(With 7th Company, Regiment Nordland)
(As recounted by Erling Larsen)
I served in 1st Battalion, 7th Company, Regiment Nordland, and travelled to Germany together with Dagfinn Henriksen, who was assigned to 5th Company. My route was: Heuberg — the German–Russian border at Lemberg — Rostov — 7 km further north — back to the Mius, where I was wounded in December 1941 — Ostenskaya hospital — Iduvànskaya — Lemberg hospital — Klagenfurt convalescent home and transfer to Regiment Westland, 2nd Company. Demobilised June 1942 in Berlin.
Decorations: Iron Cross 2nd Class, wound badge, assault badge (minimum 3 assaults required), Eastern Front medal, War Merit Cross.
Shortly before reaching the Lemberg sector, the men had been issued Russian phrase-books. It had been said that we were to march through Russia — that Russia had given free passage for this transit — and that we might thereby establish contact with the Africa Corps. The Russians were peaceably disposed, one had been told. The war came as a surprise to us all.
On the 21st of June, 1941, I was doing extra guard duty — punishment guard, since my watch commander had had a birthday and we had drunk and celebrated somewhat longer than was prudent, earning me a week's extra guard. I stood watch alone.
Then suddenly in the night came a great many aeroplanes, and from far away came rumble upon rumble of bombs and guns — a distant, rolling thunder. This was at about five in the morning, still dark.
Only the following day were we told: During the night, German troops had crossed the border, and we are to follow. The company commander read out an order and hung up a map of Europe. He pointed — a long sweeping arc: "This is Russia and this small thing here is Germany. It may look rather unpromising; it may be a trifle sobering that we, this small patch, are to conquer all that great Russia — but we shall manage it." One received this assurance with somewhat divided feelings.
The entry into Lemberg was rather like King Haakon VII's return to Oslo in 1945. Wild jubilation amongst the population of Lemberg; swastika flags everywhere; people running forward throwing flowers, cigarettes sailing through the air.
Our first contact with the enemy came south-east of Lemberg, where the company commander and 7 men fell.
We came down a slope where 15 cm artillery stood, moved on down a valley through some large cornfields. In the valley below was a small village, and on the height opposite one could see the Russians with quantities of vehicles and tanks. We found some positions. One of the comrades, Mathias Olsen, said: "Can you see the Russians?" Behind us was a battery of four guns, 20 to 30 metres away. Just as Mathias said those words, the first shot went off. I had turned my head towards him and received the concussion full in the cheek and sat down hard. Then we saw the shells land. We could plainly see our artillery making havoc on the far side — the Russians running about in complete confusion, vehicles bouncing in every direction from the shell bursts. The Russians had no time to return fire; only one shell fell, far back in our lines.
We drove on down the road; some snipers fired on us. We were in and out of several houses; some dead were left behind us.
The lorries arrived: Aufsitzen! And so further down the valley.
Our platoon went off to the right; the company commander went a different way, over fairly strongly fortified positions that had to be stormed. A Russian shot the company commander from behind; some Finns fell — the very first of our dead.
On our side we were engaged in clearing out snipers. Terlecher and I spotted one up in a tree. A machine-gun burst went up, and he fired no more.
A Wehrmacht soldier directed us up to our positions by a village. We drove forward and took over the positions from Wehrmacht, who had finished building them.
Rain and mud. We did not see the Russians. They lay in a cornfield and fired on us in the half-light. A kilometre ahead was a village. We lay on a knoll and had no clear view of the hollow below, when we heard the clanking of advancing tanks and the shout: Panzer vorne!
We then saw tanks of various kinds rolling forward — a couple extra-large ones, some with more than one turret. One turret was shot off, but the tank drove on. Six or seven of them passed us. We had nothing in the way of anti-tank guns. The nearest tank was 50 metres away. I loaded armour-piercing rounds and fired — without effect. Our 3.5 cm Pak was equally useless. We tried with a mortar; the bomb landed near the brute — nothing more. The tank just drove on past us, far to the rear. It looked rather melancholy.
To our right they shouted that Pak was coming, and a couple drove up. Two shots from the tanks and both our Paks were instantly out of action.
One tank, on its way back, went for us — it had noticed us on that knoll. One of the gun turrets swung towards us. It flashed; the shot carried away the leg of our machine gun. It looked rather wretched — it was exactly as if the end had come.
But suddenly we heard: "Hurra!" We looked back. There came German tanks rolling forward, and the Russians swung away and withdrew. A roar of jubilation ran along our whole line.
During all this I smoked cigarettes by the packet. It might be the end, and these cigarettes at least should not fall to the Russians.
On the night of 20–21 July, 1941, we were pulled out of the positions and relieved by Wehrmacht, and sent directly towards Kiev. Near Smela there was fairly hard fighting with two assaults for 7th Company. The divisional commander with his entire staff drove past us and was surrounded. We were ordered to attack a height near Smela — 1st and 2nd Platoon of Companies 7 and 11 were committed.
