A Highly Unlikely, and yet True Story

By Gerhard Nehls

Introduction

We all remember moments of bliss when we wished time would stop. Equally, we may perhaps recall times of grief, sorrow, disappointment, or shame, which we would gladly erase from our memory – if that were possible.

 

It is often only in retrospect that we realise that seemingly adverse circumstances might have been the trigger for an enrichment of our lives. Whoever bypasses such moments of realization will find it difficult to discover the gems of life in the matrix of our circumstances.

In our quest for success, and our intrinsic search for security, joy and fulfilment, we may well lose sight of the purpose of our lives, and the revelation of the values that impart ultimate meaning to our lives.

 

Augustine captured such a reflection in beautiful words: "Our souls are restless until they rest in You, O God".

 

There is a perspective to life that transcends the temporal. This true story records the experience of often desperate, terrifying, and yet life-shaping, unbelievable circumstances.

Ladies or people that are not used to the military should not be discouraged by the first few pages of this book. It happened to be part of the story.

 

Note:

Not all events described in this book are strictly in chronological order. In some cases individual reports have been combined or bundled to save space. Some of the names mentioned in the text have been changed to protect an identity.

Dedication

This script is devoted to all those who have become part of this book, be they mentioned by name, or not, whether they are alive or not.

 

But dedicated is this book to someone utmost special to me.

 

You will find out who that is, and our children Volker, Andrea, Petra, Matthias, and Stefan, and, where applicable, their spouses, and their kids.

Captured

In the relative quietness of the cellar, the echoing of boots coming down the concrete stairs interrupted my thoughts. The footsteps stopped in front of the crudely fashioned door with its spy hole. An eye appeared in it, before a key turned in the lock. The form of a Soviet soldier filled the open door. A brightly coloured green cap indicated his attachment to the political branch of the Red Army. Above the visor of his cap, featured the prominent red star with its hammer and sickle symbol. This was framed by golden Laurel leaves, which, apart from equally green epaulettes, was contrasted by the common khaki uniform he was wearing.  Seemingly, as a part of his uniform, he carried, on a strap over his shoulder, a sub-machine gun with its typically round magazine.

 

In typical military fashion he shouted the ever repeated: “Davai! Davai! Come on! Come on!” It was late at night and time for one of the endless interrogations. I jumped off the crudely fashioned contraption of raw planks that served as my bed. As usual, my guard directed me along the passage that was lined with more doors, hiding other prisoners from our view. Steep, narrow concrete stairs led us up.

 

On the ground level we entered the very spacious entrance hall to this exclusive villa. Hardly more than three weeks ago it had been converted from the domicile of a well-to-do family into the local centre of the NKVD ('Narodny Kommissariat Vnutennich Djel') translated 'People's Commissariat of Internal Affairs', which originally was named Tsheka, then GPU, followed by NKVD and was later renamed KGB, all an infamous instrument of repression.

From the carpeted entrance hall, a wide flight of stairs led to an upper level which formed a semi-circular, broad passage, of which one side looked down to the entrance hall. and was bordered by a lavishly crafted balustrade. The opposite side accommodated several large, white double doors that led into beautifully decorated rooms. Just above the balustrade featured an extensive chandelier which lit both levels.

 

All the while I had to prevent my trousers from slipping down, for my belt, as my shoelaces, had been taken from me. My guard stopped in front of one of the white doors and knocked. After we were called in, he reported to the officer in Russian, and I was ordered to sit on a simple wooden kitchen chair in front of a lieutenant who sat behind a huge desk, boasting elaborate wood carvings. Behind, to my right, sat a uniformed interpreter. Unlike the officer, he displayed a hostile impression towards me.

 

The opening of one of the files on his desk, initiated the ever-repeated scenario: “Name?” “Nehls”. “First name?” “Gerhard”, I replied. The interpreter corrects for the lieutenant: “Njels, Gergard”. Since the Cyrillic alphabet knows no “H” this is normally replaced by a “G”. Next they checked my date of birth, address and the first name of my father.

