Contents
(WITH GERMANIA)
(ARNT TORP'S ACCOUNT)
On the 10th of March 1941 I reported together with a good many others at Sagene school, and the following day, the 11th of March, seventy-two of us travelled by train through Sweden and by ferry across to Denmark, then by train through Denmark via Flensburg into Germany.
We travelled up through the Rhine Valley, with a detour via Nancy to see the ruined Maginot Line, and on to Sennheim in Alsace.
At Sennheim we were issued with uniforms, and then training began — lasting some fourteen days. It was no idler's life; we were at it from four in the morning until eight or nine in the evening. Every other day there was punishment drill, which is why we were up at four. The unit consisted of a battalion of Dutchmen, some Danes, and ourselves — the Danes were fewer in number than us. The programme consisted chiefly in learning German words of command, though we also went on marches. We visited Hartmannsweilerkopf, which in the First World War cost a hundred thousand lives. Barbed wire from that time still lay about, but there was not a single tree remaining — only stumps — and much of the soil itself had been carried away, so that little remained but bare rock.
At Sennheim we did a considerable amount of athletics, and it emerged who was best: we Norwegians won the long jump, the relay, and the football. Nordby, from Tvedestrand, won the long jump. He fell in Russia.
From Sennheim we were sent to Graz, where the proper training began. It lasted about a month. This training was something quite different from what I had undergone in Norway with the Ranger Corps. The training at Graz was fantastically hard. Iron hard. Early up and late to bed. I believed at first that I would not manage the lunatic pace of service, but it went as everything does, and when I arrived in Russia — in actual war — I was glad to have been through that school.
Then we spent a fortnight at Heuberg. Here the regimental commander appeared. There was a great deal of polishing of the training, and on the vast parade ground the entire regiment was assembled. Wehrmacht units were also stationed there.
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(Some pages of Torp's account are missing. The narrative resumes with a description of the battalion's fighting between Tarnopol and Proskurov.)
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First Action
We moved forward through the fields. There was a slight depression in the ground, so that our advance could not be seen by the enemy. I felt no fear, but an intense trembling in the body told me it was not far away. It took some time to come within range, and as we went forward it began to rain — Russian-style — so that we were soaked through in an instant.
When we were seven or eight hundred metres from the Russians, the hollow ended; they saw us, and then it cracked. It was sinister.
We pressed forward until we were about two hundred and fifty metres from the Russian position, which lay on the far side of a small depression. We were ordered to set our sights at two hundred metres, and then we opened fire. We had to stand upright to shoot, as the grain was too tall for shooting prone, and we changed position constantly to make aiming harder for the Russians.
We could see the Russian positions clearly. They lay on a height directly facing us, with a small hollow between — marshy ground, with a large stream running straight through it.
As soon as the 4th Company was in position and had begun firing, we were to attack. The position was to be taken by storm.
As best I recall it was on a whistle signal that the attack started; there was great commotion in the grain, and we stormed forward under — quite literally — our own troops' bullets. It seemed an infernal din at the time (since then such things have become trifles). The eager barking of our own machine guns mingled with the drone of the considerably slower Russian ones.
Suddenly I hear a cry and see tall Munthe Kaas Pay clutch his arm and disappear into the corn. I did not become a great deal braver from that, but forward I had to go with my thirty kilograms of ammunition. When we came down into the open hollow, we were splendid targets, but we roared hurrah and stormed on.
At first it would not go. The bog began here, and now we sank into it. I sank in up over the top of my boots, and with fifteen kilograms of ammunition in each hand it was not easy — so I felt like a free man when I reached the stream. It was four or five metres wide and I was in up to my thighs, but that was neither here nor there. I was already soaked through, but what mattered more was that I waded faster through the stream than through the bog.
On the far side of the stream there was a slight rise up to the Russian position, but here was firm ground, so we came up quickly.
Bayonets had been ordered fixed, but we had no use for them. For when we reached the top, the Russians were in full flight towards a wood just behind their position. I saw only the enemy's back, and became instantly brave. I dropped the ammunition, swung my rifle off my shoulder, and fired.
A good many Russians had remained in the position, where they stood with their hands raised. We took about a hundred prisoners. Many of the fleeing Russians also fell, as they were engaged by Companies 2 and 3.
To the veterans, this attack was mere child's play, so they laughed at us newcomers.
