Für Volk and Führer

The Memoir of a Veteran of the 1st SS Panzer Division Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler

Erwin Bartmann, Derik Hammond, Derik Hammond

• Éditeur: Helion & Company
• Année: 2013
• ISBN:
  9781910294277
• Sujet: History
• Sous-sujet: Military Biographies

One German soldier's experience in the deadly crucible of World War II combat. Like many Germans, Berlin schoolboy Erwin Bartmann fell under the spell of the Zeitgeist cultivated by the Nazis. Convinced he was growing up in the best country in the world, he dreamt of joining the Leibstandarte, Hitler's elite Waffen SS unit. Erwin fulfilled his dream on May Day 1941, when he walked into the Lichterfelde barracks in Berlin as a raw recruit. On arrival at the Eastern Front in late summer 1941, Erwin was assigned to a frontline communications squad. When the end of the Reich became inevitable, Erwin was forced to choose between a struggle for personal survival and the fulfillment of his SS oath of "loyalty unto death." From the war on the southern sector of the Eastern Front to a bomb-shattered Berlin populated largely by old men and demoralized women, this candid eyewitness account offers a unique and sometimes surprising perspective on the life of a young Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler volunteer. "A valuable memoir, providing both a good account of the changing attitudes of the author, both towards the Nazi regime and the chances of final victory." — History of War

1

A Diary of Indoctrination

Saturday 1 March 1930

A chill mist saturated the air over Berlin but even the worst weather could not dampen my father’s passion for walking. ‘Are we going to the park Vati ?’ I asked, breaking into little runs to keep pace.

‘Not today Erwin – there’s something I want to show you.’

Two left turns took us into Lichtenberger Strasse, where we stopped close to the open door of a public house. ‘In there,’ said Father, crouching by my side, his lips close to my ear, ‘that’s where Horst Wessel held his political meetings, his Sturmlokal.’

‘Who was Horst Wessel?’

‘A hero of the German Volk, Erwin, a National Socialist, a young man who gave everything for his beliefs, just like Jesus, until a communist swine knocked on his door and shot off his jaw.’

We continued towards the centre of Berlin, adding to the steady stream of humanity making its way towards Bülowplatz and voices singing the communist anthem, Die Internationale.

‘That’s a nice tune Vati.’

‘There’s nothing nice about communism, son.’

As we emerged onto Bülowplatz – overlooked by slogans written in enormous letters hanging on the walls of the on the Communist Party building – the singing gave way to a contest of poisonous shouts and jeers between opposing factions.

‘What’s happening Vati ?’

Father raised his voice to make himself heard above the clamour. ‘It’s the day of Wessel’s funeral. I didn’t expect things to be so rowdy – there was supposed to be a ban on crowds and flags. These communist thugs are here to cause trouble.’

Across the street, police wearing shiny black leather helmets struggled to keep opposing factions at bay as the cortege, led by a troop of bandsmen playing funereal music, approached.

Vati, who are the men in brown shirts?’

‘A guard of honour Erwin, Hitler’s Sturmabteilung men, the SA – I wish these communist idiots would shut up so we could hear the music.’

A hearse pulled by horses draped with black mantles and black plumes on their heads followed the ranks of SA men. Suddenly, stones ripped up from the pavements showered the cortege. Women screamed in horror as demonstrators burst through the police cordon to grapple with the SA men in an attempt to seize the coffin. Police cavalry, batons flailing, launched into the mob. Tyres screeched as armoured cars sped up and down the street. I cowered in a doorway behind Father until the police restored order.

‘Now son, you see just what sort of people these communists are – traitors and hooligans bringing endless disruption to our streets. They won’t be content until they ruin everyone’s life.’

Although I was only six years old at the time of Horst Wessel’s funeral, I can recall the events of that day with absolute clarity – fear had burned the images of chaos on the streets of Berlin deep into my memory.

