Hans Von Luck - Panzer Commander Read online

  The first reinforcements arrived: replacements who were better equipped for the severe Russian winter, vehicles, fuel, provisions that had long been lacking, and mail from home. This reminded us The Russian Campaign, June 1941 to January 1942 83 that Christmas, meanwhile, had come and gone and that a new year had begun. What would 1942 bring for us?

  In the middle of January, I was summoned to the divisional commander. General von Funk received me in particularly friendly fashion.

  "Luck, two important bits of news for you. I had recommended you for the Knight's Cross. A few weeks ago, Hitler founded a new order, the German Cross in gold, which ranks between the Iron Cross First Class and the Knight's Cross. All recommendations for the Knight's Cross have been converted.

  Yours, too. In the name of the Fuehrer, I have the honor to present you with this new order for bravery in face of the enemy." I was appalled: a large and clumsy star, with an oversized swastika in the middle of it, to be worn on the right breast.

  The General smiled.

  “Nice and impressive, isn't it? May I congratulate you all the same.” His words were full of irony.

  We at once coined a new name for this monstrosity: Hitler's fried egg. Except for headquarters' visits, I never wore the order.

  "Now for the second bit of news, Luck: you are being transferred with immediate effect to the Africa Korps, to take over the 3rd Panzer Reconnaissance Battalion. I have to confess that this transfer has been on my table since November. I didn't tell you or release you because you couldn't be spared in that decisive phase. Now Rommel is threatening me with the consequences if I don't send you on your way at once. I find it hard to let you go. In spite of our little differences, you were a great help to me as adjutant and as a commander, you have been outstanding.

  Get everything ready. You can go in your beloved Mercedes.

  Report, in the first place, to Personnel in Berlin. Drop in here just before you leave. An appropriate movement order will be issued by my adjutant. Thank you, once again, for everything and best wishes for the future." The news of my transfer came likela bombshell to my officers and men. We had, after all, fought together since the beginning of the war, shared joys and sorrows, and merged into a real team.

  The morale of the men had picked up again. Although conditions were no better, the days ol rest had done some good, nevertheless.

  I planned to leave on 25 January 1942. Beck had the Mercedes checked and procured supplies for several days, as well as reserve cans of fuel. As is usual among men, no one showed his feelings when we said good-bye. A few jokes passed between us and then off to divisional HQ, where I took my leave again and was supplied with the movement order: “Destination, Berlin, Captain von Luck is to be given every assistance by all service posts.” From my supply section, we collected mail for home and from the doctor, I Procured some Pervitin, a stimulant.

  The last person to whom I said goodbye was Staff Sergeant Kuschel, the RSM of my old company.

  I turned to Beck, “We'll drive without stopping until we're out of Russia. We'll relieve each other every 100 kilometers, swallow Pervitin and stop only for fuel.” After about 200 kilometers, we made our first stop for refuelling at a supply unit. “We're not authorized to issue fuel to individual vehicles,” said a “silverling,” as we called the servicemen behind the lines, because of the silver stripe on their arms.

  “Listen,” I replied, “I will have fuel within five minutes if you value your life. Besides, the Russians have broken through in our sector and might be here by morning,” I lied to him.

  Great excitement and in a few minutes, I not only had fuel but also delicacies never seen at the front, such as a bottle of cognac, cigarettes, and tins of meat.

  We were disgusted by life behind the lines. The army supply units had soon been followed by the first Party functionaries, who took over civilian control and treated the population, who had often begun by greeting us as liberators, in the manner decreed by the Party and Propaganda Minister Goebbels, as “subhumans of an inferior race.” No one took any notice of us when we appeared, tired and unshaven, in our white-painted car. Every village, every bridge was guarded by old, conscripted soldiers. Only once, when we produced our movement order yet again, did an old reservist ask me, "Sir, have you come from 'up there'? How do things look?

  We hear nothing definite. I have a son in the infantry. For weeks, my wife has had no news of him. Please tell me the truth, sir. We are very worried." I tried to give the old reservist some reassurance.

