OZ BABY BOOMERS: BOOMERAMA

It’s 21 February 1945 and the village of Krumersee* is almost deserted as I walk its streets trying to organise some extra food. I write letters to relatives and friends but know it is unlikely they will ever receive them. The following daily reports are based on memory and excerpts from my diary.

I receive a letter from Mrs Goldman, a landlady I boarded with while attending the Ventspils Trades School.

Because of my throat trouble I have been freed from patrol duties and act as a courier to the company command point. I am sharing accommodation with Zuika and Ozols, two officer candidates, both recently conscripted older chaps who have been given their previous Latvian Army rank. They had both been radio telegraphists in the Latvian Army but have forgotten most of what they had learned. They will have to go through a refresher course with us as their instructors. They are both in their mid-40s. There is some jealousy about them having the privileges without the corresponding responsibilities. I find them both friendly, especially Zuika with whom I become good friends.

We walk over to the local bakery to buy some bread. The shop door is open but all the people have left the village to escape the Russians. There is bread on the shelves so we help ourselves. I also take some flour from the bakery. I am fond of pancakes, which I will bake as soon as I am free from duty. This is no man’s land and the Russians will soon be here.

The front erupts like a volcano. It starts early in the morning and increases in intensity till you can’t distinguish between individual explosions and it sounds like a continuing thunderclap. We know the meaning of it. The artillery is softening up the German lines and a major attack is expected as soon as the artillery barrage stops. It is still dark outside but we all are up, preparing for any eventuality.

We pack our belongings into the overloaded vehicles and leave Krumersee in a great hurry.

The electric lights begin to flicker and become dimmer. This continues for about 10 minutes and then all sinks into darkness. It is obvious that the generator attendant has left his position and the steam pressure has dropped. Or, on the other hand, the attendant has been captured by the Russians. Who knows?

We pack our belongings into the overloaded vehicles and leave Krumersee in a great hurry. By 7am we reach the village of Hansafeld*, just as the last of the locals are leaving. All roads are ankle deep with slosh and mud, and snow is falling.

Ozols has been sent somewhere on a mission and his place taken by another officer candidate — Runcis. He is a funny little man with a big ego, and I don’t like him much. The three of us — Zuika, Runcis and myself — occupy a room that has just been deserted. I manage to warm up some water and start washing myself but I’m interrupted by an urgent request to return to our vehicles immediately.

At the last moment Zuika gives me his pocket knife and asks me to run into the stables and try to get some chickens. I’ve never done that before but there is no time to argue. In the darkness I grab some birds and cut their heads off. I wrap the dead birds in a sheet and hurry back to the vehicles where the others are waiting impatiently.

We leave Hansafeld in a hurry. Late at night we reach Hammerstein [now Czarne*], one of the villages where we had stayed on our way back from Czechoslovakia.

It is 4am and we have just reached a village called Kidas*. We are dead tired from constant travel, tension and lack of sleep. We have been on the run for the past few days. I catch some sleep but don’t take off my muddy boots. Who knows what will happen in the next few hours or minutes, so it’s best to be ready to jump up and run.

Suddenly a Russian tank appears at the other end of the village and fires its cannon along the street. We manage to get out, but the other units are stopped by the military police and engaged in the defence of the village. But what possible chance is there against the enemy’s overwhelming superiority of equipment and manpower?

After some uneventful travel on the back roads we arrive at another village. We stop here to await mates left behind at Kidas. Zuika and I occupy a small room at the local school. It is cold. I organise some wood and light a fire in the fireplace. That makes life more comfortable and we take our clothes off and start hunting our other enemy — the lice. The little devils are usually at their worst when we are trying to sleep, and can disturb even a dead-tired, sleep-starved man. Runcis is drunk and sleeps in one of the personnel carriers. We don’t disturb him.

Early in the morning we leave the school and drive through the village on our way back to Neu Stettin [Szczecinek*]. We are short of petrol and there is no chance of getting more amid this chaos. The boys mix some of the medicinal spirits with petrol. To reduce consumption we tow some of the vehicles instead of driving them, but I doubt whether we save any fuel this way. All the vehicles are overloaded and our progress is reduced to walking pace.

Machine-gun bullets are whizzing above our heads as we run and crawl across the marshy meadow, along the shoreline of the lake, in the direction of Neu Stettin.

We are by a large natural lake called Spar See* and about to cross a small stream. During the night, while we were hunting lice and sleeping, the Russians had taken up positions near the crossing and open fire on us. We are ordered to leave the vehicles and uncouple the towed ones. Some of the officers are driven away in a couple of vehicles that still have some fuel, while we are left to take care of ourselves. Machine-gun bullets are whizzing above our heads as we run and crawl across the marshy meadow, along the shoreline of the lake, in the direction of Neu Stettin.

I am completely exhausted, but we reach Neu Stettin without casualties. Neu Stettin is already under artillery fire and there are no other troops between us and the advancing Russian tanks. We bypass Neu Stettin, crawling on our bellies along the shore of the lake, until we reach a small village called Gatowa*, on the other side of the lake. Here we are comparatively safe.

I have my food container with me but all other of my belongings have been left with the vehicles and lost. I am left just with what I have on me. I eat a bit and relax in the early spring sunshine. All of us who have escaped the Russians on foot are assembling in Gatowa.

Recently promoted Sergeant Aire has taken command of us. He selects Private First-Class Aivars and myself to deliver two batteries to an infantry regimental headquarters where a group of our radio telegraphists are operating. We have to walk about 10 kilometres along the shores of Lake Spar See. We feel safe because the lake is between us and the Russians. Our destination is at the other end of the lake.

Aivars is my senior, but a very docile man with no German language. That is probably why I was chosen to go with him. It is midday and the sun is rather warm, with not the slightest breeze. It’s blissfully peaceful and quiet except for birds singing in the trees. War seems to be so far away and we really enjoy the walk.

After about four kilometres we come to a house and see a young woman at the window. We ask her for something to drink. She is alone here with four little children. She has heard the horror stories about the Russian soldiers molesting German women. She asks if it is likely the Russians will come through here. We lie to her that it is not likely to happen. What would it help if we told her that in a day or two the Russians would be here? She is in no position to escape. This village is called Galowedam*. The woman brings out some milk and a smear of sausage on bread and we have a peaceful rest and a feed.

By 4pm we reach village of Spar See*, on the northern end of the lake. It’s almost a small town rather than a village and as we arrive we see people leaving in a hurry. We find our comrades at the regimental headquarters. We know them very well because they actually belong to our company and are only on loan to the regiment. They’re mainly young men who didn’t reach the required standard at our training course. The local bakery is open and selling bread to everybody, even those without coupons. We exchange the charged batteries for their discharged ones and, before leaving, sit down for a rest and a bit of a chat.

*EDITOR’S NOTE: These town and village names are recorded in the Germanic form that was in use when Arnold was there. Where possible I have provided the modern Polish equivalent. I will try to get equivalents for the others and put them together on a map. If anyone has information, please forward it to me — John Rozentals.