23 March 1945

Neubrandenburg, Germany

Compared to other towns I have seen recently, NeuBrandenburg got off very lightly in terms of war damage.

The end of 1944. 1945 has arrived.

When I reported in at the command post near to the bridge, there were the bodies of three deceased soldiers to be transported.  On the road, pushed over to one side on the grass verge, I had passed a burned out truck.  It was black, and split open where it had taken a Russian direct hit, the bodies belonged to its occupants.

I was ordered to remove the dead from a field just behind the main camp.  All three bodies were covered over, eerily still and ghostly on the ground.  Although I could have done with a hand to load up, no one came to help me.  No one came to say any last farewells either.  I was left alone to haul each man onto my shoulders, one at a time, before placing him on to the cart.  It was very awkward manhandling each lifeless, dead weight.  I had not previously appreciated the difficulties involved, I will have more respect for mortuary assistants in the future.

 

The German military are very good at administration, keeping all kinds of records.  The army likes to account for its dead better than it does its living, recovering as many bodies as possible from the front for respectful burial.  German officers meticulously record their dead and their dying, along with their missing, detailing every battle casualty before dispatching bodies to collection points.  Returning the dead to military mortuaries is carried out on a regular basis. 

Whilst I was still at the bridge, the Russians began a bombardment.  They rained bombs down on to the entire site – on to the bridge, into the camp as well on to the empty fields.  There was nowhere to run, nowhere to shelter.  I had been caught out on the open road with no trench or bunker in sight.  My only protection came from the small cart containing those three dead soldiers.

Although the German’s fired their guns as quickly as they could load them, it was no use.  The Russians succeeded in blowing up the entire wooden bridge.  That noisy old plane must have spotted them the previous night and once a days target has been identified, the Russians do not stop pounding until it has been wiped from the battlefield.

With just a few hits, all three of the big guns were obliterated.  They must have been positioning incorrectly.  Someone must have made a mistake, miscalculated the distances between each one.  They had to have been too close together for all three to go up like that.  For that battalion of men it was a costly blunder.  A hit to one big gun should not have taken out all three.  There had been at least twenty men on that one bridge; at least twenty men were taken with one strike.  Three guns and twenty men all lost because one bloke could not do maths.

I was so very pleased to get out of there alive, to get away with my horse and cart.  It was a struggle keeping the horse moving forward because the Russian’s continued their bombing long after the bridge was gone.  It felt like they were chasing after the horse and me as if we were important military targets. 

Nearing the house, I could hear the German artillery at it, aiming their little anti-tank gun into the sky and firing their mortars.  Our commander had repeatedly assured me that our bunker was the strongest one ever made but the kitchen unit’s defences were not as good.  By the time I got back, the commander, along with everyone else, were gone.  Our base had taken at least three direct hits during the raid.  The Russian’s had stationed themselves on a hill far off in the distance but they were still close enough to cause my unit serious damage.  Just like the bridge, my unit had gone.  My fellow soldiers had been seen, targeted and destroyed.  I had seen the commander’s room several times when taking him papers, it had been nice and comfortable but now all of the communication equipment had been destroyed.  Communication posts always have half a dozen cables running through camp.  If ever I need to find command in a new camp, all I do is follow the cables.  That’s how I found it in amongst the rubble.  I followed what remained of the cables to where command should have been.  All that was left were bits and pieces of wreckage.  There was nothing recognisable any more, nothing of any use or consequence remained.

Our field kitchens never have any chimneys.  The men never make a fire using a chimney because an enemy spotter could see the smoke, plus it makes it easy for any passing enemy soldier to drop a grenade down.  However, it had not mattered in the end, even without sending up smoke signals, our kitchen had been demolished.  I had liked working for the kitchen, I had liked being with those men.  They treated me well because I was useful, because I could take the food out on the horse and cart so that they did not have to carry it out and about by hand.  I also liked having hot food every day, having enough in my stomach to stop it from aching and churning.

 

The few men still left alive told me to just walk away.  I did not know where to go or where I should be heading but neither did they.  I do not think that anyone did.  There was a lot of military traffic everywhere.  Slow traffic loaded with miserable, worn out soldiers and so I followed them.  I never found out what had happened to all those blokes, to all of my mates.  I never found out how many survived but I am glad to have gotten away from there myself.  It had been a massive raid, possibly an important raid for the Russians but as I do not know where I was on a map, I can never enquire. 