  From the region of Volokolamsk, we drove west along minor roads that had scarcely been cleared, so as to reach the Moscowminsk “runway” as soon as possible, along which progress would be easier.

  We could bear the artiller 'y fire of both sides, which grew ever fainter with every mile we covered. And then, there was complete silence. No sound of battle; only a few supply vehicles moving east. Our journey was now almost romantic. We traveled across broad, The Russian Campaign, June 1941 to January 1942 85 snow-covered plains, through forests, deep under snow, and through deserted villages. The snowstorm that snatched at our heels covered our tracks in an instant. We drove with the top down, to make it easier to spot Russian planes. Across his knees, Beck had a machine-pistol at the ready. Everything seemed unreal to us.

  We were traveling through a virgin land that no one could grasp or possess.

  Beck and I were lost in thought and enjoying the peace. But we wanted to get on, to put a distance between ourselves and the gruesome experiences of the past weeks, to get out of that country in which we had to leave our comrades.

  Finally, we reached the “runway.” I had brought maps with us, of course, to avoid losing our way. We grew tired. Pervitin had to help, for we wanted to drive through the night.

  On the trail, traffic was brisker and so brought us back to reality. The trail passed north of the cities of Vyazma and Smolensk. I resisted the temptation to revisit Smolensk cathedral. In Smolensk, too, the Nazi functionaries would have made themselves at home.

  I decided to go back along the route we had used for our advance. On the one hand, it was familiar to me and on the other, I was curious to see how things looked now. It was no great detour on the way to Berlin.

  We drove day and night, taking turns. North of Minsk, we left the trail for Vilnius, the capit'al of the former Baltic state of Lithuania, which had been pocketed by the Russians in 1940 as one of the Soviet republics, Hitler's “present” to Stalin for the nonaggression pact.

  The indicator showed that we had so far covered about 1,000 kilometers. We no longer knew, at that moment, how many days and nights it had been. Gradually, even Pervitin was no help.

  We were dog-tired and tried to overcome our fatigue by singing or telling each other stories.

  “Beck, Virhius isn't Russia; Lithuania is more part of Europe than of the east. We'll just drive the remaining 200 kilometers and spend the night there.” Now the snow-covered roads had been sm6othed by traffic; the Mercedes ran without a sound and like clockwork. Eventually, late one afternoon, we reached our destination. As usual, there was a local German HQ. We came across an understanding reserve officer, who assigned us a room in the Hotel Regina. We threw ourselves onto the beds. For the first time for eight months, a bed and a 86 PANZER COMMANDER bath. Only then did we realize that we were no longer at the Russian front. The strain of the past weeks began slowly to fall away.

  “Beck, we'll have a bath now, shave off our stubble, and go to the restaurant for a meal. And then, we'll have a really good sleep.” As we entered the restaurant, we felt as though reborn. We thought we were dreaming: officers of the base units were sitting at the tables with women, apparently leading a dolce vita. The little band could hardly make itself heard above the loud conversation. No one here, it seemed, wanted to know about the war. We bolted our food in disgust, handed in the voucher provided by HQ, and disappeared to our beds, lacking for so long.

  I woke late the following morning.

 
"Come on, Beck, we're going, as fast as we can, on to Berlin.

  There's nothing to keep us here any longer." A further 600 kilometers lay before us. Finally, after two days, via Grodno, Warsaw, and Posen, we reached Berlin.

  The Russian chapter was closed.

  “The desert calls, Beck.” 10 Interim" 1942 Our first goal was Replacement Section 3 at Stahnsdorf, near Berlin, our base until we left for Africa. The replacement sections were responsible for the training of soldiers to make up for losses at the front. They were also centers for the wounded and those on leave who were waiting for new postings.

  Officers and NCOS who, because of their wounds were no longer “fit for combat service,” as it was called, were employed as instructors, so that their experience might be passed on.

  I reported to the CO of the replacement section, who was glad to see me.

