MEMEL

We moved back to the north, as a junction with the Courland front was no longer possible. What was left of the division gradually regrouped. The attempt to reunite the front had inflicted terrible losses. During this time, in a desperate lunge further to the south, the Russians reached the Baltic. Fighting of unequaled ferocity had taken place at many points through and around the swarms of terrified refugees, who made it very difficult for our troops to defend themselves.

The entire Prussian civilian population was fleeing toward the coast, in a tragic tide. We ourselves had two choices. We could turn south, opening a route through several advanced Soviet positions, or move back to the north, toward the newly established front at Memel. However, the divisional command quickly realized that we no longer had the means to move south, toward Konigsberg, or even Elbing. Both towns were equally threatened, and the closest was some one hundred miles away. We would have to fight for every mile, with little chance of success and almost no possibility of picking up any food along this route of mass exodus.

So Memel was chosen: a short front which had been practically surrounded since the autumn. We would have to fight our way through, to make a passage for ourselves and for the flood of refugees moving with us, constantly slowing us down and often nearly paralyzing us-a pitiful, imploring procession, dragging on foot through the bitter cold and the slush of the first snows. In spite of orders, we had to help, reassure, and support this chaotic wash of human beings. Everyone with an engine which would still run--even for an hour-carried a swarm of terrified children, trembling with cold and fear and God knows what else, while their families ran alongside, mixed in with the soldiers who were their last hope of protection.

We passed through towns and villages where the inhabitants had still been living a more or less normal life until four or five days earlier, although they had realized that their danger might become imminent at any time. Now, for the last two days, old men, women, and children had been desperately digging out the trenches, gun pits, and anti-tank ditches which were to stop the waves of enemy tanks. This pathetic and heroic effort before the infernal debacle which would sweep them into the flux of terrorized civilians was a preliminary shock for these virtuous civilians, who saw the front coming toward them in the form of exhausted, half-starved troops, tired of fighting and of living, who brushed aside human pawns without a qualm, as if they were pieces in a losing game of chess.

Every time a defense seemed possible, it was undertaken. The enemy at our heels were slaughtering the civilian population, who watched their approaching end in mute horror; the enemy had to be slowed down. The groups impressed into this effort accepted their fate in the ludicrous hope of putting out fires which were already raging. Their situation and sentiments were understood and their misery measured and valued by those who came to bid them farewell. These men had reached the point beyond which death seemed desirable, and still the war went on, like a blazing fire which no sentiment, however realized, could stop. Those who broke through and reached Memel would probably die at Memel. Death at Memel would seem a relief and release, and a more orderly end than death in a place which would never be distinguished by any military operation.

At this time and place, the absolute would be resolved by the absurd-unless, perhaps, they were already the same thing.

Finally, our division-which is to say, a third of it-broke through, and the command at Memel was able to include it in their strength. The division had broken through, and the fifteen hundred men it cost us simply represented another figure to swell the note of heroism. For those who had been in the fighting, besides the men who were killed, the losses included some twenty names which had to be scrubbed from the company lists, including Siemenleis and Wienke.

We might perhaps have fought our way into a trap. We even thought that perhaps the Russians had, deliberately loosened their grip to let us through. We had brought along with us as many civilians as we could, but many others had stayed behind, and for them the game was nearly over. They had to dodge the tanks pursuing them, and multiple barrages of howitzers and quadruple machine guns, and Ivan's bayonets-all of which is very difficult for a mother with an infant at her breast and a small child hanging on to her skirts. But after all everyone is born to die.

We arrived in Memel with trucks pulled by men, and tanks serving as locomotives to trains of incredible length. We had reached the absolute limit of our capacities. Everything which still possessed a shred of human or mechanical life was moving, suppressing misery to a sense of gratitude that so much, at least, was still allowed them. Bombings stopped only those who were definitively dead. The rest-the merely wounded or dying-kept on, with burning eyes, pushing past the collapsing and the collapsed, whose bodies lay strewn along the road.

The town of Memel was still alive, in ruins beneath the flames, the smoke-darkened sky, the throb of Russian fighter-bombers, the heavy artillery, the terror, and the whirling snow.

Once again, I cannot find the words to describe what I saw.

My impression is that all words and syllables were perfected to describe unimportant things. Words cannot describe the end of the war in Prussia.

I was part of the exodus in France, fleeing the German troops which I later joined, and I saw mothers asking for milk at quiet farms. I also saw overturned cars, and was once even machine-gunned near Montargis. But my memories of all that are touched with only a small degree of anxiety, which is even somewhat intoxicating, like the memory of a trip on which one was not alone. Also, in France, the weather was beautiful. In Prussia, it was snowing and everything had been destroyed all around us. Refugees were dying by the thousands, and no one was able to help them. The Russians, when they were not fighting our troops, pushed the tide of civilians along in front of them, firing at them and driving tanks through the terrified mob. Anyone with a little imagination can try to conceive what I am talking about. Cruelty has never been more fully realized, nor can the word "horror" ever adequately express what happened.

We had reached the Memel cul-de-sac, a half circle about fifteen miles across, backing onto the Baltic, whose cold, gray swells rolled in under a thick blanket of fog. We held this constantly shrinking space by some inexplicable miracle for most of the winter, harassed by continuous bombardment and permanent attack from the Russians, whose strength grew steadily as ours dwindled, overrun by thousands upon thousands of refugees. The extreme of misery to which these people were reduced can never be adequately described. They waited at Memel to be evacuated by sea, before the troops were taken off in mid-December.