The horse had always been kept away from the main kitchen.  It was kept in the small barn close to gully and that at least had survived the attack.  I put him back in the shed where he had first been found, only this time I made sure he had water as well as food I do not know what happened to that horse.  I hope he survived.  I hope no one bombed him later and I especially hope no Russian soldier ate him.

 

I have looked for the river with its bridge on maps but I have not been able to find where it was.  I thought the river might be the one that flows past Lielvārde but it is not.  The Russians had smashed up the entire bridge.  Three big important guns, even the little guns near to the house were all gone.  

Those little ones were rapid but they could not do any damage and they did not always work.  They were complicated, often jammed, and no one liked them but still the Russians destroyed them all.  In addition, all of those men, all of those poorly trained, ill-equipped blokes killed during one raid.  Everyone I knew gone and I can never go back with flowers.  I cannot return to morn my mates because no one ever told me where I was on a map. 

20 March 1945

We departed from Bad Nenndorf

We are on the move once again.  I have been reassigned.  Maybe this will be my last move.  I hope so; I hope this is to be the end of it all.  There have been a few mumblings from some of the other men, they say the war is no longer going well for Germany but the captain has not said anything.  I would dearly like to think I will not have to spend another winter out of doors.   

I do not fancy getting too close to the Red Army again either.  So many men have tales of German and Latvian soldiers returning to units minus a tongue, the stories have to be true.  They say the Russians do it so their captives cannot give away Red Army positions.  In addition, Russian commanders are said to make their soldiers hold both ends of a damaged cable in their mouth to complete a broken circuit, making Red Army soldiers stupid but brutal.

October 1944 to March 1945 (5)

Being the only member of the unit capable of harnessing a horse, my job involved delivering more than just soup with black bread.  For a time I was also a mail carrier.  Parcels and letters periodically arrived at our command post, this needed passing on to the men.

Some distance down the road, two or three batteries had set up camp.  The little two-wheeled trap was loaded with as much as it would carry and I set off to find a large bridge.  Men were stationed at the bridge. My first task was to find it.

Constructed of wood, the bridge spanned a river but I never got the name of it.  Travelling around so much, I was never completely certain of where I was.  If we halted close to a village or town, I would ask the locals but when out in the countryside I had no clue. 

It was the tallest bridge I had ever seen; it went up, up, up into the horizon.  When I found it, I answered the guard's challenge with some trepidation.  They didn’t know me, I could have been a saboteur, there were a lot of those around.  Luckily for me, I was believed although I was made to wait for an escort.  Even with a cart full of parcels, those men did not want to take any chances.

“Wait there.”  The guard commanded.  “Wait until someone comes to guide you through the mines.”

I waited.  I did not want to be shot and  I certainly had no desire to wander into another minefield with my horse.

Eventually I was allowed to deliver the post.  Next to a food delivery, receiving post is the men’s favourite thing.  Many of the parcels and letters on my cart had been hanging around various base camps for weeks waiting for someone to make a delivery.  I guess it was hard knowing where to send post during a war.

I received a very pleasing reception, all of the men were glad to finally get letters.  Sometimes, if parcels turned up but no one knew the addressee, or believed that man to be deceased, the delivery would be given out to those with nothing.  No one had very much of anything most of the time, and so, when something was going spare, it soon disappeared.  No one felt bad about taking things addressed to someone else.  As troops were scattered everywhere, with units moving constantly moving on, it was an accepted part of military life.  Men died every day or, if they were lucky, were hospitalised or even discharged back home.  Families knew it was virtually impossible for letters and gifts to find their loved ones but I guess they took comfort in knowing those small items brought pleasure to someone.  I assume that all of the field offices did the same thing; it meant that everything got used, nothing was ever wasted.

October 1944 to March 1945 (4)

Whilst working with the field kitchen, on one of my soup run days, I was heading towards a remote house.  It stood alone in its own field with very little ground cover.  As I approached, I was convinced I had seen movement at the front.  Although I was not one hundred percent sure, I thought it wise not to take the risk and decided to go down the side so I could enter from the rear.  If there were Russian troops at the front, the rear of the house was a lot more attractive.

