It became dark early on this cloudy day. During the first night hours the Russians tried to get their tanks out again, setting about it with the aid of some searchlights. They made a row with the tank engines running at full speed. This went on openly for hours, and we were withdrawn before the situation with the tanks had changed.
We marched back to our quarters. We were pleased that the Russian attack on Kietz had failed. In the accommodation we were surprised to receive orders to return to the Weinbergshof immediately. Our ‘day off’ had come to nothing. After a short rest we wandered back grumbling to our old position.
We particularly liked our rest days, especially without alerts. The first of us would wake up after ten or twelve hours’ sleep. We looked for an opportunity to wash and for a lavatory in the unoccupied house. Freshly shaved, we ate breakfast together, the usual spirit having returned. We smoked and had a drink.
The few hours in the old house did us good. Recovered, we prepared unenthusiastically for dusk and the relief. We ate something quickly, checked our arms and ammunition and then at about 2130 hours we set off reluctantly back to the Weinbergshof.
We were told that in future we would have one day in the trenches and one day’s rest. But on our return to the trenches we realised there had been a worsening of the situation. The Russian mortar was firing frequently, the hits occurring here and there, bracketing the whole of the Weinbergshof. The mortar’s short barrages were malicious, as the sound of the shots was easily missed. One night I had a lucky escape. Fritz Wenzig, a Rhinelander with an irrepressible sense of humour, had been lightly wounded in the attack on the Cellulose Factory and returned to us from the field hospital. Every evening we would meet by chance at the north-western corner of the manor and would chat in a low voice, myself in the trench and he above on the edge of the trench. Suddenly we heard a mighty whistling. Instinctively we both made ourselves small as a mortar bomb exploded a few paces away. There was an almighty bang and I felt a blow on my shoulder. Fritz Wenzig had his hands to his face. A tiny splinter had penetrated his right cheek and bruised his tongue. I checked my shoulder, but nothing had happened to me. When I looked the next day I found that the thick wadding of my camouflage suit had stopped about fifty tiny iron pellets. But Fritz had to go back to the field hospital, returning to us a few days later. The new crease in his cheek made his cheeky grin even more boyish. We had both had enormous luck. The bomb had not exploded properly due to a fault in its manufacture.
The relief system did not last long. As the manning of the trenches had to be reinforced, we had to stay forwards for two nights and were only relieved on the third. We cursed the order but could do nothing about it. We knew well enough that our company was not up to a Russian attack.
The first night in the trenches passed mainly correctly and badly. With many checks I ensured that my men were alert, but already by the second night I had to check more often as fatigue was overcoming the comrades. They were often asleep on their feet. I went back again from man to man, prodding them to keep them awake.
Every third day we longed for the time of our relief. At last it became dark, the food carrier appeared and put the canister in our trench. We opened the lid, poked the contents and complained about them. We spooned down some soup but were too tired to eat properly.
Eventually the relief took place. We clapped our comrades on the shoulder, exchanged a few words, and gathered at the manager’s house. The route to Kietz was covered by most of us in a daze. Finally we climbed the steep wooden stairs to our night encampment, lay down and fell asleep.
Our rations were getting worse by the day. Smokers especially missed their usual cigarette rations. Instead there were cheap cigars that they did not like. So I kept creeping back to Bombardier Horn. As the last man in my section, he ‘lived’ at the outermost right-hand end of the defence sector in an ‘arbour’, having dug himself a fine hole immediately before the hedge and camouflaged it from the side and above with a tight entanglement of twigs. Horn smoked cigars and exchanged mine for a few cigarettes, of which he often had a small stock. We crouched for about a quarter of an hour in his airy arbour and had a chat. Apparently Horn had chosen a good site for not once had a mortar bomb come anywhere near it. He felt quite safe in his primitive ‘arbour’.
We thought that because of the distance involved the Russians would have problems with their supplies, and the flooded area around the Oder must also be a disadvantage for them. Then one day a Russian 76.2mm gun started firing at us. It was estimated to be about 2 or 3 kilometres away on the far side of the Oder. It was certainly not by chance that it seemed to hit the brick-built extension of the Weinbergshof barn with precision. The aim was just right. The Russian gunners had only to adjust their settings minimally to hit their targets.
The Russians now fired daily half a dozen rounds at us. The gun could not miss its target. The shells exploded within the yard without exception, coming dangerously near to our communications trench. This insidious, disruptive fire considerably reduced our freedom of movement, and we had to be particularly careful when the mortar joined in. The number of shots increased and the gaps between the firing diminished. Seldom did the gun keep quiet during the night, taking over from the tiresome mortar.
Our situation had clearly worsened. The constant sudden bombardments shattered our nerves. Every night we had to fight our fatigue and still got no rest during the day. We were defenceless against these weapons and could do nothing about them. There was no German artillery to support us and hardly any sign of the Luftwaffe.
I spent hours trying to improve my shelter hole. I scratched a narrow horizontal hollow towards the south in the sandy earth and strengthened the cover of my mouse-hole. Naturally this digging did nothing to improve my protection from enemy fire, but it made me feel a little safer.
Sunday, 18 February, was a day no different from the rest. The damned gun pestered us persistently. The buildings in the yard suffered further hits and the shell holes spread over the ground. In addition we were dead tired. The gun stopped firing at dusk and even the Russian machine guns were quiet. Lieutenant Kühnel then held an order group. He told us that the Weinbergshof would be secured against sudden attack by the Russians with barbed wire fences and mines. Upon leaving the manor, I saw a punishment unit carrying rolls of barbed wire and defensive mines. All the men were unarmed. They stood silently in the lee of the house waiting for their orders. A quarter of an hour later they shouldered their equipment and moved off in a southerly direction, the darkness absorbing them. We had orders not to fire until the minelayers returned, which was expected before midnight.
For a while we thought ourselves safe, at least until the men of the punishment unit had set up the barbed wire fences and laid their mines. We relaxed and dozed. But the work in no-man’s-land could not be accomplished in absolute silence. The rolls of wire clinked and clattered as they unrolled, and the holes for the mines could not be dug without making a noise. Apart from this, everything was being done in a hurry.
The Russians had noticed the noise coming from in front of our position and used it for a surprise attack. Perhaps both actions coincided. In any case the enemy went round the minelayers from the west and approached our position to within a few paces. They opened heavy fire abruptly with several sub-machine guns. I could see the orange flames. There was a hell of a din reinforced by the ‘Urräh!’ shouts of the attackers.