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

That Ukrainian hadn’t lied. All night and all morning of the 1st May the storm of the Red assaults beats against us with desperate violence, but we are determined to respond with defiance. The Red infantry has been reinforced and launches waves of attack simultaneously with the setting off of the tanks. We let the T-34s approach to fire at point blank range, while pinning down the infantry with our assault rifles. The latter try to advance again, but they don’t get far and soon they don’t get up again.

The Russian concentrate their tanks barely 300 metres away, and the infantry move round behind that steel barrier. We know the buildings they are using, from where the deluge of fire fails to crush us, and of which we easily have the advantage. We have to wait until they are quite close at the end of a rifle or Panzerfaust, so close that several missed shots could open up the way and cause the front to collapse. The fate of the battle depends on the outcome of every attack. The Reichs Chancellery is being fiercely defended. One moment of weakness, one inattention on our part, and we would have the catastrophe that threatens, always more precisely to the extent that it consumes our strength and our effectives go on in this battle of hell.

During a particularly violent attack, a T-34 succeeds in passing and is only knocked out 30 metres behind our first position. For several moments a terrible anxiety seizes us, as if an abyss has opened beneath our feet. But no, it cannot be said that a Red tank has succeeded in penetrating our lines with impunity. There is a second explosion and the intruder is immobilised.

The situation worsens during the afternoon. Our building, practically intact when we occupied it, has now fallen into ruins, and if the ground floor is still holding, long strips of parquet are hanging down to the street, a perfect target for the Red flame-throwers, who, taking advantage of the scarcity of out troops, infiltrate through the ruins. We try to get these awkward bits of wood to fall into the street, but without tools in the middle of tottering walls and under enemy fire, our men can only establish the uselessness of their efforts. After several fruitless attempts, the Reds succeed in setting fire to this hanging pyre. We haven’t got a drop of water. Georges, the signaller, a placid, smiling, young Norman with plump cheeks, does his best in his quality as a former Parisian fireman, but soon he has to report that we must abandon all hope. If all goes well, we should be able to remain another hour, not more!

The Main Security Office had been decided upon as our next centre of resistance, several dozen metres away. While waiting, we continue the battle with the flames over our heads, while Georges and several others try desperately to slow down the fire’s advance at the risk of being burnt alive. After alternatives of hope and anxiety, Georges, black as a charcoal burner, returns to report that there is not much time left; the ground floor will be engulfed in its turn and the hundreds of books ranged along the shelves will provide the flames magnificent nourishment. The ground floor fills with smoke and flames come from the ceiling. It is now impossible to reach Wilhemstrasse. Regretfully, we must leave. It is now 1800 hours.

The Main Security Office is in ruins, but its cellars opening unto the street still provide useful shelter. Our sentries take up their positions without any reaction from the Reds. In fact our move was conducted as discreetly as possible. Soon a violent infantry fight starts up on our right, a furious fusillade opening up and nourished by both sides. The Reds advance and are repulsed, advance again and are again repulsed. Finally they manage to gain a little ground in the neighbouring sector, but our front remains unaltered.

In a cellar serving as a shelter and rest place, and by the light of a candle, I award Iron Crosses to a certain number of our comrades. To be decorated at the front in the course of an impressive parade is everyone’s dream, but tonight the pathos of this so simple ceremony with a few gathered round in this dark and narrow cellar during the last hours of a super-human battle is worth all the parades in the world. By the trembling light of this symbolic candle, whose flame celebrates the victory of light over the shadows and hope over death, the blackened, dull, emaciated faces, creased with fatigue and hunger, the faces tense or shining, with feverish, ardent eyes, take on an extraordinary aspect. ‘In the name of the Führer…’

The last night is relatively calm. A neighbouring company leaves on a mission on behalf of the Reichs Chancellery and we take over their sector. The Nordland’s command post has moved out of Stadtmitte U-Bahn Station and is now in the Reichs Chancellery itself. Dufour, sent there, reports that all is well. This evening they are celebrating the award of the Knight’s Cross to Vaulot, who destroyed his seventh tank today, and our few comrades there – the commander kept back several at his disposal – are singing and drinking with their German comrades of the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler. We haven’t been forgotten, and Dufour and his group have brought us some chocolate and several bottles. The 1st May, a fateful day, has passed much more successfully than the Ukrainian predicted the other evening.