大象传媒

I don't remember anything about the trip from Greece to Siebenburgen. The command to re-deploy came as I was sick in hospital bed racked with fever and shakes. Other members of my troop have made me comfortable on the floor of a troop transporter designed for twelve. They have also packed and loaded my belongings and all gear. Except for the fact that I needed the occasional drink and a little food, I was just another piece of baggage. They must have looked after me pretty well, because, had I suffered any discomfort, I would surely remember it. The journey north lasted two or three days and after arrival at our destination the first thing that I remember is a brief conversation with my close friend Laco. He came to me, when no-one could overhear and told me that during the coming night he plans to leave and return home. He was already wearing civilian clothes under his uniform and in his pocket was a rolled up civilian cap. He said to me that if I want to join him he can still organise the necessary gear for me, but I am sure that he only came to say goodbye. Just then, so soon after my bout with malaria I was too weak for such an undertaking and, even under normal conditions, I was much too disciplined to consider desertion.

Now, that I have mentioned Laco, I shall tell you about our 'Troika'. Right from the time when we have arrived in Dresden, later during the three months in Davle and then the early months in Greece, Jano (John) Li脛锟絢o (pron.: Litchko), Laco - whose surname I have forgotten, and I have become very close, almost like brothers. Laco was an interesting case. He was a Moravian and at the time of his enlistment he was only hiding out in Slovakia. What happened was that during some festive occasion back in Moravia, while drinking and carousing with his friends, they ended up singing some forbidden song. There were at the time several tunes considered offensive to German ears. The Gestapo have quickly arrested some of the boys but Laco and a few others have managed to evade capture. The Gestapo was not giving up and Laco eventually crossed the border into Slovakia. Soon, when even there arrest seemed imminent, he has decided 'They are not going to look for me in the Waffen-SS'. And that's how Laco became a 'volunteer'. Personally, I think that the Gestapo men knew exactly where he has taken refuge, but happily closed the file with the words 'Serves him right!'

Jano Li脛锟絢o was one of the fifteen or so of our fellow countrymen from Slovakia who were even after six months having difficulties with the German language. About two or three years older than myself he was tall, athletic and strong. We'll say more about his strength in a minute. One day the two of them were standing sentry duty at the railway station, pacing up and down, guarding a supply train, when some Greek black-marketeers persuaded them (and I suppose even paid them) to 'look the other way' while they 'liberated' some car tyres. They were found out and both of them ended up in a Penal unit somewhere deep in partisan-controlled territory. I don't know how long they were supposed to stay there, but in the end neither has served his full sentence. Jano has one day committed some minor misdemeanour, perhaps said something disrespectful to one of the guards and because of that, together with other similar minor offenders at night after lights-out instead of going to bed was ordered to march up and down, carrying a bag of cement on his shoulders, until collapsing from exhaustion. One by one the others have reached that state but Jano carried on until daybreak. What made things even more difficult was drizzling rain, which caused the bag of cement to get heavier by the hour. Finally, at first light Jano threw the bag of wet cement on the guard's head, which knocked him unconscious for some two hours while Jano disappeared into the forest and joined the partisans. I can only hope that they have accepted him into their ranks.

Short time after that incident the partisans have mounted one of their harassing attacks on the Penal camp. From time to time they succeeded in capturing certain amount of food or ammunition before vanishing back into the forest. On this occasion Laco was wounded by a bullet through the tip of his right lung, but was also noticed by his Commanding Officer as doing some excellent work with his machinegun. As a result he was awarded the Iron Cross 2nd class and, after recovering from his wound, was returned to our company. One never knows what's around the corner.

So now, when Laco went his way, I was quite alone. No-one again got as close to me as those two fellows did. From then on I have concentrated more than before simply on the task of surviving each day, one at a time, and hopefully, one day returning home.

