Source: “Voices of the Waffen SS” by Gerry Villani
Krukenberg and his men already had commenced retreat. The streets were filled with rubble and vehicle wreckage, but still, the retreat went on without much difficulty. Before they were to cross the river, Krukenberg sent two officers to scout ahead. None of them returned. At 0300h, May 2, 1945, Krukenberg decided to go out on reconnaissance himself, with only his escort. Along the way, he met up with SS-Brigadeführer Ziegler. There were a couple of Knight’s Cross recipients among them, including Eugene Vaulot. Meanwhile, dawn came, exposing the retreating soldiers to enemy fire. Trying to avoid it, they headed down Gesundbrunnen towards Pankow, and further on towards Wittenau. The column moved slowly on Brunnenstrasse. It again came under mortar fire on Lortzingstrasse. The men were able to find feeble protection under the ruins, but the attack was growing in strength. Ziegler, who was right at Krukenberg’s side, was hit by shrapnel and died instantly. Others suffered injuries. They decided to rest for a little while and recoup. The French and Scandinavian Waffen SS volunteers, however, were concerned that if they stay there for any length of time, they could expose the Berliners hiding there to danger. They chose to move on, and went straight under fire from snipers. With nowhere else to go, they went back towards the center of the city to plan their next move. To increase their chances of getting out of Berlin’s hell alive, Krukenberg and his men decided to take off their uniforms and put on civilian clothing. It was close to 1000h, May 2. Dressed as civilians, the group went north on Schonhauser-Allee. As they moved away from the city center, they passed one Soviet patrol after the next. So far, no one bothered them. The Russians were busy watching windows in the surrounding townhouses, expecting to be ambushed by the enemy lying in wait there. In the Pankow quarter, Krukenberg went inside a house to change clothes. When he came back outside, none of his fellow soldiers were there. There was a woman there, however, and she told Krukenberg that all his comrades were taken prisoner by the Russians. On the other side of the street, he could see two more Ivans. Krukenberg managed to tempt them with his wristwatch, and in the small chaos that ensued, he was able to disappear towards Schonholzer Park. There, he spent over an hour looking for his men, to no avail. This confirmed his fear that all of them really were taken. Krukenberg continued on alone, heading towards Wilhelmsruhe. Around 1300h, he was stopped and arrested by a Soviet artilleryman.
Having crossed the River Spree, those who went ahead of Krukenberg, divided into smaller groups to avoid attention of the Russians. Each of these groups had, more or less, 15 to 20 men. Wilhelm Weber, the Kampfschule’s CO, was there and about twelve of the Frenchmen, including Appolot, Vaulot, and Waffen-Rottenführer Evrard, and a few Germans and Scandinavians. They moved westward with the support of two Tiger tanks. They managed to cross the Tiergarten, but they met with a heavy enemy patrol. The tanks were able to push ahead, but the men dispersed. Eugene Vaulot, decorated with the Knight’s Cross just days before, was killed by a sniper. Evrard followed Weber because he believed he had better chances with a German leading the way, as opposed to a Frenchman unfamiliar with Berlin and the surrounding areas. Weber gave the order to get to the nearby buildings as quickly as possible, but soon enough they became surrounded. Their situation turned from bad to hopeless. They were able to hold off the Reds for a few hours before they decided to try and escape. A few of them managed to get through the Soviet net, but not all were as lucky. Two grenadiers, Francois de Lannurien and Jean Clause Dautot, were meanwhile still at the Stadtmitte station. They were the only Frenchmen to stay there after Krukenberg and his unit had left. Both were injured, and so they decided to stay behind, believing they wouldn’t be able to get very far anyway. Dautot was severely wounded and suffering so badly that de Lannurien decided to take him to the closest first aid station, in the Reich’s Chancellery. With much difficulty, they reached the Führer’s bunker on the Vosstrasse.