The ruins of Memel could neither hold nor shelter the large segment of the Prussian population which had sought refuge there. This population, to which we could give only the most rudimentary help, paralyzed our movements and our already precarious system of defense. Within the half circle we were defending, ringing with the thunder of explosions which covered every sort of shriek and scream, former elite troops, units of the Volkssturm, amputees re-engaged by the services organizing the defense of the town, women, children, infants, and invalids were crucified on the frozen earth beneath a ceiling of fog lit by the gleam of fires, or beneath the blizzards which emptied their snows over this semi-final act of the war. The food ration was so meager that the occasional distributions which were supposed to feed five people for a day would not now be considered enough for a school child's lunch. Appeals for order and observation of the restrictions rang incessantly through the fog, which in part veiled the scene. Ships of every kind were leaving by day and by night, loaded with as many people as they could carry. Long files of refugees, whom the authorities tried vainly to register, moved toward the piers, creating targets for Russian pilots which were impossible to miss. The bombs opened hideous gaps in the screaming crowd, which died in fragments beneath these blows, but remained in line in hopes of getting on the next ship. These people were exhorted to patience, reminded of the rationing, and told to fast while they waited for deliverance. Old people killed themselves, and mothers of families, who would hand their children over to another woman, begging her to feed them with the ration card she herself was giving up. A gun taken from a dead soldier would accomplish these jobs. Heroism and despair were closely intertwined. The authorities tried to keep up the spirits of the crowd by speaking of the future, but at that time and place everything had lost its importance. These martyrs often watched suicides without really trying to stop them. Some, in a surge of madness, shot themselves on the pile of bodies which civilian aides collected in each district. Capitulation would at least have put an end to this hideous nightmare. But Russia inspired such terror and had demonstrated such cruelty that no one even considered the idea. We had to hold, no matter what it cost us, until we were eventually evacuated by sea. We had to hold, or die. Or perhaps the High Command had another idea; perhaps they were planning to transform the stronghold at Memel into a bridgehead from which they would launch a a counter-attack to split the Soviet thrust. This last speculation struck those of us holding the town as sheer fantasy. However, soldiers were still landing at Memel, as the civilians left. We could only suppose they had come to strengthen our position. The idea of a counter-attack seemed entirely unrealistic.

Here we fought with the stubbornness so much admired by the High Command, solely because we still hoped there might be some sort of launch left at the end to take us out after the last civilian had been evacuated. We had to hold on, even if despair had separated us from all other human conditions. At Memel, no one could stay out of the fighting; children and young girls dried their tears and helped the wounded, distributing food, resisting their desire to devour it, and suppressing horror and fear which were so fully justified. They performed tasks which their overburdened elders gave them, without argument or complaint. One either died or lived; no intermediate condition could be given any consideration. The children all felt this fact, without discussion or explanation. Those who survived this dramatic training would never be able to take the normal difficulties of normal life seriously. The German people really experienced the depth of things, and left me with an ineffable feeling of respect, which I can describe no further.

In the disorder of our advanced positions, civilians sometimes became directly involved in the fighting beside the soldiers; these civilians were often women. At the price of heavy sacrifice, the front held. By "held" I mean that it did not crumble altogether. In fact, it was constantly yielding in one or several places, and constantly shrinking. The long anti-tank trenches we had dug beforehand played a large part in the consolidation of our defense. The Russians depended above all on their aviation and their heavy artillery-which they strengthened constantly to knock us out.

Nonetheless, their attacks cost them heavily. The contraction of our front allowed us to concentrate our defense. Memel was ringed with innumerable carcasses of Russian tanks, and there were as many anti tank gunners as there were ordinary soldiers. Carloads of mines were driven out by civilian volunteers and placed in front of our defenses by the infantry in the course of small counter-attacks organized solely for this maneuver. We were defenseless only against aviation. Russian fighterbombers flew over continually. To the northwest of our position the remains of several dismantled railway carriages underwent eight attacks in two days. What was left of our anti-aircraft defense was concentrated around the piers, where the peril was greatest. This target constituted a real danger to the Russian pilots, who preferred to attack the rest of the stronghold, where there was no serious resistance.

Thus, despite the hell of cold and fire and shortage, despite the names scratched daily from our lists, Memel, almost incredibly, held. Then, one gray afternoon, some elements of our famous division were regrouped at a precise point. Ammunition for an offensive was handed out, and we were given two tins of food each, without regard to the contents. Some received a pound of apple sauce, others a pound of margarine. However, these variations seemed insignificant compared to the fact that the ghost of German military organization was still functioning during those days of grace on the fringes of a disintegrated city, which would still be known as Memel for a short time. Supplies, although obviously rationed to the limit, were still distributed before an offensive. Incredible as it may now seem, the vestigial remnants of the German Army in Memel were to attempt an offensive to the south, whose aim was to re-establish contact with the front at Cranz and Konigsberg. The officers who prepared the maneuver issued their directives to the disillusioned ears of combat veterans.

Hals and I were jolted from the void in which we had grown used to living. We were accustomed to the most astounding orders, but this time the fact that we were going to hurl ourselves into an assault with the incredibly slender means available to us made us tremble and reel with uncontrollable vertigo.

A few tanks which were still intact would support our progress. Materiel which belonged to the Courland soldiers, and even some from Germany, had been delivered. We were to proceed to a village some ten miles to the south, on the road which followed the coast, beside a large bay. The commanding officer of the operation chose a moment of appalling weather to launch his offensive. It was simultaneously snowing and raining. The atmospheric conditions were so disastrous that even the Russian artillery had practically stopped functioning. It was this circumstance which our leaders hoped to exploit on our last, lunatic expedition.

A dozen dirty-gray tanks went out to meet an inexorable fate. The black crosses painted on their gray sides, the color of our misery, were scarcely visible. Inside the turrets, the "Ride of the Valkyrie" was coming over the short-wave radios-a fitting accompaniment to supreme sacrifice. Decrepit trucks carrying field pieces and heavy machine guns followed close behind, replacing the full-track caissons of Panzergrenadiers of our prosperous days. A mass of infantry, mixed with the remnants of naval and aerial groups, ran along beside the motorized materiel. My group, in which, to my joy, I recognized the faces of Hals and Wiener, were clinging to the exposed chassis of an automobile which had been stripped of its skin.

With ludicrous ease, our point units surprised a camp of Russian armor lined up under the snow as if on parade. The Russians. staggered by this absolutely unforeseen blow, abandoned the camp, which we burned, using one of our special incendiary techniques. A supply of Soviet fuel allowed us to think of pushing our offensive even farther, and we went on, despite the gusts of wind which lashed our hands and cheeks. Several concentrations of Russian troops gave way before our surprise thrust.

However, the enemy was massed around Memel in depth, and as soon as they struck back, our thrust came to an end. We could hear the first Russian reaction, and knew that we would soon be inundated by a merciless rain of fire, and that the first Russian tanks were already rolling toward us.

As things were reaching a critical point for us, we heard artillery fire from the sea. The bad weather prevented us from seeing the ships just off shore, but their providential fire fell on the Red tide as it moved toward us. Two or three destroyers or torpedo boats had come especially to support us. Despite zero visibility, the coordinates supplied by our tanks in forward positions enabled the ships to fire with considerable precision, and the Russian thrust was more or less stopped. It was also possible that the Russians, who were further inland, misjudged the source of our fire, and supposed that we possessed more ground artillery than we actually did.