 

Based on the protocol of former interrogations he began to cross-examine me: “You with Luftwaffe (German air force)?” “I served in the anti-aircraft”, I corrected. “You shoot Soviet aircraft?” This was a ridiculous question, for a Russian air force hardly existed before the last onslaught on Berlin. “I never saw a Soviet plane” I responded truthfully. At that moment, without an apparent reason, the lieutenant yelled at me. In Russian, of course. Then he dashed from behind his desk, grabbed me by the lapels of my jacket and shook me vigorously. I was bewildered and did not understand what had caused his rage. The interpreter enlightened me. I was sitting too casually! “Sit like a soldier!” he bellowed. And so I did. One doesn't argue in a position I happened to be in.

 

After about two hours of interrogation, I was led back to my cell. Many questions flooded my mind. Thinking was all I could do anyway. The already mentioned contraption, on which I was to sleep, left only a narrow passage to move about. My cell had been partitioned off from the larger part of the kitchen by a coarse timber wall. The rattling of pots and pans and the unnecessary loud conversation of the Russian cooks were neither inviting to sleep, nor to contemplate.

 

Opposite the entrance, on the short side of my cell, was a tiny, high up, little window, secured by heavy iron bars. On the outside of it, remained a low brick wall, meant to protect the window from shrapnel in case of an air raid. This almost completely darkened 'my' room. To remedy this, a naked globe was dangling from the ceiling. The light was permanently switched on to enable the guards to observe me any time through that little spy hole in the door. It was almost impossible to determine what time of the day it was. Only the meals, offered at 11 am and 11 pm, the interrogations, as well as ‘potty’ times twice a day, interrupted the day’s routine. At 'potty times', we were led to the enclosed garden that served as our toilet under the guard of heavily armed soldiers. This condition soon made it increasingly impossible to find a place at which to lower our pants without them being soiled by someone's feces. Besides, we did not have any paper to wipe our bottoms and were constantly rushed to do our 'business'.

 

I was forbidden to sleep during the daytime, but a big chunk of the night was normally occupied by interrogation. Without a time piece it was difficult to estimate how long this lasted.

 

What was the object of all this? Were we to await a court martial? Will we be deported to a labour camp in Siberia? That would just about be a prolonged death sentence. Why on earth did I not take a dash to the West when it was still possible?

Deceived, abused, and eventually betrayed

How on earth did I ever get into it anyway? Again and again the last years passed through my mind. During our impressionable age we were relentlessly subjected to the mind control of the Nazi propaganda machine.

 

Only a conservative family background could have balanced or cushioned that. I did not have that. My father was as enthusiastic an admirer of the ‘Third Reich’, as I was. My grandfather from my mother's side, on the other hand, was fiercely opposed to the Nazi regime, and he made no bones about it. My mother, possibly because she wanted to avoid an open clash within the family, did never voice her own conviction.

 

Many of the young people were all too eager to live, fight and even die for our ‘Führer’, Adolf Hitler, and the ‘Third Reich’, which was to last a thousand years...

I wore my first uniform before I had turned five, in 1933, when Hitler came to power. At age ten all boys were obliged to join the obligatory ‘Jungvolk’ and at fourteen the ‘Hitler Youth’.

 

The girls were organised in corresponding organisations. At all meetings on Wednesdays and Saturday afternoons we all had to wear uniforms consisting of a brown shirt (black in winter), with black shorts or trousers.

 

Our meetings were dominated by exercises with decidedly pre-military agendas, alternating with political indoctrination and singing of nationalistic songs. Ideologies operate like drugs. Their constant influence of the politically controlled media, and the ever-present propaganda machine, was geared to effect a change of consciousness.

 

Political slogans were seared into our minds. “Führer command – and we shall follow!” was a common one.

Our youthful idealism was high-spirited in that I could hardly wait for the day when our Boys High School class was, in January 1944, called up to man anti-aircraft guns, to free regular soldiers for service at the frontline. Our first command, which ran concurrent with our training, was to protect a local Junkers aircraft factory. 