Dautot was taken away on a stretcher to one of the field hospitals, and de Lannurien was patched up. Unfortunately, no one there was able to remove the shrapnel from his hand, which was hurting him more and more. He was left alone, feeling deeply forlorn. He chose to go back to Stadtmitte, hoping to find some of his friends. He found no one there, and joined a random group of soldiers led by a Tiger tank. Combat experience told de Lannurien that it wasn’t a good idea to move too close to the tank, as the machine was always a good target for the enemy to aim at, and so he walked about 20 meters away from the rest of the group. He was right to do so! Soon enough, the tank suffered a direct hit. The force of the blast threw de Lannurien to the ground, and instantly killed those who were closest to the tank. According to him, Reichsleiter Martin Bormann was among them. A piece of shrapnel practically removed his head from his body. De Lannurien ran to Stadtmitte. Once there, he found only disappointment and one young German SS-man, desperately firing off his heavy machine gun. The Frenchman proposed to be the shooter’s gun loader. After dispensing all of their ammo, they went down to one of the basements to await the inevitable. A few minutes later, they both were taken prisoner by a Soviet patrol. After the war, de Lannurien claimed to have met Hitler himself in the Chancellery, and that the Fuhrer went up to him and congratulated him on his courage when he saw the three-colored shield on his uniform. This seems quite unlikely, however, and unconfirmed by anybody else. What did those last moments in Berlin look like for the wounded Jean-Marie Croisille? Let us hear from him once more: “The aid station, where they hauled me off to, was really a small private clinic. The doctors disappeared somewhere, leaving only two or three nurses, Belgians, shipped here for work. Fire could already be heard on Bulowstrasse. The Ivans are close and the nurses are clearly getting ready to run. I lay on my back on the bed and not move. I’m completely numb. I’m so tired that, despite the noise and tumult around me, I simply fall asleep. Or lose consciousness, it’s hard to tell. When I open my eyes, I’m surrounded by Soviet soldiers, rifling through my pockets, taking or destroying everything they find there: papers, my soldier’s book, some change, photographs...I pass out again. In my half-dream I feel myself being dragged and moved. Don’t know by whom. I sleep or maybe I’m unconscious, I don’t know...Nothing seems to be able to wake me, like Labourdette that morning...When I finally come to, I find myself on a table in some hair salon. Next to me, a German soldier, wounded in the leg. The ceiling is made of glass and through the charred panes I can see fire. It’s awfully hot. The salon is starting to burn. The two of us, the German and me, support each other and manage to get out onto the street. So I’m not, in fact, paralyzed as I had feared, just numb and in shock. And there still is that odd, hard to describe feeling, as if legs and my arms were not quite mine. And, again, we get to that hellish Mannsteinstrasse.
The buildings there are full of the Soviets, plundering. What they can’t carry off with them, they destroy. They don’t pay any attention to us, too busy searching the apartments and chasing women whose screams come from everywhere, from apartments and broken up shops. Suddenly, we’re stopped by a slant-eyed tank-man, his arms covered up to the elbows in watches, his fingers heavy with golden bands and rings. He’s waving his pistol around, pointing at my uniform jacket: “Ha, ha, SS! Skolko ty Panzerfist?” They’re still obsessed with the Panzerfausts and he fires off a shot right next to my ear. “Ja, SS, pow pow!” And he shoots again, next to my other ear. We’re so sure he’s gonna kill us, we don't even react, me and my new friend. In that moment, it’d be easy to die, to top off our defeat in this war. During battle, even though we had no hope for success, there wasn’t any time to think and reminisce. You have to go through something like that yourself to understand what it’s like to fight when all is lost, when it seems like you’re fighting alone against the entire world. When the battle ends, there’s only emptiness void of hope or will. It passes after a few days. We sit down on a free bed. Even here, among the wounded, there are men who think we’ll get rescued and freed, that it’s the Russians who are surrounded in Berlin! A Soviet officer with an escort comes in the evening to officially take a couple dozen wounded soldiers into custody: those that still live (some of the beds only have corpses in them). The officer only wants to take those that can stand on their own feet, me among them. We are escorted away to a nearby building, where they put us all into one small room, packed like sardines. It’s so crowded, I even manage to catch some shut-eye, while standing. There are many soldiers here, but also civilians, Schupos policemen, a director of a train station, a red hat on his head, a postman and, generally, anybody in any kind of uniform (no shortage of those in Germany!). The civilians are mostly NSDAP members who were already turned in. They chase us out at dawn! It’s April 29. They file us into a long column and march us south, guarded by a few ruffians armed with some museum-quality junk. Along the way, we see scenes of plunder and looting. We pass by unending columns of horse-carriages, trucks, and tanks. We see Mongols and Siberians, trying ride bicycles. We pass a beautiful American convertible, filled with Soviet officers, driving down the street on metal rims, no tires, screeching and sending sparks everywhere. There were also a lot of women in uniform. Two days later they transported me to Lichtenrade, to a children’s clinic turned into a military hospital. As I entered, all nearby bells started to ring. It was noon, May 3. All that was left of Berlin’s garrison, surrendered. The battle for Berlin was over.”
