An Incredible Story from a Waffen-SS Soldier. The Leibstandarte Division on the Eastern Front. D

Hello dear friends. Today we will explore the memoirs of Irwin Bartman. This is a candid account by a German soldier of his participation in World War II as part of a regiment that later became the Listandarda division. Keron Marupul Tagenrog then a redeployment to Normandy and back to the Eastern Front.

battles in Kkefe near Procarovka, the final battles near Berlin, and a prisoner of war camp. Such is the geography of his wartime journey. I think it will be both interesting and informative for us to explore his memoirs. Don’t forget to rate the video and leave your thoughts in the comments. And now, let’s begin. I was one of 674 recruits who arrived as reinforcements to make up for the heavy losses suffered by the Libstandart during the recent battle near Oman and the capture of Kiev.

One day we were lined up by the fence of a beautiful country house that served as our regimental headquarters. Sep Dietrich, commander of the Liband Darta, approached us, shook hands with a few of us and greeted us warmly. At that moment, the officers began selecting personnel for their units. Our ranks quickly thinned, and soon I found myself among a dozen young soldiers standing before Sept Dietrich, an unerstorm fura, and a rotten furer.

The fourth company is a welle equipped assault unit. It is armed with 12 mortars and 12 machine guns distributed among three platoon, explained the untorm fura. Each machine gun crew consists of five Shutzen privates. Shutzen number one carries and fires the machine gun. Shutzen number two is responsible for the mount, the tripod used to direct machine gun fire at a specific sector.

Each of the other crew members carries two ammunition boxes, 600 rounds in each, and a spare machine gun barrel. After counting, he selected eight of my comrades. This group will go with the rotten furer who will escort you to the machine gun platoon. The untorm furer continued his speech while Sept Dietrich watched what was happening staring intently at our faces.

The rest will join the company command group which is responsible for communications. This task is vital to our combat success. Your duties will include laying telephone cables and delivering reports. Machine gun and mortar fire provide support for our frontline infantry units whose task is to drive the enemy from their defensive positions into the kill zone.

This is an effective combat tactic often leading to the total annihilation of the enemy. But success depends largely on communication, precise communication between frowning, the unashar fur glanced at the sky. I turned automatically to see what was happening and suddenly noticed a spot in the sky that was rapidly approaching us. Then I heard a rumble.

From a powerful dull blow to my side, I collapsed into a shallow trench on the other side of the fence. Coming to my senses, I saw that Zep Dietrich was lying next to me, and dust was swirling around us from the bullets with which an unknown enemy was showering us from somewhere above. A Russian fighter roared overhead.

“Next time you see something like this, take cover immediately,” Zep Dietrich said with a smile. “After all, I won’t always be there to look out for you.” A lesson in practical telefanany. We took Keron. Here our Oberm Bonfure was wounded in the arm. We passed a cemetery of Soviet soldiers, laughed at our comrades from the mountain rifle division and their camels.

For several days, we basked in the sun, munching on sunflower seeds, gazing at the Black Sea and its inky blue waters intensified by mighty foaming waves. And then we were ordered to head northeast toward Berislav on the banks of the Neper. Early in the morning on September 10th, 1941, we reached the steep bank that plunged down to the Neeper.

Ahead, the silhouettes of soldiers seemed to blend into the ground as they began their descent into the valley toward the long pontoon bridge that stretched for hundreds of meters toward the misty shadows on the opposite bank. Soon it was our fourth company’s turn. The rustle of uniforms, the clang of metal, excited laughter in response to someone’s joke.

These were the sounds made by young men gathering to risk everything in the fight against bulsheism. A piercing whistle made me jump. A shout rang out. Everyone take cover. I immediately threw myself to the ground, frantically searching for a ditch or a hole. The shock waves from the explosions shook every bone in my body.

Earth and rocks flew into the air as if from the mouth of a mighty volcano. From somewhere on the opposite bank of the river, a Russian spotter was directing artillery fire straight at our position. My hands and legs were shaking. Like the other recruits around me, I had no idea what to do.

Luckily for us, a confident voice rang out nearby. Follow me. It was Una Sha Fiora Hines Novotnik. Despite being just over 20 years old, to us still completely green recruits, he was an old hand, an experienced soldier who had come through the Battle of Oman unscathed. This man knew the art of survival firsthand. Trusting his experience, we rushed forward and threw ourselves to the ground beneath the ledge of the steep bank.

shuddering in terror at the shells exploding overhead. “See,” Nvotnik bellowed, his voice drowning out the roar of the canonade. “It’s perfectly safe here, and we can wait it out. The shells are landing on the slopes or up above.” While the shelling continued, I managed to keep my nerves in check and no longer paid attention to the screams and moans of the wounded, which seemed to be coming from everywhere.