We had to settle in these Russian positions. Soaking wet, with the rain still spattering down, we sat in the open trench with nothing but a groundsheet to protect us from the cold. Cold it was that night, even though it was the beginning of July. Despite the wretched bivouac, I fell asleep like a stone and slept the whole night — broken only by two hours' guard duty from midnight to two. In the morning I was stiff with cold, but as soon as the sun came out we undressed and laid our clothes on the ground to dry. While they dried, we bathed in the stream, ate, and thoroughly enjoyed the warm sun. Despite the bitter night, not one of us fell ill.
Our casualties were only a few light wounds. Munthe Kaas Pay, as mentioned, was shot through the arm. He was sent to hospital and from there discharged home; he afterwards travelled around Norway giving lectures about the war.
After this attack, we were constantly in contact with the enemy. We were at the tip of the advance the entire time and barely a day passed without shots being exchanged. Always on the move, we took one village after another. Everywhere, people were wildly enthusiastic when we came and did not know what to do for us. When we arrived, the churches would be cleared and a festive service held where people appeared, for the first time in many years, in national costume. What the peasants rejoiced in most was that they were to become free farmers. Food, however, was in poor supply.
Before long, I had become a trained frontline soldier. I came to regard it as almost a piece of work to be carried out, each time the order came for a fresh attack.
The Battle for Kiev
In the darkness of night we occupied the Artillery Height, some four kilometres from Kiev. We dug foxholes, and the work went easily, as we dug in ploughland and were not disturbed by any Russian attack. But for the four days that followed, shells rained down upon us, and we — sitting two by two in our holes — could not go out by day.
We fetched food for the section at night, and on the third night it fell to me and my comrade Marscher. The kitchen from which we collected the food lay in cover behind the hill, and while we were there the Russians opened an artillery bombardment.
When we returned, we gave the food to the section leader for distribution and then went to our hole. It no longer existed. A shell had destroyed it completely.
We thanked God, dug a new hole, and sat down to eat.
The following day there was a fresh artillery bombardment. A shell landed directly in front of our hole, and Marscher was deafened. He was sent to hospital and did not return.
Those days cost us seven killed and twelve wounded. From the other companies, two more Norwegians were sent to the rear.
We took part in the march into Kiev.
The Night Fight at Smela
We occupied the town, which had been evacuated, but the Russians were not far away. They had entrenched themselves just outside and continually troubled us with night attacks.
We lay in a villa on a height at the edge of the town, and had it not too badly — the villa had a garden full of fruit attached to it. Below the villa was a field of sunflowers taller than a grown man. At night we secured ourselves with a double sentry post.
Then one unusually dark night, a Russian patrol of nine men crept forward, surprised the sentry, and stabbed him.
Drescher happened to be out on an errand of nature, and on his way back he saw something moving right by our house. He crept up, saw it was Russians, drew his pistol, and fired. I woke at the shot and alerted the others. Section leader Hartvigsen sprang up like a jack-in-the-box and ran out with us at his heels.
Outside in the garden we had to conceal ourselves behind the trees until our eyes adjusted to the dark. We were not prepared for the Russians being so close and had not fixed our bayonets. But we did so now. The Russians were also uncertain what to do and hid themselves behind the house.
We crept forward from tree to tree, and on a signal opened fire. There was tremendous commotion — two of them fell, while the others charged at us with wild yells. It did not occur to me to run, as long as my comrades were fighting. I drove my bayonet into a soft mass, and then everything went dark.
When I came to, I was lying inside on the bed. Hartvigsen told me that one of the Russians had struck me with a rifle butt. Fortunately, he had lost the bayonet that had been fixed to the rifle.
Six of the Russians fell and three of ours. Of our men, only Hobom came through unscathed.
It emerged that we had received help from two other groups.
The Battle for Dniepropetrovsk
After Smela we went forward. The large cities were as a rule defended to the last, while in the countryside and villages there was almost never resistance. In this way the 'recruits' were trained up gradually and without excessive risk. I never noticed new soldiers being sent up to the companies before major engagements. The German command did not want recruits in such battles, and kept them back — outside the battlefield.
On the 27th of August 1941 a suburb was captured, and on the 28th the order came for a further advance. We were received with a hail of bullets from the houses, all of which were occupied. The command halted the attack, having decided to wait until dark.
In the meantime the artillery played up, and the enemy fire slackened at once.
When evening came we went forward and took the foremost ruins. The Russians sat in the cellar windows and up in the ruins and fired, but surrendered when we came close. We settled for the night here at the edge of the town, which is three times the size of Oslo.
