Save the last Bullet
I recently featured 'On The Eastern Front At Seventeen', the experiences of a Russian youth in 1942. The Nazis would deploy even younger boys. As they grew desperate for men to throw into the last battles on German soil in 1945, young boys and old men were conscripted into the Volkssturm to fight alongside the Wehrmacht. Amongst them was Wilhelm Langbein, whose recorded memoirs, ‘Save the Last Bullet’, have only recently (2022) been transcribed and translated.
Born in 1930, Langbein was only 13 when he was sent for weapons training in the Autumn of 1944. He describes the indoctrination of his generation through the Hitler Youth and widespread Nazi propaganda, alongside a ruthless discipline - which saw one of his classmates executed by the SS. He was therefore more or less a ‘volunteer’ when, aged 14, he was sent to the frontline in the Spring of 1945:
As we approached Wiener Neustadt to engage the Russians on 31 March 1945, I saw the majestic Neusiedler Lake straddling the Austro-Hungarian border in the distance. Something in that beautiful but unfamiliar view reminded me how far I was from home. For a moment I was back at Opa Johannes’ farm, running through the tall wheat fields that swayed and rolled in the wind like soft golden waves.
Suddenly it all became real. A chill ran up my spine, making the hair stand on end at the back of my neck. I squirmed uncomfortably in my seat, my body willing me to jump off the moving truck. But I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t turn back and leave. I was trapped. I was coming inexorably closer to the war, whether I wanted to or not. At that moment it became clear to me that didn’t want to be there. I just wanted to go home.
Our convoy slowly approached the front line. The sky was leaden, moisture was in the air from recent rain. We reached an open field that was a muddy mess from being trampled by the troops and equipment of the Panzer unit. Everything was abuzz with activity.
Trucks, tanks and guns were moving around everywhere, seemingly without a clear direction, although I felt there had to be a purpose to all the movement that I just could not discern. I swallowed hard. This was it, this was the front, and I was going to fight my first battle.
Suddenly I heard the first real cannon fire I had ever heard in my life up close. It was a blast so strong that my feet lifted off the ground, my heart jumped out of my chest and my hero’s blood no longer ran red. My hero’s blood ran brown, because I was so scared that I shat my pants. Not having another uniform to change into, I had to drop my trousers and make do with some grass to wipe off what I could and get on with it.
Everybody who had arrived in the convoy was dispatched to the front line with shovels. Our leaders knew more or less where the Russians were going to come from, and we, the tank-hunters, were told to dig deep holes in the ground. We were to make the holes as deep as we were tall, so that we could stand in them. The terrain was flat, but the ground was damp, making it difficult to dig because the soil was heavy with moisture. We struggled to get the job done.
We had been given clear instructions by our officers: ‘Let the tank advance to a distance of exactly twenty metres from you, no more, no less.’
You had one shot at this.
As we dug, we had taken off our Sturmgewehre and our Panzerfaust, but we kept the weapons next to us.
‘Los, los, Kameraden!’ shouted the lieutenant with urgency. Time was of the essence. We dug faster.
Eventually we were done, and we nodded at each other before climbing down into our holes. We could just barely see over the tops of them.
Behind us, we were told, was the Italian Bersaglieri light infantry division. They were supposed to spring into action once the Russian tanks were hit, which is when the Russian infantry armed with bayonets would emerge from behind the tanks to fight the German Panzerjdger on the ground. This Italian unit was supposed to march forward and stop the Russian grenadiers advancing. That was the plan.
However, the Italians’ loyalties had been divided since 1943, when their Prime Minister Marshal Pietro Badoglio had negotiated a cease-fire with the Americans, the British and the French, and an Italian expeditionary corps had joined the Allied forces to fight the Germans. We were a bit concerned as to what extent the knowledge of this situation might influence the actions of our good Italian Bersaglieri friends standing behind us on that fateful day.
We stood in the holes we had dug, about ten metres apart. In each of them there was a man, or a fourteen-year-old boy like me.
We each had four Panzerfaust with us. Since this was a single shot weapon we prayed we d have enough time to run back to the supply truck to get more in case we ran out and there were more tanks coming.
We stood quietly in our holes. Each of us was alone with his thoughts, not knowing if they would be his last. Sound was amplified in the oppressive silence, and with my senses heightened, I could hear the rustle of leaves on nearby trees and my neighbour shuffling his feet. Time was running out.
I felt the ground vibrate. A growl so deep it hurt my ears filled the air, increasing in intensity. Then a dark wall of tanks appeared over the horizon, advancing fast. There were too many to count. I swallowed.
We had been given clear instructions by our officers: ‘Let the tank advance to a distance of exactly twenty metres from you, no more, no less.’
You had one shot at this.
I was an excellent marksman. I raised the Panzerfaust onto my right shoulder, tucked it under my armpit, and waited until the first tank reached the white boulder I had mentally pegged as the twenty metre mark, aimed quickly and shot off my first shell. I held my breath for a split second. The shell penetrated the hull of the tank and the tank exploded, just as we had been told it would. It burst into flames right in front of me, so close that I felt a wave of heat hit my face.
My comrades were firing, too, but it seemed to make no difference. More and more tanks came at us. The blasts were deafening, the air heavy with the smell of burnt metal and flesh.
To my right, a tank drove straight toward the hole of a fellow soldier. The tank stopped over the hole and swivelled around in a circle on its own axis twice, grinding itself into the ground; I watched in helpless horror while the poor fellow’s shrill screams pierced my skull. After a moment he stopped screaming. The tank had crushed him. I knew that guy; he was one of the Flakhelfer from the military vehicle. Another Panzerjager delivered a fatal shot to the tank.
This excerpt from Save the Last Bullet: Memoir of a Boy Soldier in Hitler's Army appears by kind permission of Pen & Sword Books Ltd. Copyright remains with the author.
That is what I looking for.