Authors: Francis Joseph Smith
It was difficult to separate the soft glow of daylight from the reflections of the fires that blazed in bomb-battered Berlin.
As the smoke drifted slowly across the ruins, Germany’s most bombed city stood out in stark, macabre splendor. It was blackened buy soot, pockmarked by thousands of craters and laced by the twisted girders of ruined buildings. Whole blocks of apartment
buildings were gone and in the very heart of the capital entire neighborhoods had vanished. In these wastelands what had once been broad roads and streets were pitted trails that snaked through mountains of rubble. Everywhere, covering acre after acre, gutted, windowless, roofless buildings lay open to the sky.
In the center of the city, heavy rain showers drifted through Berlin’s largest park, the Tiergarten, leaving nothing more than a muddy stew in its wake. At one time royalty and their courts once consorted about its 630-acre exquisitely manicured grounds, strolling through its famous Dutch tulip beds or choosing to take in its world famous Equestrian Rink.
Now it lay in utter ruin.
Allied bomb blasts had cruelly upended centuries-old oak trees tossing them about as if they were match sticks, in turn leaving gaping holes in the landscape where they once stood. The park’s magnificent lakes once used by lovers in rowboats and children for sailboat races now lay drained of its precious water, the water used for fighting Berlin’s numerous fires. Even the equestrian stables had been converted into soldiers’ barracks.
The oddity of the landscape seemed even more bizarre
due to dozens of Luftwaffe 88-mm anti-aircraft guns that were positioned about the area, their telephone-pole sized barrels busily hurtling their response at the American B-24 bombers that passed 8,000 meters overhead.
A close look at the soldiers manning the guns revealed they were mere boys
—teenagers at best—in uniforms much too large for their young bodies.
The madness was truly in its last days…….
“S
ERGEANT, I AM
going to say this but once. Drop your weapon,” Captain Hans Dieter yelled above the deafening blasts of the Tiergartens’antiaircraft gun
s
—
his machine pistol pointed directly at the sergeant. He had just witnessed the sergeant shooting one of his young charges at point blank range.
The sergeant was quite drunk as he
turned to face his new adversary, gun raised.
“Screw yourself,
Captain,” he spat out, his words slurred. “I don’t have to take your orders. Shoot me if you have the guts. These little boys were my gun crew before you came.” His free hand swept across the park where the youngsters manned the anti-aircraft guns. “I trained them. They answer to me. Go back to your nice clean hospital bed with your pretty little nurses, and wait for the Russians to come so you can raise your hands in surrender.”
A lopsided grin creased the sergeant’s face as he squeezed his weapon’s
angled trigger.
Nothing
happened
. Squeezing it once more—
again
,
nothing
happened
. The grin suddenly disappeared. Realizing his predicament he continued to keep his weapon pointed at Dieter trying to maintain the ruse.
Dieter watched as the s
ergeant frantically reached for additional bullets, using his sense of touch to extract bullets from an ammo pouch on his waist, his ferret-like eyes never leaving the captains.
Dieter allowed the sergeant to load the first bullet before tiring of the charade, firing his weapon on full automatic.
The sergeant was dead by the time the third and fourth bullets entered his skull.
Dieter walked over to where the now headless torso lay, kicking the pistol from the sergeant’s lifeless hand. “I do believe you were being insubordinate, sergeant, and I found you guilt
y—
hence my summary execution,” he said, mockingly saluting him.
One by
one the anti-aircraft guns in the Tiergarten fell silent, its charges leaving their posts to gather by the dead bodies of the young boy and the sergeant.
Captain Dieter turned to those who had witnessed the carnage, holding his weapon above his head for all to see before slowly laying it on the ground.
“Boys,” he started, swallowing hard, pausing, looking to each, wondering how he would be viewed for his actions. “This sergeant did not deserve to wear the uniform of the Wermacht and for his summary offense of killing the boy and his open disregard for my direct order, was himself executed. Anyone who disagrees with this act can take it up with the commanding officer. I will not stand in your way if you wish to press charges.”
The boys eyed one another until one of them, tall and thin, a shade over thirteen, wearing a black woolen uniform of an anti-aircraft gunner three sizes too
large, spoke up.
“Sir,” Axel Schmitz
began, his teenaged voice cracking. “We witnessed the entire event and you were right in executing him. The man was a worthless pig who needed butchering. He treated us horribly since our first day we reported here over two months ago. I guess I speak for everyone when I say thank you.”
In the eyes of the young boys the captain was right in his distribution of battlefield justice.
