soon, as some heavy shells landed on us. The propaganda men enjoyed their stay and that night were led back again through the minefields.
It must have been about 15 February that we had an experience with bad consequences. An extra heavy machine gun fired across from the Luxembourg side on Kreuzweiler and strafed the battalion command post. The battalion commander ordered us tersely to engage the machine gun immediately. Engaging a machine gun with mortars when it is firing from behind cover is almost impossible, apart from which the 80 mm mortar is intended for open spaces, with pin-point firing practically an impossibility. But orders are orders. If one drew a straight line from the crossroads in Kreuzweiler right past Schloss Thorn into Luxembourg, that would give the approximate location of the machine gun. I climbed the tower, taking the usual precautions. Staff Sergeant Witt remained below. My fire order was: ‘60 degrees less, down 200, key mortar one shot!’ The fire position reported: ‘Fired!’ I heard the explosion but did not see it. I reported this to Witt, who exploded with anger and swore at our mortar crews. I repeated my fire order with one degree change and this time I saw the hit, which was on the slope of the Moselle, almost in dead ground. Now it was simple. Again: ‘15 degrees less, down 300, fire two salvoes!’ The hits occurred either on the buildings or on their roofs. Marvellous! The machine gun stopped firing.
I reported to the fire position: ‘Situation fine, cease firing!’ Peace returned, but only for a moment, for the battalion commander had heard everything. We all depended on a single line, sometimes the whole regiment, as signal wire was in such short supply. The captain called Witt everything under the sun and, as the worst punishment, transferred him to the infantry. As he was being relieved of his post, the relief would take place that night. Witt asked me to escort him through the minefields that evening. He was a broken man. I was sorry for him. Although our relationship had not always been of the best, there was still a comradely bond between us. We shook hands on the road to Kreuzweiler for the last time and wished each other luck. He was convinced that he was going to his death, but in fact he was to survive, although, yet again, that is another story.
The relief was Sergeant Schultz. He was in his mid-forties, an East Prussian, a reserved type, but a good comrade. We were on ‘du’ terms, having survived the severe fighting in Holland, Hagenau and in the Vosges together. He had had a very sketchy education because of what had happened in East Prussia after the First World War, and his reading and writing were at best indifferent; a map was a complete mystery to him. As before, he left all these things to me. He was even more withdrawn than usual, as he knew what the Russians were doing to the unarmed civilians in East Prussia.
From 18 February onwards things began to happen. We could hear the artillery fire from the Saar to our left going on nearly all day, easing up a little at night and resuming fully on the 19th. Something was happening there, and although it was quiet where we were, we were on high alert. Shortly after dusk a sentry reported sounds of movement on the street leading from the Moselle. We peered out into the night from the big corner room. Things were certainly moving down there. Our heavy machine gun fired two belts into the gully, the noise stopped and it was quiet once more. I could not give any fire orders as the flashes from the firing mortars would have given their location away.
We went back into the big cellar. Shortly afterwards a runner appeared with orders for the heavy machine gun and the remainder of the infantry to go back to Kreuzweiler. Behind remained Schultz and myself, the artillery forward observer with his two signallers, and another two or three men, apparently signals fault finders. We stayed quiet. Outside it was exceptionally quiet.
I woke at dawn on 20 February to unusual sounds. I went through the small stairwell up to the big corner room, from where we had the best view of the gully and the road leading up from the Moselle. I leaned out of the window with a stick grenade. I caught my breath. The little road was buzzing with activity. American infantry, with the occasional Jeep, were making their way up. I hurried back to the cellar. A corporal from a section of infantry occupying a cellar outside our yard burst in from the inner courtyard, grabbed an assault rifle and left the cellar again by the outside steps. I told them in the cellar what was happening and slipped back up again. In the castle courtyard, seen at close range from the landing, an American tank drove in with a man on the back behind a heavy machine gun or quick-firing cannon. He was not being heroic, just damn’ stupid. Only the fact that I had left my rifle in the cellar saved his life. So back to the cellar, grab my rifle and back up again, but the tank had gone.
