The Wolves of World War II by Hans Thiel

Author:Hans Thiel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General Fiction
Publisher: McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers
Published: 2012-07-31T00:00:00+00:00

III

Russian Captivity

I have often wondered whether the impact from some kind of shell knocked down that wall, at the same time throwing me up in the air, or whether a tank’s treads, while crossing over my hole, simply didn’t press it tightly enough together. I don’t know how long I lay there, in or next to the hole, but when I came to I was stripped down to my underwear in the midst of a number of Russians. They seemed to be saying something or issuing some kind of command.

I couldn’t hear anything, and my eyes were gummed up with sand and dirt. I slowly recovered my ability to think, and then I too clearly realized that I had been unable to avoid the hated and feared captivity. Their guys are standing at a respectful distance with their submachine guns aimed and ready. Why does no one pull the trigger? They’ve undressed me completely—there’s no trace of my wristwatch, the Mauser, my knife, my lighter, or my boots. One of them hands me my wallet, from which I later recover the pictures of my children, as well as several large bills in a secret compartment. All of my identification cards etc. are gone.

I was told later that at that time Ivan received 10 rubles for every prisoner he brought in—perhaps that was enough to keep them from finishing me off. I am given a tunic that came from a fallen soldier. Pants and shoes were in great demand and not necessary for me, so in that state, off we go towards the east. Ten meters away two Russians have their weapons cocked and ready to fire.

At a farm I come upon the first of my fellow-captives,79 but we are not permitted to exchange a single word. Here I also see the first uniformed women soldiers80—they make a ghastly impression on us, but they don’t spit and bite. They seem only to occupy themselves with their eternal cigarettes and the captured watches and jewelry. It’s impossible to study them in greater detail—a rifle barrel bores its way into my back.

We move farther through the softened slush and come to a small town, past firing mortars and a Signal Corps laying down its lines. There seems to be some type of command post in a crowded farmhouse. I am standing in the washroom with my face to the wall, two Russians at my back with their guns cocked. A few other captives arrive, and they look like walking death. They simply stretch themselves out on the floor. We are about six to eight men—and we are guarded by nearly twenty Russians standing behind us with their pistols drawn.

At any rate, Herr Enemy has a great deal of respect for us. An interpreter, who by his appearance is one hundred percent Jewish, announces that anyone who says a word to anyone else will be shot and killed on the spot. I signal to him that I can’t hear anything, and I am generously allowed to dig the sand and dirt out of my ears.

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