Photo Credit: Wikipedia
18 April 1945, from Holland to Germany
We started out early in the morning, at 0700 hours. The convoy split up into several smaller ones of ten vehicles each. As I had imagined, it was a rich day and full of interest. We reached the new field at 2000 hours, tired, worn out and dusty, but I did not regret doing it. I saw Germany with my own eyes, its ruined towns and villages, its inhabitants, who are only old men and women, girls and boys; young and middle-aged men are almost nowhere to be seen, and the few that we came across were sickly or real invalids.
The road teemed with endless convoys – some heading for the front and others returning empty to reload. Here and there was a smashed bridge, which our engineers had already replaced with another. British military policemen were directing traffic, and signboards showed the emblems and colours of the various armies to point their way to the lines.
Along the roadside straggled lines of the newly liberated – yesterday's slaves and yesterday's prisoners, in their varicoloured but faded uniforms. Their faces were unshaven and they carried bundles of whatever they had left or had managed to loot from their captors when the tables were turned.
They rejoiced to see us, waved their hats and gestured towards their mouths to ask for cigarettes. The boys threw them some, but we too don't have very many. Our supplies are not keeping up with the pace of our advance. At the sight of these thousands – out of the many millions uprooted from all the countries that the Germans' boots trampled – making their way "home" to all corners of Europe: Belgium, Holland. France, Italy. Greece, Russia, Poland, Norway, Denmark etc. etc., the question arises: what shape will the peace take? Suppose the war ends tomorrow – what then? These multitudes, trekking on foot, penniless, guideless, with nothing to eat (except what they can loot from the Germans) and sometimes barefoot – after years of slavery, hunger and disease – where are they going? Home! But who knows what has become of their homes and families in the meantime. At least they are marching home – but the Jews? Those who have miraculously survived and still can find the strength to take to the road – where to? Where, O Lord, where are they to turn? And if they turn homeward, to their one and only home, the one that awaits them with open arms, then --- [alluding to British restrictions on Jewish immigration to Palestine]
As I mulled all this, I spotted in the line of wanderers a burly and suntanned young man, marching with two old men, with a yellow Star of David on his coat. How much I wanted to stop the lorry, to talk with him, to give him what little money and food I had and to bid him Godspeed on his journey – whither? I called out "shalom!" and slowed down the lorry, which was not going very fast anyway, but there was no stopping, as the convoy could not be held up. I waved to him and threw him my pack of provisions. He shouted back "shalom" in a booming voice, his face lit up, and he raised his fists, waving them toward the front. He may have seen the "Palestine" on my sleeve, or anyway he shouted in Hebrew "Halutz! [a Zionist youth movement] Poland! Eretz Yisrael [Land of Israel]!" and pointed east. I could hear no more, as he was already behind me and the lorry's noise drowned out his voice. Indeed, he is marching home!
The city of Osnabruck lay ahead of us. Downtown, barely a stone is left standing: what the bombs did not destroy was consumed by fire. This was the first time I ever felt my heart swell with joy and satisfaction at the sight of total ruin…
The inhabitants are for the most part occupied with putting their lives in order and pay no attention to the convoys – to which they must have got used in the last few days. Farmers were ploughing with teams of cows (there are no horses). In some fields I saw a boy steering a plough as two or three old men pulled it, along with some women. No cars are to be seen – people walk or cycle. From the roadside, some old men stood staring at us with an indifferent look – half stunned, half bewildered. Who know what memories are rushing through their minds – two wars and all that went on between them… The girls, who swarm in the streets, usually look away but some of them do peek at us and try to smile. The boys don't smile back; their hearts are not in it (this is not France, Belgium or Holland!). Angry looks come mostly from young boys (aged 10 to 14). These have already managed to get thoroughly educated by the Nazi youth movement… but the smaller children and the babies often cheer us enthusiastically, as children do when a military convoy passes – as though we were their own army, not the one that has conquered and subjugated their country. As a rule, I did not see what I expected to see in Germany: the inhabitants did not impress me as a "master race" or even as a nation fighting for its existence. Everyone's face reflected unmasked fatigue and sadness. There is some bitterness at the destruction, but more than that there is hidden gratitude that for them, at last, it is all over… is it really?
We started out early in the morning, at 0700 hours. The convoy split up into several smaller ones of ten vehicles each. As I had imagined, it was a rich day and full of interest. We reached the new field at 2000 hours, tired, worn out and dusty, but I did not regret doing it. I saw Germany with my own eyes, its ruined towns and villages, its inhabitants, who are only old men and women, girls and boys; young and middle-aged men are almost nowhere to be seen, and the few that we came across were sickly or real invalids.
The road teemed with endless convoys – some heading for the front and others returning empty to reload. Here and there was a smashed bridge, which our engineers had already replaced with another. British military policemen were directing traffic, and signboards showed the emblems and colours of the various armies to point their way to the lines.