Even today, after several post-war visits to the castle, I still cannot understand how it got in and then vanished again. It could not have come in through the arched gateway, as it was too narrow. But through the gateway I could see a Sherman tank with its gun pointing toward us. I turned round again, crossed the corridor and went down the narrow steps, stopping at the intermediate landing. Through the arrow-slit I had a good view of the road and the hilly ground beyond. American infantry were coming through a narrow gap in this hilly ground and jumping down on to the roadway. That was what we had heard the night before. Sheltered by the hills, the Americans had dug a communications trench parallel to the Moselle river bank road and made the last cutting during the night.
The first steep difference in height had to be covered with a two-metre jump down, the remaining four or six metres by sliding down as best they could. Strangely enough, the GIs were not even looking at the castle, where their enemy was. They saw their problem as being that first jump. Without hesitation, I set my sights at 100m and took aim at the first one. He looked down, jumped, and I squeezed the trigger. Hit as he jumped, he bent his knees and slid on his stomach down to the roadway, where he lay still. I reloaded and already the next candidate was preparing to jump. He was a small, fat chap. I squeezed the trigger and he slid down on top of his comrade. A third man had already appeared. The game was repeated; he jumped and I fired. Now some medical orderlies appeared. At the same time a Jeep drove up the road and an officer in the front passenger seat started giving instructions with many gestures. From the white stripe on his helmet I could see that he was a Lieutenant. After my shot he slumped forward and slid down. Because of the medical orderlies that attended to him straight away, I held my fire. Apart from this, I could hear the crunch of footsteps from outside. If the Americans were already there and one of them threw a hand grenade through the arrow-slit, that would be my lot. Despite these thoughts, I still tried to bring a machine gun into position, but the slit was too narrow. I could not set up the bipod properly, nor could I lean forward into it enough to take the recoil. My attempt failed miserably. The recoil ripped into my right shoulder and the machine gun fell clattering to the ground. Now I had had enough. I went down to the cellar, where the lads looked at me questioningly. I gave a brief account and concluded: ‘We are sitting like rats in a trap!’
The artillery forward observer told me that he had ordered fire on our own position. I do not know whether we as forward observers for the mortars gave a similar order with Verey lights. It is unlikely, for the fire position must have been experiencing the same as ourselves. Schloss Thorn was being raked by our own weapons, and there was also heavy fire on the American infantry advancing on Kreuzweiler.
After a short discussion we decided to give ourselves up, otherwise we would be smoked out. One of us would have to go outside. Nobody wanted to be the one to go, but the lads picked on me as apparently I had once casually said something about speaking a little English. I opened the cellar door and climbed over the corpse of the corporal that had collected an assault rifle from us. He had been shot in the head by a sniper from the other side of the Moselle. The damaged screen that had sheltered us from view from the river had fallen down, and we had not found it necessary to put it up again last night. No one had felt responsible, and this poor devil died because of it.
My main problem was now the sniper across the way, for as I climbed the steps he would have me in his sights. Would the same thing happen to me as to the corporal on the cellar steps? I knew from my own experience how great the urge is to squeeze the trigger when one has an enemy in one’s sights. I raised my hands as high as they would go, climbed the first step and shouted out aloud: ‘American soldiers, we surrender!’
There was no reply. I climbed the next step with my hands stretched up high and shouted again. Then the third step, and the lad must be able to see my hands now, I thought. Then step four. I was sweating. With the fifth step he would surely see my head. Did he have me in his cross hairs? Would he squeeze the trigger? He did not, so I slowly climbed the rest of the steps and stood in the castle’s inner courtyard.
Calling out loudly I turned around and got a reply. From the adjacent cellar that we had used as a toilet came about ten Americans. They surrounded me and pointed their weapons at me. Their leader, whom I took to be a staff sergeant, cocked his big revolver and pointed it at my stomach. I was greatly relieved, for the sniper could not get me now. We looked at each other silently for a moment until I somewhat superfluously repeated: ‘We surrender!’
The section leader pointed toward the cellar. ‘How many?’
I shook my shoulders. ‘I don’t know, maybe six or eight. Some are dead like him’, and I indicated with my