The Downfall
What was going on with Henri Fenet and his men during that time? The night of May 1-2 passed by rather calmly for them, if you could even use that word to describe the last moments of the capital’s defenders. They were still hiding in the Ministry of Security. By the end of the night, the Frenchmen went outside again to see what was going on. They sent out patrols that, beyond a doubt, confirmed that the last defensive positions were deserted on both sides. A little while later, another patrol brought alarming news that the front line was now by the Ministry for Aviation, on the corner of Wilhelmstrasse and Leipzigerstrasse, literally inches from the “French” lines. Fenet decided to go there, the last bastion of resistance in front of the Reich’s Chancellery. They managed to get there without much problem and meet with the Luftwaffe soldiers. Before the Frenchmen could take up positions, they saw, as if in a dream, oncoming cars flying white flags! In those cars, sitting side by side, they saw German and Soviet officers. What was going on? Then unarmed Russian officers showed up, offering cigarettes. A few of the Luftwaffe soldiers took them up on their friendly offer, and soon engaged in lively conversation with the now apparently former enemy. A Major of the Luftwaffe, leading the defense of the building, spotted Fenet and informed him of their plans to surrender. He added that the capitulation was already official, and that it was all over. Fenet could not believe it. It was impossible! Despite their enormous sacrifice and valor, they still had lost. He decided he had to see with his own eyes what the situation in the Chancellery was. He thought that if there was any chance to defend even the smallest section of the ground, they had to do it. Besides, staying in the Ministry for Aviation was foolhardy, and as good as letting themselves be captured. And so they took their guns, ammunition, and their Panzerfausts, and they left the buildings, ignoring yells from the Russians to put their weapons on the ground.
The city was eerily quiet. Civilians and unarmed soldiers milled about on the streets. To avoid patrols, the Frenchmen hid in the ruins. Pierre Rostaing was walking last. Deep in his thoughts, he didn’t hear nor see the Russian following close behind him, who finally yelled to drop his weapons and to put his arms up. The Frenchman didn’t respond; only ran towards his friends. The whole incident ended without a shot being fired. Rostaing joined Fenet and the rest later, as they marched through the ruined silent city. They entered the tunnels through the air vents, where they had the best chance to reach the Chancellery unseen. Along the way, they passed by the Stadtmitte station, Gustav Krukenberg’s former command post. Not a single soul there. They moved on towards Kaiserhof station, in front of the Chancellery. When they got there, they saw a ladder leading up to the air vent and out to the surface. Pushing through the pain of his leg, which wasn’t yet healed, Fenet started climbing up. He expected to hear sounds of battle, but the only noise coming from the surface was the sound of cars driving above. This gave him pause. What was going on up there? A few rungs more. Finally, he could see what was happening, and he could not believe it. Russian soldiers, tanks and other vehicles were everywhere. The Chancellery was in ruins, her facade riddled with artillery missiles and other, smaller caliber bullets. Not a German soldier in sight. It really was all over. He discovered and saw an entirely new world, so much different from what they’ve just been through and which, seemingly, was already slipping into oblivion. He went back down without a word. His men were eager to hear what he had to say. Fenet told them the Russians were everywhere, and the Fuhrer was sure to be dead. They all hung their heads. Some despaired. Without the slightest noise, the Frenchmen went to the Potsdamer Platz station. With much difficulty, they passed through caved-in tunnels, making their way with bayonets or even bare hands. But they moved onwards. On Potsdamer Platz another unpleasant surprise awaited them. The scouts reported the tunnel was ending and leading up to the surface! Day was in full, and in the light it was impossible to go forward and remain unnoticed. They decided to divide into smaller groups and disappear. They went back to the tunnel to wait for nightfall. One of the tunnels ran under an archway of a bridge. It was collapsed, and the rubble and various object provided excellent cover. A few of the older men from the Volkssturm who were nearby decided to hide there as well. Making too much noise, they attracted attention from an enemy patrol. They started yelling “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” which only provoked the Russians into a more careful search of the area. The French groups, one by one, were discovered. One of those groups comprised of, amongst others: Fenet, von Wallenrodt, Douroux, Georges, and Bicou. They hid behind a pile of wicker baskets. With their hearts in their throats, they saw the Reds take their comrades prisoner. The Russians continued their search. Hearts pounding, the Frenchmen held their breath, as the Ivans passed by. On several occasions, one enemy would come close to the baskets, but not search them. Ten meters away, their friend, Fink, was taken by the Soviets, screaming: “Surrender like National Socialists!”
