The Boy Who Went to War (17 page)

The next thing Wolfram heard was German motorbikes roaring towards him, the riders shouting out orders as they drove through the wreckage. ‘Get to the next woods! Regroup up there! You'll be protected there.'

Wolfram and the other survivors made their way to the woods, pausing momentarily to take stock of the carnage. There were bodies everywhere. Corpses that already stank, and scores of horses with their bellies ripped open and their guts spilling on to the road. And everything was still burning. It made for a terrible sight.

Dusk had fallen by the time the survivors had made it to the relative safety of the woods. They sought comfort in the penumbral shadows, aware that no American soldiers would risk their lives in coming to attack them here. It was eerily quiet, for no one dared to speak. The only sound was the whispering of the leaves and the occasional muffled rumble of a distant explosion.

Command of these shell-shocked survivors had fallen to the most senior regimental commander, the Pforzheimer, Colonel Rudolf Bacherer. He was determined to save the remaining men under his command and presided over an impromptu meeting of the few unit commanders who could be found. Several of them proposed retreating northwards towards Cherbourg in order to assist in the defence of the port. Bacherer refused to countenance this idea and wanted to continue to resist the American advance, still hoping for final victory. ‘Every house must become a fortress,' he had said just a few days earlier, ‘every stone a hiding place, and for every stone we must fight.' He ordered a breakout through the American lines that was to take place that very night.

Wolfram and the others were ordered to bind together all their possessions. It was crucial that there was no sound of banging or clattering. They were also told that no one was to say a word while they were on the move. The men were also forbidden from eating – a precaution in case they were wounded and needed emergency medical treatment.

They walked and walked in total silence, passing through villages that had already fallen into American hands and now sported a few banners declaring
Victoire
. At one point, they stumbled across thousands of American propaganda leaflets calling upon all German soldiers to surrender. Filled with pictures of beautiful women, the pamphlets claimed that life was better in America, adding that even prisoners travelled in Pullman carriages.

Although the majority of villages were deserted, in one the men sighted a few American troops who were relaxing and caught off their guard. A brief shoot-out instigated by the German vanguard left all of the Americans dead. Then the telephone cables that they had laid were cut. Wolfram and his comrades passed on unopposed through the village.

They were by now utterly exhausted and could go no further. The order for rest was given and everyone slumped on to the banks of the sunken lane. A few men were posted as sentries, keeping a watchful eye on the American positions ahead.

Colonel Bacherer knew that he could not risk leading his weary men into nearby Barneville-sur-Mer. Instead, he decided to punch his way southwards, hoping to break through the American forward lines on the banks of the River Ollande. In a radio signal sent to the German 243rd Division, less than three miles away, he requested armoured support.

They responded within minutes, bombarding the American positions and enabling Bacherer to lead his men down to the river. However, as they reached the muddy estuary and peered through their binoculars, they realised that there was a new problem to be overcome. The only bridge, which they had to cross, was already being patrolled by heavily armed American sentries.

All of a sudden, Wolfram heard shooting up ahead. Bacherer's forward units – men from the 1st Battalion, 1050th Infantry Unit – had started to engage the Americans at close range. It was a bloody, hand-to-hand struggle fought with fixed bayonets under the cover of light machine-gun fire.

The battle did not last long, perhaps twenty minutes, at the end of which news came that the bridge had been captured. The American soldiers, quickly grasping they were massively outnumbered, had beaten a hasty retreat, leaving their fallen comrades on the bridge. Bacherer ordered his men to cross as quickly as possible, before the Americans could bring up reinforcements.

More than 1,400 German troops managed to escape from their trap that morning, taking with them 100 American prisoners. Once they had crossed the bridge, they were told to head southwards, away from danger.

They reached a village with a big manor house that had been commandeered by the German army. When Wolfram walked into the great hall, which was now serving as a field hospital, he saw battled-wounded Americans and Germans lying side by side – some with fractured bones, others suffering from shrapnel injuries or burns. The doctors were hastily examining each one in turn, trying to work out who was most in need of treatment.