At least he wouldn’t be facing a firing squad anytime soon
.
Dieter surveyed his
young charges by walking up and down the ragged line they formed, none taller than 5’5” or older than thirteen years of age. Suddenly he felt sick to his stomach. Pure exhaustion stared back at him. He saw mere boys who should be in school playing sporting games and learning histor
y
—
not making it.
Dieter
had been wounded fighting on the eastern front and sent to Berlin for surgery and recuperation. With manpower at an acute shortage in Berlin, the hospital discharged him two weeks early and assigned him to command one of the Tiergarten 88mm anti-aircraft batteries. The posting marked a brief respite from the constant hit-and- run skirmishes he had experienced first in France, then Russia, Poland, and now in Germany itself.
After five
long years of war, he was physically and emotionally spent. He had finally reached his breaking point. The child’s senseless death was the final straw.
Dieter pointed over to the sergeant’s lifeless body. “You
were a witness to the type of people left in this city.” He looked at the youngest boy then up the line to the oldest. “It might be best to escape back to your homes and families. You must see that your obligation to the German army is, from this point on, over. If there were ever a good time to abandon something it is here and now. Please get out of Berlin. Save yourselves.”
In effect, Dieter dismissed them from any further service.
The youngest of the group, not knowing what to say or do, looked from side to side in obvious panic. The rest of the boys had a look of confusion upon their faces. What was left of their small world had been thoroughly turned upside down.
“Captain,” Private Schmitz
began, obviously the unspoken leader of the group, “we have no one to return to. We are a special unit composed of orphans whose families were killed in the Dresden and Berlin air raids. The Army thought it would be best to place us all together in one unit.” He looked to his small group for support. All nodded in response. “I think I can speak for the rest of the group when I request we stay together as a unit with you in command, sir.”
Dieter fe
lt ashamed for the way he had just spoken. “I’m….. sorry,” he stammered. “I wasn’t aware of the unique situation with your families.”
To their left, no
more than a hundred meters away, chaos was breaking out at the Brandenburg Gate. Rioters had just overturned an Army field kitchen—stealing what little food was available.
This is just the start. The city is panicking
. He couldn’t leave these children to fend for themselves. He had a responsibility to uphold.
Dieter straightened his cap, pau
sing before he proudly declared. “I accept your request to remain as your captain, and I thank you for your vote of confidence.” He championed his responsibility by patting the closest boy on the head and smiling.
For Captain Hans Dieter, it had been a long time since someone had afforded him the opportunity to smile.
“All right everyone gather around for a look at our objective.” He pulled a Berlin transit map out of his rucksack, one that sold before the war for five pfennige, spreading it on the ground for all to see. The boys eagerly looked to him for guidance as they formed a circle around the map.
They would have to escape to the Wes
t
—
or at least die trying.
From a position two hundred meters south of the Zehlendoffer Damm Bridge,
and
one of the last escape routes out of Berlin
, Dieter watched as German troops defended the centuries old stone bridge from the advancing Russian Army. The bridge resembled nothing of its former self. Regal marble lions that originally had stood guard for over two hundred years lay destroyed, its statues tossed about as if children’s toys, their pieces scattered about amongst burning tanks from both sides armies.
For
Dieter and his troops, the bridge was thought to be their last hope for escape to the West. With its destruction, Dieter chose to reposition the boys in a defensive line along the sloping dirt banks of the 50-meter-wide canal, taking cover behind anything that seemed solid: heavy wooden boxes, stone walls, brick sections. No need for them to be caught out in the open by Russian snipers.
On an earthen bank above their position Dieter adjusted his binoculars,
watching as wave after wave of Russian troops charged across the bridge running into a murderous German cross-fire courtesy of two Tiger tanks dug in on the eastern side of the bridge.
After
viewing the debacle unfolding in front of him, Dieter realized the bridge was no longer an option. The situation was deteriorating at a faster rate than he had expected.
“Boys,” Dieter began, pausing for a few seconds, looking back at the bridge then to the boys. “If we attempt to cross that bridge with this kind of fighting going on, the odds are that most, if not all of us will not make it. I can think of only one other way to escape this nightmare. We should take our chances floating on the canal to where it intersects with another canal by the city of
Potsdam. The Russians already occupy the opposite bank of the canal, so floating directly across is not an option. If you all agree let’s get cracking because we have no time to waste. A quick show of hands will be sufficient.”
Private Schmitz
looked to the others then to Dieter before speaking: “Captain, just give the order and we’ll follow your lead. If it wasn’t for you we would all be dead by now.”