We were to comb through a long, straight street with comparatively modern buildings of up to six storeys. The prospects were not pleasant. Two riflemen were to remain in the rubble heap with their machine guns and give us covering fire as we moved forward, while the small anti-tank guns were to "disturb" the enemy.
It was sinister to move forward with bullets coming from two directions, but forward we had to go. So we chose the house we were to take and prepared to storm the entrance door, which had been smashed by an armoured round. It was fifteen or twenty metres to the door, but it felt like an eternity before I got there — even though I ran in no time at all. We ran one at a time, and I was the fifth man.
When all eight were assembled in the hallway, the combing began. First the cellar: I went down with five men. Empty.
Back up again. On the first floor lay three Russians groaning. They had been wounded by an armoured round and reported that there had originally been eighteen of them — fifteen 'fit' remaining, then.
Two of the wounded had submachine guns, and I took one, as inside a building it is a better weapon than the long rifle. We left the prisoners where they were, having taken their weapons.
We then crept up to the second floor, where we came upon five men by surprise — they did not notice us until they felt our submachine guns at their backs. They surrendered immediately. One of them did try to resist, which he should not have done. But the noise alerted those on the third floor, so that when we emerged onto the landing, Drescher took a bullet through his left forearm. We pulled him back and bandaged him.
Now good counsel was scarce. We had gathered in the middle of the three flats, and this one lay in the direct line of fire. It was therefore impossible to show ourselves outside without risking finding our grave here by the Dnieper. There was only one thing to be done. We had to knock out the wall to the adjoining flat. It was, thank God, no concrete wall we had to go through, but only an ordinary stone wall with wallpaper over it. It was quickly done to knock out a couple of stones, and in the gap we placed, for safety's sake, three grenades which we had coupled together. The section leader undertook to pull the pin.
As is well known, such a grenade takes four and a half seconds to detonate. When all was ready, we assembled in the kitchen with the Russians in the innermost corner. Hartvigsen then went into the bedroom where the grenades had been placed and pulled the pin, whereupon he stormed back out to us again. He had to go through the bedroom and the sitting room to reach the kitchen, and it was only just that the boat bore him. For the moment he had flung the door shut — it exploded!
But what an explosion! I thought the whole house had come down. The kitchen door was splintered into flying chips around our ears. But there was a hole in the wall, and a fine one it was too. Two grenades would certainly have sufficed, but better safe than sorry.
No sooner had it gone off than Hobom sprang back out into the entrance hall and took up his position inside the door where he had originally been placed as guard — and a good thing too. For the Russians in the floor above had apparently understood what we were about when they heard the explosion, and came immediately down the staircase to meet us in the inner flat. But that was not to be, said Hobom, and sent a burst into the belly of the foremost Russian, who sailed back down the stairs, stone dead. One of the others was wounded before they managed to withdraw.
We now stood roughly equal, the Russians having nine men (one wounded) against our eight (one wounded). But the Russians' position was far more favourable than ours — they could shoot down at us, while we had to shoot upwards. I had seen that there was a commissar among them, so surrender would not come into the question. These commissars were quite desperate characters and would shoot as long as they had a round in the magazine.
The house had to be taken, however. There was no way past it, so the staircase had to be stormed.
I am truly glad we had so brave a section leader, and that he had the wit to see that someone other than himself should go first.
With his submachine gun ready he walked calmly out of the door, and we followed — myself third. We had captured so many weapons that everyone now had his own submachine gun. The door of this flat was screened by the staircase, so there was no immediate danger in going out. But a few steps further and one was in the line of fire.
What happened next went so fast that it did not become clear to me until I heard the shots. To my eyes it looked as though Hartvigsen ran, spun round, and fired simultaneously. He had given no order as to what we were to do, but a man who does such a thing does not need to give orders.
Instinctively we followed him, and now I may boast that it was I who grasped the situation quickest and jumped past the man in front of me. Hartvigsen was already halfway up the staircase when I came after. I saw the tail of a Russian disappearing through a door and sent a burst after him, so that he went into the dark. The others were right behind, and it cannot have been more than half a minute before we were assembled on the third floor. The Russian I had wounded tried to crawl into the flat, but was dragged out onto the landing instead. It turned out to be the commissar. Now we were, thank God, done with him. He was, for safety's sake, bound hand and foot — one never knows what such a fellow may take it into his head to do.
It emerged that all the remaining men had taken refuge in the same flat and had not given up resistance, but had barricaded themselves in the sitting room. There was nothing to be done but shoot through the door — naturally without hitting anyone. But we had to let them know we were still there.
