January 1943. I was in boot camp again in Trebin, a little Prussian town at the outer perimeter of Berlin. This time the Army embraced me with an iron grip. I had become a substitute for somebody who fighting for something somewhere had reached his final destiny according to the law of war. Nothing could underscore the drab fact more drastically than the bloodstained uniform thrown at me over the counter by the quartermaster. Though washed and pressed, the bloodstains nevertheless irritated me as the vivid remainder of a soldier’s ultimate fate. What is a human being in the Army anyway? A tiny speck, an inconspicuous particle molded and polished to fit a machine designed to strike with deadly precision. The German Army was such a machine. And so were the English and American war machines, whose flying vehicles paid a destructive visit to us every other night. Imagine the rat race in dim light down to the basement, the struggle for a seat, the endless waiting drowsily for the signal: Alert is over. What a heavenly feeling to snuggle into the rough pillows of our uncomfortable straw bags and leave this world on golden wings until the ugly howling sirens again tore apart the sweetest dreams. Like nasty bugs, the bombers often pestered us beyond the first shimmer of daylight. Never mind the nightly spook, how often or how long, 6 o’clock sharp the sergeant’s offending whistle chased us out for another day-long round of relentless drill. The only joy during these worrisome months was Moock, who twice dared the trip to Trebin with Felix and each time stayed a couple of weeks. We rented a room – an unbelievable favor – and in my spare time, we enjoyed a stroll through the neighborhood, the forests, and lakes of Brandenburg, the old Prussian province which not unlike Michigan is flat, sandy, and full of beauty in its own right.
Late in spring, the course in Trebin was finished and a new order dispatched me to Lemgo in Westphalia. That large garrison produced soldiers in the thousands. Every activity there, regardless of how trifling, was painstakingly organized. Drill in genuine Prussian style with goosestepping and pompous military parades apparently was the commander’s special delight. Lemgo, in fact, is a medieval, interesting town proud of its history. But I am straining my memory in vain for a clue, so efficiently utilized was our time. Only the magnificent, huge beech trees and green rolling hills stuck to my mind because we had to attack them so frequently. Surely, I did not forget the carefully rationed food, mostly potatoes, plenty of them. The meat was skillfully sliced to the size of a playing card. Not to forget the coffee, an Ersatz brew mixed quite heavily with soda. It tasted like soap and all but eliminated the necessity of cleaning the jar. Anyway, it served the well-intended purpose to suppress efficiently all sexual instincts and save the commander a lot of trouble. Every Sunday long columns of trained GIs departed to the eastern front. This was of no concern to me at the beginning; after 3 months, however, the ritual triggered serious considerations. The aspect soon to be one of those chosen for the bloody battles and frigid winters in Russia was frightening.
Just in time, a rumor spread through the camp. A newly installed battalion will soon leave for Italy. Volunteers may apply. My mind was made up quickly. I rushed to secure a place. The inevitable is coming. War and death are easier to bear in Italy than in Russia, I consoled myself. September was already underway, the nights were cool, and the trees started to put on colorful dresses. I had nothing to lose and surely did not miss Lemgo, the abode of arrogance and patriotic vanity. With curious expectations, I looked forward to Italy, the dreamland of German imagination.
