John Stieber - Against the Odds - Survival on the Russian Front 1944-1945 [2nd Edition]

I had been watching these events in an absent-minded sort of a way when I suddenly became aware of Gerkens hissing and whistling at me from another part of the truck. When I turned my head to look at him, I saw a rather funny sight. Gerkens was down on his knees, crouching low, with his arms stretched out on each side, reminding me of an Oriental about to pray. The reason for his urgent hissing was obvious. Each of his hands was clutching one handlebar of a bicycle which the girls had left behind, and he was afraid somebody might claim them. Gerkens had been more quick-witted than I and thanks to him we now had our own transport. Getting to Karlsbad would be much easier and we also had the means to cover the long distance to Rotenburg. How lucky can you get? Yet again good fortune had smiled on me.

Every now and then I noticed another soldier disappear from a truck or from among the marching men, but, as nobody in charge made any attempt to stop them, it seemed unlikely that Gerkens and I would be prevented from leaving. I must pay a sincere tribute to the common sense of the officers and NCOs. To date, strict discipline had been maintained because it mattered, but now that soldiers felt they had a better chance of reaching safety on their own, those in charge turned a blind eye and ignored their orders. I did not have any guilty feelings that I myself would soon be leaving the truck, because my departure could only be of benefit to a soldier or civilian who could then get a ride in my place.

When dusk approached, our column came to a halt near the town of Altenberg, just a few miles short of the Czech border. We did not know if this was in order to stop for the night or whether we were about to be handed over to the Americans, so we decided there and then to make a break. The bicycles were in good condition; barring major difficulties we could easily get to Karlsbad before daybreak. No eyebrows were raised when we nodded good-bye and slipped off the truck with our bicycles. We also kept our rifles, because we might still have to defend our lives. Little more than an hour later we found ourselves on a direct road to Karlsbad. By now it was quite dark, but I saw from a road sign that we had only another 65 miles to go.

I don’t know which of us had, what turned out to be a hare-brained idea, but we decided to save time by getting a tow from passing vehicles. There was a lot of westbound traffic in the form of German army trucks and vans and it seemed to be too good an opportunity to miss. We agreed to pick vehicles which were unlikely to drive too fast for us and that any time we lost sight of each other we would let our tow go, so that we would maintain contact with each other.

All this was easier said than done. First of all, it was not easy to see far in the dark and then it took all one’s concentration not to come a cropper bouncing along the road at up to thirty miles an hour. Although we were on a main road, the surface had become broken up by military traffic and lack of maintenance. Holding onto a truck with one hand while trying to control my bicycle with the other hand, as the wheels hit stones and potholes, was a hopeless task. We relinquished our tow a few times when the speed became too fast for road conditions, but then we began to have accidents. One time I was sent sprawling on the road and another time I was catapulted into the ditch after hitting potholes. Gerkens had meanwhile fared no better and we decided to give up the madness before we suffered injury or wrecked our precious bicycles.

Looking back on our helter-skelter ride, I think it may have partially been the fear of partisans that made us ignore the other danger. Hanging onto a truck gave us some protection from snipers and ambushes; as lone riders we would have been very vulnerable. Fortunately, our bicycles had survived the crashes without suffering damage or a puncture, so we thanked our lucky stars for our escape and the extra miles we had gained. From now on, there would be no more tows. Near midnight we decided to stop for a break before cycling straight through to our destination.

After our rest we continued on, heading for the river Eger which flowed to Karlsbad. As we cycled beside the river I remembered the scenic beauty of the valley from bygone holidays, but in the darkness only a hint of this was evident. Luckily, our journey passed off without mishap. It was three o’clock in the morning when we arrived at Karlsbad, so I did not feel like bursting in on my aunt at that unearthly hour. Instead, we cycled to her home and settled down at the edge of some woods close by. I knew the area like the back of my hand, so I was confident that I would be able to deal with any problems that might arise. Remembering that Aunt Hella was an early riser, I thought six-thirty was a good time to sneak into the house. Although Dönitz was a German-speaking suburb, there was no point in advertising our presence unnecessarily. I could not ignore the risk that in the post-war atmosphere some Czech neighbours might try to get Aunt Hella into trouble.

My soft knock at the door drew a quick response when somebody looked at me through the spy-glass and then the door was flung open by Aunt Hella, quite beside herself with joy. Gerkens was made equally welcome and I quickly explained where we had come from and what our plans were. Being such a well organised housewife my aunt quickly prepared a hero’s breakfast for us while we removed the travel stains from our bodies. While we were eating, my aunt gave me all her latest news. To my delight she was able to confirm that my parents and Erika were all well and that Erika was still living at the same address in Werdau.

Aunt Hella was very disappointed when I told her that we could only stay for one day, at the most. However, she appreciated that it was not safe for us to be in Czechoslovakia and there was also the danger that advancing Russian soldiers might take over this part of the country. She herself had considered the question of leaving, but had decided to stay and I thought she was right under the circumstances. Our most urgent need was for civilian clothing, a map and food for the way. Being recently widowed, my aunt had plenty of men’s clothing to spare; Gerkens and I each picked what we needed, but there were no shoes that fitted us so we had to stick with our army boots.

While Gerkens and I lay down for a snooze, Aunt Hella went off to the local shops to chat with people and see if she could glean some useful information on the general situation in East-Bohemia and in Germany. I would never have asked her to do this for us and maybe draw unwelcome attention to herself, but she was just that sort of a helpful and unselfish person. The news she later gave us was that American troops were expected soon in Karlsbad, but nothing was known of the Russians. Gerkens and I decided it would be best not to delay and we should press on for Werdau in the currently confused situation. We would stay for just one night and then leave early in the morning wearing civilian clothes. We also decided to bundle up our military uniforms and take them with us; maybe we might need them again and we could still throw away the bundles if it became dangerous to keep them.

Our biggest problem was what to do with the rifles. The German border was over thirty kilometres north of Karlsbad which meant a two-hour cycle during which we could still come up against partisans. On balance, we decided against taking them, since they would only give us away, while being of little use if we ran into an ambush and were assumed to be ex-soldiers. It was far better to aim for a fast sprint to safety.

We spent the rest of the day chatting with my aunt – there was so much to reminisce about since we had always had such good times together. I was very sorry to be leaving the next day, but it was also important that we should not jeopardise Aunt Hella’s safety in any way by our presence. The preparations in the evening did not take long. Aunt Hella’s road map told us that it was only sixty-five miles to Werdau, which, barring problems, we would cover inside the day. We would first cycle through the Erz Mountains to the town of Johann-Georgenstadt, just across the German border. After checking out and oiling our bicycles we parcelled up our uniforms, some items of clothing and a small amount of provisions. The last chore was to bury our rifles in the woods after dark before settling down for a night’s sleep in the unaccustomed luxury of real beds.