As I got neared to the house, all of the soldiers inside began waving wildly from the windows and doors.  At first, I thought they were just pleased to see me but then I understood their shouts.  They were trying to warn me, they were telling me off for coming from the rear. 

“Why are you coming that way?”  They reprimanded.  “You are crazy.  You are in a mine field!” 

I had to take the horse and cart back the same way through the field.  I was the most nervous I had ever been.  It was nerve racking retracing my steps, as well as difficult.  Knowing that putting my feet down just a few inches further to the left or to the right could mean a horrible death really focused my attention.  Have you ever tried to back up a horse?   It is not the easiest of things to do but it was import for me to deliver the soup.  I knew how hungry those men were.  In the past, I was the one waiting days for something warm and filling.

October 1944 to March 1945 (3)

Close to the house where I sheltered, there were a few trees on a piece of scrub land.  That was where some of the other men, an anti-tank unit, set up camp.  It was where they set up their single 3.7 PAK anti-tank gun. 

Concerned for their own safety, those men set up trip wires along with anti-personnel traps, between the trees which would go off if disturbed.  I had to be careful when coming or going, I made sure to identify myself as I approached.  Among their armoury were two 5 cm tube mortars, three 8.8 cm Flak guns plus a big old tractor.  Flak is a contraction of the German Flugzeugabwehrkanone, aircraft-defence cannon.  As a fighting unit they were not very well equipped at all but everyone had to do their best with what they had.  To be honest, due to a lack of training, those men couldn’t really shoot anything anyway.  With only one day’s training on the guns, men were sent off to strategic position and left to their own devices.  When a gun jammed or broke in some way, no one knew how to fix it.  Having more equipment, better equipment, bigger equipment would not have enabled those men to hit more targets.

One of our men, a new man who had only been with us for three days, was killed as he stood next to me.  The anti-tank unit decided to do some fire practise, it was a nice day and so they sent a shot up into the sky.  Having nothing better to do, several of us stood around to watch but no one had thought about the round coming back down again.  A shell fragment sliced down into the new man’s head, lodging in his brain.  The shrapnel chopped through his skull, killing him where he stood.  I made sure to keep my distance the next time those men practised.

I thought it was okay working with the kitchen.  There were regular meals plus a stove to warm myself near.  Combine that with sleeping indoors, it was probably the best any soldier could ask during war time on the front line

  

October 1944 to March 1945 (2)

A horse had been left close to the house we seconded.  The poor thing had been left alone in a barn, too tired to work.  Whomever it had belonged, had left it with plenty of food but forgotten to leave it any water.  Although there was enough animal food to last all winter, without water that horse would have died.  The beast had been worked to exhaustion; it looked delirious.  It stumbled around the small barn with wild eyes when I entered.

I was given the job of looking after the workhorse.  I fetched water into the barn, groomed its tired limbs whilst talking soothingly into its ear.  I sang songs recalled from my childhood, soothing cradle songs I’d listened to from my bed.  They were my mother’s songs, the tunes she used to entertain my younger siblings on long evenings.  I did not sing loudly, I was careful not to let the other fellows hear my voice.  I sang for the horse, to gain its trust as well as to ease its anguish. 

Looking after that horse became my job by default.  The other men were all town people.  I can harness a horse, I know how to care for one, the others do not which is why it became my new job. 

Along with the horse, there was a two-wheeled cart.  It was a two-wheeled trap and its tyres still had plenty of wear in them.  One day a Field kitchen turned up at the house unexpectedly, it had arrived to feed the front line troops.  As I was the only one to have befriended the horse, plus the only one who knew how to harness it to a trap, I was assigned to the kitchen unit and tasked with taking soup out to the fighters. 

Along with German soldiers, many Latvian service men were wept up in the chaos as the Eastern Front collapsed.  In September 1944 the surviving elements of the 15th Waffen SS division and the 19th Waffen Grenadier Division, were sent by boat to Danzig, Poland.  They fought on the Pomeranian Wall defences before retreating through Pomerania and Germany to Berlin.

October 1944 to March 1945

For part of the war, I did get to live in a house for a short time.  We still had to set up a guard every night but at least it was warm.  I had to watch my gun as well as my ammunition night and day.  Our sergeant had us dig a hole to bury the ammunition just in case the house took a hit. 