However, none of this made any real difference. The Russians possessed infinitely greater means than we did. Toward the end of the day, our meager operation was attacked along a flank of some six miles. This was much more than we could take. Soon half our tanks were on fire. As foreseen, we had failed and were ordered to return to Memel-six miles back the way we'd come-which was far more difficult than the way out.

We abandoned the road we had followed for our last, epic attack except for our motorized materiel, which separated as widely as possible when the Russians fired. In the darkness, striped with thousands of lights, breathless troops were running across the dunes from one hole to the next, valuing each step which brought them closer to Memel. As a crowning blow, the column had to cross a stretch of road we ourselves had mined that morning.

We tramped a mile lit by flares and streaked with white flashes. The road was narrow, but still more or less intact, except for a few shell holes. The first vehicles drove full speed down that infernal space. The Russians had not yet had the time to adjust their aim, and their shells fell beyond us. However, their second round was more successful. Two trucks were hit dead on, and disintegrated. Two more, although they were mangled and torn, got through to less dangerous ground. The wreckage of the first two obstructed the road, and we were sent to clear it away. Ivan was now quite close, letting us have it with grenade launchers and peppering us with machine-gun fire. Despite our intense terror, we tried to keep on firing back as we climbed the slippery banks of flying gravel. The ditches where we might have found shelter had been mined; we were caught in a trap we had prepared ourselves. Several of our men fell, their arms flung outward and their eyes fixed for the last time on the dark, tormented sky. While we waited, our small band clung to the possibilities of survival. We waited beside the first two vehicles which had been wrecked and were obstructing the passage. All around us, Russian grenades were exploding, illuminating the darkness. A Russian quadruple machine gun was spraying the edge of the ditch, which was luckily somewhat higher than the road.

The Russian gun swept much of the wreckage from the road, jarring the shattered heaps further into disintegration with each salvo. Beside these fragments of metal, which had lost almost all their shape, lay two men in their ragged uniforms-men who, like us, had believed in a way out, and were now eternally at rest.

We would have to clear the road of the wreckage which still obstructed it, but anyone who stood up would probably be hit. Once again, Wiener, the veteran, emerged from our petrified group. On his knees under the flying bullets, he hurled a grenade at the first heap of metal and blew it from the road. The second wreck went up the same way. The third-a three-and-a-half-ton truck-required four grenades. Unfortunately, the wounded men inside the truck were blown up too-but that's war.

Toward midnight, at the height of the storm, two-thirds of our men were back in Memel. The command had become aware of our enterprise, and had provided covering fire. In a state of exhaustion, we arrived at the rear of our entrenched camp. Inventory of the missing was taken outside, among the ruins of a bathing establishment. Then, in the perpetual roar of noise from the front, we settled down and tried to sleep, even though the circumstances were so heavily against it that the attempt itself was an act of heroism.

The next day, toward eleven in the morning, when we had finished eating the rations distributed before the offensive, we were sent back to posts which had to be defended. In our dramatic situation, our rest periods could not be of any greater duration. Civilians continued to embark, despite all the risks this entailed.

Seas were running high, and all the buildings were covered with frost. Their human complement were waiting to leave from the jetty. Although the waves sprayed their bluish faces, there wasn't the slightest murmur of complaint.

Our troops continued to deny the Russians access to the town and its immediate surroundings. The possibility of evacuation by sea represented such a lifeline that a maximum effort was mounted to make it possible for us to hold on. Food, munitions, and medicines were sent in. On certain days our hammering from the Russians seemed to be diminishing, and despite the cold which grew daily more intense, life seemed easier. We didn't realize that the Soviet armies were concentrating their efforts farther south. Konigsberg, Heiligenbeil, Elbing, and then Gotenhafen were

increasingly threatened. The problem of refugees, as I learned later, was ten times greater in those places. The Russians abandoned Memel for the moment to cut further into Prussia, where they were met with desperate resistance. However, they swept it all aside. The three powerful Soviet armies which had entered German territory possessed means infinitely greater than those remaining to us. In addition to this, they were inspired by savage feelings of vengeance. The tortured population of Prussia were indelibly instructed in what this meant.

Elsewhere, scattered through the population, were Lithuanians, anti-communist Russians, Poles, and even English and Canadian prisoners, who shared our fate, even at Memel. The general terror of Russia superseded all national divisions and differences of opinion; it was a brute fact-simple and unassimilable. When no other course was possible, everyone fled-even the English and Canadian prisoners. The likelihood of being distinguished by the Russian assault units was too doubtful. Women of all ages were exposed to another form of outrage. The number of people evacuated by sea must have risen into the millions.

The veteran had carefully set up his F.M. in the ruins of a house whose walls rose no higher than three feet from the ground. From time to time he brushed the snow from the breech with the back of his hand, which had turned gray from repeated frostbite. Since our last attack to the south of the town, the veteran seemed to have regained his calm. The nervous excitement which affected all of us no longer seemed to touch him. He no longer took part in our desperate discussions, and seemed to have separated himself from all our sufferings. The war, the cold, and all the other horrors which plagued us no longer seemed to touch him. His manner was strange and we wondered about his frame of mind.

However, that morning, his F.M. had saved us from a Russian patrol which had become particularly interested in our group. Twenty Russian bodies lay stiffening in front of the Volkssturm truck which continued to function despite the fact that one of its back wheels was a thick log wedged against the chassis-another of the minor miracles of Memel. Then the Russians had sent a 50-mm. bullet under its hood, finishing off the two old men dressed as soldiers who sat in the cab. Hours later the damned thing was still blocking our view. The Russians had tried to use it as a shield to get close enough to wipe us out with grenades, but Wiener had riddled them with enough fire to finish them off too. Speed had been the critical factor, and Wiener had simply been the quickest. Now he sat in silence, wiping his gun as if it were a precious jewel. The rest of us-Hals, Lindberg, two others, and I-remained sitting in nervous agitation behind our cold, gray weapons, fully aware that they were no longer enough to guarantee our safety.

I had at my disposal three Panzerfausts, and the new P.M. which the Volkssturm had recently distributed-an extremely effective weapon which combined features of both the F.M. and the old P.M. I also had a small magnetic mine, which gave my stomach an extra turn. At Memel we each carried enough of an armory to ensure a quick death-with all that load, there was no question of getting away quickly.