  “There you are at last. Rommel and the battalion have been waiting for you since November. You are to report, at once, to the Personnel Office; there -you will receive movement orders and all information.” First, they fixed us up with a bed for the night. I planned to go to the Personnel Office the following morning. But before that, I drove with Beck to the motor vehicle workshop.

  “This Mercedes has survived the Russian campaign. Please check it over and remove the white camouflage paint. I'll pick it up again if I come back from Africa.” Beck, who was to be quartered in the barracks until our departure, would see to the car and watch over it with Argus eye.

  Early next morning, with a jeep and driver from the replacement section, I drove into Berlin. How the city had changed since I was last there. The people seemed cowed and dispirited. The news coming in from the eastern front, the air raids, which were becoming ever more frequent, life on ration cards and the arrogant behavior of Nazi functionaries were sapping the vital energy of the Berliners, who were otherwise so quick-witted and full of zest for life. Air raid shelters of all sorts were to be seen eve"here; at night all the houses and streets ad to be blacked out. Berlin seemed like a ghost town.

  Friends told me how they crouched night after night on their suitcases, containing their most important papers, an emergency pack by their side, ready to be summoned to the cellars by the raid wardens at the first warning.

  Gasoline was rationed; private cars had almost disappeared. The Kurfurstendamm, once so pulsating, and Unter den Linden, were now given over almost entirely to the vehicles of notables, the Wehrmacht, and Party organizations.

  At the Personnel Office, I found after much searching, the head of the department responsible for North Africa.

  “Welcome home! Now first of all, have a good rest and acclimatize yourself. Here's your allocation to a small hotel on the Kurfurstendamm and an order to the army clothing department for you and your orderly to draw your tropical equipment. Where do you want to spend your leave? I'll have the appropriate movement orders made out.” I protested vehemently. “I know that I've been asked for by Rommel since November. But my divisional commander didn't inform me or release me. I should like to go to Africa as quickly as possible.”

  “I know, I know,” he replied. “Rommel's HQ has already been informed that you have only just got back from Russia and need a rest. Report to me at the end of March. On I April, you'll be sent on your way. So, where do you want to spend the next four weeks?” There was obviously nothing I could do about it, so I asked whether I could go for two weeks to my mother and two weeks to Paris.

  The officer smiled.

  “Paris is not bad,” he said. “But things aren't quite so simple. I must, after all, be able to justify the journey.”

  “I have a lot of friends there and know Paris from before the war; in addition, the city commandant is a former commander of our 7th Panzer Division, whom I would like to see again.”

  “That's fine, for a commander of Rommel's former division, we can certainly manage something. You can collect your movement orders tomorrow.” So, as I really couldn't leave for Africa immediately, I made the best of the situation. When I got back to Stahnsdorf, I at once put in a request for four weeks' leave for Beck, too.

  Before I went to my mother in Flensburg, which is on the border of Denmark, I wanted to see a few friends, of whom I had heard nothing since the outbreak of war. I went to Gisela von Schkopp. She was still living in Potsdam, where we used to be garrisoned. It was her marriage to “dashing Bernhard,” as he was called, that we Interim, 1942 89 had celebrated so lightheartedly at the manor house in Fast Prussia. She told me that she had had no news of her husband for several weeks. He, too, was at the eastern front. We had a meal together and brewed some coffee from bmns I had commandeered from a depot on the way back from Russia.

  But we had no time to enjoy it, for at that moment we heard the bark of the antiaircraft guns and the wail of the air raid sirens. For the first time, I now shared the experience of an Allied air raid on our homeland.

  “This is what it's like now, almost every night. Come down to the cellar,” Gisela called out to me.

  “No, I'm not going into the cellar for anything. I feel better in the open air, where I can see what's happening; I can take cover if necessary, if bombs should fall even on Potsdam.” I went outside. It was a lurid scene. The long, white fingers of the searchlights probed the sky. In the distance, one could hear the drone of the bombers and the bark of the antiaircraft guns. The raid was on Berlin, not Potsdam, which had no strategic significance for the enemy. I fetched Gisela from the cellar.