I speculated a little as to what Hartvigsen now intended to do. For I knew that whoever tried to open that door would be a dead man long before he got the chance to let go of the handle. But I did not doubt for an instant that he would find a solution, as so many times before. And he did — in the simplest possible way, by emptying a Russian submachine gun of its seventy-two rounds and thereby making a hole in the door. None of those inside dared show themselves in the line of fire, so it was a trifle for Hartvigsen to push a grenade through the hole. The rest was easy. Completely stunned by the shock and the explosion, the Russians surrendered at once.
The house was cleared of the enemy. Coming down to the second floor, we found Drescher still sitting there with his pistol in his hand, keeping guard over the five Russians; and on the first floor the three wounded still groaning.
In all the time this was going on, I had not given a thought to the fighting raging just outside the door — out on the street. I was therefore curious to hear how the other groups had fared. We were a little anxious about what might happen when we had to go out into the street, but we need not have worried. For just as we were about to go out, the platoon commander came in with a runner. He received from Hartvigsen a brief account of what had occurred and was visibly satisfied that we had no dead and only one wounded.
The other groups had not been so fortunate.
On the platoon commander's orders, Gert and I took the prisoners back to the company commander's position, the able-bodied Russians carrying the wounded. After half an hour we returned to our group.
During the further advance we had the support of tanks and assault guns. The assault gun is a kind of tank, differing in that it is not enclosed but has only a shield at the front; it is equipped with a single cannon, but a very large one. With these ahead of us the advance went comparatively smoothly. One shot from such a cannon was generally enough to bring the Russians streaming out to surrender. Only at places where commissars were in command did we have to smoke them out. Such buildings were first thoroughly bombarded, and when we arrived most of the Russians were as a rule already dead.
The Russians also had tanks and small guns, but whether it was their poor marksmanship or sheer terror — the effect of Russian artillery fire was in any case far less than we had dared reckon upon.
The street fighting lasted ten days, and the deeper into the city we went, the harder the resistance. Russians were everywhere — in the flats, on the rooftops, inside trams, behind barricades in the street, up in trees in the parks — everywhere they lay and fired at us. But we came forward, as I have said.
In our company's sector we took over a thousand prisoners, and over three hundred dead were counted. Vast quantities of weapons were also taken.
It was Division Wiking — comprising the regiments Germania, Nordland, and Westland — which had the honour of the conquest. A somewhat dearly bought honour, when one learns that it cost the division twelve hundred fallen. How many wounded? I do not know, but probably two thousand.
The Dnieper Crossing
We were to cross the Dnieper — some eleven hundred metres wide — and establish a bridgehead.
When we reached the river, the pioneers had just finished the bridge. We crossed one by one, twenty-five metres apart, under Russian artillery fire from large and small guns and from aircraft. Every so often the bridge was hit and had to be repaired, but over we came. The time was almost exactly two o'clock in the morning on the 8th of September when I felt firm ground under my feet, and by seven or eight o'clock the order to attack came. It went better than expected; soon we had taken a further ten kilometres of Russian soil, whereupon the order came to halt and lie fast.
For twenty days we lay there, not more than a hundred to a hundred and fifty metres from the enemy, under constant bitter fighting. In the course of those days we built up our positions with bunkers and communication trenches.
Before us lay open terrain of about a hundred metres, which was fortunate, as the Russians attacked day and night. We had no rest, and there were frequent close-quarters engagements. There was therefore little time for sleep, and none at all for such luxuries as washing or shaving. It was here that we made the acquaintance, for the first time, of the subsequently celebrated louse.
The bridgehead was gradually extended. On the 28th of September we were relieved by the Italians and given two days' pause. Then we moved on eastwards, and I took part in the capture of Kharkov and Stalino — this was apparently in November 1941.
Stalino: Stukas and Patrols
We had just occupied Stalino and lay on a height with Russians all around us. The tactic was usually to drive battalion by battalion into the enemy's lines and through them. A target was set in advance, and when we reached it we would barricade ourselves until we made contact with our own troops, then continue in the same manner — so it is clear we got ourselves into many nerve-racking situations.
We had occupied this height. We were glad to hear the sound of Stukas — it always sounded like sweet music — and when we saw them at fifteen hundred metres, we waited every moment for them to begin bombing the Russians. But the first aircraft suddenly dived with siren-howl and dropped a bomb on our own position.
Battalion commander Dichmann — later decorated with the Knight's Cross and Oak Leaves — was apparently prepared for something of the sort. For when the next aircraft came, he had spread out a swastika flag. The Stukas then proceeded to bomb the Russians.