Wolfram had remained with Miggel, his fellow
funker
, during their flight from the American zone. When they first arrived at the manor house, Miggel had darted down into the cellar. A few seconds later he was back upstairs with a broad grin on his face. ‘Look what I found,' he said to Wolfram, holding up two pots of jam. Wolfram was struck by the incongruity of the scene. On the one hand there were the wounded and dying; on the other there was the triumphant Miggel with his jars of preserve.

The men were told to regroup outside and to start heading southwards, away from the front. They passed through rich pastureland and meadows, whose bucolic beauty was marred by a constant and ghastly noise. The cows in the fields were emitting low and anguished wails of pain, not having been milked for many days. Among the conscripts marching with Wolfram were several farmers who could not bear these terrible cries. As they walked, they would run into the fields and milk the cows, in order to relieve them from their misery. With no time to collect the milk, they just let it run into the earth.

Many of the animals were also suffering from festering bullet wounds sustained during the constant raids by Allied fighter-bombers. These animals were shot to put them out of their misery.

There was no sense of order or discipline as the men trudged along the country lanes. Indeed, they made their way southwards in complete disarray. Men would drift away and disappear, never to be seen again. On other occasions, Wolfram and his group would find themselves joined by troops who had become separated from their commanders or lost their way. At one point, the bridle path they were following divided into two. Miggel said to Wolfram: ‘Carry on. I'll catch up with you.' He never did so. It was the last Wolfram ever saw of him.

 

Later in the afternoon of 19 June, Wolfram learned that the postal service between Normandy and Germany was still working. He hastily scribbled a letter to his parents in order to let them know he had survived the breakout and was back in German-held territory. He also revealed that he was deeply shaken by the horrific scenes he had witnessed. ‘The many fallen comrades,' he wrote. ‘I can still see them in my mind. I now know the meaning of “fallen in battle”.'

Like so many who survived intense firefights, he was left with a feeling of both guilt and gratitude. ‘They have fought and fallen for us, just for us – to give us something more beautiful; a better life.'

However, he also knew that his current situation was far from secure and we was particularly upset to have been separated from Miggel and two other close friends. ‘I've got nothing left except what I'm wearing. And I'm missing my comrades – especially the three who I'm always thinking about – the sergeant Matusiac, the artist, Miggel, and Lang…I keep thinking of these three and I'll never forget them. I miss them so much. Hopefully – maybe – I will see them again soon. Hopefully this horrible materialistic battle will soon come to an end. All I see is planes and devastation.'

Wolfram's experiences over the previous few days had convinced him that the war was lost. The meagre resources of the Third Reich were no match for the equipment and manpower of the Allied forces. He had been astonished by the quantity of weaponry. The Americans seemed to have endless supplies of everything, whether planes, guns or ammunition.

The Germans, by contrast, did not even have enough food to eat. The men would sneak into abandoned farms and carry off whatever they could find. They often took the crates of butter and cream that were awaiting transportation to Paris, cutting off great slabs of butter and wrapping it in cabbage leaves to keep it fresh.

Wolfram had been told by his commanding officers that he and his comrades were free to help themselves to supplies from uninhabited French houses, but they were under strict orders to take only the least valuable items in such houses. Although they could take a spoon if they needed one, if there was a choice between a cheap spoon and a silver one, they were to take the former. An unusual gesture in times of war, it was most certainly not the norm in the German army.

Wolfram was to spend five long weeks in the southern part of the Cotentin peninsula, continuously in retreat and never sure as to his exact location. The men had no maps and no equipment. They could only ever work out their whereabouts by entering abandoned farmhouses and looking for the PTT (post, telegraph, telephone) calendars distributed free to every house in France. These calendars had maps of the local area printed on them and gave the men some clue as to their position.