Life of a soldier in the frontline is very different from the one we have led in Greece. Lot of time is spent in foxholes, in defensive trenches. Rarely though did we need to dig our own trenches. That whole phase of the war was for us just one long controlled withdrawal. It soon became a routine that we were sent to occupy (usually Wehrmacht) positions and slow down the Red Army's advance at least long enough until the German Army established new lines of defence. On one occasion, when we have arrived at one such recently vacated trench, we have found in it a seriously wounded soldier whom his retreating buddies must have assumed to be dead. I and a few others had not yet jumped into the trench, so I just threw off my backpack and others have lifted the poor fellow out of the hole and placed him on my back as I lay on the ground. I was to take him back in that position across about 20 metres of open ground to the edge of forest, from where others would take him back to the aid station. I didn't cover more than about five metres when I felt that another bullet hit the man, He stopped moaning and rolled off my back and came to lay face-up beside me. It was clear that he felt no more pain so I slithered like a frightened lizard back and joined the others in the trench.

At another time I have experienced an entirely different set of conditions, lasting about ten days, in one of the larger, quite prosperous villages, still in Rumania. I was temporarily posted to the battalion HQ as a field engineer 'man Friday'. I had to take care of odd tasks, like, for instance, securing and destroying unexploded mortar shells and other ammunition, Twice I was posted forward, luckily for only a few hours at a time, as a sniper. Because, quite by chance, I was the only one around able to communicate to a certain degree with Russian prisoners of war, I was also able to assist in their interrogation. But most of my time was taken up by the training of a succession of small groups of soldiers pulled out of the front lines for that purpose, in the use of a new (at that time) weapon, which we all know now as 'bazooka'. It was then a new addition to our arsenal. I was trained in it's use by the armourer, who has delivered a large number of them, together with rocket ammunition, to our battalion and after he left, I had to teach others. It was a routine, that specialised weapons, such as flame-throwers, mines, anti-tank and anti-personnel, anti-tank magnetic charges and so forth, were first used by the field engineers (sappers) before they became more widely distributed to other units. Some, like mines, were never handled by anyone else but us. When I think of the unexploded mortar shells, I would like to mention one in particular. Some-one came running to the HQ with the news that one of these things fell into somebody's bedroom. Please, help! When I got there I saw that the shell came down through the thatched roof and the ceiling leaving barely a mark. The flight-blades of the grenade were sticking out of the mud floor of the bedroom barely a metre from the bed in which a petrified middle-aged farmer and his wife didn't dare to move a muscle until I assured them that things are under control. And I did manage to loosen the thing out of the ground and remove it through the window and explode it harmlessly far enough from the house so that nothing got damaged and no-one was hurt.

The Battalion Headquarters were housed in one of the larger farm houses in the central location in the village. These houses, as a rule, are built to conform to a traditional functional lay-out on three sides of a rectangular sheltered yard. The fourth side of the rectangle is formed by the back wall of the neighbouring house. The front, facing the street has on the ground level, the main living room and a wide and high entrance gate. On the floor above are the bedrooms, Under the living room is a large cellar. This is where, during our stay, was located the real nerve centre of the Battalion Command. It was considered to be the safest of the unsafe places to be and, as well, it was the place where the farmer kept, among other things, his wine in some eight or ten huge barrels. Along the side, facing the neighbours' blank back wall across the yard, were, first the roomy kitchen and, with a separate entrance, additional living space. These rooms were usually occupied by the grandparents. There followed stables for cows and horses. The back end of the rectangle was blocked off by a large barn containing working area as well as a two-level storage space for sacks of grain and other produce and also straw, hay and other feed for the animals. Beyond the barn were situated chicken coops and pigpens as well as vegetable garden and fruit trees.

I have described the lay-out in detail so that you can visualise the following scene: from time to time, usually after a meal, we were able to relax and enjoy a little rest on the benches near the kitchen. During one such break in the warm autumn sunshine one Russian mortar bomb has found its way into our yard. This one didn't just bury itself harmlessly into the ground but exploded like all good bombs should, and I felt a tug on my right ear. It didn't hurt though, and the first thought that flashed through my mind was, that I want to keep the piece of metal as a souvenir. It was, after all, my first wound, such as it was. I turned carefully, so as not to lose the place, because that wall was pretty well scratched and damaged by then, and carefully dug the piece of shrapnel out of the soft mortar. I didn't succeed in hanging on to it for very long, Soon the times became a lot more hectic and I lost it somewhere. The only reminder I still have of that first scratch is a small scar and even that is exactly where I already had a scar since the time when I fell from a pushbike as a 10 or 11-year-old boy. Still, the wound was duly entered by the battalion commander in my service book and I began to feel a little bit more like a real soldier.

