SS Charlemagne: The 33rd Waffen-Grenadier Division of the SS

Now we receive a big reinforcement. A good hundred men from the Main Security Office, armed with rifles and flanked by three or four SS-majors, two SS-Captains and five or six other officers. All are full of good will and courage, but have long become unaccustomed to handling weapons and lack combat training. Most are between 50 and 60 years old. Nevertheless, their arrival enables a considerable strengthening of the battalion and besides they mix in with plenty of spirit. However, they soon realise that they are in no way prepared for such a pitiless battle. There losses are serious, because the Reds, like ourselves, even more than us, have their elite snipers hidden everywhere and take aim at any silhouette appearing at a window or in a yard.

de Lacaze, who since the beginning of the battle has led his men with astonishing confidence for a debutant, neutralises every attempt by the Red infantry, but he too falls to an enemy sniper and has to be evacuated. Here is Roger again with his usual accomplice, Bicou, at 18 the youngest NCO in the battalion. They are both excited and explain that they have just dislodged several Red snipers from the rooftops.

There are some more there, but we have run out of grenades. While speaking, they are stuffing their pockets with egg grenades, attaching others to the buttons of their jackets, and sticking stick grenades into their belts. They rush off.

Sometime later Bicou returns with his head bowed. ‘We got them, captain, but Roger was wounded.’

Roger comes in paler than usual, a trickle of blood running from his right eye. At the last moment a piece of grenade caught him above the eyelid. We sit him down in the only armchair in the building, where he soon dozes off. A little later Bicou takes him to the medical aid post with a group of wounded, then comes back alone.

‘Poor Roger, the fighting is over for him. The doctor says that the eye is lost and he still does not know whether he can save the other one.’

Bicou himself is lucky. During the day he had taken shelter behind a pile of debris that was hit by an anti-tank shell. He didn’t even get a scratch, but was knocked unconscious. An hour later he was on his feet again. Now he takes over the section with a sombre air, vowing that Roger’s eye will cost dear.

It is quite calm as night draws to an end. There is nothing in the street but the T-34 burning alongside us, long flames dancing around the steel carcass, projecting their violent light against the dark night which the rose-coloured halo of fires above the roofs is unable to disperse. One hears the crackling of the flames mixing with the distant, confused sounds of fighting in the capital. But sometimes we are startled by heartbreaking cries, cries that are no longer human, the voices of women not far from us howling in their distress, despair and anguish as the men from the steppes assert their bestiality.

With daybreak the Red tanks set off again and we are alerted by the sound of their engines starting up. Several well directed Panzerfausts and the first wave is easily stopped, because the tanks are following each other well spaced out, which gives us plenty of time to see them coming and to give each one the greeting it deserves.

Of course, having checked this first attempt, we are subjected to the usual bombardment. The tanks and anti-tank guns fire full out at the buildings where they detect our presence. The walls tremble dangerously, plaster falls on our heads, and sometimes a well aimed shot into a window opening or loophole showers us with earth and stones and plunges us into a spell of powdery obscurity. Already yesterday and nightfall were hard enough, but now the battle is about to reach a climax and maintain it to the end. Up to this point we have been living in an infernal din, pounded ceaselessly by mortars, anti-tank guns and tanks, harassed by the infantry, repelling several tank attacks an hour. Weber, whose tally is already quite considerable, brings a young NCO from his combat school, Sergeant Eugène Vaulot, a tall, blond chap who has already bagged four tanks since yesterday, another sergeant, Roger Albert, who has his third and is claiming a fourth. As there are not enough Panzerfausts for everyone, they all want the chance to bag at least one tank.

The more our resistance hardens, the more the enemy fires at us. In the command post building, which has become the main point of resistance, we expect the walls to collapse over our heads at any moment. The façade is already completely cracked and one can feel the building sway with every blow. Sooner or later we will have to evacuate or be wiped out or buried, but I delay the departure as long as possible, for the configuration of the area is such that if we evacuate this building, our whole front will have to pull back at least 50 metres if we are want to find another suitable location, and 50 metres now is not that easy. We are only several hundred metres from the Reichs Chancellery.

No doubt believing us hors de combat, the Reds launch another tank attack, but this time without an artillery preparation, but we are not dead yet. The result is two tanks destroyed and a third damaged. The attacking wave turns round. Now they are going to make us pay for this disappointment. Once the tanks are out of range of our Panzerfausts, they aim their guns at us again and every barrel they have fires at us. The upper storeys collapse, the rooms of our semi-basement are filled with such thick dust that we can hardly breathe and we can only see 50 centimetres in front of us. The ceiling falls in pieces and several men are injured by falling masonry. The loophole that we had made in the angle of the wall has become a gaping hole right in line with the tanks’ line of fire. The next bombardment will bring a general collapse. Moreover, the Russians are working dangerously on our left wing and are making their way across the ruins to encircle our whole block of buildings, and all our exits are now under fire. Nevertheless, we have to leave; in ten minutes it will be too late. Our troops are engaged in neutralising the Red snipers stationed in a big building opposite from the neighbouring houses. Their building has vast cellars, which the Ivans have neglected to occupy that are full of enormous quantities of paper. We set them on fire and, while Ivan plays fireman, we get out. Saluted on our way by several burst of fire and some grenades, we manage to get through without losses and cross the field of ruins that separates us from our new positions without difficulty. Only one building in three is still standing in this area.