On 24 July, Wolfram and his comrades were stopped on the road by a senior German officer who ordered them to gather around him as he had an important announcement to make. With an impassive face, he informed them that an attempt had been made on Hitler's life. Four days earlier, Count Claus von Stauffenberg had tried to kill the Führer during a meeting at his Wolf's Lair headquarters in Rastenburg.

The bomb had detonated at 12.40, exactly as planned, and had ripped through the room, killing and wounding many of those present. Hitler, however, was not among the dead.

The officer told the men this news in brief and then went on his way without another word. No one who was with Wolfram dared to say anything. Indeed, no one spoke at all for several hours, although one of the men later muttered to Wolfram and a few trusted confidants: ‘See, it's the beginning of the end.'

Colonel Bacherer was working hard to re-form the 77th Infantry Division in order to strike back at the Americans. It was proving a forlorn task. The men were now scattered over a wide area of countryside and were constantly being forced southwards, first to La Haye-du-Puits, then to Périers and Coutances. Just a few months earlier, Wolfram had been entranced by this picturesque market town. Now, its medieval centre was a heap of debris. ‘Only the gothic cathedral stands,' he wrote. ‘Everywhere there's a picture of sadness and destruction.'

The bombing raids grew in intensity with every day that passed. On one occasion, Wolfram looked up to see the sky black with Allied planes. They were probably heading for St Lô, which was completely annihilated at exactly this time. Wolfram was suddenly struck by the thought that in the weeks since
invasionstag
he had seen only four German aircraft.

Most families in the region had fled their homes to escape the fighting, but there were the occasional incongruous discoveries. Wolfram and his men broke into one house that was very close to the front line. In the dining room, they found the table already laid in expectation of the owners' imminent liberation.

The family sheepishly emerged from the kitchen. Although unpleasantly startled to find themselves confronted by German soldiers, rather than American ones, they were courteous and friendly to these unwanted guests. Wolfram chatted with them and they gave him some cider to drink. In the near distance, he could hear the clanging of church bells – a clear signal that the Americans had already liberated the villages just to the north.

By the end of July the Germans had been pushed back to Avranches and Wolfram once again glimpsed Mont St Michel in the distance. ‘Don't be surprised by this writing paper,' he wrote to his parents. ‘It lives in the same earthen hole as me. And don't be surprised if you don't get any more news – it would be hardly unusual given the circumstances. I'll write as often as I can but I'm at the front where anything can happen.'

He ended his letter in cryptic fashion: ‘How often have I already been led. I've had someone taking me by the hand and showing me the way, just as Tobias was led by the angel in the Botticelli painting.' It was, perhaps, his idiosyncratic way of informing his parents that he was preparing to let himself be led northwards. He had decided it was time to surrender to the Americans. There was no point in continuing. Without his Morse equipment, he was useless and could do nothing. Now, he just wanted to get away from it all.

There had been an unpleasant incident two days earlier that had helped him make up his mind. One of his conscripted comrades was being admonished by the staff sergeant as they stood close to the American front line. The sergeant was bawling at the lad, telling him he was useless and a good-for-nothing wimp.

It was as he said these words that the conscript received a direct hit in the chest. He stood rooted to the spot for a second before slumping to the ground. It was difficult for the men to absorb what had happened. One minute he was standing there being shouted at; seconds later, he was dead – hit by a stray bullet. Even the sergeant felt terrible. The man had died at the very moment that he was being told he was useless.

Surrendering to the Americans was a perilous business. Wolfram knew that he would be executed if he was caught by one of his own officers. There was also the danger that he would be killed by those to whom he was trying to surrender. There were numerous stories of trigger-happy GIs shooting men who had offered themselves up as prisoners.

The next morning was Sunday, 30 July. Wolfram heard church bells again, which could only mean that the Americans were very close. Then he heard the rumble of American tanks: they were driving along the main road just a few hundred metres from his position.