The Russians lay in a copse behind the height, shaped like a horseshoe around it. Before the copse was a dip, a hollow. From the height the Russians used artillery and mortars, and it was for us to run forward at full speed, one by one, and then begin the ascent while the Russians fired at us with everything they had. The mortar shells were particularly unpleasant, whining and whistling about our ears as we worked our way through the cornfield.
We fought our way right up, after a frightful struggle — but still had one last step into the copse. We lay in the bottom of the horseshoe, digging in, while the Russians closed the noose from both sides.
Then it became pitch dark, and we used the darkness to shoot our way out and return to the original height. A patrol next morning found the copse empty.
While we lay on security duty along the Dnieper with a bridge in front of us, we came under fire from the far bank. Here a Finnish officer fell.
The bridge was difficult to cross, but we tried to suppress the fire from houses and gardens on the far bank so we could sprint over. While we lay there and fired, a lunatic came on a motorcycle and drove straight across, onto open ground, while we gave him the best cover we could. A young German soldier, Meier, was ordered to run after him, and refused. So front fighter Svendsen from Tønsberg ran across.
That motorcyclist was the most cold-blooded individual I have ever encountered.
I recall that as we approached the Dnieper, I one day joined a patrol towards the river. Ten men in a lorry; we drove to a small village where some Russian civilians were digging shelter trenches for themselves, since the war had now come their way too. Suddenly the Russians opened up with artillery, and we drove off to a larger village, stopping outside a shop. We went in and carried out what we thought we could use. When we had finished, the Russian civilian population streamed into the shop and helped themselves — a small boy made off carrying the cashbox.
When we had lain in the first village, we were ordered to go forward and locate the Russian artillery positions. We went up a road lined with tall poplar trees. Some 200–300 metres ahead we saw a Russian soldier waving at us. Through binoculars we saw he was holding a rifle, and formed the impression he wished to surrender. We therefore went right up to where he stood — a road junction just in front of a village. But the Russians had dug trenches at the junction, and when we came to where the Russian stood, he jumped down into the trench — which was full of Russians. We assumed they wanted to surrender; naturally it would be rather agreeable to return with a battalion of prisoners. Our section commander therefore climbed up onto the trench parapet, produced a German–Russian phrase-book and tried to make the Russians understand that they should give themselves up — now consulting the book, now addressing the Russians in the trench.
Then it became apparent that the Russians thought we had come to surrender; when they realised their mistake, one of them lobbed a grenade. We flung ourselves down and found cover in the trench; then lay and tossed grenades down into it. The Russians ducked in the trench, and we used that to get away. We ran like blazes and escaped with only 3–4 wounded. There were a great many Russians.
Afterwards we drove for a long time without seeing any more Russians and passed the night in a village.
"Henriksen. Do you remember where there was a bridge through a village — a bridge that had been blown?"
HENRIKSEN: "Yes, I came to it from the transport column, where I had been left as a wounded man."
LARSEN: We reached it one afternoon. From a height we could look down into a valley with a village in it. A patrol had been driven down there earlier in the day and been taken by the Russians. When we later came to the lorry, we found that the Russians had tortured the crew to death: they had put out their eyes, cut off their ears and noses. It was a ghastly sight.
It was decided to attack the village the next day, since it was thought to contain Cossacks.
During the night we lay up on the height. In the morning, when it grew light, our artillery opened up. We had a fine view and saw that the valley on the far side was full of cavalry. I lay beside the artillery observer and heard him calling targets and observing falls, and watched the horses galloping in all directions under the fire. The Russians had no time to reply — only one shell fell, far back in our lines.
We then attacked, but were heavily fired on from across the river. The river was shallow and could be partially waded; we took the village. A great many squadrons were put to flight, and 7th Company's contribution was, by God, mentioned in a special communiqué — so we must have done well enough.
Then came the action I was not part of — the breakthrough — because I had gone down with jaundice in the village.
Once when I took part in a breakthrough, my lorry broke down in the night behind the Russian lines. We stood for several hours, as repair was impossible in the dark. In the morning we got the lorry going again and drove on until we came to a hollow where a Luftwaffe lorry was standing. Its crew dared not drive on, as the nearest height was under Russian bombardment. We pushed on regardless, crossed the height without being hit, and found the road clear ahead.
Then six Ratas appeared and we drove our lorry into a large haycock. The aircraft did not see us, but found the Luftwaffe lorry and bombed it.
When the aircraft were gone, we drove on to a crossroads where two Russian lorries came from the right. In a field was a great mass of cavalry behaving in complete confusion. We fired on both the lorries and the horsemen; the Russian drivers jumped out and fled; the horsemen galloped off down the road we were to take. We went after them and chased them along in front of us until they ran into a village held by our people.
HENRIKSEN: We had in the company 16 Finns who were out on patrol and who were fortunate enough to receive the cavalrymen as they came galloping in — a couple of hundred of them. The Finns let the riders come quite close before they fired. Only five Russians escaped. The Finns then went forward and stripped the fallen of cigarettes and so on. They took no prisoners — Finns generally did not.