Once, after we had captured a village, our section was sent out on reconnaissance. We started in the middle of the night; the trip was reckoned at six hours. We crept forward. It was fairly open at first, but later we came to a small stretch of woodland which we were to 'patrol', and if it proved enemy-free we were to circle the village at about half a kilometre distance. If we were attacked, the agreement was to return by a specific route. The task was not difficult, but we had to move very carefully.
We completed the circuit and considered ourselves almost finished with the mission when we caught sight of a troop of Russians. It was five o'clock; there was a grey dawn, and it was difficult to see how far away they were. One thing was clear, however: we could not return by the agreed route. We had to work our way up into the village. The Russians saw us and gave chase.
Those in the village where we came in said afterwards that they had received no word of our patrol. They took us for Russians. Fortunately the first volley went too high and we were able to throw ourselves down. Tracer rounds were fired so that the marksmen would know to aim lower. And that we felt: the bullets whistled round our ears, and Hobom was hit in his most fleshy part. Now the signal pistol proved its worth. The section leader managed to send up the agreed light signal (changed each day), and we were saved.
The Winter: Retreat and Positions
We were now level with Rostov. The regiment took no part in the capture, but lay on the outskirts.
Then came the reversal. The retreat began.
So we set about digging bunkers in the frozen-solid ground. We had our own troops ahead of us and were therefore undisturbed. But then the screening units withdrew, and the Russians followed — though without pressing hard. They were content to go into position some five hundred metres from us.
In November our winter position was ready. It lay on a height facing a small village. The line was very thinly held; each section had its own bunker blasted into the ground.
The winter that now set in was foul — temperatures up to minus forty-six degrees. The cold and the constant fighting wore heavily on the company, so that only fifty men remained of two hundred (including replacements) when I was sent away in January 1942. Up to seventy-five per cent of the company had diarrhoea — up to twelve motions a day. It was no great pleasure to sit with bare backside at minus forty-six degrees and under Russian artillery and machine-gun fire.
In front of the bunker we had small 'shooting holes' for two men. One such hole per section, each hole measuring 2.0 × 0.75 metres and one metre deep, with the machine gun positioned inside with the first and second gunner. Drescher, the first gunner, and I sat in such a hole for thirteen hours on one occasion. We had cigarettes enough but no matches, and had to chain-smoke from one another. The diarrhoea was abating, but Drescher 'had to go' four times and I twice — and we were of course out of the hole on each occasion. Half the hole was covered with loose planks, the other half open. We took turns keeping watch in the opening, two hours at a time. We lay under constant artillery fire, so it did not do to show oneself outside the hole. Drescher froze both big toes and had to have one cut off. I myself got off well.
Food supplies gave out. For fourteen days we received one-sixth of a loaf — without butter or anything else — and half a litre of ice-cold stew per day. We lay three months in this position, on the following rota: fourteen days in our own bunkers; fourteen days in rest; fourteen days in the neighbouring company's bunkers.
The Night Raid
The Russians had been moving troops into the village and were presumably preparing an attack. Our company received orders to set fire to the village.
In the night we went off — our platoon in the centre. The two flank platoons were to fire the village from each end, while we took the middle. Without being detected, we reached our designated position right in the middle of the village, having silently knocked out two Russian sentries with our rifle butts. On a given signal we were to fire the thatched roofs and open all the floodgates with machine guns, submachine guns, hand grenades, and rifles.
The signal came. Each section had been assigned specific houses to deal with, and within a minute the entire village was genuinely in flames. The thatched roofs burned well, and a terrible fusillade broke out. Panic seized the Russians, who came streaming out — some in nothing but their underpants. Everything was mown down. Hand grenades through the windows.
The Russians had neglected their guard duty and were taken completely by surprise.
At a new signal we withdrew — without having lost a single man. The Russians' losses I cannot say, but they must have been large. Drescher and I used six hundred rounds and I also threw six hand grenades. The company then had eighty men remaining.
Twelve machine guns (four per platoon) at six hundred rounds each = 7,200 rounds, plus submachine guns and rifles — and two hundred and forty hand grenades — all within a few minutes. The village was completely destroyed.
Every night we walked 'pendulum post' from bunker to bunker. It was sinister. Even though we grew well acquainted with the route, we often lost our way. Two of our own men walked once into the minefields; one got away with a fright, the other lost a leg.