We were to hold our position for about two more weeks, fighting off more or less soft attacks every forty-eight hours. Our rear was no great distance from the front, which made it possible for us to rotate our rest periods at reasonably frequent intervals, and rest in a manner which was more or less refreshing. Not far from us, beside what was left of the street, was a signpost stating that we were five miles from the coast: the last five miles of our retreat from the Don-an almost incredible sweep of over a thousand miles, much of it on foot. As the veteran sometimes jokingly said to me: "The same route your great-grandfather took with Napoleon, my boy. You might think of it as a family affair, if that's any consolation to you."

Then, one evening, as we were returning to the damp and icy cellar we used as a dormitory during our rest periods, we noticed that the civilian population of Memel had almost disappeared. The last shipload of refugees must have left while we were at the front. We walked through the darkness of the town, which was more like an abandoned cemetery than a town, and returned to our cellar with something like joy in our hearts.

My companions sat huddled on their ragged pallets without talking, attacking whatever comestible Grandsk had been able to produce, without even noticing what it was. It didn't matter a damn; their attention was elsewhere. They were dreaming in the heavy silence, fixing their eyes, which burned with accumulated distress, on the dirty gray vault of our cellar. They were dreaming of the deliverance which must be near at hand, of the leaking hulk which would carry us out onto the sea against which we had been pressed for so long. They were dreaming, staring from their dark sockets with mad, transparent eyes, and it was understood that no one would speak. Their eyes, which had grown used to staring only at the war, had turned toward the possibility of an inner vision it was just possible to glimpse, with an intensity which I also felt in myself. They were dreaming, and so that the war wouldn't catch them at it, they tried to hide it, looking at no one and keeping their eyes fixed on some inner vision of hope.

I was the only one who saw them. I saw them because I had nothing else to see. I had already dreamed too much, and perhaps had lost that capacity. Too many of my dreams had been nightmares. Even if I had still been able to dream, I wouldn't have dared, because in the end, when one of the dreams came true, it was too painful.

So I no longer dreamed but watched the others, drinking in some of their hope, and turning it for moments at a time into concrete images: worn boots on the slimy deck of a ship-boots, vomiting discolored, empty uniforms. And then I would stop, because hope was so horrible. What forms did the hope of others take? It seemed that I no longer knew how to dream.

And yet I too still possessed this impatience, which we hid and cherished like a treasure which life had not yet stolen. I still had it too, and was hiding it inside myself. I felt it, and heard it, shrieking through my silence, shrieking so loudly that it overwhelmed me, like the noise of explosions. My balance was damaged by that sound, because I no longer dared lay claim to any particular hope or promise. I was afraid to ask too much, afraid that the least desire might seem like a demand.

I was still alive, and was afraid that somebody might notice.

I had given everything else I had: my feelings, my anguish, my sorrow, my fear. I had also forgotten Paula, and, so that I wouldn't still seem too rich, I had forgotten that I was too young. I was not in very good health, but everything at Memel was hard. People with holes in their stomachs as big as fists were asked to be brave. Others, whose blood was pouring out onto the snow, fired at the war until their eyes grew glassy. I was lucky. In spite of my fits of coughing and my bloody phlegm, I still had a spark of life, which I kept hidden. One must no longer ask anything of anybody. Even if God heard our prayers, whatever we received would be consumed.

So I watched my companions as they dreamed. They too knew how dangerous dreams were in that place. Memel needed everything-dreams and hopes included. Men who still could hope fought better than those who couldn't. And we were all so tired of fighting.

From time to time one of us would emerge from torpor and scream. These screams were entirely involuntary: we couldn't stop them. They were produced by our exhaustion, by our organs, writhing with fatigue.

Some laughed as they howled; others prayed. Men who could pray could hope, and for so many hope was dead-so they howled their prayers. In any case, it was too late. Even if their prayers had been heard, God would no longer have dared to appear. He had abused His mercy-as in the case of Smellens, who had died that morning. Smellens had wanted to die, but not until he had received some news of his little brother, whom he had only seen twice. With dry eyes, we had watched the road which should have brought us the post, but no news came. Smellens had hung on to life as long as he could; but here, in Memel, it was too late for the All-powerful.

During the following days the first military evacuations took place. First, the units which had been most sorely tried, with the gravely wounded given priority-except for the hopeless cases, who would be as well off dying in Memel as anywhere else. The silently impatient joy of the less seriously injured, who could go, helped them to forget their wounds, which were tortured by the cold. Gangrenous cases stopped thinking about the amputations which awaited them. It was as if a veil of confidence had drifted gently over the town. Except for the planes, which hammered at us continuously, life might also have become life again. Ships gutted by bombs blocked the approaches to the piers. Mutilated corpses floated in the debris. The Navy was performing a prodigious task. We would have been lost without it.

A barge packed with men had been bombed amidships by an adroit pilot who hit the bull's eye the first time. We were summoned from our rest period to deal with the mess. I shall omit the details, the memory of which still nauseates me. Our boots were red with blood. The human refuse which we threw off the front of the half-submerged wreck drew a throng of fish, and the smell of bodies torn open by gaping wounds is beyond expression, even though the water washing over the carnage diminished it somewhat.

The water in which we worked at first seemed warm in comparison to the air. After a short time, however, it began to seem like torture. Our gestures became slow and hesitant, and our hearts felt the wrenching of pain which clouded our vision. We had to hang on. Two more ships were loading up with troops, and soon it would be our turn.

By mid-morning, the sky cleared. The pale sun attempting to shine over this scene of disaster filled us with unease. Any pleasure in the sun had long ago been killed for us. It invariably meant Russian planes.

Before we had finished our cleanup, the Russian fighter-bombers were overhead. This surprised no one. With good weather it could only be expected. Limping on our painful feet, we ran as fast as we could for whatever shelter we could find. All the true concrete shelters were used as first-aid hospitals, or shelters for the wounded. We had to huddle in the ruins, or in shell holes and bomb craters. We hid ourselves away in small clusters, and tried to concentrate on our imminent escape.

We could hear the anti-aircraft guns on all sides. Perhaps they would keep the planes away from the port itself.... But then we heard planes flying low overhead, making the icy air around us vibrate with their passage. We watched them, rubbing our fingertips, which were numb with cold, as they passed over the ruined town, and the men in rows, bowing beneath them like grasses in a wind. They passed over two ships which cast off their moorings to make less of a target. Five bombs fell simultaneously from the five planes gliding over the piers. Two fell in the water, where they burst, covering the waiting men with spray. A third scattered debris on the beach, while the last two opened a crater in front of a line of men who would not be leaving until much later. Bodies flew into the air. Some of the survivors gave way to despair, but those who still dared to hope supported them. There were no cries except from a few wounded men, who howled without meaning to.

