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.