The boys
all nodded in agreement.
Dieter smiled. “You have provided a boost to my ego young man. All right then, I want you to search for items like large pieces of wood or barrels
. Anything that you think will float. We need to build several rafts.”
For safety’s sake he confined their search to a seventy-five meter area along the canal’s shoreline. After five minutes Dieter and his charges were fortunate enough to come ac
ross a group of bullet-riddled collapsible canvas rafts. Each looked large enough to hold five average-sized persons. The rafts were still littered with their previous occupants; dead Russian soldiers. Evidently the remnants of an attempted canal crossing that went awry. After an additional five-minute search three were deemed serviceable.
Contending not only with the sounds of battle but also the whine of British Lancaster’s dropping their ordinance less then 200 meters away, Dieter tried his best to yell above it. “Bring the rafts over here and lash them together so we do
n’t get separated,” he screamed, using hand signals to try and aid the ones who could not hear him. “Let’s go people. Hurry up or be left behind.”
Dieter knew
full well no one was going to be left behind, not while he was in charge.
After
shoving off they found themselves facing the additional predicament of having to paddle through the start of what was becoming a very intense air raid.
“Al
l right, everyone count off,” Dieter yelled into cupped hands, scanning the opposite canal bank for any sign of enemy movement.
Schmitz tapped Dieter on the arm providing
him with a
thumbs up
.
Everyone was
safely aboard.
They were
now ready to escape Berlin.
AS THEY DRIFTED DOWN THE CANAL
, the fires destructive forces ravaged apartment buildings on both sides of the river, casting an eerie glow on the river ahead. Blowing ash and embers from the buildings moved about them as if fireflies in summer.
After the day’s horrifying events, the boys drifted off into a restful slumbe
r—the crackle of the buildings’ blazing timbers providing somber background music.
STREAKS OF LIGHT
dashed across the morning sky as the sun began to announce itself over the countryside.
Dieter roused Schmitz with a slight nudge of his foot, which in turn started a chain reaction until all were awake.
As they looked about them, pastures and curious farm animals stared back.
The body of water they
now floated on was a lot wider, more a river than canal.
Dieter pointed to heavy outgrowth of scrubs and trees on the western bank. “Private Schmitz, lets put in by that bank of trees and
let’s try and find out where we are.”
Reaching the shoreline the boys quickly jumped f
rom the flimsy rafts to form a U-shaped defensive perimeter. Dieter used hand signals as they proceeded up the muddy embankment, not wanting to speak aloud until the area was indeed secure.
From atop the embankment Dieter scanned the immediate area with his binoculars, locating a whitewashed stone farmhouse no more than 100 meters directly ahead of them, curling white smoke billowing from its chimney. A long g
rassy track led up to the house. Freshly plowed earth occupied both sides of the track.
Dieter motioned to the solitary house. “That’s going to be our objective. The only problem being we do
n’t know who occupies it: Germans or Russians.”
Schmitz looked puzzled. “But why even take the house? Can
’t we just go around it and be on our way?”
The boys
to his right and left nodded in agreement.
“Private Schmitz,”
Dieter relied in a Fatherly tone. “We have to find out where we are in reference to Berlin. If something went wrong during the night and we drifted down a side tributary to the eastern side of the lines, we will no doubt soon find out. Somebody or something in that house will tell us where we are.”
Schmitz responded by removing the safety from his weapon.
Motioning to the boys still down by the rafts, their weapons at the ready, Dieter said; “I want the rest of you to be prepared to shove off should our little operation go astray. That is an order. Don’t wait. If you hear any shooting get the hell out of here.”
The boys nodded nervously
at Dieters order.
Turning back
Dieter assumed the lead, the rest of the boys falling in behind him as they charged over mounds of freshly plowed soil, metal canteens banging loudly against their web belt
s
—
the element of surprise clearly lost.
“Handel
, break for the front door. I’ll take the back.”
Handel dove for the door rather awkwardly losing his helmet in the process
. He slid up against the heavy wooden doorframe. Catching his breath after the brief sprint he cautiously extended his arm to knock on the front door, hoping for some type of response—German would be best.
After s
everal seconds a feeble, male, Germanic voice answered from inside the farmhouse. “What do you want?”
Handel
enjoyed his newfound authority and was quick to reply. “The German army has come to requisition your property for a few hours old man. Now come out with your hands up.”
The door slowly creaked open to reveal a disheveled, graying
man of sixty, unshaven, medium build with crude patches affixed to his clothing on both the knees and at the elbows.