Summer 1930

On our way home from Friedrichshain, a park close to our flat, we took a little detour to join the crowds lining the pavements on Palisaden Strasse. Onlookers craned their necks or stood on tiptoes to get a better view as a detachment of SA singing Die Fahne Hoch (Raise up the Flag) approached. Horst Wessel had written the words of this song which, set to a traditional folk tune, was now a Nazi anthem.

‘We’ll hang on a bit,’ said Father, ‘but make sure you don’t drop your ball – we don’t want it to spoil the parade.’

Across the road, a woman who lived in the flat above ours stood at the edge of the pavement. As the SA parade drew near, I waved to attract her attention. She returned my greeting then to my astonishment, turned her back and pulled up her skirt. Shrieks of laughter spilled from the spectators as she dropped her knickers and bent over to expose her bottom, and everything else a woman should keep private. This was a bad mistake. The woman struggled hopelessly as two well-built SA men grabbed her arms while their colleagues took turns at delivering hard slaps to the exposed flesh, which rapidly turned fiery red.

‘She was asking for that,’ said Father.

A few days after this incident the woman, an avowed communist, dropped into our flat to show my mother the purple imprints left by SA hands.

Monday 30 January 1933

Hitler, appointed Reichskanzler by President Paul von Hindenburg, took control of Germany. That evening I stood with my parents and brother Horst on Unter den Linden, at the corner of Wilhelm Strasse, to witness the torchlight procession pass through the Brandenburg Gate on its way from the Tiergarten to the Reichskanzlei, now Hitler’s official residence. The whole thing started late in the evening and went on until the early hours of the next day. Though it was still deep in wintertime, I cannot recall feeling cold as the SA and war veterans – members of the right-wing Stahlhelm organisation – paraded their colourful standards. Behind them marched a column of massed torchbearers and bands playing military marches. Every onlooker wore a broad smile. Police lining the pavements laughed as they joined hands to push with their backs against an enthusiastic surge of the crowd. Waves of sound rose up, waves that swelled in my ears until I could hear nothing else.

‘Heil…Heil…Heil…’

Her grey-blue eyes glistening in the light from the torches, my mother turned her gaze from the parade to look at me. She smiled as she squeezed my hand. I returned her squeeze, her smile, to tell her that I too had felt the power of the moment. Together, we held our right arms aloft and added our voices to the chant, ‘Heil…Heil…’

After the parade, we joined the jubilant onlookers gathered in Wilhelmplatz, directly in front of the Reichskanzlei, to shout ourselves hoarse with the chant: Wir wollen unseren Führersehen (we want to see our Leader).

Hitler appeared at a floodlit window on the first floor – there was no balcony on the Reichskanzelei at that time – to acknowledge the adulation of his Volk with his right hand flung back in the salute that was to become his hallmark.

It seemed the mood of the city had changed for the better. For the first time, it was safe to play in the streets without the threat of violence throwing the whole district into disorder. Everyday life settled into an orderly, industrious routine. I was of course oblivious to the news that Himmler had announced the need for concentration camps throughout the Reich for the ‘Beruhigung der nationalen Bevölkerung’ (reassurance of the people). What did I care if the prisoners were Marxists, common criminals, or homosexuals? Who could have foreseen, let alone a nine-year-old boy, that this was the first stepping-stone to the horrors of the extermination camps?

Spring 1934

As Hitler’s fortunes blossomed, there appeared on the streets boys smartly dressed in shorts and shirts. Some rode bicycles carrying hand-written notices on cardboard tied to the handlebars urging others to join them: Hinein ins Jungvolk. Word soon spread that these boys, members of the DeutscheJungvolk (DJ), enjoyed trips to the cinema and weekend camps. Before long, most of the boys over ten in my class had joined, some of whom were former members of the Socialistische Arbeiterjugend (SAJ), the left wing equivalent of the DJ. In many ways, these two organisations offered similar pursuits but the DJ was better organised and, unlike the SAJ which was predominantly a working-class organization, included boys from all strata of society, from Volksschule and Gymnasium. Social class was no longer a barrier to Kameradschaft, a manifestation of the chant that had now become familiar to me: Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer (one people, one nation, one leader).