It was very dangerous staying indoors; anyone could be snooping around with hand grenades, especially at night.  In addition, the house made an easy target for bombers.  It isn’t, only an explosion that is dangerous when indoors but the resulting change in air pressure can kill you too. 

I was always tired, there was never anywhere safe for me to sleep or to get comfortable.  No one slept properly.  No one ever had any real rest.  It would have been heaven to have a dry, warm bed but with a guard stationed outside keeping watch, I made the most of the relative safety provided.  Knowing there were walls surrounding me as well as a guard helped me to rest a little easier.  At night, if on guard duty, I had to stand upright all night.  The gunfire went on all night too.  I could hear and see it but no one took wild shots.  Men attacked specific targets if ordered to but that was it.  I guess the Russians were just as tired as my mates and me.  There were no tanks near to us, thank goodness.  Russian tanks are terrifying to watch coming towards you

There was a plane spotter in the area; it was an old Russian plane that sounded like a tractor as it flew around.  All night it flew around very slowly.  Its pilot was looking for sites to attack the next day.  It was a very slow and noisy plane.  The sound went on and on without a break.  Because it was at night, no man rushed to get his gun to fire unless he had to.  The men knew they would most likely miss anyway.  No one fired up at the plane, their shot would have given away our location

17 – 25 September 1944

August and September I spent in the Netherlands.  The Allied were on the move and I was to take part in the defence of Arnham.

Operation Market Garden was an unsuccessful Allied military operation, fought in the Netherlands and Germany.  It was split into two sub-operations:

• Market – the airborne forces, the First Allied Airborne Army, intent on seizing bridges
• Garden – the ground forces, consisting of the British XXX Corp

Although several bridges between Eindhoven and Nijmegen were captured successfully, XXX Corps advance was delayed by the airborne unit’s failure to secure bridges at Son and Nijmegen.   German forces demolished the bridge over the Wilhelmina Canal at Son before it could be secured by the 101st Airborne Division. The 82nd Airborne Division's failure to capture the main road bridge over the river Waal at Nijmegen before 20 September also delayed the advance of XXX Corps.

Delays capturing key bridges at Son and Nijmegen due to strong resistance, gave German forces time to organise a well-coordinated defence.  Although a small force of paratroopers initially managed to capture the north end of the Arnhem Road Bridge, ground forces were unable to relieve them as planned, resulting in the paratroopers being overrun on 21 September. The remainder of the 1st Airborne Division became trapped in a small pocket west of the bridge, and were finally evacuated on 25 September.


The Allied failure to cross the Rhine River during their planned advance into Germany delayed plans to end the war by Christmas 1944.  It was not until offensives began at Remagen, Oppenheim, Rees, and Wesel in March 1945, that the Allied ambitions were realised.

Summer 1944

The Red Army have reached the Baltic Seavat Memel. 

Although I have seen grenades thrown, German grenades with long handles like a wooden stick, no one in my Latvian Waffen SS Legion unit have been issued any.  As well as stick grenades, the German soldiers have larger round ones but not us. 

I saw a stick grenade thrown which did not explode.  As my unit do not have any, I waited for a little while before picking it up.  I waited a good while in fact before moving forward.  I decided to bring it along with me in the hope of repairing it. 

Drying out an old gas mask canister, I put the grenade inside to make it easier to carry.  I can usually mend most things when I try, so I should be able to mend one grenade. 

When I found it, I hadn’t realised what the canister was.  I only received one days training with a gas mask but then just like the grenades, masks were not included in my equipment pack.  It is a good job I have never needed a gas mask.  At a guess, my unit is not the first to be sent out without a full kit.

German WW2 Gas Mask with Canister.

The German stick grenades are not very good; they do not explode in the same way the allied grenades do.  The German ones just go ‘poof’ rather than ‘BANG’.  If that is not bad enough, the stick grenades are useless in snow.  When thrown, all they do is go ‘puff’ before showering men in snowflakes.  

Some men can throw a grenade really far by the stick but I have not had the chance to try.  I saw some men tie three or four grenades together before throwing them.  Their invention worked properly, better than the allied grenades even in the snow, but they could only do a few because supplies ran out.

Older men, those with more experienced, keep stick grenades stuffed down their boots (by the stick end).  I tried it but found it very uncomfortable.  Carrying the grenade in a canister is a much better idea.

