A Waffen-SS Soldier Speaks Candidly About the Atrocities Committed by His Leibstandarte Division.

 The infantrymen of the first and second companies, supported by the mortar and machine gun crews of the fourth company and the storm gashutz assault gun battalion, went on the offensive. At some distance from the infantry, tanks from the fourth company took up positions. Their armor was painted with white letters G, indicating that these combat vehicles belonged to Gderian’s second Panzer Army.

 After firing several rounds, the tanks remained in place and did not advance. The assault guns, however, followed the leading infantry units without hesitation into the thick of the battle. We took cover in a deep anti-tank trench, awaiting further orders. Such trenches with their steep sloping sides presented a dangerous obstacle for tanks.

 With no room to turn around, a tank that fell into such a trap was in effect unable to fire. Naturally, every tank crew wanted to avoid such a vulnerable position, and the tanks kept a respectful distance. Meanwhile, our sappers were busy clearing mines. They knew their job well and soon we were able to move forward again. Seeing the rooftops of houses on the outskirts of Rostoondon in the distance, we were surprised to observe that the tanks were not accompanying our advance, but were keeping their distance from the infantry.

However, we continued to carry out our planned course of action, advancing another 10 km. Then we began to dig in, awaiting new orders. But the enemy, stunned by our rapid advance, hastily retreated. We immediately abandoned our plans to dig in and rushed to pursue the Russians so as not to give them time to entrench themselves in new defensive positions.

By the time we reached the outskirts of Rostafon, we had become separated from the main forces. We had neither radio nor telephone contact with them. Sep Dietrich, the commander of our division, sent two motorcyclists along different routes to reestablish contact with the command post. The messengers were also to report that we intended to pursue the Russians to the Dawn River, where two bridges were located nearby, a steel railway bridge and a wooden bridge for other vehicles.

 We soon captured the railway bridge. However, a shortage of ammunition prevented us from stopping a large group of Russian troops from retreating across the wooden bridge. The Russian retreat was swift and orderly, and in the days that followed, we came to regret that we had failed to stop them. When Gudderians tanks finally appeared in Rostto on Dawn, I heard one of the Leanda officers express his indignation to a tank commander.

 Where the hell have you been? Where are your tanks? Oh, we’re not accompanying the infantry units until safe passages through the anti-tank ditches have been established, he explained. Shortly after our troops entered Rosto on Dawn, I found myself in a group of soldiers that included an unstrm fur named Khan. We were wandering near a street intersection, sharing news with each other about which of our acquaintances had survived and which had perished.

When we approached a tall wooden fence bordering one side of the street, the gate, almost indistinguishable against the backdrop of the fence itself, suddenly swung open from the inside. “Watch out!” shouted Untoar Furakhan. A Russian officer in a long brown leather coat flashed past me. He fired several shots from his revolver.

Khan stopped and doubled over. Before I could react, the Russians slammed the gate shut. Clutching his stomach, Khan rasped, “After that bastard.” Without a thought for the danger that might lie and wait for us on the other side, we rushed headlong through the gate. However, the Russian proved to be exceptionally quick, and we didn’t manage to fire a single shot.

When we returned, we found the unmure lying on the ground. I rushed to him, dropped to my knees, and was already ready to apply a bandage. However, when I turned the wounded man onto his back, it became clear that we wouldn’t be able to save him. It was already too late. His entire undershirt around his stomach was covered in blood.

 I froze for a moment, helplessly, watching the last movements of his lips, and thinking in bewilderment how suddenly any of our lives could be cut short in this cursed city. “Here, cover him with this.” One of my comrades held out a canvas raincoat. “But we can’t just leave him here in the middle of the road,” I protested.

“We’ll drag him over to the fence. Someone will find him and bury him later, I heard in reply. Later that same day, I was laying a telephone cable to the machine gun crew stationed near the train station. At that moment, an unerstof approached me. When you’re done laying the cable, report to the field hospital and examine Khan’s body.

 It’s just a formality, but under the circumstances, we need to identify him. he explained. Finding the machine gun crew was no trouble. The machine gunners were firing at a Russian train pulled by two heavy locomotives, each belching clouds of thick steam to the sides. Bullets bounced off the lead locomotive’s armor plates with yellow flashes.

Then our shell hit it. There was an explosion and the train stopped. A second shell struck the first freight car behind the locomotive, shattering its wooden walls to splinters. From a high position on the hill, the crew of an 88 mm anti-aircraft gun fired unimpeded at the defenseless target. The doors of two passenger cars at the end of the train flew open.

 Among the people screaming as they jumped out onto the ground were women and children. Damn it. There are civilians everywhere. The machine gunner gritted his teeth immediately ceasing fire. Why don’t they run to the other side? I hissed. It was clear that the shells continued to rain down on the crowds of civilians, tearing to shreds that thin line that separates honor from barbarism.