My parents whole-heartedly approved of my enlistment in the DJ. ‘It’s better for the youth to be well organised than hang around street corners,’ they said.

One of the first things that struck me when I joined – at that time membership was voluntary – was that I was granted a degree of freedom and trust that made me feel grown up and responsible for my own actions. In general, it was older boys in the organisation who acted as instructors. Youth itself was valued, a thing of beauty.

Summer weekends were great adventures spent camping in the forests around Berlin. Fluttering above the camp was always the flag of the DJ which carried, like a bolt of lightning in startling white against a black ground, the angular Sigrun, the runic ‘S’ symbol of victory.

I always looked forward to the ‘Battle of the Flags’, my favourite activity at the DJ camps. This was a competition between rival DJ groups, often from different parts of Berlin. The object of this contest was quite simple – to capture the rival’s flag. But to carry out such a seemingly simple objective required considerable strategic planning. Was it better to leave the biggest and strongest boys to guard the banner, should they lead the raid on our rivals, and who among us were emerging as leaders? I’m sure the instructors looked out for such things but as far as I was concerned, the fun was in the sheer physical activity of the game which could, and usually did, get quite rough. Often, I arrived home on a Sunday evening with bruises, marks of honour proudly displayed to my parents as proof that I had ‘done my bit’ for my Kameraden. Through my adolescent eyes, such events appeared to be nothing more than vigorous sporting activity. There was never any training with weapons so it never occurred to me that this was preparation for life in the military.

1. Maerchen Brunnen
2. Horst Wessel Sturmlokal
3. 38 Strausberger Strasse
4. Glaser bakery
5. Plaza Theatre
Locations connected with Erwin’s home and youth in Berlin.
(Reproduced by kind permission of Westermann Verlag).

Drums, flags and marching were our constant companions in the DJ but my head knew nothing of my legs as we trooped tirelessly along sunlit country lanes and through villages where admiring onlookers watched us pass. We sang with happy voices Die Fahne flattert uns voran (the flag leads us forward). That the path I marched so joyously could lead to the destruction of all that I held dear was a concept too distant for my imagination.

One can read nowadays that the youth of Germany was brutalised by their membership of the DJ. It is true that the activities in the DJ helped develop strength, discipline, loyalty and obedience; that we learned respect for women and to be prepared to die for our country. But these were exactly the same attributes and attitudes described by Baden Powell in his book Scouting for Boys, published in 1909, which placed the ordinary boy at the centre of Britain’s Empire – a sign of the times in which we lived.

Everything we did as members of the DJ was approved by our parents and by the Reich, the Reich that Germans had yearned for, the Reich that found a place for every ‘true’ German. Our parents were members of Hitler’s Party, the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei (NSDAP/Nazis), or the Nazi trade organization, the Deutsche Arbeitsfront (DAF), or both. Encouraged by the authorities, our mothers performed good social deeds for the benefit of the community. My own mother stitched the flags that decorated the bugles of my DJ unit as she hummed traditional folk melodies. Once a month, on a Sunday, my father collected the Eintopf contributions (money saved by each family by preparing a stew from leftovers and donated to the Nazi Party) from the residents of the flats at 38 Strausberger Strasse. We, the youth of the DJ, were simply another piece of the jigsaw.

Summer 1936

In Berlin’s streets and parks, the brash English of rich Americans mingled with the rise and fall of animated Italian. In shops, the delectable scent of beautiful French women lingered long after they had left. Flamboyant colour spilled from flower baskets hanging from every lamp standard and balcony in the sunny streets of central Berlin. Long scarlet banners, with black swastikas inside white circles, adorned public buildings. Berlin was exciting, pulsating with life as my brother Horst and I made our way to the Neue Wache, the clas...