The Tank Attack
The Russians had apparently come to understand that we were not as strong as they had probably imagined at first, for one day they launched a major assault. With six tanks leading on a broad front and infantry following behind, they came at us. We had no anti-tank guns, and so received orders to lie still until the enemy was at a hundred metres before opening fire. When the Russians reached that distance, we opened the floodgates and the slaughter began. The tanks paid no heed to our bullets but came slowly closer, firing all the while with their machine guns. Their cannon, fortunately, they could not use at speed. The Russians fired so that the earth spurted around us as we lay and fired back.
There is not cover for so many men behind six tanks, so the Russian ranks thinned rapidly. Finer shooting-targets we had never had than the long line of Russians who came storming at us. Had the tanks stopped at, say, twenty-five metres and fired with their cannon as well, the situation would have grown more serious. As it was, the tanks drove right into our position and were consequently useless.
One of my comrades was hit in the shoulder and was bleeding terribly. I was ordered to drag him into the bunker and make a temporary dressing. I was not gentle with him, and when I had pulled off his jacket and shirt I asked: "Does it hurt?" The only reply he gave was: "Arnt, now I'll finally get my wound badge too." He had already earned the Iron Cross, the assault badge, a medal from France, and the Eastern Front medal.
I had just finished dressing him when there was a tremendous crash and the entire roof fell in upon us. Now it is finished, I thought. But it was only a tank that had split our bunker in two. We were wedged between the tank and the wall, but on one side there was just a large opening through which to crawl. I managed to drag the wounded man after me, and then he said: "Now it hurts, but it doesn't matter. Tomorrow I'm going on leave."
When I came up again, I saw a Finnish volunteer — a lieutenant who had enlisted as a private — run up onto the tank's tracks. He got the lid open, threw a hand grenade down through the opening, and slammed the lid shut. A moment later there was a muffled explosion, and that was the end of that tank crew. I learned afterwards that the Finn had done the same with another tank that had stopped nearby.
The tanks nearest us were thus put out of action, and we could once more concentrate on the infantry — of which, it must be said, not many now remained.
The four remaining tanks stood still and began firing with their cannon too. But suddenly I hear a boom, followed immediately by an explosion: one of the tanks had taken a direct hit from one of our anti-aircraft guns — two of them were positioned seven or eight hundred metres away.
Panic broke out among the Russians. The infantry let out a howl, wheeled about, and bolted, while the tanks turned 'on two wheels' — but too late. Two of them perhaps got away; the others remained on the battlefield.
The Night Attack and the Escaped Prisoner
A reconnaissance patrol had established that the Russians were assembling fresh troops in a village some kilometre ahead of our positions. From our battalion, two companies — mine among them — were in the darkness of night to attempt to drive the enemy out of the village before he had had time to assemble too large a force there.
We attacked at eleven in the evening and got right into the village before we were detected. It soon emerged that there were not as large forces there as had been reckoned, and after a couple of hours' fighting the village was taken. We thought we would march back at once, but instead received orders to occupy the village's outskirts. A small river ran at the edge, and by this river the sentry posts were placed. Drescher and I, having a machine gun with us, were as usual given guard duty together. We made ourselves a small position behind some trees with a clear view forward, and settled in to wait. The watch was only to last until morning, when we were to withdraw.
It had just turned light when I heard a rustling in some bushes behind us. I thought it was the messenger coming to tell us to withdraw, and said as much to Drescher, who was lying at the machine gun. He turned at the very moment I spoke, and I expected to see him smile at the good news. Instead I saw a face in which terror was written in every line, and he shouted: "Look out!"
Involuntarily I grabbed my pistol at the same moment as I swung round, and there — not five metres away — I saw a Russian. Murder was in his eyes and he was just about to drive a kitchen knife into me when I emptied the pistol in the direction of his belly.
I thought the man must fall on the spot; at five metres one does not miss, even with a pistol. But no. He did drop the knife. Instead of falling, however, he threw himself down a small embankment leading to the river and rolled out onto the river ice. He was apparently quite finished, but managed nonetheless to get himself across to the other side — about ten metres — before Drescher had trained the machine gun and given him the coup de grâce. But the Russian was as tough as a cat. For half an hour later we saw him crawling up on the far bank.
That the Russian had no other weapon than a knife was because he had been taken prisoner but had managed to escape. On his way through the village he had presumably been into one of the houses and helped himself to the kitchen knife. Had he been armed with a firearm, the situation would have been a different one.
Not long after this episode, the order came to withdraw.
Return
Shortly after New Year 1942, I fell ill — jaundice — and eventually, in September 1942, I arrived back in Oslo.