Within days we loaded and traveled by train southward. Munich, my hometown, was circumvented before we rolled yonder the ever-inspiring Alpine valleys and up to the Brenner Pass, Italy’s border, our first stop. Well, we did not merely stop. For 3 days we hung about the train station aimlessly. “Half of his time, the soldier waits in vain,” once said a humorous wizard who probably loved military life as much as I did. Suddenly without warning and out of nowhere an engine hooked to the train and was ready to go. We all ran and jumped on the wagons, while the locomotive pulled off and in genuine Italian fashion raced down the steep slopes. A corporal barely caught the last handle and attempting to reach his unit climbed from car to car, slipped, and fell on the rails. He was our first casualty, a fine man and minister by profession. As we waited in Bolzano until a searching team had recovered his mutilated body, a densely packed military train arrived from the south. Italian GIs hopped out and like a swarm of locusts was in seconds all over the fruit-laden orchards nearby. The officers right behind them shouting and wielding big sticks drove the inordinate hordes back to the train. The incredible spectacle lasting only a few minutes left us amazed and open-mouthed. Beating or even touching a subordinate constituted in the German Army an offense subject to marshal law. Well, other nations, other customs. As we proceeded southward a bomber platoon appeared in the sky. They flew in strict formation, and even so a German flack (anti-aircraft gun) began to zero in on them. Two shots missed, and the third hit accurately. Fire and a big cloud of black smoke darkened the blue sky and after a moment of breathless tension debris floated down whirling, whistling, and twitching the death song of brave soldiers. Some cheered, but I did not feel the stirring exuberance of victory, only sadness about the sacrifice of human beings, enigmatic and mysterious as was the gigantic confusion called war. When daylight broke we passed through Florence, the golden jewel of Italy’s treasures glowing in the radiant morning sun. We entered the flat fields of the tradition-laden Roman territory and sped along Lake Trasimeno, where Hannibal had defeated the Roman Legions more than 2000 years ago and held the future of the Occident in his iron fists for a short time. Perugia went by throning on the crest of a cone and finally, we reached Rome itself, the eternal city. What a disenchantment. The train station was filthy and full of excrement stinking to the skies. I was glad we moved quickly out toward Ostia, Rome’s port, and unloaded. The sun shown bright and cozy and offered a very welcomed opportunity to wash our underwear, a long overdue necessity. Unfortunately, the time was short and soon we were again on the road, a convoy of trucks, traveling along the shoreline. The pictures could hardly be more pleasing. On one side the Tyrrhenian Sea, on the other vineyards, an endless row of vineyards full of ripe, gold-brown clusters, the tendrils bowing deeply under the rich burden of a lush harvest. With hungry eyes and watery mouths, we had to pass them up or risk harsh reproachment. By dusk, the Gulf of Gaeta came in sight. A farmer sold us the best wine I have ever tasted. The tepid ocean waves gently washing ashore invited me to a refreshing swim. Indeed a deceptive atmosphere of peace. Only a German hospital ship brightly illuminated and a wave of American bombers emerging from the horizon, throwing Christmas trees as we called the flares, reminded us that a war was still going on. Close to the beach I unfolded my tent and fell into a dreamless sleep. An ugly sound the next morning coaxed me to crawl out of my nest with unusual speed. Guess what caused it? The cry of a donkey next to my tent nibbled from a broad-leaved tree hanging full of brown balls such as I have never seen before. A fig tree as I learned later. The sun rose over the hills. Oh, Italy, how blessed are you? This was the land I had longed for in my imagination. I loved it and found the reality surpassing my wildest dreams. As we moved further south the scenario grew increasingly picturesque. By late afternoon we stopped at a cliff overlooking Naples, the famous city spread out along the sea at our feet. A sturdy mountainous arm reached far to the west and touched the tiny island of Capri. The Vesuvius rose like a steep cone. From the crest, a white curl of smoke ascended. A photographer’s delight, indeed. On this evening we settled close to Salerno. The Italians were jubilant. “Pace, pace” they shouted singing and dancing because General Badoglio had usurped the power and jailed Mussolini. Peace is at the doorsteps they expected, not knowing that bursting shells will plow over this charming country so soon. The deadly rumbling began already a few hours later, exactly at 4 o’clock in the morning. It was only the introduction. By dawn, the Allied troops crossed the Strait of Messina and landed in Salerno. Fighting erupted, but we had nothing to do with it. We were a reconnaissance unit. The order came to retreat. On small, winding roads through rugged terrain, we pulled back to Rieti and Terni east of Rome. From the battlefront, we had shifted to a nice Italian summer resort. Why not sit idly there for a few days enjoying boating on the wonderful lake and playing around until a new order was out? Early enough we were set in motion again; first northbound to Populi, then across the Abruzzian mountains and the most colorful regions around Grand Sasso, Italy’s highest peak, and down to the blue Adria. Unforgettable the yellow, barren soil blended with the lush green of the olive plantations and overshadowed by the white-capped Grand Sasso. A soul-stirring, flabbergasting delight. Unfortunately, we were not on a vacation trip, but had a rather serious mission, to meet the enemy. The Allied troops had already taken a foothold in Foggia and expanded rapidly. Heading southward along the Adriatic Sea we stopped short of the river Sangro. Waiting for them we began to dig holes in expectation of the fire soon to be hurled against us over the river. However, for a week or so, not much happened. There was plenty of leisure time to palaver with the Italians, clean the rifles, and drink the excellent wine which was available in abundance. A good life, unfortunately, spoils discipline. Two of our men, both married, could not stand it and went out at night to the caves where civilians took temporary shelter, grabbed a 15-year-old girl, and raped her in a most cruel manner. Her father, grief-stricken, appeared the next morning with his girl and reported the incident to the commander. Since I was the only one in the battalion who understood a little bit of Italian, they called me in as an interpreter. “This is a big lie,” the officer shouted in disbelief and anger when I told him. The girl, a tender, small-breasted child had strangling marks around her neck, signs which finally convinced the enraged officer that I had understood correctly. The rapists were quickly identified and sent to the court a few hours later which transferred them to a mine-clearing brigade. Finding and defusing mines is a very dangerous job and is known to have a high mortality rate. The girl’s father shook his head when I told him of the sentence. In his opinion, it was no punishment at all. I hate to mention that, but rape is not a rarity on battlefields. At the end of the war, many thousands of German women had been raped by soldiers of all participating nations with Russian and French colonial troops holding the record. War unleashes the worst instincts in men and great military leaders knew this fact and condoned it. Let me just quote Napoleon: “The worse the men, the better the soldier.” A frightening glance into the depth of man’s nature.