These days, such incidents are reported as collateral or indirect damage. Our gun crew can’t see them from this distance. It’s just a bloody massacre, said the machine gunner. When the firing stopped, company commander Crocha arrived by car, and I helped him examine the bodies of the dead. Later, documents found on the dead revealed that the passengers in those cars were commaars and highranking Soviet officials who had hoped to flee with their families.

Having completed this grim mission, I returned to the field hospital to identify the body of Unterm Furer Khan. One of our tanks had smashed through the ill- fated fence and accidentally run over the poor man’s head, which was now as flat as a pancake. Curiously, he was still easily recognizable. Some of his distinctive features remained on his flattened face.

Before entering the office of battalion commander Fritz Wit, I carefully smoothed out my undershirt. In the corner of the room lay the German Shepherd Bully, and her large brown eyes followed my every move. Four junior officers listened intently to Wit as he pointed something out on a map spread out on a wide table.

Sturbon furer. I snapped, clicking my heels and extending my arm in a Nazi salute. Shitzah Bartman reporting for duty. Dressed in an immaculate uniform adorned with the knight’s cross. Sturbonfur wit looked up from the map. “Ah, yes, Shutza Bartman. I’ll show you something right now,” he said, nodding slightly and motioning for me to follow him.

 The four junior officers barely noticed me. I followed the Sturbon Furer to the window from which two bridges across the dawn were visible. Obermfurer Springer’s company is trying to establish a bridge head on the opposite bank, explained the Sturbon Furer, but we have no contact with them yet. So you, Shutz Bartman, will correct this oversight.

I, Sturbon Furer, I replied cheerfully, since there is no radio contact with the third company, I am ordering you to lay a telephone cable across the bridge. Returning to the table, he turned to one of the officers and untorm fur. Bring us a few bottles of champagne, one for everyone here.

 He turned to me and said, “Shutzbartman, stay with us a little longer.” There must have been a decent supply of champagne nearby because it took the untorm fur very little time to return with five bottles which he held by the necks, two in one hand and three in the other. A thought flashed through my mind that this officer must have had plenty of practice at this.

 It’s not easy to hold three bottles in one hand. I silently moved to the corner of the room and stood at attention, awaiting further instructions. Soon the corks popped, the glasses filled with the sparkling drink, and a clinking sound rang out. We raised a toast to the capture of Rosto Vondon, which marked a penetration 1,000 km deep into enemy territory.

Fritz Wit glanced over his shoulder. Schutz Bartman, where is your bottle? Sternbonfia, I don’t have one, I replied stoically. The battalion commander turned to the hapless untormfur and barked. When I asked for a bottle for everyone present, I meant everyone. Damn it. The flushed untormfur bolted out of the room, and Fritz Wit motioned for me to come closer, then handed me his own bottle and a glass.

Now, we’ll wait until he comes back here with a new bottle, and then we’ll celebrate our success together, he said. Still smiling to myself, I connected the end of the telephone cable to the terminals at the station and began laying it across the railway bridge. I had almost crossed the first of the large steel spans when I suddenly heard Sturm Bonfa Wit calling out to me loudly from the open window of his office.

I turned around. Shutz Bartman, don’t cross the bridge. Come back immediately. Less than an hour after the champagne toast, I was already sitting with our machine gun crew guarding the approaches to the station. Soon, a handful of surviving soldiers from Springer’s third company approached us.

 The senior member of the machine gun crew stopped the first man to make it across the bridge. And where is Obermfurling? Back there. The rifleman gasped, his breath instantly turning into white vapor in the cool air. We fell into a trap. There are six of us up there. Obusher Fiora got us out of there. He threw a couple of grenades down and were all that’s left of the third company.

It dawned on me that Obushm Fiorit had probably saved my life back then. He must have noticed that the Russians had begun storming the bridge head and warned me. The bravery shown by officers like Obushum Firllinger inspired us ordinary soldiers to spare no effort either. Springer remained in the signal bunker with a handful of soldiers until the very end.

 In general, there was no place in the lieandata for sherkers. Those officers who evading their direct military duty would send their subordinates to their deaths while reaping the rewards of their successes from some safe location. It is therefore not surprising that shortly after this battle, Obushtom Fiohinga was deservedly nominated for the Knight’s Cross.

Like a hungry pig responding eagerly to the sound of a stick hitting a bucket of slop. SD units arrived in Rosondon the day after we had captured it. As for the local residents, to them these servicemen differed little from the soldiers and officers of the Libandata, except for the letters SD embroidered on the diamond-shaped chevron of their uniforms.

The SD quickly turned the civilian population against them by stealing livestock and hunting down Jews everywhere. There was a characteristic manner to their actions. They were surrounded by a certain aura, a subconscious sense that they were impervious to natural human instincts and utterly ruthless. In their hands, they held the power of death over life.

 Although we sometimes went without enough food for several days, none of us dared to go to the local peasants to barter for even a chicken if someone from the SD was lurking nearby. Shortly after the arrival of the SD units, just as I had delivered another report to the command post of another company, I met one of the Libandat soldiers.

