survive persisted, I felt a deepening sense of resignation that the end for me could come at any time.
In these critical circumstances, the army began to employ a number of Volkssturm units at the front. These were comprised of older veterans from the First World War, including some who were grandfathers in their sixties. Many of them were local farmers who had remained to defend their homes after their families were evacuated. Despite their age, they were seasoned soldiers who fought surprisingly well against overwhelming odds.
The Wehrmacht also began sending our division untrained replacements from the Luftwaffe and Kriegsmarine who completely lacked any type of combat experience. When a group from the Luftwaffe appeared at our company’s position in the middle of a night lit by tracer fire from machine guns and rocked by the explosions of artillery rounds, it was obvious that they were scared stiff. Nonetheless, I ordered one of my men to take the new troops up to the front where we needed every available body.
Before the night ended, one of the new soldiers came back with a bullet wound through his hand that was obviously self-inflicted. As a veteran, I recognized that the man lacked training for combat and had simply acted out of fear. Following military regulations, I ordered the man to be sent to the rear to face a court-martial, but it was a duty that I despised.
During the struggle in the Samland, Lt. Col. Ebeling proved himself to be a highly capable commander. More than anyone else in our regiment, his leadership and tactical skill were essential in slowing the Red Army’s advance, even if the enemy’s numerical superiority made it a battle that we had no chance to win.
On March 24, Ebeling issued me a verbal promotion to the rank of captain (Hauptmann), but informed me that I would probably never receive a written confirmation in the chaos.
Subsequent to promotion to captain, all previous commanders of the 13th Company had quickly moved up to command a battalion of four infantry companies. Because officers were expected to lead from the front and infantry units bore the brunt of the fighting, their life expectancy was not high. The war did not last long enough for me to determine whether my destiny would have been the same.
FISCHHAUSEN: April 13–16, 1945
Following the surrender of Konigsburg, a new Soviet offensive on April 13 brought about the collapse of the German defensive front in the Samland. In the aftermath, all German units began withdrawing westward toward the Frische Isthmus. Bordered by the Baltic Sea on the north and the Frische Bay on the south, this narrow, sandy strip of land provided the only remaining overland escape route west, similar to the function that the Kurische Isthmus had played for the German units evacuating Memel less than three months earlier.
A merciless Soviet artillery and air bombardment pursued our retreating forces, which were now mere shadows of what they had been in 1941. Our battered division was down to a few thousand men, while the 13th Company retained only about 100 men, a couple of dozen horses, one 150-millimeter gun, four 75-millimeter howitzers, four 105-millimeter mortars, and several supply wagons. Since our retreat to Memel, the intensity of the fighting had prevented me from riding Thea and I was now on foot.
Whenever the shellfire increased or enemy planes appeared overhead, we would run for cover. Resuming the march when the threat diminished, our ears remained tuned to the incoming rounds, attempting to determine each shell’s trajectory and potential danger. Even if we could almost guess when and where a round would impact, it was an intensely nerve-racking and exhausting experience.
Beyond the artillery shelling and bombing, we also now regularly endured attacks from a Red Army weapon that German soldiers called “the Stalin Organ” and the Russians called the Katyusha. Serving a combat role similar to the artillery, this multiple rocket launcher had been brought into increasing use over the second half of the war. After hearing the distinctive high-pitched whir of rockets firing off in quick succession, we could watch their contrails as they raced through the air toward us. The Stalin Organs proved particularly dangerous because of their capacity to devastate a wide area in a very brief period, much like our new 210-millimeter rockets.
As our column was traveling down the road late in the afternoon of the second day of the retreat, the sound of a Stalin Organ firing its rocket salvo instantly sent everyone scrambling for cover. Spotting one of the abandoned earth-camouflaged ammunition bunkers that lined the road, I made for the entrance 20 feet away. Just before I passed through the doorway, a piece of shrapnel from one of the rockets struck my temple in the exposed area just below my helmet.
Although leaving the side of my face bloodied, the wound proved minor and our medic had my head bandaged up within a couple of minutes. When I returned to the road, a private from my company came stumbling toward me. In a calm voice, he asked, “Will you tell my wife about me, sir? I am going to die now.” Since the soldier did not appear to be wounded, I disregarded his concern and responded, “You’re not going to die.”
Afterward, I began to wonder if my dismissal of his distress had been too hasty. I could have made more effort to learn about his condition. He might indeed have suffered a fatal shrapnel wound that was not immediately apparent. In addition to providing him with medical attention, I could have made some effort to reassure him. Though never learning his fate in the mounting chaos, my failure to aid a man who was possibly dying still pains me today.
Everything that we had endured in the preceding weeks would only foreshadow the events that occurred two days later, a dozen miles to the west. On April 16, the artillery of four Soviet armies combined with several hundred aircraft to unleash the culminating attack designed to annihilate the remaining German forces in the Samland. What ensued was the greatest catastrophe that I personally experienced during the war.
Our company had reached the small town of Fischhausen that morning. A key junction for roads from the north and east, it was located at the top of the narrow peninsula leading to the Frische Isthmus. The Red Army artillery that continued to pound us from a couple of miles to the east had now been joined by Soviet planes swarming through the skies overhead at an altitude of only 500 to 1,000 feet.
Scouting the route ahead for my men and guns, following about twenty yards behind me, I proceeded along the narrow main road into town. The shelling and bombing began to increase dramatically, probably doubling in intensity from what it had been on the road outside town. Between the unceasing barrage and the congested mass of units, the traffic had ground completely to a halt. In the growing disorder, the troops struggled to maintain control of their animals.
Keeping close to what was left of the abandoned one and two story homes along the street, I refrained from entering inside the dwellings that had not yet been destroyed, fearing that they might collapse if struck with a direct hit. Instead, whenever a new round whistled toward me or a plane appeared headed in my direction, I ducked behind the corners of the houses or into doorways. While the deafening explosions of shells and bombs constantly hammered the entire area, I would periodically break cover to press a little further ahead as my instincts dictated.
By the time I had advanced perhaps half a mile into Fischhausen, the hurricane of artillery fire and bombing on this chokepoint was creating an indescribable hell of carnage and chaos like nothing I had ever witnessed during the long years of war.
Wrecked equipment from the remnants of the four or five divisions was jumbled everywhere. The shattered, blackened corpses of men and horses in various stages of death lay strewn on the street. Only the increasing thunder of the barrage spared me from the pitiful moans of the wounded and the whimpering of dying animals.
The horrific scene overloaded my already shell-shocked senses, leaving me utterly numb and despondent. At that moment, I fully expected my life to end.
But I was not prepared to die. My sole purpose became to escape this nightmare and gather any other survivors from my company.
By this point, the bombardment had grown so heavy that it was clear I had to leave the main road or be killed. Unable to contact my men behind me in the chaos, I could only hope they would likewise realize that their only chance of survival was to leave behind the horses and guns and somehow make their own way out of Fischhausen.
Reaching a side alley off to the left, I headed a couple of short blocks to the edge of town. When I came to the southern outskirts, I resumed my course to the west, proceeding along a route that paralleled the main road located about 30 yards to my right. Remaining close to the houses for cover, I moved cautiously along ground that was slightly elevated above the bay about 100 yards away. Though the bombardment here was less concentrated