LARSEN continues: On the 17th we were out with a patrol well ahead, but not quite to the railway line. We saw some Russians here and there; they evidently thought us many, as we advanced in broad formation.
We saw some horses rear up; when we went towards the Russians they ran. A little firing; we took 6–8 prisoners. A couple of Russians lay where they fell as we went on.
Then we came to the stream Henriksen speaks of and secured a few more Russians there. While we stood talking to them, the Russians seemed rather pleased with themselves. So I looked about, from the stream bed up towards the height — and saw, God help us, Russians swarming in their thousands. We ran for all we were worth, the prisoners too — we took them with us.
Then began the worst week of my life.
It was 35 degrees of frost with a wind. My section had been sent as a patrol to a village, and I stood with Kalischefski at the edge of the village. It was dark. We heard something approaching.
Kalischefski: "Do you hear the Russians?"
I: "Yes."
Kalischefski: "I'm going back to report."
I heard the Russians, but then suddenly a shot — for as Kalischefski ran back to report, he had thrown a grenade over the roof of the house we were standing by, to frighten the Russians, and this grenade fell right in front of me.
So I roared: "Ruki verkh!" (Hands up!)
The Russians called: "Nicht schiessen!" And came forward with their hands up. Kalischefski now returned and we escorted all our prisoners back to the command post.
HENRIKSEN: Our artillery had only 120 shells, but used them well. They fired shot after shot into the midst of the Russians and we watched Russian caps, arms, and legs flying in every direction. The artillery observer up on the height was hit in the head, and the artillery had to manage without him from that point.
LARSEN continues: Kalischefski and I lay together on the height. The Russians fired so heavily we did not dare raise our heads. But we found a box which we stuck up, and it was immediately shot out of our hands.
We lay and talked and smoked. Then it went completely quiet in front of us. Kalischefski peered up and his jaw dropped: Die Russen kommen!
And there they were. In their thousands — but no firing.
And we ran. The nearest Russian was not a hundred metres away. Our unit had fallen back and forgotten to warn us.
I can tell you our hearts were in our mouths.
We did not know which way to run. Shells burst around us everywhere. And those great greatcoats we had on hampered us terribly. Kalischefski tried to shed his greatcoat but could not manage it, as he had buckled his belt over it — and there was no time for undressing.
Our section commander was Terlecher. One day he came to us with this order: "I have received orders from the regimental commander to hold this height to the last man."
Whereupon Kalischefski remarked: "As we're done for in any case, I should like at least to be comfortable in my last hour." And distributed all the ammunition from the case he had been carrying.
From the height we had a fine view, and far off we could see something like a fog advancing. It was Russian tanks, cavalry, everything — coming closer and closer.
And we were 12 men with 2 machine guns.
We also had on the hill two artillery observers, but they were so nervous that their hands were shaking, so the section commander sent them back.
When the Russians came within range, we blazed away for all we were worth, and the Russians returned fire. And so we lay and shot.
Then the Russian shells began to come in, and immediately after we had no more ammunition.
We had managed to hold the Russians for a time, and they had begun bringing up artillery. Then the section commander said: "We can't exactly receive them with the bayonet. We're going." And we fell back to the others, who had actually found time to dig positions. We lay there and held the Russians all day.
The next day a new attack came, which actually rolled up the entire line. Then suddenly we were alone. We lay behind a haycock while Russian tanks fired and fired.
Then from behind came a German lorry. We waved to get it out of the way. But it came right up to us. It was the regimental commander, calling: "Hold on! Half an hour more! We're getting German tanks!" We held. And 37 German tanks came and broke the attack on a broad front. We held the position until midnight, then fell back to the Mius. There the Russians halted. At the Mius were depots, food, and ammunition — which was what made it possible to hold that line.
On one occasion — it was Christmas Eve, 1941 — the Russians attacked the Italian sector, killed four hundred, and dug themselves in. But an SS battalion was put in one morning and drove them out again.
One night we stood by a house with a sentry on the loft. The roof had been shot to pieces, giving a good view towards the Russian side. Suddenly we heard a fall up on the loft and understood that the sentry had been hit. A man was sent up as relief — but before he was properly up, he shouted: Die Russen kommen!
Up with the machine guns — and there were Russians coming from behind, into the farmyard. But a haycock had been set ablaze and gave a fair light, and we saw a pile of Russians going down. On the whole open ground to my left, Russians were falling and crying out. One of those lying on the ground threw a grenade at us, and I saw him fumbling in his pocket with his hand — I thought: the devil, there'll be another one. But what he took out was not a grenade but a razor — with which he cut his own throat.
Then the Russians ran — into the minefield. There were explosions in the burning haycock, and later we found two dead Russians in it with grenades.
It was a dreadful muddle.
Terlecher then said: "We must clear the house." We went and tossed grenades in, which frightened out a couple of wounded Russians who came crawling.
Dreadful muddle — dead people everywhere. But not one of our section was wounded. Terlecher commanded coolly and steadily — directed and sorted things out. I estimate there were roughly fifty Russians in the attack.