He was sitting a few steps from the entrance to the building. When I asked why he was sitting there alone in the cold, he looked at me with yellowed eyes and shook his head absently. The smell of some stale alcohol hit my nose. I walked on, but I wondered why this disciplinary offender had not yet been arrested.

Later that same day, I discovered that the SD had requisitioned several soldiers from that company to help them search for and round up local Jews. Perhaps the drunk soldier was one of those men. I will never know for sure, but as far as I know, this is the only instance in which the SD enlisted Libstandat soldiers to assist them in their dirty work.

In the final days of November 1941, the harsh Russian winter set in. The retreating Russians had looted all the stores and warehouses, and due to the stretched supply lines, there was a shortage of provisions. To keep the fuel in the trucks from freezing, the drivers kept their engines running for long periods.

 or to start the engines later, they had to take a risk and build a fire beneath them. Once we got lucky, a driver from another platoon told us about a food warehouse located not far from the train station. Without wasting a moment, we raced there, somehow managing to slip past the allseeing eye of the SD. In the warehouse, we found metal cans of oil and honey, some canned goods, ham, and rendered lard.

 It was simply delicious. After piling our loot onto the floor of our truck’s cargo bed, I awkwardly sat down on a can of oil, and its metal rim dug into my thighs. When we drove up a steep hill on the way back, several cans rolled down and fell over the side. But at least there was more room in the truck. Due to supply disruptions, we were experiencing shortages of everything.

But by securing a food supply, we could at least focus on our basic needs. And those boiled down to a shortage of ammunition. The Russians were now crossing the wooden bridge in large groups to our side, and we met them with only sporadic shots. In general, with the sea of Azov behind us, we found ourselves in a very vulnerable position.

Retreat to the Muse Sambeck line. Easterly winds brought snowstorms and then a rumor spread that we would have to retreat and take up defensive positions north of Tagenrog. For the first time in our commander’s behavior, I sensed something like hidden panic. We hadn’t had any failures or major setbacks before.

 But retreat is in essence also a skill, a kind of art that must be learned, and we had never discussed it, much less planned for it. In reality, now everyone was on their own. Snow was swirling. Our detachment from the company command group was positioned in the back of the truck amidst the boxes and barrels of provisions we had loaded earlier.

After leaving Rusttov on Dawn, we caught up with the last vehicles in our retreating column. Not far from Chaltier, a small town west of Rusttovon Dawn, we spotted a large column of Russian tanks in the distance. Those bastards are trying to cut us off, said Boris, a Romanian comrade in arms, who a few weeks earlier had saved me and several other soldiers by pretending to be a Russian officer.

“And who’s in charge of the rear guard?” a voice called out from behind the cabinet next to the driver’s cab where our company’s maps were kept. “Nitler,” Boris replied. if he doesn’t do something right now. At that moment, our truck jerked. Then its engine sputtered and died. The vehicle coasted a few more meters on inertia.

Fresh snow crunched under the wheels. In this strange silence, we exchanged glances, and everyone was afraid to even think about what might happen. The cab door slammed. Several men rushed to the side of the truck, craning their necks to watch as the driver jumped out of the vehicle with a heavy wrench in his hand.

 “The fuel must have frozen,” he said, lifting his head and glancing briefly at our anxious faces. He hunched over like an old man suffering from gout and tapped the fuel tank with the wrench. “Do you hear that sound?” he croked. The fuel in the tank is still liquid, but the fuel lines are frozen. “Damn it! The Russians are already hot on our heels, and there’s simply no time to build a fire,” someone groaned.

 “I have an idea,” Boris suggested. “Do we have a piece of hose?” “I think so,” the driver nodded. “But it won’t be long enough to stretch from the fuel tank to the engine.” What about the tube? We have a tube. Boris turned to us and waved his hand. Hurry up. Grab the gas mask canister, a water bottle, anything we can pour fuel into.

 Then he handed the containers over the side to the driver. Here, pump the fuel over here and hurry. Boris climbed out of the car and walked over to the driver. The driver inserted a rubber hose into the fuel tank. Then he put the end in his mouth, but immediately spat it out onto the snow. “My lips are frozen,” he said. “I can’t tell if I’m sucking or blowing.

” Boris snatched the hose from him. “You’d better go get behind the wheel.” After filling the containers, Boris handed them into the cab and holding the rubber hose in his hand, walked around to the front of the truck. Very soon, he approached the driver’s door again with the end of the hose in his hand and slipped it through the lowered window.

 I connected the other end to the fuel line near the engine. Stick the tube in here. When we start moving, I’ll fill it up. The passenger side door slammed shut. Boris finally sat down in the cab next to the driver. We returned to our places among the barrels and boxes of provisions. “I hope the battery doesn’t die prematurely,” one of the soldiers said.

“Don’t jinx it,” I snapped angrily. The truck rocked slightly as the starter cranked, trying to start the cold engine. We stared at each other with tense, unblinking gazes. The engine sputtered and puffed but finally started. We heard the familiar horse rumble. Our anxiety gave way to joy and we cheered up considerably as the truck picked up speed.