Hela Denmark Kiel
The English Prisoner
Before daybreak, we arrived at Hela, without incident. We had passed several ghostly ships, navigating without lights, going back to Hela, or to Gotenhafen, and Danzig, where large numbers of civilians were still waiting for deliverance. Hela, which I had thought of as a large town, proved to be only a village, with a harbor of very secondary importance. Many ships were anchored off shore, and small boats were delivering a steady stream of passengers fleeing to the West.
We had scarcely set foot to the ground when the police, who were still functioning, made us step to one side. We stared at them with desperate unease. Was our good luck, which had brought us this far, going to melt like summer snow and send us back to Danzig, or Gotenhafen? The police turned their backs on us to direct the white-faced civilians. In any event, all of our papers were in order. But wasn't that the ship which was to take us further? And mightn't a counter-order arrive any moment? The minutes went slowly by, without giving us any glimpses into our future.
As it grew light, the cumulative exhaustion of many months seemed to crush our shoulders. We were now able to see the numerous gray outlines of ships, including many warships, riding at anchor on both sides of the peninsula. As we looked, the air-raid alarm sounded. Our eyes turned to the sky, as rumors began to circulate through the crowd.
"No panic!" shouted the police. "Our anti-aircraft defenses will hold them off!"
By now, we knew what that meant. All the shelters were filled with wounded, and each of us had to find what protection he could. If the bombs fell near the harbor, there would be an impressive carnage.
We moved toward an old hulk pulled up on the shore, whose tarred timbers might be able to ward off a few blows. We hadn't quite reached it when the massive crackle of an anti-aircraft barrage burst all around us, fired by our coastal defenses or by one of the warships we had glimpsed earlier. This was my first experience of such a barrage. The falling fragments alone were capable of no small damage.
To the east, the sky was spattered with numberless black spots. The noise of firing was so loud that we couldn't hear the planes approaching. Finally we saw three of them, flying quite low, parallel to the shore, pursued by the black granules of exploding flak. We heard an explosion to the south, over the water; one of the planes must have been hit. The police had not been exaggerating-not one plane flew over Hela. We felt a wave of confidence and security; finally, the Russians had been stopped.
The police came and checked our cards.
"Be back here for embarkation on the _ of March," a noncom told us.
"While you're waiting, you can make yourselves useful north of town."
We took ourselves off without any questions.
"What is the date today?" Hals asked.
"Wait a minute," Wollers said. "There's a calendar in my diary." He looked through his pocket, but couldn't find it.
"In any case, we're not ahead of ourselves."
"But we ought to know, all the same," Hals persisted. "I would like to know exactly how much longer we have to wait."
We finally learned that it was Sunday, the 28th or 29th of March, and that we would have to wait for two days, as I remember: the last two days of the Ost Front, which had consumed so much of our lives.
We spent those two days in the throng of anxious refugees camping out on the narrow Hela peninsula.
There were two more attempted Russian air raids. The last victim I was to see was a dirty white horse.
A Russian plane had been hit, and was disintegrating above us. We all watched as the forward part of the plane, whose racing engine gave off a long howl, plunged toward the ground. The noise terrified the animal, which slipped its collar and galloped, whinnying, toward the spot where the roaring mass of metal would land. It must have taken about three steps before it was hit. Its flesh was scattered for over fifteen yards in all directions.
On the evening of April 1, during a spell of terrible weather, we boarded a large white ship, which must, at one time, have taken rich people on cruises. Despite the anxiety we all felt, despite the crowd, and the stretchers, and the wounded, with their rattling breath, my eyes gaped at all the magnificent and barely-faded details inside that elegant ship. I was reminded of the shop windows my father had always taken me to admire at Christmastime. But I didn't have the courage to rejoice; I knew that such feelings always end badly.
In the darkness, our boat pressed forward through the large hollow waves. A short while before, the sound and light which had filled the sky over the other shore of the Bay of Danzig had still reached us. Our comrades were still fighting and dying there. We scarcely dared think of the good fortune that had saved us-and that troubled us. For two days, our boat slid across the sea, toward the unbelievable West, which we had dreamed of for so long, where we could not imagine the war. We learned that our ship was the Pretoria, and although we were allowed only a small space on the bridge, lashed by wind and rain, the sweetness of the moment made us forget food and drink.
Of course, a torpedo could send us to the bottom at any minute, but we didn't think of that. We also had a battleship escort; everything was going very well.
We arrived in Denmark, where we saw things we had almost forgotten, like pastry shops, which we devoured with enormous eyes, forgetting our filthy faces ravaged by misery. We scarcely noticed the looks of mistrust fixed on us by the shopkeepers, who couldn't understand us. We had no money, and the wares on display were not free. For a moment, we even thought of our machine guns.