Novotnik rolled onto his back and pointed to the sky. Planes. In all the commotion, I hadn’t heard our planes arrive. Noik’s ears, more sensitive and long accustomed to the noise of war, unlike mine, immediately recognized the characteristic roar of the engines of the German Stooka dive bombers. Hundreds of soldiers shouted, joyfully greeting their own as the stokas flew over us in a tight formation, turning into barely discernible specks.

They dove toward their targets, and we heard the famous Jericho trumpets, the heart-wrenching, terrifying roar these planes emit just before dropping their deadly cargo. Explosions rang out on the opposite side of the river, and smoke billowed. The enemy’s fire ceased abruptly. My initial fear subsided, giving way to ecstasy.

After all, I had, in essence, just survived. And how many more times would I have to go through this? When we reached the river, we passed a neat rectangular structure slightly raised above ground level. Logs stacked crosswise jutted out toward the river like a cluster of pale gray ghosts with outstretched arms.

Romanian engineers, Novotnik explained, they built the bridge. Nearby stood an armored personnel carrier with an anti-aircraft gun concealed under camouflage made of branches from the riverside bushes. The anti-aircraft gunners sitting by the gun stared impassively at the sky. As we were making our way across the river, a flock of water fowl suddenly flew out of the reeds, flapping their wings.

I watched their low flight across the dark riverbed. a riverbed that would surely have swallowed me, a man who still couldn’t swim, had I carelessly fallen from this hastily constructed wooden bridge. I quickly realized that surviving on the eastern front was an extremely difficult task, and that here one simply couldn’t do without a guardian angel.

I didn’t have to wait long for his next intervention. Our advance was blocked by a Russian combat unit entrenched in a shallow ravine. The infantry men of the first company took up positions at the far edge of the field approximately 2 kilometers from the company command post and began exchanging fire with the enemy.

Making my way across the dry ground covered with scorched grass, I dragged a telephone cable toward them. I had almost finished laying the communication line, constantly freezing in place at the whistle of stray bullets. All in all, I managed to finish fairly quickly and was pleased that I had fulfilled my duties well.

A handful of our infantry men were moving 20 m ahead of me. When we were halfway there, a sudden muffled thud made me throw myself to the ground and instinctively look for cover. Lifting my head, I saw a column of fine dust hanging in the air like a ghost. When the dust settled, one of the infantry men shouted, “Medic! Medic!” My blood ran cold.

One of our men had been unlucky. The poor fellow had stepped on an enemy mine. Glancing around frantically, I noticed just a few meters to my right, a patch of grass that was drier and yellowower than the rest. Hidden beneath it was another hastily camouflaged anti-personnel mine. I knew that without communication with the command post, our mortar and machine gun crews wouldn’t be able to support the infantry, and then they wouldn’t be able to hold off a possible enemy counterattack.

There was no turning back. I had already safely crossed the minefield twice. Entrusting my life to my guardian angel, I jumped up and, fearing every step, continued laying the cable. As I passed the wounded soldier, one of his comrades was already trying to stop the heavy bleeding from the stumps of his severed legs, while another grabbed his arm to keep him from thrashing about.

I tried with all my might not to imagine the pain this poor man would feel once the initial shock wore off. When I reached the rifleman’s positions, an officer called me over. I set the box with the telephone on the ground next to him and stuck the grounding wire into the dry earth.

The officer picked up the receiver and began dialing the command post. Bad ground connection, he shouted. No signal. I started fiddling with the ground wire. For God’s sake, no. What on earth do they teach these green horns over there? Having learned an important trick from the field of practical telefan, and no longer wishing to tempt fate or overwork my guardian angel, I bypassed the minefield on the way back to the command post.

After all, making a 5 km detour toward Tagenrog, advancing fiercely along the northern coast of the Azov Sea, we, despite the Russians stubborn resistance, took Molita and then closed the enemy’s breach in the front line in the sector of our Romanian allies. Continuing our advance eastward, we took Bertansk. It was here, after I was attached to an infantry platoon, that I first experienced firsthand what it meant to clear the trenches of Soviets.

Having quietly reached the enemy trenches, we split into two groups, and each rushed toward the section selected for the assault. The defender’s uncertainty, not knowing where to expect trouble next, or who would emerge from the neighboring trench, friend or foe, gave us a decisive advantage. Reveling in our momentary success, we sang with joy.