  “Come and see! What a spectacle! But how many houses will fall in ashes and rubble, how many innocent people will be buried in their cellars?” It dawned on me how much harder things were, in fact, for the civilian population in comparison to us at the front, for they were helpless and passive in face of the air raids. I understood also, why our wounded, when they had recovered, were so keen to get back to the front as quickly as possible.

  I arranged rheetings with the wives of my friends, who were all on active service. I gave them some real coffee from my supply.

  Coffee was more precious than gold, for all supplies were reserved for the troops. Civilians had to make ersatz coffee from barley or substitutes.

  As I was one of the first, apart from the wounded, who could give some-account of the eastern front, I was questioned closely. To avoid disheartening my friends still further, I veiled the truth.

  The fate of these women moved me greatly. Many of them had married and started a family and then tikir husbands had fallen.

  They had become widows without ever leading a proper married life. For that reason, I had resolved at the outbreak of war, not to marry until the war was over. Although there had been bonds and relationships which made me think of marriage, I still kept to my resolution.

  The night life of Berlin had almost disappeared. Werner Fink, the great cabaret artist, still kept his Katakomben open. But his biting humor was not to Goebbel's taste. He only avoided the threat of arrest because Hermann Goering had a weakness for him and arranged for him to be called up into the Luftwaffe.

  Despite all the pleasures of seeing my friends again, there was nothing to keep me long in Berlin, so I went to my mother's in Flensburg.

  Although Flensburg was a naval base, it was not bombed. On 9 July 1941, my stepfather, who had been nursed devotedly by my mother for years, died of intestinal cancer. It was weeks before the news reached me in Russia. My younger brother, a keen whaler, had been called up into the navy and was sailing about in his minesweeper, a converted whaling vessel, somewhere off the coast of Norway. Only my sister, Anneliese, was still at home to give my mother a hand. At the end of 1942, she was “conscripted” to Holland and posted to the staff of the military commander of Holland. Our seven-room apartment was considered too big and several rooms were requisitioned for refugees.

  My mother was very brave and concealed her anxieties about her children. She was so pleased to see me again, and with the real coffee I had brought, besides a few tins of army food.

&nb
sp; The pleasant days in the company of my mother came to an end. I then went back to Berlin to collect my Mercedes. With movement orders"the tank full of gas and some of my stock of coffee in my baggage, I set off.

  Like Berlin before, Paris, too, now proved a disappointment.

  Supplies had become more difficult. The city was swarming with administrative personnel. The Gestapo, too, had already spread its net over France.

  At HQ, I was at once given a room in one of the many requisitioned luxury hotels on the Champs Elys6es. J. B. Morel and C16ment Duhour were very delighted to see me again. From British and underground sources, they knew our situation on the eastern front better than I did and gave us no great chance of winning the war. All the same, I spent some happy hours in C16ment's bar, Le Chevalier. I went there only in civilian clothes. One met no Germans there. I paid a visit also to Le V6sinet, where we had been stationed after the French campaign in 1940.

  I left Paris somewhat earlier than planned. I no longer felt so at home there as before. What had the war done to the city?

  Cest la Interim, 1942 91 guerre-, the French had come to terms with it and were already reckoning with the fact that we would lose the war.

  Hans Von Luck - Panzer Commander

  At the replacement section, I found that Beck had already returned. For him, too, there had been nothing to keep him at home for very long. It was now the middle of March-1942. The severe winter was over and we thought we had become sufficiently acciimatized to 90 to Africa.

  Beck and I went to the Army clothing depot to collect our tropical equipment. What we were “fitted” out with there defies description. One could see that Germany had no longer any colonies since 1918, and so had no idea of what was suitable for the tropics. We need only have asked our allies, the Italians, but no, the commissariat had designed the tropical equipment strictly in the Prussian mode: khaki-colored, tight-fitting uniform of close material with a linen belt and high lace-up boots. In addition, a pith helmet, which, according to long-standing opinion, was essential wear in, the tropics.