The truant days soon were over. The shelling began, sporadically at first and swelled to furiousness within the next two weeks. Many a night I had to work till morning because the bursting, rattling, and whistling noise constantly whipping the air during daytime somewhat subsided with the effacing light and facilitated the identification of enemy batteries. When I finally laid down in the open barn on corn stalks often long after midnight, sleep overwhelmed me so quickly that I scarcely became aware of the rats and mice crawling and twitching around me and everywhere. Awakened in the morning either by a kiss of sunrays or exploding shells, I saw these loathsome beasts racing along the rafters and climbing masterly up and down loosely hanging ropes. During one of these sudden fire barrages, I ran to a hole for safety and found a mouse on the bottom. It sounds ridiculous, but I had strong misgivings to leap down and share my place with a mouse. After all, even elephants have a deadly fear of these sneaky creatures.
On a nice, promising morning, three weeks after we had settled, all hell broke loose, and the final assault began. A curtain of fire and dust hung over the Sangro Valley. Although we were no more than one kilometer away, I was curious to see the spectacle a bit closer and walked up a campanile, a tower, nearby. Never before had I seen such a tremendous uproar. Fountains of earth sprang into the air accompanied by the roaring thunder of the inferno. Soon single shells were spitting around us and bursting in the streets. The people fled. An elderly woman rushing by paused for a moment, and gave me a kiss on the cheek and a relic, a small bag containing the pulverized bone of a saint. What a loving noble gesture in the sea of inhumanity. Suddenly the hurricane stopped. The German infantry came running over the hills of the Sangro Valley. Fighter bombers appeared and we hastened to push our truck under the broad shade of a huge olive tree. As always in those dangerous moments, the motor would not start. One lonely German fighter plane, the first one we ever had seen in this area, showed up to save us. Poor guy. Within a minute he was sent to the ground burning. Crackling pistols and barking machine guns indicated heavy fighting, man to man, had begun in the valley. Not much longer and the Allied troops will be here with tanks and more bombers. For us, it was time to retreat. We left the area as cautiously as possible. The loss of the Sangro Valley enraged Hitler. The Division, or what was left of it, was pulled out and sent to Russia. The officers were degraded, and all furloughs were canceled. A new front was established at Chieti approximately 30 kilometers to the north.
“With each hill, we passed over, the Satanic concert, this horrendous ear-shattering noise diminished and finally died out leaving us in absolute silence.”
As far as I can remember, during those days at the Sangro River Moock sent me a telegram announcing the arrival of our second son, Ekkehart. Orderly as the Germans are, the news of our boy’s advent proceeded slowly through the military channels until it reached also our Commander, a young man in his twenties and a freshman student. Of course, he had to show concern for his men and got me on the line to personally convey his congratulations and, naturally, I did not fail to thank him for his considerate interest. Since I was already 35 and one of the oldest in the battalion, deeply seated resentment against him and the other officers beset undoubtedly my feelings. I knew also he became Commander because he was a loyal Hitler youth as he advanced through the ranks. Nevertheless, a noble soul lived in him. I never saw him unjust, sly or dirty. A character coined by the virtues of traditional Prussian integrity and fearlessness. He was well aware of my negative attitude against Nazism but never held it against me. After the abortive attempt to assassinate Hitler in July 1944 he tapped me on my shoulder and said: “Do you see now that our Fuehrer is guided by Providence? We will win.” Several weeks later he committed suicide when Germany’s defeat in France became obvious. One can only wonder about the overpowering forces of idealism. The arrival of Ekkehart, it seemed to me, was an event important enough to grant a week’s furlough. My connections to the battalion administration, however, were not on the best terms. “We need you,” I was told, an answer which made me pretty bitter. To some degree, I could understand the refusal since I was a specialist in acoustic evaluation and there were only two available. Better dumb than an expert in the military was my conclusion as I noticed a number of guys going home or so I thought. In fact, they did not come further than Rome. Allied troops had shortly before launched a massive invasion at Ancio not far from Rome and a fierce battle was raging over there. The would-be vacationers were ordered from the trail, given a rifle, and sent right into action as infantrists regardless of their training. They had to hold the line until reinforcements were brought in. Thousands found their graves along the blood-spilled beach of Ancio. The news hit me like a thunderclap. By God, in the future, I better be humble, grateful, and more trusting.