 

The first three months were largely reserved for training on the ‘Vierling’, on which four 20mm automatic guns were mounted on a special guncarriage.

 

We were drilled on these until we could make no more mistakes in handling them, even under stress in combat. We learned to disassemble and assemble the individual guns with possibly a hundred or more parts each, even blindfolded. This I loved, for, unlike in school, I excelled in this.

 

All military training essentially aimed to trim recruits into tempered soldiers who would blindly follow any command without hesitation. That was obviously aiming to replace our ability to think independently, with blind obedience to authority. This, again, was peppered with chicanery. “Thinking you must leave to the horses! They have a bigger head than yours”, was a phrase with which we were repeatedly confronted.

 

Our gun position, one of three, was placed right amidst the aircraft factory. The elevated platform on which our gun was mounted was, at the same time, the roof of our accommodation, which was sunk half-way into the ground. It offered beds and lockers for us seven 'Luftwaffenhelfer' (Air Force ‘Helpers’), the sergeant, who commanded the gun, and a 'regular' soldier who acted as the actual operator of the gun – once commanded to do so. A table and a few benches completed our abode. We despised the title 'Luftwaffenhelfer'. It was degrading, for our service was that of regular soldiers. The obvious reason for that tag was to camouflage the fact that we were in combat position at 15 or 16 years of age.

 

The snow on the field around us had almost thawed, laying bare much of the soggy clay underneath. This turned out to be an ideal training ground, on which we were chased countless times, ordered to run and fall down, and’ better still’ crawl as if being under enemy fire, until we were utterly exhausted. When our strength had faded, we were threatened with court martial for disobeying commands. After exercises like that we were, of course, covered with rich, loamy mud. Straight after, our drill uniform had to be washed in icy water, to be ready for inspection the following day.

 

Our often-moody sergeant seemed to gain much satisfaction from harassing us. One evening he had the little stove heated up until it was red-hot. Then he commanded us to dress in our formal uniforms, pull over this the drill outfit, and over that again the warm coats that were used for guard duty in severe weather. Balaclavas followed, and over it the helmet. With a sarcastic smile on his face he ordered us seven around the stove, to stretch out our arms and to make knee bends. Each time when going down we had to shout in a chorus: “I am a soldier” and coming up: "and I love it!” - until we were about to collapse. At the end of it all he told us with a jovial gesture: “Now dress in pyjamas and put your clothes back into your locker. In five minutes is locker-inspection”.

 

As our lockers were used to partition off our 'bedroom', and by that forming a narrow passage to the utility area, it was impossible for all seven of us to access our lockers at the same time. It goes without saying that we could not possibly execute his order, which again resulted in abuse with accusations of insubordinate behaviour, followed by extra duties the following day. 

 

But then came March 16th, a few weeks before I would turn sixteen. It was what I had been dreaming of - my first combat experience. We gave the death knell to an already ailing B17 'flying fortress' bomber that came in quite low and had the bad luck to unsuspectingly come our way, affording us to earn the first two of 16 points needed to be awarded the coveted antiaircraft medal.

 

Not long thereafter, our guns and we were transferred to an air base near Stendal, where we were to defend 'our' planes from marauding attacks by low level US planes. With that our war began in earnest. We were increasingly visited by Mustangs and Lightnings. They flew as low as our landing aircraft, appeared unexpectedly and suddenly, fired a burst from their guns, and were gone again. Even so, we 'downed' a couple of these aggressive US fighter planes, in their attempt to destroy any of the planes that were parked on the airfield, mostly ME 109, ME 110, and FW 190, all desperately needed to down the Allied bombers on their way to Berlin, or, perhaps, other targets.

 

On one day alone I counted with my naked eye more than a thousand 'Flying Fortresses' and 'Liberators', four-engine bombers that by then were well on their way to destroy just about every German city. But we were powerless against them, because our light guns did not reach further than 2.000 m, while the US bombers were around three times as high.

 

In late summer we were transferred to another air base, near Giebelstadt in SW Germany, which hosted the first German jet fighters, the ME 262.

