Our only treatment for this on the front line, was the ‘delousing station’, which was an old Russian Banja, i.e. a sauna. When pauses in battle allowed, we used it as often as we could. For us it was a civilised ‘island’ of only a few square yards, but in another world. We felt that we were in paradise. We used the opportunity to free our uniforms of our sub-tenants. Before the Russian revolution, such saunas belonged in every farmhouse and were now the remnants of an old-fashioned method of hygiene. Afterwards there was only a co-operative Banja, a public sauna.
Apart from physical exhaustion and deprivation, and of course not being hit by a bullet, one could be surprised at the condition of the German soldier, with our reduced rations. All could be described as ‘thin’, or as ‘lean’ when being diplomatic, even our commanders. This also applied to the civilians. Despite the war and the minimum of calories, the population were then much healthier. Much healthier than they are today. We also learned to live far more sparingly. We were thankful for the basics, even the smallest of comforts. The simplest of wishes for something to eat, to drink, and a roof over our heads, once fulfilled, we were ‘whole’ after every battle. It all activated our determination to live once more. A simple sauna, and the arrival of a special rat ion, brought about high spirits such as one cannot imagine, especially in the younger men.
When the soldiers were asked in letters from home, “Are you in good spirits?” we did not know how to answer. We would just love to have said “no”! However, so as not to cause misunderstanding and worry, we considerately used a minimum of words in answer, withholding the reality of the situation, and always said “yes”! It was not simply the fact that ‘only’ 2,000 kilometres lay between us, but also many months of horrendous experiences. Those were engraved on our souls, and had and did change us, the longer we survived.
Our appearance, which was mirrored in each other, did nothing to impress any longer. Our uniforms were patched, were no longer the strong dark ‘field-grey’, but from the dust, rain, mud and snow, a sorrowful pale tone. It no longer mattered how we looked, we didn’t mind how we looked, for a campaign was not a parade.
When the post-courier managed to get through, the post from home always raised our spirits very quickly. We were so thankful for post from our parents, girlfriends and friends, all having been written many weeks before. A single letter, or a small parcel, bound your home together with the Front and was a bond that could not be severed. There was so much love and human feeling in the sack full of post that was then distributed over the war-torn countryside. When one of our comrades from the country received a food parcel from home, it was shared, in a brotherly fashion, with the comrades from the city. Their families were restricted to food supplies provided by ration books. Those in the countryside were not so confined and the food parcels provided many a tasty morsel that was not to be had with coupons. In between times, anything coming from home was covered in printed bureaucratic stamps, giving information and warnings, including “Caution! flammable, especially in heath and forest areas”! This tickled our sense of humour and produced many a grin, for were we not in the middle of an inflammable area? Thereafter, in a sticky situation, one of us always warned the others, “Caution! flammable, especially in heath and forest areas”, when mortars exploded around us and the bombs fell!
My post did not seem to come as regularly, for want of a better word, as the others. In fact, mine was very sporadic, although the German field-post functioned quite well. It was well after the war that it became known that Dutch postmen deliberately destroyed post that was destined for the Eastern Front, out of opposition. Perhaps they were thinking that their ‘acts of heroism’ helped Stalin to victory?
The extreme temperatures lamed us into being almost unfit for battle, and things did not improve with the New Year. So our two-hour sentry duty was shortened. We were relieved after every half an hour. Although the sentry point was covered in thick straw, one could suffer very easily from frostbite by standing for any length of time. It often happened. If I remember correctly, one poor chap was found dead, leaning in sleep, at the edge of the trenches. It was not allowed for you to leave your post. ‘Spirits’, as an alcoholic immunisation were strongly forbidden. However, the Reds froze just like we did. But they thought that their vodka made them fit to fight, not only in winter. Modest in this habit they were not. Their craving was no ‘happy hour’ any more, but an uninhibited drunkenness. There was no wondering about it. A whole tumbler of vodka was drunk each time, i.e. 100% pure alcohol. In the wide open spaces of Russia and Siberia, 40 kilometres is no distance, 40° is no temperature, and 40% unmentionable as a spirit.
When there was a shortage of vodka, the ‘Ivans’ knew how to compensate. They suctioned alcohol from the exhausts of planes, and filtered it through the filter of their gas-masks, which cleansed the liquid to a good degree. Then they mixed the rest with a syrup, thus making it a more than acceptable liqueur, which they didn’t sip, but just tipped down their throats.
Over a very scratchy ‘tannoy’ we were subjected to Russian propaganda, as well as with leaflets, which we used as toilet-paper and to roll our cigarettes. It was a weapon used by the Soviets and part of their psychological war fare designed by their Military Directive. We heard top of the chart ‘hits’ of that time, I’ve seen you dancing, Oh Donna Clara. They were changed to propaganda slogans, aimed at our souls, and to coax us over to their side, such as “surrender to the victorious Red Army, and you’ll return home, straight after the war.” Another message was “here are girls waiting for you, and lots to eat”, at which we aimed a short volley in the direction of the loudspeaker, or until it was silenced. The next day however, the scratchy tones were to be heard on another section of the front.
The reaction to such rather attractive promises was somewhat varied, especially from the hot-blooded and gullible Spanish volunteers from the ‘Blue Division’. They believed what they heard. It was not to be wondered at, when remembering that they came to the Russian front and its merciless ice, from a land under the hot Iberian sun.
Not only the Russians, but the German Wehrmacht knew the power of printed words and promises, as a tactical and strategic means of war. The Waffen SS had three war-correspondent platoons, whose members were trained firstly as infantry. Then, upon reaching the strength of a battalion, they were posted to the Eastern Front. Later, as the Waffen SS Standarte ‘Kurt Eggers’, messages of the PK, i.e. Propaganda Company, were sent over the tannoys in perfect Russian. They produced very good results at first. The Russian soldiers deserted in hoards, and when their situation seemed hopeless, and success meant an expected high loss of men, the PK provided a bloodless alternative.
The mercilessness of this war, which attacked both sides, was something that we took as a matter of course, for we had not learned anything else. We learned that the fear that we all had at the beginning could be conquered. At some time it was, in all of us, unconsciously moulded into courage. Then we accepted a basic rule. When you were too slow to shoot and you didn’t hit your target, you died. You survived when you didn’t hesitate, and shot to kill. It was that simple. Gruesome, but simple. This bravery disappeared sometimes, especially when you were surprised. Unexpected surprises robbed you of assessment, particularly when masses of Russians, with screams of “Urra!” jumped out of their hiding places and surrounded you. Worse still, a pack of T34s could suddenly roll steadfastly at you from a birch wood with whirring 500PS motors, along with their indestructible confidence. Often those deadly surprises dampened even the strongest of the unshakeable.