German Infantry Against Russian Tanks. The Last Line of Defense at Berlin.

I replied, “I think they’re taking us to the front, to the Oder. That’s where you’ll finish your training.” We drove out onto the Berlin-Frankfurt an der Oder highway, then turned south, and drove through beautiful, peaceful countryside to the town of Beeskow, where an Obersturmführer was waiting for our arrival.

We stopped near the school building, and the Obersturmführer ordered us to pile all our personal belongings in a corner of the school hall. “Hand over all documents except your service books,” he announced. “Keep your service books with you at all times. If a patrol stops anyone and they don’t have their service book, they will be considered a deserter.

” We left the school and drove this time northeast through the town of Mulhouse toward the Oder. The recruits’ faces turned ashen with anxiety. A deathly silence fell among them and no more “Hurrah!” or “Heil Hitler!” could be heard. Since childhood, they had been told about the cruel Bolsheviks and now the thought of having to fight such an enemy on the very doorstep of their own homes made their blood run cold.

Now I think that under those conditions, our defeat was not only possible, but perhaps inevitable. In the afternoon, our detachment of 12 machine gun crews took up prepared positions at the edge of a forest on a hill from where we could control the Frankfurt-Mulhouse Highway. A few kilometers behind us lay the small village of Lichtenberg.

From the north, from the Seelow Heights, came the monstrous thunder of artillery fire. Untersturmführer Schenk went from machine gun position to machine gun position, checking the crews’ readiness and the condition of their weapons. After preparing the defensive sector for the two machine gun crews under my command, I reported to Schenk that our positions were ready.

“Good. Good,” he said, a slight tremor in his voice. “As far as I recall, you fought in Army Group South until mid-1943. What do you think we should do now?” “It would be wise to conduct a little reconnaissance.” “In what sense?” “Send a few sharp guys out on patrol. They’ll warn us of a possible enemy attack.

Who can you suggest for this task? Since I was the only one in our unit who knew how to fight the Russians, I volunteered to go myself, but added, “I’ll take two cadets with me. It will be good experience for them.” Armed with submachine guns, we headed toward a small industrial building standing nearby. Although it looked abandoned, we still approached it, taking every precaution, and moved toward the doors.

“Cover the entrance,” I whispered to my comrades. Opening the door, I immediately caught a whiff of some cloyingly sweet smell. I stood in the doorway for about half a minute, listening to the silence before stepping inside. And immediately I saw wooden barrels lined up along the walls. A distillery. One of the cadets tapped a barrel with his fist.

“Full,” he said. “Maybe we should take some for our comrades.” “But just a little,” I agreed. The last thing I wanted was for my subordinates to drink themselves into a stupor, but a small dose of alcohol might help perk them up. I kept a close eye on the situation while my recruits looked for suitable containers.

Finally, they returned with a bucket. “Fill it up,” I ordered. “And then empty the barrels.” “Oberscharführer Bartmann,” one of the recruits addressed me. “Schnapps can cost thousands of marks. It’s a shame to pour it out.” “Don’t argue with the commander,” the second one cut him off. “Refugees from East Prussia have told us how the Russians behave when they capture our towns and villages.

They literally go wild over the alcohol they seize.” I walked along the rows of barrels, opening the taps on each one. The young soldiers followed my example, and soon the fragrant contents of the vats poured onto the ground, pooling into puddles. We returned to our unit with a whole bucket of schnapps. I reported the results of the reconnaissance to our young Untersturmführer, who seemed to breathe a sigh of relief upon learning that a Russian attack was not expected in the near future.

On my advice, he ordered a generous portion of liqueur to be added to the bucket of schnapps before anyone tried to drink it. It should be said that our soldiers were barely out of childhood. Many of them had never tasted strong alcoholic beverages. So, only a few of my subordinates agreed to try the schnapps.

When dusk fell, I poured the remaining schnapps onto the ground. At night, the ground shook from the explosions of heavy artillery shells. An expression of fear appeared on the young faces of my soldiers. “Don’t worry,” I reassured them. “It’s very far away, so it’s too early to worry. The Ivans don’t know we’re here yet.

” “They’re too close not to worry,” said a recruit whose shoulders tensed with every distant explosion. “How do you know that?” another cut him off. “He’s a shot sparrow. He wouldn’t say it for nothing.” I smiled involuntarily. It was strange, and yet pleasant, to be called a battle-hardened veteran when you’re only 22 yourself.

Still, it was easy to understand my subordinates. I too had felt a similar tension when crossing the Dnieper under the protection of Untersturmführer Novotnik. “Stop chatting and go to sleep,” I said with a sort of fatherly feeling. A gray, gloomy dawn lit up the horizon, and this served as a signal for the Russian 152-mm howitzers.

Their shells began to rain down on our front lines with terrifying accuracy. Amid the roar of the explosions, the cries of the wounded could not be heard. It seemed as if the earth itself was trembling with fear. Russian fighter planes descended upon our positions. They rained down fire from their aircraft cannons, but I made sure my men took cover in time, so we survived this air raid without casualties.

