THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Saturday, May 6, 1995 TAG: 9505050074
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY G.H. BIDERMANN, as told to Derek Zumbro
LENGTH: Long : 184 lines
The brutal Nazi war machine that had swept so swiftly across Europe was reduced to isolated pockets of resistance by spring 1945. On May 8, as Americans celebrated the final surrender, a German officer awoke as a soldier on the Eastern Front and ended the day a prisoner of the conquering Allies. Here is his story.
OUR DIVISION marched into Russia in 1941 with the profound belief that we were embarking upon a great crusade. We had been taught from youth that it was our responsibility to rid the world of bolshevism, and in our naivete, we had marched purposefully toward the East.
Four years later, the remnants of this division, reduced by casualties to skeletal strength, sparsely clad in ragged uniforms and surviving on carefully rationed horse meat, surrendered to the Soviet Army.
In the early morning hours of May 8, I climbed from the earthworks of the 4th Heavy Machine-gun Company in the Courland region of Latvia on the Baltic Sea and blinked in the bright sunlight of an early spring day.
In sparse patches where the earth was not torn by battle, nature began to show new growth - bright green sprouts shooting from the dark soil. Even the saplings and bushes, torn by shrapnel and shell splinters, revealed tiny buds breaking forth as if to display that despite the insanity mankind had wrought upon itself, life would continue.
I was startled back to reality by the impact of several mortar rounds nearby.
The company still possessed six heavy machine guns, four 80mm mortars and two heavy 127mm mortars. I received permission to expend a limited amount of small-arms ammunition, so I directed a machine-gun position to open fire upon the Russian line situated in a wood line from where we were receiving harassing fire. The Russians replied with an artillery barrage, and our artillery batteries answered in turn.
At 9 a.m., a formation of Russian fighter-bombers - bearing the now-familiar five-pointed red star, flew over our battalion, releasing loads from the plump silver fuselages. Their bombs exploded without causing any damage. Then the forward observers reported strong enemy troop movements in the area opposite us.
The communicators reported to me that our land lines with the battalion had been temporarily cut by the shelling, and we prepared for another assault on our positions.
At exactly noon, without warning, we received the shocking radio message from the regimental headquarters:
``At 1400 (2 p.m.), the Courland Army will capitulate. White flags are to be displayed along the front lines. All personnel will remain with their weapons in their positions. All weapons are to be unloaded, magazines removed and barrels cleared. Officers are to continue to command their units.''
At 1 p.m., I heard for the last time over the field telephone the voice of Capt. von Daimling, the regimental adjutant. He sharply instructed me not to do anything irrational, to stop the shooting immediately and to share responsibility in ensuring the capitulation order.
I made rounds throughout our position, speaking to the men of the unknown fate that lay before us, and attempted to calm their nerves. We no longer feared the prospect of death, for we had lived and dealt intimately with death for years. The fear that possessed us was the fear of the unknown, of not knowing what was to become of us and - more importantly - to our families in Germany.
We had long been aware of what had happened at Katyn in Poland, where the Russians had liquidated thousands of Polish officers, and we had no reason not to expect a similar fate. The philosophy of fighting to the death had become so ingrained within us during the past years that to surrender, as we were now being ordered to do, was inconceivable.
The silence that had fallen upon the front was broken by the report of a pistol shot a short distance away. Upon investigating, I discovered that one of our officers, upon hearing of the capitulation order, had pulled his P-08 Luger pistol from the holster, laid it upon his map case, and upon his note pad had written the words, ``Without defense there is no honor.''
He had then pressed the muzzle of his pistol against his temple and squeezed the trigger.
At 2 p.m. our position was marked with ragged shirts, socks, and bandages stuck on the ends of rifle barrels. With this sign of surrender a khaki-brown wave surged forth from the forest's edge opposite us.
The Russians swarmed into our positions, their new uniforms and well-fed bodies a striking contrast to our ragged appearance - thin from malnourishment and bleached pale from months of living beneath the earth in bunkers.
The Soviets ignored the weapons and equipment and ran among the soldiers still standing in their positions, ripping decorations and insignia from uniforms and tearing watches and rings from the upraised arms. I was still wearing my camouflage battle smock over my tunic and was thus spared this plundering.
I immediately ordered all personnel to assemble at the company command post and stationed a soldier about every 10 meters along a perimeter with an assault rifle, the bolt to the rear and without a magazine in the weapon. With this action, the Russians ceased their plundering and filtered elsewhere in search of loot.