Along the roadside straggled lines of the newly liberated – yesterday's slaves and yesterday's prisoners, in their varicoloured but faded uniforms. Their faces were unshaven and they carried bundles of whatever they had left or had managed to loot from their captors when the tables were turned.
They rejoiced to see us, waved their hats and gestured towards their mouths to ask for cigarettes. The boys threw them some, but we too don't have very many. Our supplies are not keeping up with the pace of our advance. At the sight of these thousands – out of the many millions uprooted from all the countries that the Germans' boots trampled – making their way "home" to all corners of Europe: Belgium, Holland. France, Italy. Greece, Russia, Poland, Norway, Denmark etc. etc., the question arises: what shape will the peace take? Suppose the war ends tomorrow – what then? These multitudes, trekking on foot, penniless, guideless, with nothing to eat (except what they can loot from the Germans) and sometimes barefoot – after years of slavery, hunger and disease – where are they going? Home! But who knows what has become of their homes and families in the meantime. At least they are marching home – but the Jews? Those who have miraculously survived and still can find the strength to take to the road – where to? Where, O Lord, where are they to turn? And if they turn homeward, to their one and only home, the one that awaits them with open arms, then --- [alluding to British restrictions on Jewish immigration to Palestine]
As I mulled all this, I spotted in the line of wanderers a burly and suntanned young man, marching with two old men, with a yellow Star of David on his coat. How much I wanted to stop the lorry, to talk with him, to give him what little money and food I had and to bid him Godspeed on his journey – whither? I called out "shalom!" and slowed down the lorry, which was not going very fast anyway, but there was no stopping, as the convoy could not be held up. I waved to him and threw him my pack of provisions. He shouted back "shalom" in a booming voice, his face lit up, and he raised his fists, waving them toward the front. He may have seen the "Palestine" on my sleeve, or anyway he shouted in Hebrew "Halutz! [a Zionist youth movement] Poland! Eretz Yisrael [Land of Israel]!" and pointed east. I could hear no more, as he was already behind me and the lorry's noise drowned out his voice. Indeed, he is marching home!
The city of Osnabruck lay ahead of us. Downtown, barely a stone is left standing: what the bombs did not destroy was consumed by fire. This was the first time I ever felt my heart swell with joy and satisfaction at the sight of total ruin…
The inhabitants are for the most part occupied with putting their lives in order and pay no attention to the convoys – to which they must have got used in the last few days. Farmers were ploughing with teams of cows (there are no horses). In some fields I saw a boy steering a plough as two or three old men pulled it, along with some women. No cars are to be seen – people walk or cycle. From the roadside, some old men stood staring at us with an indifferent look – half stunned, half bewildered. Who know what memories are rushing through their minds – two wars and all that went on between them… The girls, who swarm in the streets, usually look away but some of them do peek at us and try to smile. The boys don't smile back; their hearts are not in it (this is not France, Belgium or Holland!). Angry looks come mostly from young boys (aged 10 to 14). These have already managed to get thoroughly educated by the Nazi youth movement… but the smaller children and the babies often cheer us enthusiastically, as children do when a military convoy passes – as though we were their own army, not the one that has conquered and subjugated their country. As a rule, I did not see what I expected to see in Germany: the inhabitants did not impress me as a "master race" or even as a nation fighting for its existence. Everyone's face reflected unmasked fatigue and sadness. There is some bitterness at the destruction, but more than that there is hidden gratitude that for them, at last, it is all over… is it really?
19 April 1945, Germany
Judging by the looks of the camp at Celle, its buildings, avenues, and gardens, I already understood last night that this was a camp of long standing that had not been set up overnight. As I was tired from the drive, I turned in right after the light supper that Jack the cook made for me in short order. This morning, at breakfast, I heard something about local history from those who had preceded me. They said that this had been one of the Luftwaffe's first flying schools, which of course had been converted recently to a base for some of their squadrons. This had also been one of the flight schools for women, and in fact until a few days ago they had been quartered in the very building that we live in now. I must admit that in our training camps, in Canada and England, we enjoyed no such comfortable lodgings. P and I are billeted in one of the second-floor rooms, which for furniture and comfort is inferior to none of the several hotel rooms that I have experienced. In the wardrobe we found some remnants of the female pilots' effects: silk undergarments, Parisian powder and perfume, and so on. At least by external appearances, one can hardly say that whoever lived here suffered any want or privation….
We report to the directions [?] centre. The liaison officer is in an elated mood. Advance on all fronts is very rapid, and the bombing line changes three or four times a day.
The Luftwaffe's aerial activity is steadily decreasing. Most of our squadrons have been relieved of patrol duty, and our main task has become unrestrained attack on all forms of German transportation beyond the front line. On the whole, there is hardly any traffic on the roads in daylight hours, except for a few trains along the main railways, that are properly defended by ack-ack carriages and towers. Both the German withdrawal and transport toward the front are, almost without exception, carried out under cover of darkness. But when they do dare to move during the day, their hope of escaping the fire of our awaiting planes is virtually nil.