We remained in that village for about ten days. The Russians were pushing the front relentlessly ever farther west. When the time came to leave that reasonably comfortable farmer's house behind, especially the cellar with its barrels of wine, a messenger was sent to call me back from the forward position, into which I was posted only a few hours earlier as a sniper. The column of vehicles was assembling at the western edge of the village, ready to move out. I barely managed to climb on top of a tank, for the ride, when one of the battalion command officers suddenly remembered that in our recently vacated farmhouse, in the stable, handcuffed to posts, laying on a heap of straw, we have left behind three prisoners of war, three Ukrainians, two older men and one youngster in his teens. I, myself had assisted in their interrogation, because, after all, I was the only one around who could communicate with them reasonably easily. Now here was this officer calling for a volunteer to go back and shoot them, before we leave the place. I raised my hand quickly, but he didn't fall for it. He knew very well that I had become quite friendly with the poor fellows during the few days which we have spent under the same roof and that I would not go back to shoot them but instead to set them free. So, he sent back another man and this one, when he returned, secretly gave me a wink and I have no reason to doubt that those three men have survived his return just as they would have survived mine.

During the days, even weeks that followed, we have continued to move inexorably in the general direction of Budapest. The fight for the capital city of Hungary was going to be tough and I wasn't looking forward to it. Retreating just about every day gradually from one village to another, I didn't even bother to make a mental note of their names. Until, finally, one name did earn the distinction of being remembered and it was the town of Kiskunf茅legyh谩za . You can find it on the map if you follow your finger from Budapest in a south-easterly direction. I remember it because that is where I have received my second wound. The situation was the usual one: Almost immediately after arriving there, our unit was sent out, into an open area east of the town where some Wehrmacht troops with the help of some very unhappy civilians were constructing a line of anti-tank trenches and other barriers. Their work was not quite finished, but it was urgently necessary for them to withdraw, because they were already coming under mortar shell fire. So, we have covered their departure and as we ourselves started to move back towards the town one of the mortar bombs exploded only about two or three metres behind me. Piece of shrapnel entered my left elbow. I didn't feel any pain immediately, only when I tried to change the bend of that arm. I could neither straighten it, or bend it to a different angle. The piece of metal was lodged between two bones. It was barely the size of a pea and I have lost no more than two or three drops of blood, but my left arm was rendered virtually useless, for who knows how long. Even during our limited frontline experience we saw daily far worse examples of wounds and I, myself, did not feel that I deserve any particular sympathy. Luckily, our 'Company's Mother', (the austr. Sergeant-Major, in german army 'Spiess' ) Neumann, was an experienced veteran of the battle for Leningrad, more sympathetic to the lower ranks than most. He sent me to the Aid Station with his recommendation that I should go back to a proper hospital. The doctor who examined my arm agreed and sent me, as far as his authority went, to a hospital in Vienna. But his order still required a counter-signature from some higher Command Centre in Budapest. Here it seemed as if my luck run out. I have run up against a kind of robot in uniform who, instead of hospital was determined to send me to some unit just then hastily being slapped-up from such 'lost souls' as I was at that time. That Divisional or, perhaps, Army Command Centre was located in one of Budapest's most luxurious hotels and as I was dejectedly making my way down the wide marble staircase, I met my 'Spiess' Neumann, who was in the same building arranging for some supplies for the company. I told him about my bad luck and he took me straight to some higher authority and , thanks to his intervention, I was sitting in the train travelling to Vienna before the end of that day. I stayed in that hospital as a 'walking patient', even doing some light duties, until my elbow loosened up again. Then I was granted two weeks' leave after which time I was to report to Dresden, to the same training barracks, where I received my basic training one year and a half earlier.

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