And around noon, an enemy infantry battalion began to concentrate about a kilometer away from us. “Don’t worry about bayonets,” I told the machine gunners in whose trench I found myself. “They won’t get close to us.” Our young soldiers talked excitedly, awaiting the inevitable attack. Finally, the enemy infantry moved forward.

Our machine guns created an impenetrable curtain of lead in front of our trenches, mowing down the waves of attackers. The two machine gun crews under my command performed very well and repelled the attack on our sector. My combat experience on the Eastern Front allowed us to limit our losses to two men. We buried one of them in the village of Friedhof, and the other, a handsome young man, I buried with the help of two soldiers not far from the spot where he fell.

The next Russian attack proved to be more fierce. They found a weak spot in our defenses, and Untersturmführer Hessner’s platoon advanced to the foot of the hill, taking up defensive positions in front of our machine gun squad’s positions. Unfortunately, he advanced too close to the enemy lines, so we could not provide him with sufficient fire support.

To help him repel the attacks, I ordered one of my machine gun crews to take up more advantageous firing positions at the bottom of the hill. We advanced about 500 m and came under fire, so we had to throw ourselves to the ground. But when the fire ceased, I watched in horror as a dozen Russians, at least, approached Untersturmführer Hessner.

Kneeling, he raised his pistol to his temple. A shot rang out, and Hessner fell. His courage did not desert him even in his final moment. I led the machine gun crew back under the cover of the forest. The rest of the cadets were where we had left them. I pounced on them. “If you had come with us, we could have saved the Untersturmführer.

” In response, I heard a chorus of apologies and incoherent explanations. The following night passed without incident. “Ingeborg.” I heard the warbling of thrushes in the tree branches behind our silent machine guns, and at the same time saw Ingeborg, who, smiling, was walking slowly toward me. “One more time, Erwin.

I wanted to see you at least one more time.” I was overwhelmed with happiness. We sat on a bench in Friedrichshain Park, holding hands and enjoying the sunny day. Ingeborg’s daughter sat at the edge of the pool, splashing the water with her little hand. The heady scent of summer seemed to promise permanence and peace.

A voice burst into my dream, and Ingeborg stood up and took her daughter by the hand. “Goodbye, Erwin. May your guardian angel always be by your side.” I felt someone’s hand on my shoulder. “Unterscharführer Bartmann.” I opened my eyes. Untersturmführer Schenk was standing before me. Ingeborg, her voice, they had melted into eternity.

The feeling of happiness that had overwhelmed me during my slumber gave way to a slight sadness. What do you think will happen next? I tried to gather my thoughts. They won’t be able to drive us out with infantry alone. First, we should expect an artillery barrage and a tank attack. Then the infantry will come again.

I reached for my canteen to wet my throat, and at that very moment the ground shook from the explosions of heavy artillery shells. They’re zeroing in, I warned my young comrades. Watch your heads. Then a full-scale artillery barrage began. The roar of the explosions merged into a single continuous rumble. The air, thick with the smell of gunpowder and hot iron, made my throat burn.

Then, for a moment, silence reigned, broken by the cry of the Russian infantry. Hoorah! Hoorah! It was a battle cry from the underworld, uttered by a horde of vengeful devils. Lord, help us, exclaimed one of the recruits. There are thousands of them. Our machine guns rattled, mowing down the advancing Russians.

 Yet they inexorably closed in on our trenches. Soon the machine gun barrels began to overheat. Keep firing! Wave after wave, the enemy infantry charged into the hail of bullets. And finally, the attack faltered. In the piles of Russian soldiers’ bodies, someone would occasionally still be moving, and cries for help could be heard.

Despite the constant precise fire from our trenches, the Russians made desperate attempts to carry the wounded and dead off the battlefield. The morning of the next day, the Führer’s birthday, turned out to be cold and damp. At 3:00 a.m., while it was still twilight, the Russians launched an attack with redoubled fury across a wide front.

However, we again managed to inflict heavy losses on them and repel the attack. Undoubtedly, if the enemy had managed to break through our battle lines in the pre-dawn darkness, chaos would have reigned. They made a second attempt to drive us from our positions around 6:00 a.m. Three huge chains of men in brown uniforms, one after another, advanced toward us.

It resembled scenes from a movie about wars of ancient times. The first row lay down on the ground. The second line following behind dropped to one knee. And the last remained standing at full height. Rifle volleys rang out and the Russians were engulfed in gunpowder smoke. The lines fired in turn and we responded with machine gun fire.

Russian soldiers fell one after another as if mowed down, resembling rag dolls. Heavy shells began to explode behind our lines. The machine guns began to jam from constant firing. And the Russian infantry was about to break through our first line of defense. Under these conditions, we spontaneously, without any command, jumped up and rushed to the second line of trenches, paying no attention to the fierce artillery barrage.