From his hiding place, Fenet observed the situation. He saw a Russian officer count the captives. He looked at his watch. Only an hour had passed! When will this night come! After a while, the sounds of steps moved away, and then came back again, accompanied by voices in conversation. There were more the Russians now, and they were coming back! This time they were checking everything even more carefully, and yet they missed the Frenchmen, huddled next to one another like quarry, twice! They still believed they could elude capture. The end came suddenly, however.
With the butts of their guns and their boots, the Russians broke through the wicker baskets and jumped the surviving SS-men. They took them at gunpoint, first freed them of their watches, and then their weapons. It was May 2, 1945, after 1500h. Pierre Rostaing, who was with another group, thus describes the moments before capture: “The Russians attacked the metro. We pushed through the darkness of the tunnels, firing left and right. Only screams of pain let us know if we hit anybody or not. Finally, we got out onto the surface, heaving, at the end of our ropes. The small metro station appeared before us, just 200 m ahead. No sign of life. The platform was covered with huge baskets, easily fitting a man. We spent the night there. The stillness and quiet moved us to reflection. All my life passes before my eyes, as if on a movie screen. I see my engagement, my wife and my daughter who remained in Grenoble and left me, unable to understand the purpose I set my life to. I think of my father who died when I was in Russia and, because of that, the funeral I couldn’t attend. My poor mother who had died long before all of this. Now I am alone, except for my sister and two brothers, who’d probably forgotten me already. I could die right here but it’s stronger than me, this incredible will to live, just like the other sixteen survivors of “Charlemagne”, who are here with me. The small station slips into the night. We took apart our weapons and scattered the pieces. They tore off the SS badges from our collars, leaving only our rank insignia, knowing what was to happen to us. We fell asleep. Suddenly, we’re awoken by a voice: “Give up or we’ll blow the station!” We didn’t respond. The voice repeated the order in French. We look at one another. What was to do? We no longer had any weapons. This time the battle for Berlin ended for us for real. We were only left with the satisfaction that we did fight until the end. It is May 2, 1945, around midnight. The prisoners were led outside. Truckloads of singing Russians playing accordions keep driving through Potsdamer Platz. The majority of the fresh victors are completely drunk. One Russians, passing by, yelled “Hitler kaput!” Von Wallenrodt, a bitter smile on his face, replied, “Ja, Hitler kaput.” Another Ivan described in lavish details the charms of Siberia waiting for them. Other Russians would shoot imaginary guns at them, screaming: “SS...Pow! Pow! Kaput!” Noticing Fenet’s limp, another Russian told his comrade off for just injuring his foot and not blowing the Frenchman's head off. “The dance of the scalp is on.”
The guards gathered up the prisoners to march them onwards. Albert Brunet marched next to Henri Fenet. A drunk Popoff grabbed his armed and tried to drag him towards one of the building but a guard quickly realized what was going on, and got Brunet back to the column. He said to Fenet: “I’d have very slim chance for escape.” The drunken Russian wasn’t about to let him off, though. He wanted revenge. He screamed: “SS, SS!” and fired at Albert Brunet at close range. The Frenchman fell to the ground at Fenet’s feet with a hole in his head. Was that the fate of them all? The guards quickly moved the column forward. They passed by the Reich’s Chancellery, their last bastion and last hope, which was now being looted by the Red Army. Hundreds of tanks with red flags paraded from the Tiergarten to the Brandenburg Gate, their misshaped forms rising defiantly to the grey sky. The prisoners passed by the Chancellery, crossed Wilhelmstrasse, and went through the Brandenburg Gate, opened to the West, and crowned by a partially broken statue of the goddess of victory, a symbol of the old world. Let us now quote a longer excerpt of Pierre Rostaing’s memoirs, as he so vividly depicts the tragedy of those first moments after capture: “We move forward, our hands up in the air, towards a group of Red Army soldiers who surrounded us. They were Mongols. Without any questions, they took away our watches and put them on. I saw that some of them had ten of those on each hand. Then they regrouped us on a square nearby, hitting our backs with sticks. I’m so tired, their brutality doesn’t even phase me.