Hals could not resist temptation. He held out his big hands, which looked like dead wood, and begged for charity. The shopkeeper tried to pretend that he hadn't noticed, but Hals persisted. Finally, the baker put a stale cake into those filthy hands. Hals divided it into four pieces and we tasted a substance which had become unknown to us. We thanked the man, and tried to smile, but the rotting teeth in our gray faces must have produced an effect of grotesque grimace, and made the baker think we were mocking him. He turned on his heel, and disappeared into the back of his shop. He couldn't know bow long it had been since we'd had the chance to laugh, and that we would need a little while to learn how again.
A less sumptuous boat took us on to Kiel, where we found a more familiar atmosphere, with no more bakeries and no more occasion to smile. In a setting of ruins, we were reincorporated, with alarmingly precipitate haste, into a scratch battalion. Hals asked if he might be given a leave to visit his home in Dortmund. An enlisted man of about fifty put a hand on his shoulder and told him that with a little courage and a little luck, if he managed to infiltrate the American and British lines, he might perhaps get there.
My friend's face reflected astonishment, stupefaction, and sadness.
"The American and British lines!"
In the West, which we had dreamed of and longed for so often, which we had finally reached, we were assaulted by the most overwhelming and terrible news. We were astounded. The West, the paradise we had been counting on in our icy holes at Memel, on the Dnieper, and on the Don; that chimerical paradise which should have taken us in and soothed our sufferings, the West, which had been our sole reason for surviving, was only a small country more or less thickly covered with buildings; a country where the silence was broken by the roar of planes, where terrified people crawled and ran. The West was also three dirty gray trucks carrying at high speed a reduced battalion of soldiers in gray toward another encounter with death; it was the place where my last illusions would crumble in conditions of inhuman grief.
The West was the other half of the vise tightening on our misery. Several armies were challenging our exhausted arms-several, among them the French Army. I cannot describe the emotions which this news produced in me. France, which in my thoughts had never abandoned me, "la douce France," had abused my naiveté. In the trenches of the steppe, I had loved France as much as any young man does as he talks revolution in the back room of a Paris cafe.
Most of my efforts had been for France, which I had made my comrades-in-arms appreciate and love. What could have happened, which had not been explained to us?
France had turned against me, when I was expecting her help. Perhaps I would have to fire at my French brothers-which I could no more do than I could fire at Hals or Lindberg.
What had happened? What had they kept from us? I no longer knew, or understood. My brain refused to take in any more, and the hope which the West had revived in all of us died in me.
We would have to fight again. Against whom and what? We knew that we no longer had any courage, and that nothing could lead us to hope any more. Despite Anglo-American cries of victory, there was no longer any opposition to the imposing materiel they had fabricated for nothing. No victory is possible over men who have died toward everything.
We had reached the banks of the Elbe, and were lying stretched out on the grass beside a small road which led to Lauenburg. British troops were in the sector, and we were supposed to try to react.
An older man was devouring the substance which fate still saw fit to deposit in our mess tins. Hals was a short way off, his eyes vacant, as he pondered imponderables. The older fellow did not seem too depressed. He muttered some barely audible words to me: "With a little luck, the war should be over for us in a few days."
What did he mean? I knew that when a war ended for soldiers on the side that lost it usually meant a small brownish hole in the head or the chest.
"I don't mean that," the other said. "We'll be prisoners-you'll see. That's not so grand either, but it's better than bombing and starvation. You'll see. These fellows aren't muzhiks. They're really not so bad."
The night passed. It was mild, almost warm. We sat on the damp grass of the bank beside the road. Massive flights of planes growled invisibly through the starry sky. But nothing could interfere with our habit of half sleep, which we had perfected during three years of enforced watchfulness.
Toward three o'clock in the morning, we heard the roar of artillery somewhere to the north, and the sky was lit by flashes of light. The whole episode lasted for about forty-five minutes, during which our half sleep continued without interruption.
Daybreak came early, and a light spring sun rose over the horizon. A small battered car appeared on the road, bumping over the broken surface. The car was brown, and was occupied by three fellows whose uniforms were quite different from ours.
We watched as three brick-red faces beneath unusually large helmets drew closer to us. The owners of the faces appeared to be enjoying their morning outing.
It was my first encounter with Englishmen-the first three. To have fired at these cheerful individuals would have been a criminal act; however, some bastard in our group did fire-twice-at their heads. The car-a jeep-skidded into a panicky half turn which was slow enough to give us ample time to wipe them out.
The old man beside me roared with anger at the young fellow who had just done his duty, explaining that this ill-considered gesture risked bringing in motorized troops to attack us, against which we would have no defense. A startled hauptmann almost intervened, but saw that there was no point, and went back to stand beside his gunner.