German Naval Infantry marching with stick grenades in their boots.

11 August 1944

Bad Nenndorf

 Will never destroy the kingdom if you are united and loyal

Max Von Schenkendorf

To no address (unaddressed)   dated 11 August 1944

Bad Nenndorf, Germany

Hannover Department

Camaraderie package

The USSR Red Army approached the eastern border of Latvia in the summer of 1944, resulting in an extensive refugee flow of Latvian civilians westwards. The population feared Bolshevik repressions.  The refugee flow was also stimulate by the approaching ware fare front-line.  Many Latvian people were coercively evacuated by the Nazi occupation authorities.  Their numbers swelled those of workers, prisoners and concentration camp captives already sent to Germany during the Nazi occupation, not forgetting the Latvian soldiers transported to Germany.

At the beginning of 1945 there were 171 000 residents of Latvia within the German Reich.

From Riga evacuations began at the beginning of August in 1944 and continued until the 10th of October.  Most refugees from Riga ended up sailing out of the Baltic basin, disembarking at Danzig.  Evacuation by ship from Ventspils (Windau) and Liepaja (Libau) began in September of 1944 with the end ports being Danzig and Danzig Neufahrwasser. From Liepaja some ships also were sent to Pillau.  Evacuations from Liepaja and Ventspils continued until the beginning of January in 1945.

At the end of the war, in the summer of 1945, 107 000 refugees from Latvia were in West Germany, i.e. the British, US and French occupation zones.  25 400 people were held in the war prisoner camps of the western Allies.

In addition 4600 Latvians found themselves in Sweden, 2100 in Denmark and 2200 in Austria in the summer of 1945.

31 July 1944

Germany, Bad Nenndorf.

Arriving in Bad Nenndorf, at the railway station, the organisation is very good.  After such a long trip, it is nice to have someone take charge. 

I have ended up in hospital again, in Bechhofen, which is a tourist area.  It is not a real hospital but a large private house or hotel, requisitioned for the injured.  When the German military requisition a property, the previous residents have to move out.  The locals must go into the smaller houses because the Germans do not want those.

They are very organised, the Germans.  Their kitchen is especially well organised.  The food hall is centralised, producing very good food.  I now have nice food to eat, a dry bed to stretch out on and no guard duty.  It has been a long time since I had such comforts.

Walking out with a house mate, we went to see the local autobahn.   It is very impressive, I have never seen anything like it before.  We do not have anything to compare with an autobahn in Latvia.

Allied aeroplanes heading toward Hannover passed over me.  It wasn’t the sight of them that made me stop to watch but the noise.  A great roar of engines shook everything around me.  There were so many, the noise was terrifying.  I could feel the boom of engines in my chest, it vibrated my sternum.  The planes passed over in such great numbers, the sky turned black with them.   Later, I heard the bombs fall.  As those planes dropped their bombs before moving off, others flew over to take their place and drop even more.  It went on for a long time: I cannot imagine there being anything left of Hannover.  There cannot be any buildings left standing or anyone left alive.  I am very glad not to be in a hospital in Hannover.    

27 July 1944

We departed to Germany

From Riga, the boat takes me to Poland.  I travel by train to Danzig before heading south.  No one knows what to do with us, where to send the train.  I don’t think anyone really wants us.

April & May 1944

The Russians are coming to Riga, killing everyone along the way.  All military personnel are being evacuated although there is a shortage of transport.  Once again, I am lucky because I have made it onto the last ship out.  There is such chaos all around I feel sure some people have been left behind.  From the Baltic Basin, our ship heads along the coast toward Poland.  

Latvian’s traditionally preserve food in salt for the winter.  Due to the war, there is a shortage of everything but the Germans surprised us all during the autumn of 1943 by providing barrels of rock salt free of charge.  Although the salt was not particularly good quality, it was the kind I had used to scatter amongst the hay when a harvest had not been particularly good but still, the people were very impressed.  I guess the animals will not get any salt to lick until after the war, which is sad because to them it is as appealing as sugar.

Any scrap of food that could be salted, got preserved ready for the winter and stored away by Latvians everywhere.  However, as the evacuation began, German soldiers went from one home to the next, taking away any and all such foods.  The people are no longer impressed with the German pretence at generosity.

