The ring around the Russian troops was tightening in heavy fighting. Their fate was sealed since they were unable to break out of the encirclement. I heard the Russians had suffered 70,000 dead in their attempt to break the siege of Leningrad. Soon the old German front lines were reestablished and things quieted down. On October 18, 1942, our liaison group was recalled to Siverskaja. We were barely able to get all our gear in order when Captain Herrgot told us that a new attempt to take Leningrad was possible. Four days later we were sent off to a new assignment.

We arrived at the XXX. Army Corps headquarters in Uljanowka, about 20 km southeast of Leningrad, right on the “October” Highway between Leningrad and Moscow. We moved into an old farmhouse and set up our station behind the building. Soon we were on the air again.

A few weeks later it started to snow, and another Russian winter was upon us. This time we had brand new winter clothing and the all important felt boots.

At nearby Pushkin, using a good set of binoculars, I had a first look at Leningrad from Height 167. Height 167 was the highest point of terrain on the Dudergof ridge, overlooking an otherwise flat area. The elevation was about 450 feet. Visibility wasn’t good that day, but I could see a few tall buildings and church towers. Back in Uljanowka, our liaison officer showed us a detailed panorama photo that had been shot from the Pushkin water tower with a 1000 mm Zeiss lens. It showed all the major buildings, and had labels with names over each outstanding feature. From the photo I could see that it was a beautiful city. What a shame to destroy it.

Rumors were soon circulating that Hitler’s initial orders to level and take Leningrad had been superseded by an order to siege the city. Leningrad would be brought to its knees by hunger. These orders reclassified the area as a relatively “unimportant” front now.

One of the interesting things about the frontline southeast of Leningrad was that it was manned by the Spanish Blue Division, supposedly all volunteers. Their discipline was different from that of the German army. For instance, they refashioned part of their gas masks into protective goggles by just cutting the mask apart. They said there was no use for the gas mask, so why lug it around. They carried their cigarettes or other important personal things in the gas mask containers. These troops had one hell of a reputation for man to man combat. The Russian patrols kept a safe distance from that front sector, because the Spaniards reportedly killed the Russians by slitting their throats.

First furlough

On November 6, I was ordered to return to the company in Siverskaja. Arriving there, I was told to get ready on the double, because the next day I would be going on furlough. Some of my equipment had to be checked in, and I had to see the company physician. He looked me over for all sorts of diseases, and even inspected my penis to see if I had gonorrhea. I hadn’t seen one female in the areas were I had been stationed. There was also a lot of paperwork to get the correct marching orders, and last but not least the ticket for the furlough train. There was only so much room on these trains, and each unit got a quota of tickets per month.

The trains were regular passenger trains that carried soldiers on furloughs only and they were usually late. I had to walk about three miles to the station in Siverskaja. It was winter and damn cold in the rail station, but the thought of going home kept me warm. The trains originated in Gatchina, only a short distance away, so there was plenty of room in the coaches. The rail route was via Luga, Pleskau (Pskov), Riga to Tauroggen (Taurage), where all passengers had to leave the train to go through a lengthy but well organized delousing process.

The three-ring delousing circus

The delousing was like a three ring circus in which all soldiers had to perform. The rumors was we had to turn our lice in marked with our dog tag number, but there weren’t pencils sharp enough to mark the lice, so we were allowed to leave them in the clothes. Only kidding of course. Everybody had to take their clothes off, put them on hangers, label them with their names, and give them to a soldier, who would put them into a steam autoclave to be deloused. Next we filed into a huge room with hot showers. Large vats containing dark gooey stuff were everywhere in the shower hall. We were required to take that horrible smelling gunk and smear it over all hairy body areas. Head, armpits, legs, chest, pubic hair, all had to be “anointed” with that gunk. It was supposed to kill all the lice, fleas or whatever else one accommodated. Then we washed the gunk in the showers.

Next we had to pass close muster by an inspector. He used a trouble light to illuminate all areas of the “hairy beast” to check if they were indeed free of “contaminants.” The soldiers always said, “How would you like to have that job, looking at hairy apes for eight hours a day, maybe they should have hired pretty female employees for that job,” said another guy. “That would never work,” wisecracked another. “You guys couldn’t get your pants back on again.” Everybody burst out laughing and hurried to the clothes line.

The clothes were usually a size smaller after delousing. For most soldiers that didn’t matter, because the field uniforms were not tightly tailored. Officers usually fared much worse with their tightly fitting tunics. Many of them moved rather stiffly as if fitted into a tight corset when they came out of the “lousy circus”. All that cleansing moved fast, it didn’t take more than two hours.

We boarded the train again. The mood on the train improved considerably. We were rolling into Germany, East Prussia to be correct. Looking out the window we enjoyed the tidy farms, clean, small villages, and paved roads. Finally, early in the morning on November 10, 1942 the train rolled into Landsberg/Warthe, and I was home.

Since I had a lot of good stuff, saved from special frontline rations, such as Cognac and other liquors, cigarettes and tobacco, my luggage was heavy. It was too far to walk with the luggage to my parent’s home, so I decided to check it in at the railroad station.