At about 2:30 p.m., a communicator brought me a decoded message from the regiment that read, ``The Russians have possession of the neighboring bunker and are now approaching our position. We are preparing to destroy all communications equipment. This is the final transmission.''
We received no further reports from the regiment, the last order having been to remain in our positions.
At about 3 p.m., a pony cart appeared before our bunkers, and it drew to a halt at our command post. Alone on the cart was a squat Soviet major with oriental features and a pock-marked complexion, and he sprang to the ground and approached my position on bowed legs, medals hanging from ribbons on his tunic.
We greeted one another with a traditional military salute, his coal-black eyes darting furtively over our surroundings.
From a former container for hand grenade fuses he pulled a strip of paper from a section of the ``Pravda'' and a pinch of Machorka tobacco and offered me a cigarette. I politely refused and extended to him a German brand, which he accepted with a nod. I then called for Lehmann, one of our soldiers who spoke fluent Russian, to serve as a translator, and as he translated the words of the major, it was made clear that we were to march across the lines to the Soviet positions.
He added that officers would retain their sidearms for maintaining discipline. I explained that I could not comply, as my last orders were to remain in position and no other orders had been received. He nodded thoughtfully, climbed back upon the pony cart and returned to his lines.
About 30 minutes later, he reappeared, and again through the translator ordered me to march the men across the lines. I repeated that no orders from our regiment had been received, and with this he pulled his pistol from the holster at his side.
He said if I refused, he would shoot me and the men would follow him.
To this I could only reply, ``Da, da.'' I gave the order to form into a column and marched the company forward.
We marched several kilometers along the road through the forest in the direction of Preekuln, and we were amazed at the overwhelming numbers the Russians had held opposite us. The forest was filled with T-34 tanks, the supply units crowded with Studebaker trucks parked bumper to bumper.
We soon came upon a small opening where a Russian colonel had assembled his staff. In a half circle stood the staff officers, among them a number of women wearing immaculate tight-fitting uniforms, their eyes wide in amazement as they viewed us from under fur caps. The unfamiliar and long-forgotten smell of perfume wafted toward us. The column was brought to a halt and I strode forward to formally surrender the 1st Company, 438th Battalion to the enemy.
The colonel greeted me with a salute followed by a handshake, something I had not expected.
He asked repeatedly, `` `Patschevu?' Why did you continue to fight? Hitler is long dead.'' I replied, simply, ``Because we are soldiers.''
I was escorted a short distance from the column and invited to eat at a table piled high with food. I was amazed to see condiments of every description, including cases of canned goods bearing the label, ``Oscar Mayer - Chicago.''
I politely refused the invitation, explaining that a German officer cannot eat unless the men are fed as well. The colonel appeared surprised, and I was unceremoniously escorted back to the waiting column of prisoners.
We were assigned a mounted Cossack as a guard, and he raced without a saddle along the length of the column at breakneck speed.
Shortly after departing the clearing, we were again descended upon by a swarm of Russians who poured from the forest, falling upon the column to tear wedding rings, watches and military decorations from the prisoners.
I motioned for the Cossack, who galloped up to me and brought his mount to a sharp halt. I then removed my watch and offered it to him, explaining that he had been given responsibility to maintain order. He nodded grimly and, springing to the ground, selected a stout stick from the forest's edge and leaped back upon the horse.
He galloped headlong into the ranks of plundering Russians. Wielding the stick like a saber, he swung wildly at the mob, viciously striking them upon their hands, arms and backs until they retreated into the protection of the forest.
As the sun was setting behind us, we were marched to a prisoner collection point in an old cemetery. As darkness descended, the Russians began to celebrate their final victory. Wildly firing over our heads with machine pistols, they danced in the moonlight while we were forced to lie flat on the ground to avoid being struck as tracer bullets bounced and ricocheted among the tombstones.
After several hours, we again were ordered to form into a column. Between a gantlet of leaping, celebrating Russians lining the roadsides, we marched through the darkness toward the East, to a final end of a war and to an unknown destiny. MEMO: Derek Zumbro is a Navy special warfare officer in Norfolk. His
translations from German have been widely quoted in documentaries and
books on World War II. A friend of the Bidermann family, he spoke with
G.H. Bidermann earlier this year during a visit to Germany.
ILLUSTRATION: Photos
German Lt. G. H. Bidermann...1944
Bidermann..1943
Photo
Gottlob Bidermann is now a retired German businessman.
KEYWORDS: WORLD WAR II by CNB