There were now some forty planes overhead, and others were coming up from behind the cliffs to the north. One of them exploded in the air; perhaps one of our guns had hit it. But there were no cries of triumph, as in the old days. Here there was only the noise of war; the men were silent.

The ships had drawn somewhat away from the piers, but the men waiting to embark remained in their places so they wouldn't lose them. The planes turned in the sky, probably looking for the most effective positions for letting go their bombs.

We watched, trembling with cold and despair. But no one questioned the sanity of the men who remained in line. We knew that, when our turn came, we would do the same thing. At that time and place, hope was worth everything-a fortune which there was no question of staking. Everyone there had invested everything their torments had spared them in the possibilities which those ships represented.

The planes came over again, and I hid my eyes so that I couldn't see. The rhythm was too horrible, and in the end I was only human, not God. I hadn't died on the Cross, and had no right to watch.

The days went by. Memel no longer existed, except on strategic maps. The front had shrunk, but a great many men had embarked. However, there were still thousands waiting their turn, shuttling between the positions they still had to hold and the semi-tombs where they slept their mutilated sleep. I still watched, through my dazed eyes, as these thousands wandered through the heights of tragedy, in a silence which, to my ears, drowned out all the noises of the earth. They had been stripped of their human condition, and I watched them in hideous loneliness, weeping internal tears as heavy as mercury.

How long were we there? For how many lifetimes? It is no longer possible to say, and the world will never know. I feel now as though I was born to experience that test. Memel had become the summit of my life, the ultimate peak, with only the infinite beyond it. We felt that after Memel nothing of us would remain, and that the life we would experience in the future would be like the crutches one offers to a cripple. Memel is the tomb of my life, the absolute. The silence which enveloped our groups had a miraculous quality, which allowed each of the living dead we had become to think about what would follow our misery. However foolish it may seem today, the thought that our wretchedness would be recognized later, even posthumously, was a comfort. Today, even this last concern has disappeared. Anything which might be said about our misery depends on a system of interpretation which is believed to be perfect. But the spectacle of Memel will not even be helped by the last judgment.

It is growing dim and vanishing without ever having been seen.

We had left our cellar for a pillbox whose gun had been destroyed. I had stuffed my belongings into the space formerly occupied by the gun. Following my example, Hals, Schlesser, and another fellow had done the same. Wiener, Lindberg, Pferham, and seven or eight others occupied what was left of the turret itself. Our new lodging was less humid than the cellar, but that was not the reason for our transfer. We had shifted because in our new quarters we were closer to the various points we might have to reach at maximum speed. Our defense perimeter had shrunk even further because once again the Russians had become interested in us. The German troops still holding the tiny Memel stronghold had to face the possibility of serious attacks which might prove decisive. As it was, we were often obliged to approach our positions with extreme caution. Our men, driven beyond desperation, sometimes surrendered to the Russians, who would then put on their captives' rags and wait for the relief.

Our wretched men had fallen into this trap several times. Even more often, in their exhaustion, they had failed to notice Ivan crawling toward them until it was too late. Then Ivan would replace them.

Wiener and two other fellows had almost fallen into one of these traps. The veteran had spotted it in time, and had exploded into the kind of rage we knew so well.

"He saved us," stammered one of the men who'd been with him. "He let them have all his grenades right in the face." Both men talked in gasps, in an automatic nervous spasm. In fact, they both knew they were probably done for.

Wiener said nothing. He had recovered his silence, and lay prostrate against the bunker wall, which glittered with frost, while we looked at him. We had grown used to being saved by Wiener.

That evening, one of our men had tried to smoke a cigarette retrieved from a Russian cadaver. He had lit it and gone outside to relieve himself. Ivan had sharp eyes. He had spotted the glowing tip of the cigarette, and a 50-mm. shell had pierced the concrete, and burst in our comrade's back. He died without a sound.

"Ivan has come even closer," muttered Pferham.

The next day, in a piercing cold, we went to our outermost position, which should have been in Russian hands for some time past. On our way, we passed the last tank remaining in that sector. It was an old M-2, which had already been on fire, and which bore the impact marks of many shells. Its own guns had been destroyed and replaced by others which weren't made for it. Each day it moved to a trench cut through the ruins of an alley, and held Ivan back whenever he tried to get through there.

The infantry in its neighborhood had often rescued that old machine from contests that were too unequal, while the soldier gutter-rats infesting the ruins nearby held it in respect for the inestimable services it still performed.

Today, the tank's engine had broken down, and a team of ragged mechanics were laboring over it. We had huddled nearby to watch for a moment. One of the mechanics broke a tool and threw it on the ground in a rage. We heard the others talking. The machine was beyond repair. The men stood around, considering what to do with it. It had become a familiar part of our daily landscape.

Two planes had just flown over the ruins closest to us. All the tank crew took shelter beside the tank and stared up at the planes with feverish intensity. To our surprise, we found ourselves looking at two German reconnaissance planes. Where had they come from? They banked when they saw the tank, which no longer bore any insignia. For a moment we were all seized with a horrifying doubt: would the planes take us for Russians? We all stepped into the open and waved, with our arms spread wide, and the moment passed. The two planes flew over us very low, to the right. We could see the pilots. One of them even waved.

They must have come from a German base-from Germany, where everything was still possible, perhaps.

Our gray faces followed their flight until they vanished. In imagination we followed them for longer still.

We were still faced with the problem of the tank. The passage of the two planes had given us a fresh stimulus. Everyone was standing around the machine. Someone suggested that we try to push it. Although it was a mad idea, we all took hold of the rough and icy metal. Shouting hoarsely, we tried to establish a rhythm. There were about thirty of us, hoping to synchronize our efforts. Our boots slipped and crunched against the icy ground, but the tank didn't move. Our emaciated bodies seemed to have lost their strength. The three crewmen swore at our impotence, but still the tank didn't move. After a hurried discussion, two of our men ran to the rear. We were about to follow them, when we heard the sound of an engine. There was also a truck left in Memel, which I hadn't known until that moment. However, it arrived, jolting and backfiring. Before it had quite reached the tank the men had pressed pieces of wood against its radiator to protect it from the shock. Then it nudged up to the tank, shoving it from the rear. For a moment we thought it was going to stall too. Then, with a series of shoves, we managed to start the tank rolling, lifting it from behind, and letting it fall several times.