It should be noted that we all got quite a tan here, and our hair was bleached by the hot Ukrainian sun. We sang victory marches all the way to Tagenrog and by that time our throats were completely. Our truck stopped to let a column of refugees pass. They carried their belongings in large sacks twisted in the middle and slung over their shoulders so that one half dangled in front and the other behind.

This method allowed them to carry additional cargo in their hands. Three officers from the first truck, which was about 50 m ahead of us, jumped down to the ground and shouted at the refugees not to obstruct our path. The refugees, mostly women and children, reluctantly stepped aside, forming a ragged line along the roadside ditch.

As we drove past them, a girl of about 18 set her bag down on the ground and with a deaf movement of her hand, tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Have a safe journey,” she said in German, and waved her hand. Perhaps those were the only German words she knew. “Thank you.

Thank you, replied one of the soldiers sitting at the side of the truck, and a broad white-to-d smile lit up his tanned face. God, she’s pretty, he exclaimed, craning his neck to keep the girl in view as long as possible while the truck drove past the officer standing at the roadside and watching the convoy move forward. I hadn’t expected to hear that girl’s voice again, but then suddenly her screams reached us loud enough to drown out even the roar of the engines.

We all jumped up from our seats to see what was going on. “For God’s sake, what kind of joke is this?” one of the comrades exclaimed angrily. At the rear of the convoy, a girl was struggling with all her might to break free from the grip of one of the burly German soldiers. The officers, alarmed by the incident, rushed toward the girl, drawing their pistols as they ran.

Unable to overpower her attacker, she screamed and cried desperately while he tore her clothes off, paying no attention to the officers approaching him. Three officers struggled to pull one of the Lee Standot veterans, a participant in the Greek campaign, away from the terrified girl and shoved him to the ground. Gunshots rang out and the soldier lay motionless on the ground.

With our mouths a gape in shock and horror, we watched the officers hurry to take their places in the lead truck of our convoy. Left to rot by the roadside, the dead man was no longer one of us. The lesson we learned that day required no explanation. Tagenrogue, a large city on the shores of the Azovv Sea with its metallurgical and aviation plants as well as other industrial facilities, was an important strategic target for us.

Our unit, severely depleted by losses in recent battles, consisted of approximately 300 men and a handful of gashettza, self-propelled armored assault guns that, like tanks, moved on tracks. Leaving the Muse River behind, we marched along the railroad leading to Tagenrogue from the south.

There was no particular resistance from the Russians, and we did not slow down. The company command group of which I was a part occupied one of the three trucks personally allocated to the Leeb Standata by President von Hindenburg in 1932. Our truck was moving roughly in the middle of the column. Once we came to a sudden stop.

Jumping up to look around, I saw Halpum Fure Croa, binoculars in hand, cautiously make his way to the edge of the railroad embankment to our left. After surveying the area, he ordered the mortar crews to take aim at a section along the roadside. The machine gun crews took up positions on the hilltop.

We distributed the ammunition. Red dust swirled in the distance. A large enemy cavalry detachment comprising 300 or 400 horsemen and numerous wagons was moving toward us. In the tone of a man who had just been lucky enough to find a treasure, one of the machine gunners remarked with a smile, “We’ll shoot them down like ducks right now, if only they don’t spot us.

” We cut our engines. With every passing minute, the Russians were getting closer and closer. A soft song reached our ears. Beautiful and melodious. It grew louder and then softer, like a feather fluttering in a cool breeze. Completely unaware of our presence, the Russian column found itself right in front of our positions.

fire. Men and horses were thrown into a heap, caught in a cascade of mortar explosions. Wagons overturned and shattered into pieces. The Russians, among whom were quite a few civilians, rushed in panic toward the rear in search of cover. But the bolts of our machine guns clicked, and the scattered enemy groups came under deadly crossfire.

One of the commasaars managed to temporarily restore discipline and even organize a semblance of a cavalry charge. But firing from a more advantageous position, we mercilessly quashed this sorty. As the number of targets decreased significantly, our fire ceased to be as intense as it had been at the start.

Soon the order to cease fire was relayed. The machine guns fell silent just as suddenly as they had begun their deadly count. We heard the faint moans of the wounded and the wheezing of the horses. A few dazed Russians jumped to their feet. Raising their hands, they awaited their fate.

One of our officers shouted, “Now on to Tagenrog. The Vermached units are behind us. Let them take care of the wounded.” That’s all for today. If you liked the video, please support it with a like and subscribe to the channel. Bye for now everyone. Until we meet again.