I calculated that that very night would be a good time to get out and push on. I imagined that the Soviet soldiers would be celebrating and therefore patrols would be fewer and perhaps not fully committed. I listened at the cellar door for some time before I finally gave it a push and was able to clear a space large enough to crawl through. Before leaving the house, I did a thorough search of the hallway and found what I was looking for. An overcoat. Dusting it off, I tried it on. It was a little tight, but leaving it open I found it looked alright and covered up some of the inadequacies of the suit. I also found a walking stick, which was an added bonus. Then I had an idea. Pulling the shirt out of the trousers, I sliced off the tail with my trench knife and rolled it up so I had a piece of fabric about two centimetres wide and fifty long. I then cut the heel of the thumb on my right hand and allowed the blood to flow onto my new improvised bandage. When I had a substantial amount, I wrapped it around my head with the bloodstain just above the left eye. I now felt I had a fairly convincing disguise.
I stepped out of the house and immediately stepped back in. It was dusk but not yet dark enough to become invisible. I felt hopelessly vulnerable, scared to venture out and afraid to remain in the building. Even an old man wandering around in the dark would inevitably invite suspicion from any Soviet patrol. I felt trapped, very alone, and inadequate for the task I had set myself. I wasn’t in Berlin anymore. I was deep inside Soviet Russia. I wondered despairingly if I would ever see my dear wife and son again.
I waited until darkness came, then, steeling myself, ventured out again. Moving incredibly slowly and with great care, I made my way along what I assumed was Zimmerstrasse, dodging from building to building then stopping and listening. A number of lights reflected in the overcast sky. They may have been the bonfires of celebrating Russian soldiers or simply burning buildings. I had no way of knowing which, but I suspected the former as I could hear singing coming from the direction of two of them. One sounded a long distance away, multiple voices in harmony singing a marching song. The other seemed near, as if it might be in the next street. A single voice, singing a lament with deep feeling, sad and depressing, perhaps mourning lost comrades. It wasn’t until some months later that the horrendous cost, in Russian lives, for the capture of Berlin was known.
The singer sounded too close! I ducked into the next building to rest and think. My nerves were seriously on edge. I simply couldn’t go on like this. I decided to rest for the night and rethink my strategy in the morning.
I dozed fitfully for several hours before falling into a deeper sleep. Suddenly a noise awoke me, and I sprang to my feet in the ‘ready’ position. To my utter horror and dismay, standing facing me, with mouth open and eyes wide, was a Russian soldier.
A Gift from God
It was barely dawn. I had been lying in a corner of the room away from the door, and hence in darkness, so he hadn’t been aware of my presence until I suddenly sprang up in front of him. I don’t know which of us was more surprised.
I was minded to jump him to try to prevent him from calling out, but I hesitated, as to my surprise he didn’t seem inclined to make any noise. The reason quickly dawned on me: he was looting and probably disobeying a direct order. He dropped the items he was cradling in his arms—I noticed a camera and several watches—and slowly started to move his right arm behind his back. I knew exactly what he was about to do, and I was way ahead of him. By the time he started to unsheathe his knife, my trench knife was in my hand pointing at his chest. It wasn’t just surprise in his eyes … now there was fear.
The soldier started, slowly, to circle towards the door. I moved my position to cut him off. He stopped and started to move the other way, further into the room. It looked as though he was preparing himself to fight it out. Whilst he was scrambling about on loose rubble, I had kicked away the debris under my feet and now had them planted firmly and securely on solid ground. I simply turned my body slightly each time he moved so I was always facing him square on.
He started shifting his knife from one hand to the other. I almost laughed. Novice, I thought, he’s been watching too many cowboy films. I felt utterly confident now. The hours I had practised knife combat with my Fallschirmjäger comrades, under a brutal instructor, had been time well spent. This was not the first time in my career that I had found myself in this position.
With an oath, he lunged forward, slipping and sliding on the rubble as he did so. Twisting sideways, I eluded the thrust and kicked out at his knife hand, sending the weapon spiralling into the debris behind. My left hand shot up to his face and clamped over his mouth as I thrust hard with my own knife, driving it deep into his stomach.
Whilst not instantly fatal, such a wound is invariably an incapacitator, and gives you time to aim the next thrust more accurately. He flew backwards, arms flailing,