 

This fact caused increasingly frequent raids of 'Mustangs' and double fuselage 'Lightning' aircraft. I will never forget a 'close-up' when a Mustang approached directly onto us. I picked it up in my crosshair sight and saw the plane 'growing' bigger and bigger in it. Soon enough I could see the pilot in the cockpit and the flashing of his guns. By then the plane had filled the sight, the moment for me to fire, while his shells exploded around us. The Mustang was flying so low that we instinctively ducked. The plane began to issue white smoke and had to come down.

 

On another occasion several Mustangs came for us, one by one, 'out of the sun', which totally blinded me, so that I could not pick them up in the sight. Being shot at, we could see around us what appeared like a small bomb exploding. But then they swerved to their right, and one by one offered us their underbelly. On the first plane I could not pick up quickly enough.

 

At the second I had a chance to fire, but it brushed by so fast that I could not turn the gun quickly enough. The third plane passed by while the magazine was being changed, but when I aimed at the next, I could see the tracer ammunition just to the front of the plane. Stopping to further turn the gun, I got several hits. Would it reach its home base again?

It was interesting to observe that before each actual action, and after it, my hands were shaking, but never during it.  All this was happening at a time when practically all German cities had been reduced to rubble during the relentless bombing of the Allied Air Forces . Believe it or not, while being soldiers, we were also teenagers. They do not play with toy guns.

 

Because our gun position was quite a distance from the kitchen, we had to bring our daily rations there in thermos canisters that were carried like a rucksack. To cut short the way a little, we normally went a bit cross country. And there we could find a lot of unexploded incendiary bombs, dating from an attack before our time. When we found a hole dug in the loamy ground, we not only collected these bombs to throw them into the ditch, we tried to incinerate one. These bombs are less than a Meter long, are hexagonal and about 80 mm in diameter. The igniter is located in the heavy end which hits the target first. So we made sure to throw a bomb in a way that would activate it, and it surely did. Quite a firework began to fascinate us – until an enormous explosion ended the show with an enormous bang. And my eyesight was gone.

 

I remember being in an ambulance. After that I found myself in a military hospital for soldiers who had been wounded at their eyesight. It was in Würzburg, which was termed to be a hospital city. I underwent operations on both eyes. The burns in the face appeared minor compared with that.

 

Heavily bandaged I landed in a large ward of what was a Monastery cum hospital. The patients proved to be a positive fellowship, and the hospital care was as excellent, fully in the hands of nuns. As time went by, I became assured that I did not lose my sight, a reason to be most grateful. The hospital care ended with a week of recovery leave, which happened to be over Christmas. Ten weeks later Würzburg was turned into rubble.

After a few more weeks at ‘our’ airport, again not without ‘action’, I was discharged from the  anti-aircraft unit for more serious business. In early April 1945, I was trained on cracking tanks, in a unit very close to my home abode. Unbeknown to us, the US forces had crossed the Rhine River and tank columns penetrated deep into Western Germany with hardly any resistance. Little did we know that the 9th US Army under the command of Omar Bradley had chosen Schönebeck as the point to cross the Elbe River. The strategic bridge is close to 600 meters long. And that was exactly where we trained.

 

Our small group of youngsters, still hoping to turn the fate of the war, manned the street barriers, constructed of quickly procured tree trunks that were supposed to, and successfully did, prevent tanks from getting to the bridge, barely three hundred meters from the barricade. It appeared to us that the US troops were endeavoring to push on to Berlin.

By then there was no more organised or effective defence.

 

Many soldiers changed their uniform for civilian clothing. Even so, the tank barricade under the railway bridge that blocked the main and only major street to reach the Elbe, had been closed, but it was clear that the handful of idealistic youths could never stop the powerful US army for longer than a day or two.

 

The needed ‘Panzerfaust’ bazookas and other equipment needed were stored in a little depot right next to the road that led onto the bridge. To get what I needed, I had to repeatedly run there, although it was under heavy artillery fire. Apparently, the Americans tried to prevent the blowing up of the bridge.

