As the convoy of trains finally reached the rolling Silesian countryside, snowflakes had fallen, framing the carriage windows, for winter had arrived in Silesia, in the middle of December. We arrived in the evening and wondered at the peaceful, undisturbed atmosphere and obvious daily routine in this, for us, unknown city of Breslau, for it held no signs of war. Cars and trams still fully lit, drove through glittering snow. A queue of people stood patiently outside a cinema, with its coloured posters. Children were skating on the town’s frozen moat. The trains still ran to their scheduled times from the main railway station in the town, and from Freiburg to the west.
Next to Dresden, Breslau was the only large city, until the end of 1944, that had not been bombed by the Allies. This important east German city grew during the war, from a population of 630,000 to nearly a million, with the storing of its industry’s war material, which had been transferred from the west. Both the government departments and the officials of the Ministries of Finance and for Foreign Affairs, were moved after heavy bombing raids on Berlin, to this eastern province. Breslau, as well as surrounding small towns and villages, was also the home of evacuees from heavily raided areas such as the Rhine and the Ruhr. It was the air-raid shelter of the nation, for thousands who had been bombed out of their homes.
It was time for us to find our barracks. They turned out to be in the ‘School of Infantry Replacement Training Battalions’, in Deutsch-Lissa, 8 kilometres west of Breslau. The three-storey, stone complex had been extended, with wooden-built houses for the regular army. It was of all places in one of those that I was quartered. It was no use wishing for our lovely warm quarters that we had left behind. We were, after all, outside during the day and were only in this ice-encrusted barrack to sleep. After we had given it a thorough clean, it was heated in the evenings after duty, by using a large, ugly, iron stove, until it glowed. It only left enough space in the middle of the room, so that the straw-sacks for our bunk-beds never caught fire.
Every day we exercised outdoors, with the infantry howitzers and mortars. Our numbers had grown and totalled a full battalion, with men from Pomerania and East Prussia, plus many from other units. Most had Front experience, but there were others who had just finished their training and were waiting for their baptism of fire. Some couldn’t wait for ‘a piece of action’, and others only said so to hide their fear. From our own 11th Company, we were now 120 men and grew into a close and faithful clique.
Unexpectedly, as we were exercising at the daily terrain training, a messenger reported that we must all return to camp straight away. There we had to assemble on the parade ground, in the snow. The assembled battalion was then informed, in few words but of military tone, the reason for our hasty return. We were then given our marching orders, but not before we were reminded that “every man must fulfil his oath to his flag and do his duty to protect his fatherland from the storm of the Bolsheviks”. Iron rations, live ammunition and extra daily rations were issued to us. Personal items, considered to be superfluous, were stored in the attic of the barracks. The post office suddenly filled with telegrams and hurriedly written letters to family and friends back home. For some, they would be their last letters. Others would eventually return home. We were sent off to the Breslau garrison, on the same day, as an independent regiment, SS Regiment Besslein, to ‘combat ready’ positions.
It was from southern Poland that the Russian Marshall Zhukov approached Breslau, with a strong and superior force. Despite ferocious German defensive actions, his advance could not be stopped. Marshall Koniev was also advancing, just as strong and supported by uncountable tanks, having crossed the Oder at Baranov. Both used bridgeheads to cross the river, which had been no hindrance, neither hoped for nor expected.
Stalin, fully aware of the problems on the Western Front, with the Ardennes offensive, asked the Allies if he could anticipate his own plans by eight days. He had dropped reconnaissance troops by parachute, in small groups, behind our lines. They were equipped with powerful radio sets, with the receiving range of two to three hundred kilometres. He knew precisely every move that we made. Our coded information, on fortification, strength of units, troop movement and, in particular, the combat areas of the Waffen SS who were feared by the Russians, was used against us for their plan of attack, by their military chief of staff. Information was also received from his undercover network of Russian workers in Breslau. They, amongst other things, befriended the refugees for the slightest information which would be of help, and that could also be passed on to our enemies.
With Breslau having been declared a ‘fortress city’ in the summer of 1944, it was therefore not surprising that the whole of the population was still there at the beginning of January 1945. As a junction for traffic, Breslau, which was in the heart of Silesia, was an open city and only wishful thinking could make it the classical fortress that it had once been. It was now protected by only a few lightly-built bunkers on the left bank of the Oder. Unfortunately, its military worth was vastly exaggerated.
The ‘fortification order’ from Berlin, had not been taken seriously enough by the region’s Gauleiter, who did very little for the defence of the town. The Gauleiter, Karl Hanke, did order anti-tank ditches to be made. But those were put near the former German/Polish border, along with other defensive installations, as part of ‘Operation Barthold’. All of it was too far away, and as it proved later, of absolutely no use in hindering the advance of the Russians.
Despite directives of evacuation for the city having been long since received, the plans to evacuate its citizens to safety, over a period of days, using hundreds of trains, were not put into operation until the town was already encircled. On 20 and 21 January, the echo of loudspeakers was to be heard on the streets, not only in the centre of the town, but on the outskirts too, advising the women and children to make their way to Oppenau and Kanth, but on foot.
Kanth for instance, lay twenty-five kilometres away from Breslau to the west. It was difficult enough to reach under normal circumstances, but by then it was plain murder, especially for women with small children. Temperatures of minus 20—30 degrees were nothing out of the ordinary in Silesia, or to have the Oder frozen over until March. In the previous two weeks over two feet of snow had fallen, always accompanied by bitter hoar-frost, and it lay on the roads. Many women did not even try to leave Breslau under those conditions, but many thousands did. They packed food and drink, wrapped themselves and their children in wool blankets over thick coats, and tied scarves over their heads. They packed their children in prams, small carts or sledges, and taking the older ones by the hand, they left the town. For them it was a fearful Odyssey, an inferno of ice and snow.
The women managed only the first few miles. Although the countryside was bathed in weak but cold winter sunshine, at mid-day the thermometer read no more than between 16—20 degrees below freezing. A wind began to howl, a cutting icy wind coming from the east. With incredible determination they tempted fate under unimaginable odds. They were to fail, despite their motherly instinct driving them further and further, to the point of exhaustion. They could no longer push the prams against the wind and even the sledges could not be pulled through knee-deep snow. So the mothers carried the children in their arms. The milk froze in the bottles, and some mothers faced the storm to breast-feed. The bitter wind knew no compassion.