Fresh, war-experienced troops had arrived in Chieti. The dance could begin. I knew the rhythm already. First ominous calmness, then a slow start rapidly increasing until the ugly cacophony of the full orchestra reverberates through the hills by day and night spreading fear and destruction. It was November. Chilly winds drifted inland from the ocean. The morning temperatures were often below the freezing point. But the rising sun, innocently smiling amidst the misery, usually warmed us up quickly and in particular the barefoot, ill-dressed Italian children who suffered the most and understood the least of what was happening. The adults endured no lesser hardships. Their food supplies were often taken away by German soldiers, who themselves were on meager rations. Grim-faced and powerless the population endured the cruel situation and, naturally, they hid their most precious goods, oil, wine, and honey with admirable ingenuity.
On Christmas Eve the guns were silent. An unusually tasty supper was dished out with wine and candlelight. We sang the ever-new enchanting Christmas hymn and thought of our beloved ones in Germany. My heart flew home to Moock, Felix, and the newborn whom we gave the name Ekkehart in remembrance of the medieval monk, independent thinker, and spiritual tower whose light had shown forth through centuries into our time. I longed to see my boy and cuddle him in my arms. I was dreaming with open eyes; yes, and it was the time to dream. We all were soft-hearted for a short time. Then a German gun started barking and tore apart the warm, intimate atmosphere of peace and joy. Why could they not even respect the Holy Night? The other side responded and soon hell broke loose again. I went outside and watched the stars completing their cosmic circles in majestic grandeur untouched by the atrocities going on here on this earth.
Beginning in January the order came to retreat. At 3 o’clock in the morning, we packed. The convoy started to roll still wrapped in the somber darkness of the night. We drove through Chieti over the first hill, the next one, a third one, and with each hill, we passed over, the Satanic concert, this horrendous ear-shattering noise diminished and finally died out leaving us in absolute silence. A feeling of relief beyond description. So great was the impact of this experience that my brain recorded it in deep, unextinguishable rills. Gratitude welled up and flooded my whole being. I could be one of these left behind buried in the yellow Italian soil or mutilated beyond recognition. My body was unhurt, my spirit unbroken, enough reason to be thankful. Traveling north we passed Ancona, the Adriatic harbor and resort area, but the cottages were deserted. An icy wind whipped up the ocean and tossed mighty waves against the quay. Turning southwest we touched briefly Assissi, the home of St. Francis, the great venerable soul. This air once was filled by his sweet and powerful sermons which gave mankind new hope and a sense of direction. Too short was the time, unfortunately, to pay a visit to his tomb and feel the spiritual aura of this unique man. Anyway, it was a happy event along the extensive loop we had to make for reasons of safety.
Near Perugia, we boarded the train and traveled northward in bright sunshine. Deep snow covered the Alps and in Munich the next morning we met sleet, grey clouds, and a chilly wind. Nevertheless, I was delighted to be in Munich where our unit was reorganized and received new equipment of the latest kind. But more important than anything else were the few days of leave I could expect. Imagine the fathomless joy to see Moock again, her pretty face unchanged and Felix who had developed into a handsome lad, and last not least Ekkehart, three and a half months old then, round-faced and twinkling with his grey, blue eyes. He was quick to arrive in this world and did not cause his mother the grim pain she had to endure at Felix’s birth. Loud crying he announced his presence with determination. Still bald and showing a very light, distinguishable, oriental trait gave some hint of the long ways our fore-bearers had come from. In contrast to Felix, who developed my father’s tall and skinny stature, Ekke bore the characteristics of Moock’s family, the Otts. Sweet and precious was every day we were able to spend together and bitter the farewell for both of us. We knew only too well that the crushing grip of the war will embrace us closer and closer. I would not see my beloved ones again for the next three years.