 

A young lieutenant had assumed command over us pathetically few fighters. The frontline had been formed by a railway line that cut the town into two. We had been formed into a command with the aim to use the cover of darkness to liberate another commando that had been trapped behind the enemy lines. It was eerily quiet 'on the other side', when we had passed the tank barrier under the railway bridge. It was pitch-dark. Only the clacking of the studs on the soles of our boots could betray us. On the occupied side, we heard the GIs talking, and the clinging of the buckles on their boots. Turning up the street towards the railway station, we passed the 'Astoria' cinema when we were engaged by the enemy. Since the GIs had not allowed for the heavy decline of the street, their small arms fire hit the large display posters above us. The glass shards spilled all over us. We could detect the muzzle flashes of their guns, helping us to be more accurate when we returned the fire, but so was their second salvo. In the end we did not find another commando. 

 

After a sleepless night we expected the US infantry to push over the railway line, because the Sherman tanks were unable to scale the barriers. We were posted extremely thinly along a street running parallel to the railroad, and from which several streets on the right side to it were leading to the railway line from which we expected the attack. I posted one of these. An artillery observation plane circled very slowly and low above us.

 

That tempted the anti-aircraft gunner in me to fire some tracer shots. I did not really expect to down it, but one or two minutes later I got the vivid response. With precision marksmanship a salvo of artillery shells hit the apartment building right above me and another building over the street. Had I not stood in the entrance, the brickwork would have fallen straight onto me. Seemingly from nowhere, an adventurous kid, probably not older than fourteen (I was 16, after all!), attached himself to me to carry my ‘Panzerfaust’, and could not be persuaded to go home.

 

As we had expected, infantry was used to prepare the way for the tanks that had queued on the far side of the barricade. And so, it happened. Without noticing it, I suddenly stood facing a group of GIs on the other side of the street. A brief fight began at close range. When the five shots in my rifle were spent, I had to find cover to reload. It was very close to where I lived, but I had to run against the American line to get there, and used the entrance of our apartment building to reload my rifle, but the inhabitants that obviously recognised me, grabbed me, forcibly pulled me into the hall, disarmed me, dragged me to the basement, and provided me with civilian clothes. They obviously had feared reprisals. Minutes later the GIs stormed past our building.

 

As was clear from the beginning, our town was occupied. However, the bridge had been blasted.

 

I was now 'under the radar', as one says today. A curfew allows people just enough time to do some essential shopping. I went out to find anyone of our former commando and luckily met Eberhard. He also could escape capture and swam over the Elbe despite its severe current. On the Eastern shore he found a still functional 8.8 Flak battery, but without knowledge of possible targets on the West side. Eberhard had come back to help detect these.

 

I volunteered and used the times of the lifted curfew to detect gas depots, the military head quarter, artillery positions, and possible bridge building gear. I had to deposit the information about the location of target positions at a prearranged spot, a boat house outside the town next to the river. A swimmer would then cross over the Elbe at night with the information.

 

At that time, we began to hear the artillery fire of the Red Army that was closing in from the East. The German ‘Reich’ was no more, and on the 8th of May 1945, the day of Germany’s capitulation, we also ceased our activity.

Peace at last?

During the last two weeks before the capitulation of Germany we could listen to a broadcast message that Hitler was bravely and actively involved in the defence of Berlin. Instead, he had married his mistress of many years and had broadcast his 'legacy' from the 'Führerbunker'.

While we were still fighting to prolong the war for a few days, Hitler accused us, the German people, of having been too weak to deserve the victory, and, subject to the law of the survival of the fittest, had forfeited their place in history. Having said this, he killed his partner and blew out his own brains. What a seemingly smart way of escape from the responsibility he carried for the death and untold misery of many millions of people!

 

It was then that my world collapsed. I was devastated.

 

It was also only then that we were made aware of the horrors of the concentration camps in which millions had languished in untold suffering, awaiting their turn for the gas chambers. Of course, we had been aware of the many millions who died in combat or under the terror bombing, which had practically reduced every German city to rubble. Despite all the uncertainty, our lives had to go on somehow.