Then I walked up to the end of Bahnhofstrasse, to report to the military police office. This was a strictly enforced rule, which had a number of reasons, most of them no good. It supposedly assured that one had arrived at the destination. At times furlough trains had been ambushed by Russian partisans, triggering exchanges of gunfire, and killing soldiers going on leave. When they didn’t come back from their furloughs, their units didn’t know what happened to them. They were then listed as AWOL, which triggered searches for them. The next reason was, that if there would be a major Russian offensive, they could recall soldiers to front line units immediately. The last reason was the only good one, everybody was issued ration tickets for the three week furlough.

I walked home. Nothing had changed in the months that I had been away. When I arrived at the house, Mother and father were completely surprised. First I took off my uniform, put on civilian clothes, and then had a cup of coffee. Father and I then took our two bikes and went to get my precious cargo. Father was surprised when I told him about all the stuff I had in my rucksack. He said that I shouldn’t have checked it in, because it might be stolen, but nothing was missing.

Mother prepared a special meal, and we sat down and talked and talked. We had a good bottle of wine, and looked at the maps of the area around Leningrad that I had taken with me, and the many photographs I shot.

In the afternoon I called Friedl at work and told her that I was home and to call me. Then I walked downtown and roamed the old stomping grounds. I saw familiar faces, but didn’t meet old friends. Most of them were in the armed forces in various parts of Europe, and it was highly unlikely that their furlough would coincide with mine.

I got a newspaper and read the many obituaries of soldiers who had given their lives for “Führer und Vaterland”. Fortunately none of my close friends were mentioned, but the old anger at Hitler and his idiotic war welled up again. It didn’t matter whether or not I knew these fallen soldiers, they all had their dreams, loves and ambitions snuffed out, because of this insane politician trying to force his ideas on the rest of the world. I couldn’t think of a more vicious crime. I also considered what all of this must mean to the parents who had worked, saved and worried to bring these young men up, just to see them killed for reasons not important to them. I was wondering too what was going on in the minds of the parents who had helped Hitler come to power, and who now saw their own kids being sacrificed at the altar of their “idol.”

In antiquity religions had sacrificed their young to please their gods, and I couldn’t help but draw parallels. Were Germans really that stupid, that they didn’t see the similarity and blindly believed a politician who stepped on a podium and uttered political bullshit?

Fortunately, there was a flip side to all the war misery. The younger generation, still not in the armed forces, practiced limited liberty on their own. Benny Goodman was their idol and many of the popular American songs surfaced in Germany in 1942, often with lyrics that poked fun at the Nazi party, and their officials. Many of the German songs also ended up with anti-Nazi lyrics when sung in privacy. All this was the reaction to the increasingly depressed spirits of the people. Heavy air raids by the RAF all over Germany, and the nightmarish battle of Stalingrad, were beginning to give even the most optimistic Germans an inkling that God was not on our side contrary to the inappropriate “God with us” motto on every soldier’s belt buckle. Of course the other side believed that God was on their side also. I couldn’t help but remember what Mark Twain had written about that subject under “From Europe and Elsewhere, The War prayer.” How well he had expressed it.

Friedl and I went to the movies, sat around in cafés smoking cigarettes, and drank whatever was available. We had a good time, but we never discussed the future, because we didn’t see any future. All too soon the three weeks were over. Before I left, my father gave me his 7.65 mm Mauser automatic pistol (M14), which he had worn during World War I and said, “I hope you’ll never need it.”

I arrived back in Siverskaja on December 3, 1942, around midnight. I to the waiting room first, where everybody was briefed on the local situation. Apparently there had been night attacks on the Siverskaja airport by Russian partisans, and every unit now had sentries around their quarters. We were given the password, told to load our weapons, walk in groups of at least two and stay in the middle of the roads and streets. Wow, that certainly was a new situation. I cocked father’s Mauser, and walked along the middle of the road as ordered, finger at the trigger. I was challenged several times by sentries, but reached the company’s quarters safely.

Outbound with King

Three days later my friend Kurt König (King) and I were sent out to the XXVI Army Corps headquarters in Woitolowo, a typical small Russian village, south of Lake Ladoga. The XXVI. Army Corps was defending the east facing frontline of the ring around Leningrad. Everybody had dug in for another Russian winter. Our liaison group was quartered in a two story log house which had recently been built at the west end of the village. We had two rooms on the upper floor. One was a fairly large room with bunk beds, a table and chairs. The other room was the officers’ room, which also served as the map room. Large maps on the wall showed the exact frontline positions. Since the fronts were reasonably quiet, so was the “Etappe” (meaning the rear sections behind the front).

We were in a comfortable location, since the headquarters of the commanding General was right next to us, and Generals usually surrounded themselves with the best available creature comfort available. Our group was determined to take advantage of that. The FLIVO was Oberleutnant Koiky, a tall, skinny and somewhat neurotic character. He was a reserve officer in his forties and a bank manager in civilian life. He was the uppity kind, but he took good care of his group, at least as far as food and supplies were concerned.