An hour later, we heard the sound of several motors to the north of us: the old man's prediction was coming true. A reconnaissance plane flew over, directing the fire with considerable precision to the road beneath our bank. Clinging to the ground like treads, we crawled up the hollow of a small valley, thus escaping some fifty mortar shells, which would have inflicted heavy losses.
The English must have decided that further resistance would be limited to a few isolated shots, and sent four half-tracks after us. We watched with a certain anguish as they climbed over the bank. Two of our men stood up, with their hands raised. The Eastern Front had never seen anything like that. We wondered what would happen next. Would English machine guns cut them down? Would our leader shoot them himself, for giving up like that? But nothing happened. The old man, who was still beside me, took me by the arm, and whispered: "Come on. Let's go."
We stood up together. Others quickly followed us. Hals came over and stood by me without even thinking of raising his hands. We walked towards the victors with pounding hearts and dry mouths. This was the only time I was ever afraid of the Western Allies, and I had provoked the fear myself.
We were roughly jostled together, and shoved into place by English soldiers with vindictive faces. However, we had seen worse in our own army, particularly in training under Captain Fink. The roughness with which the English handled us seemed comparatively insignificant, and even marked by a certain kindness.
In this way, I laid down the arms and insignia of my second country, and the war ended for me and for my comrades.
To humiliate us, they made us stand in the sturdy trucks which brought the relief of their victory to our faltering ranks. The closed, flushed faces of the English continued to reflect their non-comprehension of the smiling remarks which emerged from our famished faces. Hals even received a slap in the face from an English noncom, without much of an idea of what had happened to him. He had simply been comparing our easy ride as prisoners to our forced marches in the East.
Then we met the other allies, tall men with plump, rosy cheeks, who behaved like hooligans, but hooligans who had been nicely brought up. Their bearing was casual, and seemed to be designed to give them the opportunity to roll their hips and shoulders. Their uniforms were made of soft cloth, like golfing clothes, and they moved their jaws continuously, like ruminating animals. They seemed neither happy nor unhappy, but indifferent to their victory, like men who are performing their duties in a state of partial consent, without any real enthusiasm for them.
From our filthy, mangy ranks, we watched them with curiosity. It seemed that we, in the ranks of the defeated, were happier than these children, for whom Paradise itself had no value. They seemed rich in everything but joy-a reassuring spectacle which reconciled us with humanity.
The Americans also humiliated us as much as they could-which seemed perfectly normal. They put us in a camp with only a few large tents, which could shelter barely a tenth of us. Even in prison, the Wehrmacht continued to organize itself. As at Kharkov, or on the Dnieper, at Memel, or at Pillau, or in the black depths of winter on the steppe, space in the tents was reserved for the sick and feeble.
In the center of the camp, the Americans ripped open several large cases filled with canned food. They spread the cans onto the ground with a few kicks, and walked away, leaving the division and distribution up to us. Everyone received a share. The food was so delicious that we forgot about the driving rain, which had turned the ground into a sponge. The packets of powdered orangeade and lemonade seemed the height of luxury, and collecting rainwater in the folds of our jackets to mix with them a gay, even joyous distraction. From their shelters, the Americans watched us and talked about us. They probably despised us for flinging ourselves so readily into such elementary concerns, and thought us cowards for accepting the circumstances of captivity-the distribution of food in the rain, for instance. Wasn't our condition as prisoners enough in itself to make us walk in silence, with that unbearable air which men have when their pride has been damaged? We were not in the least like the German troops in the documentaries our charming captors had probably been shown before leaving their homeland. We provided them with no reasons for anger; we were not the arrogant, irascible Boches, but simply underfed men standing in the rain, ready to eat unseasoned canned food; living dead, with anxiety stamped on our faces, leaning against any support, half asleep on our feet; sick and wounded, who didn't ask for treatment, but seemed content simply to sleep for long hours, undisturbed. It was clearly depressing for these crusading missionaries to find so much humility among the vanquished.
In due course, we were sent on to Mannheim, where we passed through a large processing center.
Hals, Grandsk, Lindberg, and I had remained inseparable through all this, as in our worst moments. We understood only that the war had really ended for us, and had given no thought to the consequences of that fact. Everything was still too new, too much in the present. We knew that the worst was over, and that German ex-soldiers were organizing themselves to facilitate the task of the Allies, who had to count their prisoners and assign them to various jobs. Our men helping with this organization, often in rags, moved through the elegant ranks of the victors, attacking with them the same pressing necessities. Cigarettes were given to the prisoners, who had nothing to offer in return. Some even received chewing gum, which they chewed, laughing, and then swallowed by mistake. Orders were shouted in German, and ranks of men formed and broke up. Were they going to send us back to the line? That wouldn't be possible. A bastard noncom, carried away by the spirit of things, absent-mindedly shouted at a group of prisoners: "Grab your weapons!"