Finally, my soldiers managed to take cover in the trenches, which were still intact, though not as deep as those in the first line. During the artillery barrage, an army sergeant jumped into my trench. He was cursing desperately, not mincing his words, and the same words kept repeating in his tirade. “Fucking bastards! Your mother! Your mother, you bastards!” “Who?” I asked.

“The officers!” I admit, I joined in his cursing. Inside, I was boiling with rage, too. Just recently, I’d led my recruits to a show execution of deserters, and now our commanders themselves were running ahead of everyone. Now, all that remained of the unit that had defended the line of defense was a group of desperate men, consisting of anyone capable of holding a weapon.

Veterans, old men from the Volkssturm, and boys from the Hitler Youth. There are no words to describe all this chaos. In an attempt to restore at least some semblance of order, I and several army sergeants took command of the surviving soldiers. Quite unexpectedly for myself, I, an Unterscharführer, was forced to take command of the company and be responsible for the lives of 80 men, among whom were still almost children.

That night, the Russians launched another fierce attack in the pouring rain. But despite our small numbers and heavy losses, we managed to hold our positions. Unfortunately, no one got much sleep due to the constant gunfire. Our rations were running out. Only an extremely meager emergency supply of food remained.

All the soldiers were on the verge of simply collapsing from exhaustion. Then, at dawn, we received the news, the most bitter of all possible. Attacking nearby were German soldiers under the command of Seidlitz, who had defected to the Russian side. Under heavy fire, we were forced to retreat to the third and final line of defense.

The trenches, no more than a meter deep, offered little cover. So, individual foxholes were dug at regular intervals to provide additional protection. We distributed hand grenades, and at that very moment, Russian dive bombers appeared. The bombs flew toward the ground with a howl and hit their targets with terrifying accuracy.

I took cover in a firing position, and suddenly, a terrible thought crossed my mind. If a bomb hit the trench, I would be buried alive. At that moment, I remembered long-forgotten prayers. Finally, the attack planes flew away, and the battle continued. Amid the roar of battle, the rumble of tank engines could be heard.

I peered over the parapet of my trench. About 300 m away from me, a birch tree shook from the nearby explosions. A Joseph Stalin tank came into view. With its 122-mm gun, this heaviest Soviet tank was supposed to breach our defenses, into which the faster T-34s would then rush. I grabbed a Panzerfaust and released the safety catch.

Up until that moment, I had only fired this weapon a couple of times, and even then, only during training exercises. So, I wasn’t at all sure I’d be able to hit the approaching tank. My heart was pounding in my chest and its beats reverberated in my temples like hammer blows. I leaned toward the sight, setting the rocket cartridge for a 60 m shot.

The steel leviathan was closing in. The dry clatter of its tracks drowned out the rumble of the engine. My finger rested on the trigger. I held my breath to calm myself and waited for the steel monster to come within range. A cloud of white smoke rose from an individual foxhole 50 m to my left. Damn it. The rookie’s nerves got the better of him and he fired the panzerfaust too early.

The rocket flew out of the foxhole but exploded 10 m from the target. The enemy tank came to a sudden halt. Then the engine roared, the transmission screeched, the terrified driver had shifted into reverse. A minute later, the crew commander decided to continue advancing toward our defensive line. Only this time to my left and out of range of my weapons.

The arrival of several T-34s on the battlefield gave the heavy tank crew a boost of confidence. The enemy vehicle moved toward the trench from which one of my recruits was firing a machine gun. The tank gun spat out a burst of fire and the shell exploded almost immediately in our trenches. The tank fire caused panic in our ranks.

The armored monsters approached our trenches and began to pound them. The screams of the soldiers being crushed by the tracks of the multi-ton machines made my blood run cold. In terror, we all rushed to the rear, leaving our wounded to their fate. Making my way through the forest, I stumbled upon that very recruit with the cornflower blue eyes lying by a tree trunk.

He had been wounded in the leg. Then again, you couldn’t really call it a leg anymore. It was twisted at some unimaginable angle and held together by a few tendons. The upper part of his thigh had simply been torn off. The young soldier’s face was deathly pale and glistened with beads of sweat. He raised his hand, catching my attention.

Unterführer Bartmann, is that you? I knelt down beside him. Yes. Yes, kid. It’s me, Bartmann. Herr Unterführer, the wounded man addressed me in a weak voice. I have a request for you. Even before he spoke, I already knew what the young man wanted to ask of me. My heart clenched inside me. Life was already leaving his body.

Tears welled up in his eyes. He was clearly in terrible pain. The soldier asked in a barely audible whisper, “Please, shoot me.” With trembling fingers, I unfastened the holster and gripped the pistol’s grip, but I couldn’t pull it out. Undoubtedly, it was an act of mercy, but I couldn’t bring myself to take the life of that brave young man with my own hands.

All around, people were scrambling through the thickets overcome by panic. Our last line of defense had collapsed. I wiped the young soldier’s face with a bandage and left him lying under a tree. I prayed to God that he would die quietly from blood loss before the Russians found him. 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.