Germanski nix cultura

Quite a few Russian civilians were still living in the village, mostly women and older men, who did various jobs for the military in exchange for food and money. To King’s and my delight, we could use a newly built sauna nearby. Since the transmitter in our van was operated in shifts, it was easy to get in the sauna during our time off. King and I used it sometimes every day. It was near a large creek, which was frozen during this winter time. A square hole had been hacked through the ice, so when we came out of the sauna nude, hot, and dripping with perspiration, we would run out and jump in the creek for a few seconds to cool off. Russian women were usually nearby sawing wood for the sauna’s stove, and when they saw us in the nude, they would always scream indignantly “Germanski nix cultura”. The two of us laughed, rolled in the snow, threw a few snowballs at them, and quickly ran back into the sauna to get warm again. This drastic change of temperature felt invigorating. We were told that one would feel like a new born baby. However none of us could remember how we had felt right after birth.

Beethoven’s fifth, with a fifth of Hennessy

On December 16, 1942, I celebrated my 19th birthday. King and I played chess until one o’clock in the morning, while listening to Beethoven’s fifth symphony on the radio, and drinking a whole bottle of Hennessy cognac. I hoped that I would be able to celebrate my next birthday at home.

Since the liaison group was part of the General’s staff we sometimes had to participate in military duties, such as sentry and guard duties. Once, I had to put in time as guard of the local POW camp. This was a small compound, where Russian POWs were kept temporarily until they were transferred to larger camps farther back from the front. The camp had a log house for the prisoners and an open yard with barbed wire around it. At one corner was a watch tower with a small guard shack which had a stove in it. It was pretty damn cold up there, so the fire never went out. When the guard needed more firewood, he called the Russian NCO who was in charge of the prisoners, and ask him to have one of his men bring up more wood. I always gave the POW who came up some of my cigarettes, even though the Russians didn’t like the standard European cigarettes. I knew that they would use the tobacco, mix it with their own weird tobacco and then roll a “papyrossi” with it. Their smoking habits were something else. Their tobacco looked like tiny pieces of chopped wood, probably the ribs of the tobacco leaf, and they rolled it into a piece of newspaper. Both ends of that “cigarette” had to be twisted, so that the “tobacco” didn’t fall out before they lit it.

One of the annoyances behind the Russian fronts was the night flights by weird Russian aircraft. These aircraft, which were officially designated as R-5 and U-2 aircraft, were originally training aircraft, and were often flown by Russian women. The planes were old-fashioned fabric covered two seat open biplanes, (similar to the Curtis Jenny). They were flown only at night and at low altitudes. Sometimes they dropped small bombs or hand grenades. Their only purpose seemed to be psychological warfare to harass the German troops.

On clear nights they also did reconnaissance, and they served as transport planes to partisan groups that operated in the back of the military occupied country. They were extremely difficult to shoot down, because their speed was too slow for the fire controls of the standard antiaircraft guns. In order to shoot them down with machine guns, they had to be illuminated by search lights, which the forward troops rarely had. Small caliber bullets merely put holes through the aircraft’s canvas and they kept on flying.

We learned to live with them. I admired the adventurous pilots that flew them. One night I saw one explode in midair, which was highly unusual, and I went to the impact area to investigate. One crew member had bailed out and was captured and interrogated. As it turned out he had triggered a flare to illuminate the area below for photography and when he tried to throw it overboard, it slipped out of his hands and fell into the cockpit. He immediately jumped out and came down on his parachute. The other crew member didn’t get out in time.

Camouflage checks were frequently flown by us behind our own lines in the Fieseler “Storch” aircraft. This aircraft was a unique “Short Take Off and Landing” plane, which had remarkable capabilities. Its stall speed was about 25 MPH. I took part in one of the inspection flights, which showed that at low altitude and slow plane speed even the best camouflage could not hide a position, particularly in wintertime. We also discovered during night flights that there were landing strips in our rear area for the R-5 and U-2 aircraft mentioned above. These flights supplied the Russian guerrillas with explosives, food, medication and anything else they needed for their operations, and they sometimes flew out their wounded. They did this in a crude way by mounting large diameter, light weight tubes under each wing, and wrapping the injured person in blankets and tarps and stuffing them into the tubes, which then were closed at both ends.

A white Christmas 1942 in Woitolowo

This was my second Christmas away from home and just as cold as the first one in the RAD camp. However it was a “wet” Christmas, because we had so much top quality liquor. There was the finest French cognac, champagne and wine, and we weren’t sober most of the time. It was the only time in my life that I passed out from champagne. The next morning I had to face all sorts of accusations. They told me I had knocked over the Christmas tree and done other misdeeds. I couldn’t defend myself, because I didn’t know anything about it. I never ever got that drunk again.

There were rumors that the German Airfleet 1 in Riga would send a Junkers 52 transport aircraft clear to France to get more wine and cognac whenever we were dry. If true, it was amazing that some of it trickled down to near the front lines. Anyway, at times we could drown our worries about the damn war in alcohol.