I stared at one of the slowly turning rollers. Its motion struck me as the essence of the miracle of Memel in miniature. The truck's engine roared, and our boots crunched against the solid ground. The tank rolled forward, and we continued on either side of it without losing our grip. My head was swimming from the effort, but I knew that something was happening in direct response to our will. Perhaps such knowledge is what constitutes joy. The heavy roller, studded with rivets, turned, and my eyes devoured it. It had also rolled across the infinity of the steppe, where part of my life had crumbled away, and it was turning now, just as I was still breathing. Joy is as simple as that. It would die, perhaps, within a short distance, as Hals or I might die, but until death came it would roll noisily down the slope. I felt very much akin to this huge metal object. In Memel, anything that moved was still alive. I was still alive. . . .

We returned twice more to the position. We would go again the next day, if we survived the night. However, that night Ivan was very much awake, raining death onto what was left of the town. The ground trembled continuously, and the sky was starred with flares. The light was as strong as broad daylight, reducing the luminous brilliance of the explosions. Our shelter cracked beneath the Russian blows, and as our lungs emptied of air, we sensed the presence of death. Wollers, our leader, tried to kill himself, but we pursued him outside and grabbed him by the belt. During the course of this rescue operation, one of the rescuers was killed.

Russian tanks had reached the hill to the south of our camp. Our soldiers who had been in the path of their advance had done their duty before they died. Then a heavy bombardment from the sea had struck the tanks as they slid over the dunes. Several tanks to the south of us went up in flames. The Russians were even forced to retreat a little, fighting as they went. The bombardment from the sea continued. Through the darkness and fog we could see the luminous discharges of the guns. With daylight, we were able to see the source of our help through heavy curtains of smoke. Two warships were standing close by the shore. One of them was the Prinz Eugen. The other was a ship of the same size. To the desperate defenders of Memel, they were a source of support we had never hoped for. The tanks respected their large guns, and kept their distance.

In the morning, we were supposed to return to the position described above. Overwhelmed by exhaustion, I had managed to sleep fitfully, like everyone else. Our sleep, under these circumstances, had its own peculiarities. We slept while we were wide awake, with our eyes open, like extinguished lamps. There was scarcely any difference between our faces and the faces of the dead. When. I woke up, I wondered if I would still be able to move. My body felt like dead wood, and I no longer dared look at my arms, which were so emaciated they were like two sticks.

I felt an intense pain in my chest, as if another battle as fierce as the one outside were raging through my interior. Nonetheless, I had to wrench myself from my torpor. Everyone else looked as strange as I did. I stared at them all once again, as I stuffed my crumbling teeth with shreds of cotton torn from the hem of my coat. Their faces were as gray as the faces of the dead. One would have said they were dead or else perhaps that nothing left in Memel was still alive, which seemed a distinct possibility.

We left. The Russians were firing haphazardly now, as if they were just passing the time-a bullet to the left, another to the right; after the night's bombardment, none of it seemed serious. As we drew closer to the front line, the chaos became indescribable. We had to climb through or over holes and protuberances of more than six yards. My head was spinning. I no longer had the strength of a child.

We could see the smoke hanging over the Russians' position as well. The Kriegsmarine must have scored several direct hits. On our way, we passed several fellows who were freezing behind their guns. They stared at us as if everything was our fault. We went on without a word. Manners, the weapon of the unmannerly, counted for nothing here. Everything was dead except courage, if that was still of any importance.

We had nearly reached our hole, with another 150 yards to go. I could see the earth heaped around it, and the empty munitions boxes, and the hole, where we would freeze for hours on end, and perhaps even die. What difference did it make where we were? It was just as cold in our bunker.... Anyway, to hell with it; I was still alive....

But what was Wiener doing?

He had stopped. I couldn't understand it-but it was all the same to me; I was so tired. But why was he firing? Wiener had set up his M.G. right on the ground, without even opening its front legs, and was sweeping the crest of our hole with short bursts of fire. Everyone else had instinctively found a hole. Hals was right beside me, but I couldn't look at him. He had grown old too quickly. He might have been fifty years old.

"We'll soon find out," he muttered through clenched teeth.

The veteran threw a grenade which landed near our former position. What an extraordinary man Wiener was. If our own troops had been in the hole, they would have shouted.

The Popovs were quiet. If they had tried to fool us by shouting, we would have recognized that trick right away. But Wiener had obviously been right. They were firing at us now; that was their answer.

"Schweinhund!" shouted Wiener. "Bastards!"

Wiener should have been a general, or even the Fuehrer. We had more confidence in him than in anyone else. He was firing straight at those damned muzhiks. No one dared move-and to make matters even more disturbing, we could hear the noise of tanks coming toward us from behind the ridge of banked-up earth. We knew that there were one or two Russian tanks back there, which were now going to direct their fire at us.

Wiener had undoubtedly made the same calculations. He was sliding carefully backward, dragging his gun. To my left, one of our men had just been hit.

"Let's go back!" Hals shouted.

But moving back was just as dangerous as moving forward. Who could I think of to give myself more courage? My mother? Did I even have a mother? Of Paula? But what good was my version of love in my universe? Of my own skin? My skin looked like Hals's, and I didn't have the courage to look at that any more. It's madness to have courage for nothing.... There was Wiener, our leader. He was worth dying for.

We had to abandon our friend Hans. His hip had been shattered, and under Russian fire we could do nothing for him. We said goodbye to him. He would know how to die, since he had known how to live at Memel. We didn't worry about it.

We reached a shell hole where we set up our two F.M.s ready to fire. As we had expected, the Russians were now plastering the area we had just left with fire from their tanks. The war machine was starting up again both to the north and to the south. The Russians were coming down into our trench. It was terrible to see them, and we felt half dead with fright. Wiener wasn't firing. He looked at us, and we looked at him, as if praying for advice. Reflected on his face, we could see the immensity of the disaster.

"Get out!" he shouted suddenly, his voice rising above the noise of the guns. "Get out of here as quick as you can!"

We had already grabbed our things and plunged down into the bottom of the hole. We stopped for a moment, and stared at Wiener.

"Come on!" shouted Pferham.

"Shut up, pastor. You get out too."

But Pferham had his duties, which kept him where he was.

"You go on, for the love of God. Clear out, and don't worry about me. I've had enough of fighting and retreating."

"Wiener!"

"There'll be no room for me after the war, remember?"

