, with reserve troops followed by tanks. Not even we, with our battalion in its present condition, could hold out against those numbers. They were too overwhelming. Our decimated units would have inevitably been destroyed. It was at daybreak that we secretly prepared for our retreat. Silently we left the village that had been so important to capture. We hoped that we would not be followed by the ‘Ivans’. Our fears were unfounded. The Red Army suffered with the bitter cold just as we did. They would be happy to exchange their wooded posit ions in the open, for our warm quarters that we had left behind.
Instead of them, large flocks of black crows accompanied our retreat, in an en tourage of worrying and rowdy numbers. Their cries mocked and laughed at us, as they flew and dived over our heads. When a birch wood appeared along the way then they would sit in the snow-laden trees, their cries ringing in the air. We, in this section of the centre of the Eastern Front, could not stop the marching Red Army now with a counter-attack. Back at our base, we let ourselves be snowed in and waited.
Christmas was nearly over and only now did we wish one another, with a lot of irony, “Merry Christmas!” Christmas Eve had come and gone and we had not noticed. In the heat of the moment, or rather the heat of the battle, it was simply forgotten. That night of Christmas Eve, that night of ‘peace on earth and goodwill to all men’, was spent in positions, under siege from the enemy, in night hours that seemed unending. The night was full, with nothing else but death for some, pain for others and for all, hunger and barbaric cold. At home, we could imagine with certainty that all sat under the Christmas tree. We did not. As the end of the year came, we sank deeper into that inhuman war. The fight however must go on. Was there any other choice? Could we leave Stat in to march into the heart of Europe as he intended? Not at any price!
Our quarters were right at the front of the main front-line. It was a large man-sized bunker to house twelve men. It had an exit to the trenches and was safe enough when not receiving a direct hit. Two layers of thick birch trunks lay crossways to form the roof, and thin stems held the walls together. We had an iron stove and that, together with a thick wall of snow, held a comfortable, containing warmth. The stove was not lit during the day, its smoke giving our positions away to the enemy, but straw gave enough body warmth for those not having guard duty. We heated this stove at nights and used our coats as blankets, sometimes having two, the second being from a fallen comrade.
The German soldier was subjected to a ‘plague’ in Russia. It was an invisible and secret weapon of the ‘Ivans’! Our bunker could protect us from enemy fire, and a house from the cold, but there was nothing that could protect us from the overpowering effects of this ‘plague’. Lice! This revolting little beast had attacked every soldier on the Eastern Front and didn’t like the cold any more than we did. It took ground cover during the day, for we hardly felt it, but in the warmth of the bunker at night, they went on scouting patrol. The itching was literally unbearable, but it was not only that which plagued us. It was the pus oozing from bite wounds that we had scratched, and which froze skin to parts of our uniform. Sleep was impossible and so we became hunters at night. We went on a lice-hunt, for they marched cross-country over breast, spine and legs. We bagged as many as eighty of the little beasts on each man, squashing them with our thumb nails. We were always covered in minute and bloody puncture marks, evidence that they had reached their target in their battle for blood, our blood, from which they fed. Their favourite targets were body parts rich with blood and covered in hair.
It had been very noticeable, upon first sight of the Russian soldier, that his hair was not only cut short, but it was shorn. Now we knew why. For the German soldier this ‘lousy’ chapter of the East Front overshadowed any other experiences. They were far worse than the bugs and cockroaches. Those little beasts were rife not only in Russian houses but in the open air too. Nor did they differ en tiate when it came to rank, they were not fussy. No one was spared, neither a grenadier nor the General himself!