“Identify yourself to me boy and put that
damn gun down,” the man replied angrily. “If you don’t, I’ll put you over my knee and smack the be-Jesus out of you.” He reached for the boy’s rifle grabbing it in one swift motion.
Running from his position in the rear of the house, Dieter quickly cut off any further escalation. “I am sorry for the disturbance, sir. We just escaped from
Berlin and were wondering where the hell we are.”
“Ah,
Berlin,” the old man said as if secretly understanding their predicament. “Is that bastard Hitler still in power?”
Dieter immediately took a liking to the older gentleman. “No sir, he committed suicide yesterday.”
“Good, I never cared for that son of a bitch. Come inside and let’s have a little celebratory drink and toast his journey to hell.” He flung open his door. “Where are my manners? If my wife were still alive, I would have received an earful from her. How rude of me. Allow me to introduce myself,” bowing slightly at the waist he said, “Gentlemen, my name is Peter Goot and you are all welcome to what I have, which, due to the war and rationing, isn’t much.”
Dieter
waved to the rest of the boys at the riverbank signaling everything was okay.
Having
monitored the whole situation unfolding, they came running over the same field Dieter and the boys had just trod, holding their helmets on their head with one hand, dragging their knapsacks with the other.
Goot laughed heartily.
“I see your little flock is growing,” he said. “Please come in boys and join the crowd. I haven’t had this many people in my home since the last Christmas before the war started.”
Goot’s three-room farmhouse appeared to be as disheveled as its owner. Books lay scattered abou
t
—
dirty clothing lay on chair
s
—
unwashed dishes were piled high in the sin
k
—
newspapers littering the long wooden table where they performed double duty as a tablecloth.
Goot searched frantically as he moved piles of clothing looking for something
clearly of value. “I have a bottle of schnapps hidden around here somewhere,” he said, smiling as he held up his prize for Dieter to see before turning back to face the boys. “Please sit down and rest from your journey while I serve up some fresh-baked bread.”
Goot took
immense pleasure in watching the boys as they first sniffed the warm luxury, then as they took small bites as if savoring their last meal. “Living on a farm has its benefits. Eat boys, or it will go to waste.”
“And for us Captain
— schnapps.”
Dieter couldn’t believe their luck was still holding out, first in escaping from
Berlin then in finding this amicable man.
“I could stand a good belt after our little trip,” he said. “I was also hopin
g for some information if I may.”
Goot poured two generous glasses of the popular Berliner Apple Schnapps, some of it overflowing onto the newspaper. “I will try to be of assistance, Captain.”
Dieter eyed the schnapps appreciatively treating it as if it were liquid gold, sniffing it first before sampling it. “Can you tell us exactly where we are in relation to Berlin?”
Goot smiled at such a simple request.
“That’s easy; you are about twenty kilometers southwest of Berlin as the crow flies.” He proudly pointed over to a makeshift radio, its antenna running out an open window for reception. “According to the latest BBC radio report, the American patrols were known to be only seventy-five kilometers away at a town called Torgau having met up with the Russian Army just a few days ago.”
Dieter realized their luck
had held out as they had unknowingly floated off the main portion of the river into a tributary sometime during the night, winding up closer to the American lines than anticipated.
Goot went on to inform him that had
they continued down the river they would be eating Russian borsch by now. Or worse….
dead
.
Goot refilled the
ir glasses. “Are you still fighting the war, captain, or are you escaping to a safer environment?” He studied Dieter for his response, having met some ardent Nazis in his time, all expecting a fight to the death.
Dieter looked first to th
e boys then back to Goot, his expression one of melancholy.
“Hopefully I can get these boys to a safer place, a better life, anywhere but to be captured by the Russians.”
Goot nodded.
Dieter continued
. “I am to be a farmer when this war ends.”
This was a semi-truth. With Dieter’s parents’ unfortunate death from an Allied bombing raid, the Dieter farm was now his to do with as he pleased.
Goot looked on in surprise. “A farmer you say? But you will need an experienced hand to assist you around the farm not just the
se boys.”
“
I’m going to require all of the help I can get,” Dieter replied.
Goot walked over to the mantel above his fireplace, removing a
silver picture frame that held a prewar picture of his wife and sons. He softly stroked the frame at the cherished memories it held before he turned to face Dieter. “Captain, would you consider taking on an old hand such as myself? Since my wife died of cancer last year and my two sons were killed fighting in Stalingrad, I no longer have any attachment to this house.”