I have travelled around Poland by train.  For some time our train travelled from Danzig, heading south, up and down the line, going round and round and then back again.  I do not think anyone really knew what to do with us, where to send us, but so long as I head away from the front line (Gdansk), I will be happy.  

20 April 1944

Riga, Sarkaņkalns Hospital

The German army have requisitioned the larger hotels, as well as private houses, for use as barracks or hospitals.  My hospital is the old prāta slimnīca (mental hospital).  The previous patients had to move out.

My mother has come to visit me in hospital.  It is a big surprise, as I do not know who could have told her where I am.  I did not ask how she got to Riga.  It could have been on a neighbour’s truck, a train or maybe in a cart but either way, it must have been a difficult 140 km journey.

  

One of the nurses told me a very important visitor was waiting for me in the square.  I was quite excited as I hurried out of the front of the hospital but then I saw it was only mother.  

Outside there are hundreds of wounded people laid around on the ground, mostly military men, making it difficult for us to stroll about.  Although it is very crowded, we make the best of it.  Mother has come alone.  Once again, my father is not with her; she says he is too busy working at home.  He no longer has any help on the farm.  My brother Vilnis has replaced me as a conscripted labourer even though he is only twelve years old.

When I was a farm labourer, the farmer made us drink a pint of water before serving lunch. It was the farmer’s responsibility to provide lunch for all workers and he must have thought the water would fill our bellies, stopping us from eating too much food.  One day, a new man asked the farmer for a second cup of water, which surprised the farmer.  "Why do you want more water?"  The farmer asked.  "So I can stretch my stomach to make room for more food.” The man replied.  “If I eat more now, I will not have to buy supper later." It is funny but that farmer never made us drink water before lunch ever again.  

Mother has come to Riga to buy pliers for father.  He needs them to remove old nails to reuse around our farm.  Apparently, the German army have requisitioned all metals, including buttons, for military use.   

1862 opened as a psychiatric institution.  During World War II, Sarkaņkalns hospital was re-designated a military hospital. On 24 July 1946, the hospital became Riga Orthopaedics and reparative surgery institute, and today it is the National Traumatology and Orthopaedics Hospital.

I have received my very first parcel in hospital.  It is from home, from mother.  She must have sent it after her visit.  In the box are some hard biscuits which do not taste very nice but I am eating them anyway.

The last time I was in hospital, I was 17 years old.  At that time, during 1941, the army was using some of the surrounding buildings as German Youth Clubs.  I was in hospital to have my appendix removed and the boy in the bed next to mine was a member of one of those youth clubs.  He told me how wonderful his club was.  He talked about it all of the time and so when I had recovered, I joined a local club but I did not like it very much.  All we did was dig holes and practice marching up and down.  That other boy must have been at a better club than me.

  

I have seen a large group of people marching past the hospital.  All of them have shaven heads and so I can only tell the men from the women by their cloths.  I have asked a nurse what is happening and she says they are workers going to camps in Czechoslovakia.  I do not know why their heads are shaven or why women are wanted at work camps 

11 April 1944

From the front to Latvia

My leg remains covered in ulcers in spite of the anti-infection ointment supplied.  Although they have never completely gone away, I now have two on my shin that are particularly bad.  These ulcers did not bulge outwards as they have done in the past, but burrow deep into my shinbone.  Because the ulcers will not heal, and as the prescribed cream has had no effect, the medical officer has decided to send me to a field hospital. 

I have been applying the cream to my own leg.  However, the ointment is quite thick making it difficult to spread and therefore very painful.  At least if I was in a proper hospital I would have a nurse to help me.   

Everything remains frozen and cold, but it is also very wet.  In these extreme conditions my leg has became a real mess. To make things worse, the medical unit ran out of bandages some time ago.  I was overjoyed to hear the medics say my leg is bad enough to get me sent to a field hospital.  The very thought of going to a place where I can get warm and dry is very exciting.  Being sent to a hospital where I get to sleep in a bed is a dream come true.  

Luckily, for me, the lieutenant agreed with everything the medics said and to my immense relief, I have been cleared for travel to a military hospital.  The travel paper I have been given is no more than a large label to be worn on my tunic.  Without it, I could be shot as a deserter.  

It is April.  The snow is still deep but it has started melting in places, making my path very slippery.  Walking is difficult for me at the best of times but in these conditions, my progress is very slow.  