 

At the same time, we also realised that the Americans were very different to what we were made to believe by the Nazi propaganda. They turned out to be a friendly and helpful lot. As we heard more and more of the atrocities the Soviet troops committed in the Eastern part of our country, we became aware of a deep rift in the world views of the Western Allies and the Soviet Union. It did, in fact, appear to us that an armed conflict between them was inevitable and imminent.

 

Meanwhile, what was I to do? In the past my father owned a small grocery business which ‘went under’ during the depression in the early 1930s. Why shouldn’t I go for an apprenticeship in the food line? It took little effort to find a fair-sized business to take me on. I exchanged the gun for a small shovel to fill sugar, flour and the like in weighed portions into paper bags - if the remaining supply lasted. 

 

What we did not know was what happened at the Conference of the ‘Big Three’ in Yalta, on the Crimea peninsula. President Roosevelt, Prime Minister Sir Winston Churchill, and Josef V.

 

Stalin had, in February of 1945, negotiated the terms for peace. It had been decided that Germany was to be divided into four Zones. The US, Great Britain, France and the Soviet Union were each to occupy one of these. Berlin was to be given a special status and was also to be divided into four Zones. The new borders within Germany had been determined. Little did we know that our town, which had been conquered and occupied by the US troops, was allotted to the Soviet Union, and that it was to be turned over to them.

 

Also, in Yalta it had been decided that a very large chunk of Eastern Germany would be annexed by Poland. In this lost territory were the childhood homes of my parents. After the Soviets had conquered Pomerania, one of the Eastern provinces of Germany, all its inhabitants, including my grandfather at age 83, were expelled from there. He had joined the endless treks of refugees and, as I later learned, arrived on Christmas Eve of 1945 at the home of my parents, having walked the three hundred odd kilometers on foot. All he still owned were his trousers and a jacket. Even of his shirt and underwear he had been robbed.

 

He was unaware that my father and I had been taken as prisoners by the Soviets. That must have been just too much to bear. He lay down, and died of a broken heart two days later, on Boxing Day, his 84th birthday.

 

Reportedly, two million civilians died on their flight in the winter of 1944-1945. 

"The Russians are here!"

It was Sunday, the first of July 1945 when my father burst into my room to wake me with intimidating news: “The Russians are here!”

 

It probably took no more than a minute for me to dress, race down the stairs from our second-floor apartment, and race along ‘Republikstrasse’ to ‘Salzerstrasse’, the main road. It was decorated with red flags and banners strapped over the street, welcoming the victorious Red Army. Until now Jeeps and trucks with large white stars on all sides had been frequenting here.

 

Now pathetic looking wooden carts, each drawn by a horse with its typically Russian harness, and manned by Russian soldiers, were prodding along. Judging by the banners and posters one would expect a cheering, welcoming crowd. But there was none. Only the odd horrified inquisitive onlooker - as I was - could be seen.

 

As fast as I got there, I returned home. My parents had also gone to assess the situation, so I went to my room and quickly packed a small case with some essentials, ready to make it to the West. When my parents returned and saw me about ready to leave, an emotional argument ensued. I was determined to escape; they were determined to make me stay. In the end I relented: “If you take the responsibility for me remaining here, I will stay”, I challenged.

 

“Yes, we do!”, was their final verdict.

Our Anti-Soviet Plot

Guided by youthful idealism primed by poor judgement, our former group at once tried to appraise the very possible scenario of another armed conflict, this time between the Allies and the Soviets. In such a case, we reasoned, a surprise action on our side might secure a bridgehead over the Elbe River to aid the US troops to push toward Berlin, which strategically was indispensable.

 

We were made aware of a cache of arms, buried in a forest on the Eastern side of the Elbe. And there were still wounded soldiers in several hospitals who might be persuaded to join us. In the case of this happening, one of us was to speed towards the West to inform the Allies of our endeavor. Naturally, we were very secretive about the planning of our operation.