The veteran had opened fire. He was firing like a madman at the Russians who were coming along the trench. Pferham called again, but the sound of the gun drowned out his voice. We ran back off that ground which was shifting and crumbling under our feet. The position was no longer tenable. Why didn't Wiener follow us?

Ten minutes later, we plunged down into our mortar and anti-tank positions. Five hundred yards to the east, we could see a thick cloud of smoke rising from the position we had just left. As the deluge of war poured over us, and the parapet of the gunpit trembled like the railings of a ship caught in a storm, we clung to our guns with trembling hands, as to our last salvation.

The fire from the ships made a critical difference to us. Without it we would have been overrun. The danger was so pressing that no one could leave his post. Through the sharp noise of the guns, we could hear the wounded groaning. Such a peak of tragedy was beyond understanding. Each of us felt alone, stripped of all feeling and all judgment. Perhaps there would not even be time for a few hours of rest before our deaths. The men waiting at the piers had gone back to points of defense. This was not altruism, but simple self-interest. They knew that if Memel fell, no one would leave. At a high pitch of fury, they drew on their last reserves of strength to keep watch, and prevent Ivan from destroying their Calvary and their hope.

Memel still held-Memel, a small island of courage drawn from an infinity of anguish. But the boats didn't come. Had we been abandoned? Had this final reason for fighting vanished too? Was this the end?

However, the following night, a ship drew in to shore like a ghost. A crowd of dying men ran toward her, fighting among each other for places. No order could have held them back. In any case, the officers were in the same state as their men. Here, no one fought because a whistle blew. We fought because there was no other possibility.

It seemed that the ship had not come to pick up men, but food. We had enough food to hold out for another three months, but since we were to be withdrawn "immediately," these supplies should have been destroyed. However, to the south, there were hundreds of thousands of refugees who were dying of hunger and cold. The crowd which had collected near the shore heard the voice of the naval officer shouting through an amplifier. At first they couldn't understand these words, which seemed to be coming from another world, from a man whose floating mobility allowed him to see the worst from a distance. They vaguely grasped that from their misery they could still help other people farther to the south. A single word ran through their minds in an endless refrain: immediately ... immediately ... immediately. The boat loaded up with our supplies and took on a few wounded. Immediately ... The crowd stood motionless, wrapped in a silence as large as the night.

Our diminished group had been sent to the northern edge of the stronghold, to a beach beside the sea, overhung by moderately high cliffs. We still held the clifftops, in bunkers which had been built facing the sea. However, the Russians had also reached the clifftops at several points, and even though they were not yet there in strength, they had sent out sharpshooters, who controlled the rocky beach along which we were crawling under their fire.

The German positions on these heights were fortified islands, surrounded by the enemy, and living on God knows what. There was no longer any question of the Gross Deutschland Division, or any other division. Everything which could still move in Memel was alive, and anything alive had to be used.

A ragged officer had brought us to this point, where he feared the Russians might break through our rear lines. Although the position was very dangerous, it was at least somewhat less dangerous than the official front. Tanks couldn't get through unless they reached the heights, which we still dominated and weakly defended. For shelter, we used the holes dug by civilian refugees who had waited here for deliverance by sea.

We were in almost constant contact with the Russians. Ivan moved along the length of the coast, peppering us from the cliffs. Sometimes he used mortars. The sandy soil was as churned up as if a harrow had been through it, and we were constantly digging out both the living and the dead. However, in this soft soil, the impact of missiles was usually dissipated. The Russians were just playing with us, but they gave us no respite. If our heads hadn't been empty, they would have burst with exasperation.

Although the cold was cruel, nature had also sent us fog, which was an ally. The Russians had infiltrated our lines, and were sometimes even killed from behind. They were afraid too and were hoping that support from their artillery and tanks would crush once and for all this cemetery where even the dead seemed to defy them. They infiltrated with great caution, and when they thought we could hear them, they shouted insults at us, telling us what they would do to our wives and mothers. They also said they were planning to remove parts of ourselves. Sometimes, too, they sang.

Hals and I listened, with our fingers on our triggers, because they often sang and shouted like that to distract us.

"Ai mayi drougii Germanski,

kak sabatchi ch'olet!

Ya tibai scajou spaciba ouyoudna mamenchka!"

Then they would count. "Listen, German soldiers. You are going to die. Listen: raz, dva, tri . . ."

Then they would let off a volley, while we listened in silence, like antennae destined to pick up all the ignominies on earth.

During the night, two more boats came. At the risk of instant death, a crowd of ragged soldiers ran to board them. We were too far from the shore to get there in time. As the nausea rose in our throats, we stood powerless, trying to calculate our isolation. Every time a boatload withdrew, our defense was weakened to that degree. Nothing could stop Ivan now. As soon as the wave broke, we would run like rats. The long nightmare turned heavily in our minds, and we all trembled uncontrollably.

Hals had lifted his gun to his head. I must have stared at him with enough sorrow to stop him. He turned back onto his stomach, and crushed his face into the ground.

The next day, we were still covered with fog. The front was quiet. Were the Russians preparing something?

Hals and Schlesser had crawled toward the water, toward a smashed car which stood in the spray at the edge of the beach. I joined them, taking maximum precautions. Hals spoke in a half whisper.

"You help us, Sajer. We'll get those inner tubes. Three of them are still good."

"To make floats?"

"Yes. A raft. But be careful. We don't have any tools, so we'll have to use bayonets. Do it like this-but be careful!"

I felt as if a shaft of light had pierced my mind. A raft. We might float for a long time, but this also might be our last chance. We had no tools, and we would have to get the tires off the wheels without lifting them. Trembling with anxiety, we set about this desperate task. The inner tubes had to be full of air, otherwise they'd be no good to us. Pferham came over and joined us.

"You're crazy," he said. "Even if you get the tubes out, they're sure to burst. After all, it's the tire that holds the pressure in."

It was true that we'd been half off our heads for quite a while now. We couldn't give up the idea of escape, and received Pferham's objectivity with ferocious scowls.

"Then let's take the whole wheel," Hals said. "I'm sure they won't float," said Pferham.

"Shut up!" roared Hals. "You stick to your God. Myself, I have more confidence in these tires."

Pferham said nothing more, and like the rest of us tried to free the nuts with the tip of his bayonet.

It took us at least two hours to complete the job. We also had to dig away the sand from under the right front tire, as the wreck was lying on its side.