I cannot believe how lucky I am.  God must have been looking down on me because as I hobbled along, all alone in the snow, an ambulance came to a stop right at my side.  The driver is Latvian; he recognised my uniform with its cloth Latvian flag on the right sleeve.  The Latvian Legion uniform is the same as the German uniform except for the Latvian flag.  This kind man not only offered me a lift but also helped me to climb into the seat beside him and all he asks in return is to have a conversation in his native tongue.

I have no idea how long it will take us to reach a hospital, as I do not know how far away it is.  When the doctor placed the big medical evacuation label on my chest, I asked him where the hospital was but all he did was wave his arms around wildly and tell me to ‘just go off in that direction’.  I do not think he knows where the hospital is but when he told me to start walking, I did.

An ambulance is the best way to travel along these make-do roads because everything gets out of the way.  The military vehicles travel in convoy and so if someone is slow or has broken down, everyone else just has to wait in line but an ambulance is always waved on.  Convoys pull over.  Broken down vehicles are pushed to one side.  An ambulance passes unimpeded.  It is wonderful.  

The roads are a mess for miles and miles.  There are no longer any real marked out roads as there used to be before the war.  What we have now is a series of paths cleared out from amongst the rubbish.  My driver has to negotiate craters fifty feet wide, as well as steer around fallen buildings and trees.  There are no signs any more either, not even any recognisable buildings but my driver knows which way to go because he got me safely to a hospital.

28 March 1944

I saw the medical lieutenant today.  

28/03/44 - Health refer.  Graudins Alberts, Diagnosis.  Leg Ulcers.  Not available for Service, 3 days bed rest Doctor E. Pōezfer - Medical Lieutenant.  10% Anti-infective ointment (keep any remainder ointment for future use with our compliment)

Once the main Russian artillery opened fire, and correctly spotted our position, their guns targeted camp.  The Russian bombardment is relentless.  We do not stand a chance.  Everything surrounding us caved in as shell after shell exploded.  I want to go home, I did not want to be here but I must stay.  I stay for Latvia.  I stay for my aged father and for my mother.  I stay for my fourteen-year-old sister, my ten-year-old brother and I stay for my baby sister, Rasmin.

Night after night disembodied war stories crawl out of the darkness on crystallised breath as the older men unburden their hearts.  They tell tales of horror as well as offer wise words of warning.  I listen silently to the advice on offer from each fatigued warrior.  Wrapping my arms across my chest, I hug my coat tightly against my body as the haunted voices forewarn of the fate awaiting any recruit who stumbles across the Russian line.  According to my comrades, if a soldier manages to get away merely having lost his tongue, he should think himself fortunate.

My leg ulcers are so bad my comrades have insisted I find the doctor.  I told him how difficult it is for me to keep myself clean.  I have no clean dressings to use or even any dry trousers to put on.  Everything is so wet and dirty around me all of the time, it is impossible to stop filth from penetrating deep into my sores.

Second half of March and early April 1944

Three Latvian regiments, 1^st, 2^nd and 3^rd, have been sent to the front and placed at the disposal of VI SS corps.  Those Latvian men living closest to the Latvian-Russian boarder have been declared politically untrustworthy, and therefore assigned to construction battalions away from the Russian front.

If my parents had stayed in Lielvārde on the river Daugava, if they had not relocated us 100 kilometres east to Jaunpiebalga, then maybe I would have been considered too unpredictable to fight.  Life in a construction battalion may have been easier.

February 1944

The training camp relocated to Jelgava, outside of Riga city limits.  I have returned to fight on the Russian front.  Everywhere remains covered with snow and frost but there is also deep mud, making it hard for me to walk.  As I pick my way along the ice road, I am very scared.  I do not know what is waiting for me in the darkness; I do not know what will walk out of the pitch-black night to attack me.

The transport truck dropped me, along with a handful of new recruits,miles away from our new unit.  The driver pointed us in the direction of a line of posts and ordered us to follow them.  It has not taken long for the bitter cold to take a hold of my mind again; I am quickly reminded of what waits for me.  Lonely, cold guard duty, no food plus wet, endless days of fatigue - these are not treats worth rushing toward. 