There they searched us more thoroughly. They took everything we had in our pockets: papers, pictures, money, jewelry. Constantly, we could hear only one question: “You SS? Destroy tanks? You SS? Destroy tanks?” We didn’t respond. Luckily, we got rid of our insignia earlier, leaving only the epaulettes. One of us, however, forgot to remove the two tiny silver tanks, symbolizing the T-34s he had destroyed. A Mongolian officer saw it, and flew into a rage. He yelled, waved his arms around, striking with his fists and feet. Then, without observing any kind of protocol, just took out his gun and shot our friend in the head. The man was the last to fall in the battle for Berlin. There were only sixteen of us left! Was that impromptu execution not a war crime? I ask this of those who believed themselves to be judges in 1945. Back then, though, I did not ask that question. I thought that’d be all our fate. The Russians had an odd way of treating prisoners of war! Standing in a row by a wall, the Mongols aiming their machine guns at our heads, we were sure it was our last hour. Me, who had spent 15 years in the colonies, three years in the German Army, escaping all the traps unharmed, I was furious I would have to die defenseless. I was oddly calm, though. I’ve already said goodbye to my life. On my right, an 18 year old guy, Kapar, was crying. He had shown extraordinary courage in battle, but this time he lost control. I was able to muster up enough strength to comfort him: “Don’t cry, now, you’ll see. You won’t even notice. It’s gonna be quick.” Fenet was no longer with us. Because he was an officer, they took him away right after we surrendered. There’s 15 of us, and with our hearts in our throats, we wait for death. Suddenly a completely drunken Russian officer appeared. He was holding a bottle in his arms, walking in a zigzag. Finally, he stopped mere 5 m from me and asked in Russian: “What’s this?” Luckily, I knew the language so I was able to respond, “We’re Frenchmen.” This started an odd dialogue. “So what are you doing dressed up like this?” - “Germans got us and forced us into the army.” - “That true?” – “Nothing could be more true.” I must have been convincing because he ordered the Mongolians to put their guns down and sent them away. He said to me, “Tell your men to line up and follow me.” We approached a prisoner convoy nearby. It was headed up by a truck, carrying speakers, playing marching songs. We hung our heads and followed the car. Such a weird guide we had!
In this company we arrived at the huge Tempelhof airport. There were already numerous German POWs there, prisoners of all nations, workers, and civilians. So many people under the Red Army’s rule. We remained there for almost an hour, while they counted us. I supposed Russians liked doing that. After that, we were on our way again, escorted by soldiers with rough faces. We passed Berlin. Civilians stood on the sidewalks, trying to spot their brothers, husbands, or friends. Tears trickled down their cheeks, as they repeated their mantra: “Poor boys. Poor boys.” When night came, we set up camp in the eastern part of the capital, on a factory square, near a small river. It was cold. We didn’t have food or blankets. The Russians seemed disinterested in our fate. We couldn’t sleep. The thickening fog went deep into our bones. Sitting on a pile of rocks, patting my back to warm myself up, I shivered until dawn, unable to form a coherent thought. We moved out again. The wounded and stragglers were mercilessly killed by the guards; bullets put into their heads. The way was strewn with the wreckage of T-34 tanks; chopped up pine trees still showed bullet holes; signs along the roads told the story of Russian victories. Early in the afternoon, a Rollbahn official came, unnoticed at first until the Russians mistook him for an SS general, because of the helmet with green rim, and they mowed him down with machine guns. Before that, however, the man got lynched by a mob of brutal communist thugs. Even at the worst moments of our Russian campaign, I never saw such cruel hate among our LVF as the one shown by the Red Army. You could say that, later on, some would ignorantly say that it was civilization’s victory over barbarity! Years later, Krukenberg thus summed up the French Volunteers of the Waffen SS and their actions in the Battle for Berlin: “Without the Frenchmen, the Russians would’ve taken Berlin eight days earlier!” Certainly. They are credited with the destruction of 50-60 enemy tanks!
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