He was answered by a howl of laughter.
This made the Americans angry, and they came outside to shout at us. This struck us as even funnier, but it was clear that we had to correct our attitude. The erring noncom, who suddenly realized his mistake, snapped to attention, expecting a reprimand. Three American officers protested in their language, hounding the delinquent, who was himself overcome with embarrassment.
A short while later, the prisoners were moving in long lines past a health inspection. Some were sent to a hospital, others to -an endless series of offices from which a recruiting service would send them out to take part in the first efforts at cleaning up a country in ruins. Control and verification commissions then studied each case. These commissions often included representatives of several Allied armies: Canadians, English, French, and Belgian. My scraps of paper fell to a French officer, who looked up at me twice. Then he looked up again, and spoke, at first, in German.
"Is this the date and place of your birth?"
"Ja."
"Well?"
"Yes," I answered, in French this time.
"My father is French." My French was now almost as bad as my German had been at Chemnitz. The other looked at me with mistrust. After a moment he spoke again in French.
"Are you French, then?"
I didn't know what to say. For three years the Germans had persuaded me that I was German.
"I think so, Herr Major."
"What do you mean-you think so?"
I felt embarrassed, and made no reply.
"What the hell are you doing with this bunch?"
I still didn't know what to say.
"I don't know, Herr Major."
"Don't call me `Herr Major.' I'm not `Herr Major.' Call me 'Mon Capitaine,' and come with me."
He stood up, and I had to follow him. From the ranks of dirty gray-green, I sensed Hals's eyes fixed on me. I waved to him, and called softly. "Bleib hier, Hals. Ich komme wieder."
"Who's that you're talking to?" the captain asked me, irritated.
"Das ist mein kamerad, Herr Kapitan."
"Stop talking German, since you remember French. Come along this way."
I followed him through a series of corridors, suddenly afraid that I wouldn't be able to find Hals again. Finally, we arrived at an office where four French soldiers were talking and laughing with a young woman, who spoke to them in English, I think.
The captain said he had brought along a doubtful case. They put me through an extended interrogation, to which my answers must have sounded far from convincing. My head was spinning, and everything I said seemed to ring false.
One of them-also an officer-called me a bastard and a traitor. As I remained apathetic and absent, they gave up on me, sending me off to a small room on the floor below. For a day and a night they left me there, thinking of my companions in wretchedness, and especially of Hals, who must have been wondering about me. I felt a sinister premonition that I wouldn't see him again, and a feverish restlessness kept me from sleeping.
The next morning, a lieutenant, who seemed in a very friendly mood, came to release me. I was taken back to the office of the day before and asked to sit down. This invitation was so unexpected that the words fell on my ears as if for the first time in my life.
Then the young lieutenant looked through my papers and spoke to me.
"Your story took us somewhat by surprise yesterday. Now we know that the Germans often forced young men with German fathers into their army. If that had been your case, we would have been obliged to keep you a prisoner for a while. However, with you it was the mother, and we cannot detain you. For your sake, I am glad," he added gently.
"We have now liberated you, and this has been recorded on the papers I am handing back to you. You may return to your home, and resume your old life."
"To my home!" He might just as well have been talking about the planet Mars.
"Yes, home."
He paused for a moment, giving me an opportunity to speak, which I didn't take. I couldn't quite grasp what had happened, or find the proper words.
"Nevertheless, I would advise you to clear yourself by signing up for a term with the French Army, and in that way return to normal life in good order."
My expression remained impenetrable. My thoughts above all were with Hals, and I only took in about half of what the amiable officer was saying. "Do you agree?"
"Oui, Mon Lieutenant," I said, only partly aware of my own words.
"I congratulate you on your decision. Sign here."
I signed my name, more interested by the French words than by their significance.
"You will be called up," he said, closing my folder.
"Go home quickly and try to forget this adventure."
I still didn't know what to say. Even the lieutenant seemed to be losing his patience. He stood up anyway, and walked me to the door.
"Do your parents know where you are?"
"I don't think so, Mon Lieutenant."
"Didn't you write to them?"
"I did, Mon Lieutenant."
"Well, then-you must have had answers from them, too. Don't the Boches have a post office?"
"Yes, Mon Lieutenant. They wrote to me too, but we haven't had any mail for almost a year now."
He looked at me in surprise.
"The bastards," he said. "They wouldn't even send you your mail. Go along now. Get yourself home, and try to forget all this as fast as you can."