It was at dawn that Soviet infantry, supported by a mass of tanks, attacked our front lines. Because of the lack of ammunition, we had no support from our own infantry. We did have local support from a handful of infantry gunners in open positions, who were guarding one of the city’s gates. Their very last shell killed one of the enemy’s forward artillery observers, who obviously wanted to defy death. Our losses on that day were simply horrendous. Our battalion had to retreat to Leuthenstrasse and it was there that I was wounded. It was the third time and only eight days before the end of the war. I cannot say that I saw the end of the war in those seconds, but I re member in my unconscious that I was terrified at the thought that I had not lived to see its end. Our group had been in the ground floor of a block of flats badly damaged by tank-fire but which gave us protection. We had a very good view of the enemy. In fact we had the upper hand, except for a sniper who gave us a bad time. We could not replenish the ammunition badly needed by our grenadiers. So I decided to handle this problem myself, without any thrill of victory or the courage of a hero, but because I was just frustrated and angry.
In a series of jumps and leaps I reached the third floor of the half-destroyed staircase and fired a whole machine-gun magazine into the dark windows opposite, in the direction I thought he was to be found. If this action of mine were to be examined under a military microscope, the first criticism would be that it should have only been carried out by one of our snipers, who had marksman experience. The result was obvious. As if I had received a blow from an iron bar, my rifle fell suddenly from my hand. In reflex, I grasped at thin air for support. I felt absolutely no pain. Perplexed, I watched blood pour from the arm of my jacket and I looked at my lifeless arm, hanging towards the ground, without any strength to move it. I had received a shot through my lower arm.
The phenomenon of not feeling pain for some hours after being wounded, is ‘not unusual’, to quote Dr. Peter Bamm, military doctor and surgeon from the Second World War. “We were to experience this phenomenon time and time again. It is causation. The brain is able to block off the effects from the cause. It blocks the entrance in the middle part of the brain responsible for pain, even during the physical efforts of battle. The pain begins only hours after”. That is exactly what happened with me, but aft er this had happened I was overcome with a dread of dying, almost knotting my throat together.
I found a first aid station in the Andersen School, in the cellar, visible to the outside world with a small white rag with a red cross. It showed us the entrance to which I had been accompanied by a comrade. On the schoolmaster’s desk a towel had been spread, upon which an array of instruments had been laid, scalpel, tweezers etc, but I was only to receive two injections here, one in my upper-arm and one in my buttocks. A Red Cross sister undid my trousers which had been newly issued to me. Without any ado, she administered the injections, hung a card around my neck and sent me packing to the nearest surgeon. The impression I received was one of robots working on an assembly line. The wounded were in the school, where the desks had been piled one on top of the other, along the wall, to give space for them. After being attended to they had to wait for transport. The doctor, the nurses and the medics were oblivious of the shuddering walls and floor, when a shell landed nearby. There then followed an epilogue, the moans of the wounded, echoing the suffering of mankind. I was happy to leave that place. We, for I was accompanied by two other walking wounded, made our way in the direction of Schweidnitzerstrasse, to where we all had to go. On the way, near the main line of resistance, we heard gramophone music which became louder and louder, coming from the ground floor of a bomb-damaged house.
One could not call it a pub, but at first sight we saw soldiers and civilians indulging in a release of feelings, emotion or worry, call it what you will. They were drinking and enjoying themselves and forgetting the war. One can really say that they were dancing on top of the volcano, and not very far away from hell! We could only stand, stare and wonder at the paradox of lustiness that we saw. Perhaps my injections had dulled my senses, for I, together with the other two, indulged in a beer. I had just missed death by a hair’s breadth. I believe that one can understand that I wanted, just for a moment, to switch off from the gruesome daily routine and enjoy the frivolity that we had found in what was a very strange place. It was a ‘dive’, perhaps that would describe it correctly and it might have housed deserters. I did not care about the past, with its examples of composure, or stiff upper-lips. I just did not want to know. The wounded soldier is also a member of mankind, and in the split second that he is wounded, he is thrown from the warrior’s tracks and becomes a helpless creature. A creature who had given his innermost, making his contribution to world history, giving his energy in the direction of the enemy without thinking about himself, until he sees the flow of his own blood. He is then not able to help himself.
We found Medical Centre No.5, between the Church of St Dorothy and the City Theatre, in the ante-room of the wine cellar of the restaurant, “The Hansa Cellar”. A military doctor, two Red Cross sisters, a medic and other auxiliaries attended to about fifty wounded soldiers. My arm by now was really painful and extremely swollen. My dressing was changed and my arm put into a splint. I was then given a bed in the damp cellar, where the wounded slept in bunk beds, three on top of one another and I was allocated one on the top. The cellar ceilings were low and I had to fold myself up in order to climb into it. Those badly wounded slept on the lowest bunks. My neighbour, who had a blood-drenched bandage around his head, offered me as a welcome relief a flask which was against all of our regulations, but which contained brandy.
After a while I could ascertain that we were a very mixed bunch, from the air force, army, and Volkssturm. Two sailors were there, who at the time of the siege had been on holiday in Breslau, and afterwards were conscripted into the infantry. I was the only member of the Waffen SS, despite the fact that we had had very many wounded.
On the whole, I could build a very good picture from the reports of the men from different sectors of the front. It did not look very rosy. I gleaned something else from their reports about mankind. The actions of those men, in their reports of the situation at the front, were tinged with smouldering anger. What could not be ignored was the furious rage of the attacking enemy, always without consideration of their own men, which was confirmation of my own experience. We exchanged experiences in cold facts, almost without emotion and I heard incredible stories, almost unbelievable. That they themselves had been in battle, under primitive conditions for months on end, was spoken in a whisper. It appeared that they had forgotten that they were former labourers, farmers, clerks or students. That was all a long time ago, it seemed. Now they were highly qualified specialists in close-combat. For stratagem, spirit of comradeship and quiet acts of heroism, when mentioned, were without a hint of pathos.
The doctor and his assistants, despite primitive conditions, attended to our needs in the damp rooms of the cellars, twenty-four hours a day. They used their medical know-how and technical guile to save lives, which in another part of the city were being destroyed. Every day the newspaper of the Festung, the Schlesischen Tageszeitung, was still being printed. On the first page of the edition for 28 April 1945, the conditions at the front had been reported in detail. In the edition of the following day, the 29th and the day that I was wounded, one could read, “There was once again bitter fighting, during Friday night, from the Bolsheviks. After strong artillery fire aimed at the northern flank of the west front, penetration by them was achieved on a small scale. They were quickly forced back, almost closing the front once more. Our troops had a success in another sector, winning back in a counter-attack a block of flats which the Bolsheviks had taken the day before, and forcing the enemy back to their original positions”.