The tactical value of air superiority can best be explained by a pilot's-eye look across the front line. On one side, there is massive traffic of long, winding convoys along all the roads, with almost no precaution against air raids. On the other side it is all quiet and serene, the roads are empty and deserted – like Saturday in Tel Aviv, excuse the comparison!
We took off on an armed reconnaissance [?] of the Pritzwalk–Ludwigslust-Hamburg triangle. After searching in vain for three quarters of an hour, we managed to detect a small convoy of cars, hiding under trees on a roadside. We dove at it – there was but little resistance, from a few machineguns – and destroyed or crippled the entire convoy.
Judging by the looks of the camp at Celle, its buildings, avenues, and gardens, I already understood last night that this was a camp of long standing that had not been set up overnight. As I was tired from the drive, I turned in right after the light supper that Jack the cook made for me in short order. This morning, at breakfast, I heard something about local history from those who had preceded me. They said that this had been one of the Luftwaffe's first flying schools, which of course had been converted recently to a base for some of their squadrons. This had also been one of the flight schools for women, and in fact until a few days ago they had been quartered in the very building that we live in now. I must admit that in our training camps, in Canada and England, we enjoyed no such comfortable lodgings. P and I are billeted in one of the second-floor rooms, which for furniture and comfort is inferior to none of the several hotel rooms that I have experienced. In the wardrobe we found some remnants of the female pilots' effects: silk undergarments, Parisian powder and perfume, and so on. At least by external appearances, one can hardly say that whoever lived here suffered any want or privation….
We report to the directions [?] centre. The liaison officer is in an elated mood. Advance on all fronts is very rapid, and the bombing line changes three or four times a day.
The Luftwaffe's aerial activity is steadily decreasing. Most of our squadrons have been relieved of patrol duty, and our main task has become unrestrained attack on all forms of German transportation beyond the front line. On the whole, there is hardly any traffic on the roads in daylight hours, except for a few trains along the main railways, that are properly defended by ack-ack carriages and towers. Both the German withdrawal and transport toward the front are, almost without exception, carried out under cover of darkness. But when they do dare to move during the day, their hope of escaping the fire of our awaiting planes is virtually nil.
The tactical value of air superiority can best be explained by a pilot's-eye look across the front line. On one side, there is massive traffic of long, winding convoys along all the roads, with almost no precaution against air raids. On the other side it is all quiet and serene, the roads are empty and deserted – like Saturday in Tel Aviv, excuse the comparison!
We took off on an armed reconnaissance [?] of the Pritzwalk–Ludwigslust-Hamburg triangle. After searching in vain for three quarters of an hour, we managed to detect a small convoy of cars, hiding under trees on a roadside. We dove at it – there was but little resistance, from a few machineguns – and destroyed or crippled the entire convoy.
20 April 1945, Germany
A new term has begun to take pride of place in our vocabulary: booty! The boys have started swiping and looting everything they can lay their hands on. The Germans left us an enormous abundance of various items here: instruments, cars, motorcycles, planes, books, maps, office equipment and so forth. Enthusiasm for doing one's share in the looting has apparently caused some to lose the distinction between "theirs" and "ours," and big warning signs have appeared on some of the stores: "No Looting!"
We went out again on armed reconnaissance in the Dietenburg [or Dittenburg]-Altruppin area. We had almost despaired of finding any quarry when one of us spotted a Focke-Wulf 190 flying low, almost right beneath us. He called out on the radio: "190 under us! I'm diving," and in a moment he turned over and dove, with all of us following except two to cover us from above. As I dove and set my sights for shooting, I saw K's plane open fire. He must have scored a hit as the Focke was struck on its top and the pilot bailed out.
In one of the offices, I found a file with some attempts at writing poetry by someone in the Luftwaffe. I collected the sheets and am keeping them with me.
Also found were three kegs of beer. Its taste was not of the finest, but we had a proper drink in the mess hall.
A new term has begun to take pride of place in our vocabulary: booty! The boys have started swiping and looting everything they can lay their hands on. The Germans left us an enormous abundance of various items here: instruments, cars, motorcycles, planes, books, maps, office equipment and so forth. Enthusiasm for doing one's share in the looting has apparently caused some to lose the distinction between "theirs" and "ours," and big warning signs have appeared on some of the stores: "No Looting!"
We went out again on armed reconnaissance in the Dietenburg [or Dittenburg]-Altruppin area. We had almost despaired of finding any quarry when one of us spotted a Focke-Wulf 190 flying low, almost right beneath us. He called out on the radio: "190 under us! I'm diving," and in a moment he turned over and dove, with all of us following except two to cover us from above. As I dove and set my sights for shooting, I saw K's plane open fire. He must have scored a hit as the Focke was struck on its top and the pilot bailed out.
In one of the offices, I found a file with some attempts at writing poetry by someone in the Luftwaffe. I collected the sheets and am keeping them with me.
Also found were three kegs of beer. Its taste was not of the finest, but we had a proper drink in the mess hall.