We could hear the sound of heavy mortars in Memel. The ground shook as far out as we were, and it seemed likely that the Russians had taken a big slice of what was left of the town. We no longer dared to think about what might be happening there, concentrating instead on the ridiculous work we had undertaken. Twice we were forced to give it up, and get back to our holes. The Russians were infiltrating all along our positions, crawling through the fog almost everywhere. Hals and I clung to each other in our refuge. For the seventh or eighth time, we had fired almost point blank on Asiatic-looking men, with Asiatic faces. Each time, our Volkssturm shook in our hands, and we trembled with fright.

By evening, the whole city looked like a volcano. Stalin's organs were howling without stopping, loosing a storm of random fire. Our shattered nerves no longer reacted. Everything was at once hazy and luminous. By now there were seven or eight of us fastening belts and boards onto the three tires which would probably never float; seven or eight who would probably be killing each other within minutes, for it was clear that the raft would never hold all of us.

It was ready. Schlesser and Pferham pushed it toward the water. We followed, like wolves afraid of missing part of the feast.

"Wait a minute, I'll give it a try," said Pferham.

We all took a step forward. Pferham looked at us. He knew that if he went too far we would kill him. Our silhouettes wavered against the lights which were consuming Memel, and our eyes followed the movement of the raft as it pitched, half-submerged on the dark water which melted into the night and fog.

As Pferham tried to maintain a balance which every physical law made impossible, he must have prayed to the sadistic God who watched him sink. He didn't jump until the water had risen over his belt, as our safety foundered before our eyes.

The night passed slowly, lit by the huge fires. The beach, from which we stared with enormous eyes, shifted from pink to orange. A very young boy from one of the Volkssturm groups had succumbed to despair. His body remained wedged upright in the midst of our group, most of whom didn't even notice that he had died. Another suddenly stood up and walked off, as if hypnotized by the flames in the south. moving toward Memel in a state which was certainly not conscious. We watched him disappear into the brilliant, unreal half darkness.

The Russians could have taken us by surprise now, without any attempt on our part to intercept them. The horrified faces of the last soldiers in the armies of the East were fixed with fascination on the apocalypse of Memel. At daybreak, the fire over the ruins of the town had turned pale yellow, almost white. We were given no orders or coordinates, and remained where we were, motionless and almost senseless, lost in the hideous solitude.

Toward the middle of the day, Wollers, our leader, said that he was leaving for Memel. He didn't order us to follow him, but we did. Halfway there, we collapsed on the road. Our strength was gone, and the half mile we had been able to stumble was all we could manage.

Somewhere, a short distance to the east, they were still fighting.

How was it possible that any of our men still survived? A heavy black cloud with a red base lay motionless across the whole horizon, and to the south, at the docks, there were other fires. Could anyone still be alive in that place? We lay where we were, prostrate and silent, with our eyes fixed on the enormity of the catastrophe. Hours passed. Our lives were running out, and our eyes had a strange fixity. No one thought of opening the few cans we had left. We knew that any food would taste too bitter, with the taste of Memel.

Once again, darkness covered us, and our motionless group melted into the fog which lay like a winding sheet over Memel, and stagnated on the sea.

Another group of bent men walked slowly by some ten yards from us. They seemed somehow unreal. Were they German survivors still wandering through this little piece of the void which fate still allowed us? Were they Russians? Or were they, perhaps, a dream?

I don't know how long we stayed there. Perhaps for another day and night; no one can be exact about a nightmare. Also, it is a question of no great importance. Some things-like Memel-cannot be measured by any ordinary scale. I still need corroboration to believe that Memel really happened and is not the fantasy of a spell of madness. Describing it as I have done still makes me tremble with horror and suffer again, for even the memory is painful. The tomb of Memel, where no one has ever gone to meditate, will receive my recollections as a humble and discreet a offering.

I make no appeals to humanity, and cry for no vengeance. Except for these lines I remain silent, because I have lost my power of discretion. I have also learned, in my solitude, that there is no power more unalterable than the power of forgiveness.

At some point, we became aware of sounds from the sea. Every sound from the sea could still mean life. We stood up and listened: the noise, which was scarcely audible, was muffled and heavy, like an idling engine. And then there was the sound of voices-at first, blurred and incomprehensible. We walked out into the water, scarcely aware of its touch. Through two bursts of thunder, we caught some words.

"Hier Windau! Hier Windau!"

They were asking about Windau, a city farther to the north. A boat with all its lights out was lost in the fog. The voice kept on calling. It was probably coming through a megaphone. We trembled, and shouted as loud as we could, with what was left of our strength: "Windau!"

We had all run into the water, like madmen. The first shock revived us for a moment. We went on shouting, as the water reached our chests. Some men stumbled and fell, and then staggered to their feet again, still shouting. Soon the water was up to our chins. We thought we would pull off our clothes and swim. Then the vague outline of the boat emerged from the fog, and we shouted again. The boat scraped against the sand and stopped.

Half drowned, we went out to meet our salvation. Swimming, floating, sinking, and surfacing again, we reached the sides of the boat. We could just make out the men leaning over the side-sailors, who were throwing us lines and nets. They were asking us questions, but no one answered. We were all hanging on to anything that was thrown out to us, gasping and imploring. I thrust my fingers into a hole whose edge was encrusted with rivets. My fingers, half dead with cold, gripped like claws. Everyone was shoving and pushing for a rope or net.

The icy cold of the water began to break my will. Stiff with suffering, I kept my hold and fought against losing consciousness. An empty cigarette package floated from my pocket and lay on the water some inches from me. I stared at it to fix my wandering attention, and as I stared, my vision grew hazy.

Everything had become painless, and I scarcely felt the arms which were pulling me on board. They put me down on the deck, beside my exhausted companions. We were nothing but a shapeless, soaking mass, like a huge mound of wet sacking. Through my semi-consciousness, I realized they were passing around cups of boiling hot tea, which I swallowed down to the peril of my inner organs. My motionless gaze remained fixed on the flaming Prussian coast.

I no longer have any clear memory of what happened next. I don't really understand why we didn't die of exposure on the deck. Perhaps the sailors rubbed us to keep us warm.... I can only remember one thing clearly: the roar of the war coming from the land dominated all the sounds of the boat and of the sea.

Later, the boat arrived at Pillau, where we got off. On trembling legs, surrounded by a flood of refugees, we reached a first-aid station, where our physical condition was checked. A multitude of wounded men were sitting or lying all around us in huge open sheds. The little port seemed filled with a sense of feverish agitation and urgency. If the war had not yet arrived, it was nonetheless very close. We sensed its imminence, and could hear its thunder to the northeast.