We are somewhere in the mountains where the snow is deeper and the wind is colder.  No lights are showing, not even a tiny candle glows out of the darkness.  There are no sounds beyond our own laboured breath.  Every step forward has become a haltered, lurching movement without rhythm.  As I cannot see my feet, I repeatedly stumble and fall, preying each time that I do not drop over the edge of a ravine.  After some considerable time,my comrades and Ifall onto something hard.  Feeling around, I proclaim it an undamaged bit of road.  Further investigation led us to the base of a gun emplacement, the gun itself having been removed.  It is reassuring to know we are heading in the right direction.

It soon becomes obvious there is no military unit attached to the gun emplacement, although we do come across a lone German soldier.  He can recall a Latvian Legion stationed close by, but he assures us they pulled out some time ago.  His advice is for us to go back the way we came.

For some considerable time we have tried to find our way back up the hill but it is proving easier said than done.  There are no landmarks in the dark.  Being turned around in unfamiliar terrain is a simple thing to do. 

It has started to rain even though the snow remains deep, making each step treacherous.  There is nothing for it but to keep walking.  We walk, walk, walk, and do not stop because we dare not stop.

In spite of our long march, the path is not rising higher.  Although I do not know for sure, I suspect we are not walking back up the mountain toward our drop off point.  It is very unnerving.  We are all frightened because we do not know where we are.  We do not know where the German units are and more importantly, we do not know where the Russians are.

Finally, there is shouting, German voices boom out from the dark.  Initially I am relieved to have found comrades but disappointingly, we are not wanted.  Although I have told them who we are, they will not let any of us stay.  These German soldiers will not accept us because we are not German.  I do not think they trust us.  The officer will not take responsibility for us, he will not let us join them and so we have to keepon walking.Without realising it, our walk has taken us along a valley.The valley is the German front line. 

Eventually, we come across several cables running along the ground.  By following the cables, we tracked down a command post.  Thankfully, the commander of that post has phoned someone higher up the chain in an effort to find out where we should be.  Ido not mind waiting whilst command finds out who is missing a handful of Latvian recruits.It is nice to be able to rest in relative safety. 

What we have done is very dangerous.  Anyone on either side could have decided to opened fire on us.  Front lines are not lines at all.  Opposing sides are not facing each other in rows.  It is not like in films at all.  Fighting is done in little pockets; each fight is completely separate from the next fight along.  It makes travelling up and down very hazardous.

Unfortunately, we have to go back again, we have to work our way back to where we came from.  We have to keep walking back along the valley until we find our colleagues.

1944 Red Army advances

I am assigned to building bunkers.  The Russian attacks never stop.  When they are not hurling their bombs at us, the Red Army is burning everything they come across.  It has not taken long for them to strip the surrounding area of trees, leaving us nothing to cut props out of.  We have resorted to pulling down abandoned buildings for wood.  I salvage as much as I can from ruined cabins because the Russians are throwing everything they have at us, making the need for repair work endless.  The Red Armyhave hit us with so many bombs; I would have expected them to run out before now.

24 February 1944

Return to my unit.

Once my leave time expired, I tried to return to Cekule military camp, near to Riga, but it has disappeared, it no longer exists.  Whether the area was obliterated by Russian guns, or else demolished by a German strategic explosion is unclear but the base is no longer where it should to be.  

1944 Riga embankment

I arrived in Riga by train to be greeted by total devastation.  As the train drew closer to the city, neither my fellow passengers nor Ican quite believe the extent of war damage.  I especially cannot believe how much destruction has been caused in just a few weeks.  When the train finally came to the place where my army camp should stand, the driver refused to stop.  He refused to go any further along that track, insisting he reverse his engine back out from Riga. 

I do not now know what to do; I do not know where I should report.  Crowded on to the train beside me are ordinary Latvian working people, mainly elderly.  They insist I stay with the train; the old people say I should not get off until I see another military unit.  They convince me it is not safe outside of the train.  Not returning to my unit on time is very serious but if there is no unit to return to, what then?

As the train reversed back along its track, the driver repeatedly stopped to pick up more passengers.  These were stray travellers; dirty warn out people walking beside the track.  They are all grateful to be allowed onto our train.  Everyone is relieved to leave Riga behind them.  I did not see anyone ask these new passengers for money, none paid the fare because from the look of them, no one has any money.  Our driver is a good man.