Panzer Commander Part 1

Hans Von Luck.

Panzer Commander.

The Memoirs of Colonel Hans von Luck.

Although names, places, and dates have been carefully checked, this book makes no claim to be history. My memoirs reproduce, rather, the events and experiences that a young German had to go through in a period that changed Europe and almost the whole world.

The Second World War stands in the center. It shows, along with the preceding years, how intolerance, a false ideology, and propaganda can mobilize whole peoples against each other and plunge them into misery.

I dedicated my book to my three sons, born between 1954 and 1970, because I wish to address those generations that were born only during or after the war. My son Sascha, the youngest, asked me the other day: "What does"n.a.z.i' actually mean? Why was. .h.i.tler 'bad'? Why did a whole people 'follow' him?" He and his generation must be given answers. Many teachers, even those born only during or after the war, have no answer, or only an inadequate one. Older people, for one reason or another, repress the period.

In countless conversations with the young of Germany, Great Britain, and France, at numerous lectures to young students at American universities, I have found that young people want to clear their minds about a period for which the information they are given is either nonexistent, insufficient, or one-sided.

Thus I firmly resist, for instance, cla.s.sifying the Russians as "bad" and us in the West as "good." That is too simple!

The reader will learn that the Russians too love their homeland, as we love ours. That during the war Russian mothers and wives had the same worries as ours. Today young people of the world, and precisely those of former adversaries in the war, understand each other with no problems. I hope that glasnost and perestroika will make it possible for the youth of the Soviet Union and other East European countries to be given the chance to join hands with young people in the West.

Those of my readers who have had the opportunity to visit the USSR, as athletes, scientists, or tourists, will have discovered that the Russian people are charming, hospitable, and ready to live at peace with all the peoples of our world.

Those who have never been to Russia ought to make good the omission.

I have tried to draw experiences from hundreds of episodes, pleasant and sad; experiences that may help to make it impossible for the events in Germany before and during the war ever to be repeated, anywhere. It is profoundly depressing to discover that since the end of the Second World War more than 150 wars have been, and still are being waged worldwide, whether on grounds of politics, economics, or ideology. It depresses me that only the presence of nuclear weapons, it seems, is capable of preventing a new pa.s.sage of arms between two power blocs.

The example that young people set us older ones should be followed by all in positions of responsibility: the practice of tolerance, that best of human attributes. All of us should know that one can learn from bad experiences.

I thank all who have helped me to write this book. Without my friend Professor Stephen Ambrose of the University of New Orleans, it would never have been written. He "forced" me to relate my experiences, and constantly gave me the heart to continue.

I thank Major John Howard, my British adversary on D-Day, who as the "hero of Pegasus Bridge" has pa.s.sed into war history and is today my friend. John tells anyone who asks him: "If you want to know what it was like 'on the other side of the hill," ask my friend Hans." I thank Werner Kortenhaus, who is writing the history of the 21 st Panzer Division, for the extensive material which he put at my disposal.

My thanks are due to all my fellow prisoners, who shared with me the hard fate of five years of Russian captivity and who are still in touch today through the Camp 518 a.s.sociation. Many refreshed my memory or, by describing their own experiences, helped to give the reader a graphic idea of our "gulag" life.

All, whether it be my adjutant Helmut Liebeskind, or my orderly and friend Erich Beck, or the many who fought with me on every front for nearly five years, have helped me and are a const.i.tuent part of the book.

My particular thanks are due to George Unwin of Surrey, England.

Of much the same age as me, George has translated my ma.n.u.script into English with fellow feeling, identifying himself with me.

My American and British friends who have read his text say without exception, "We can literally hear Hans speaking and understand what he has to say to us." Last but not least I thank my wife, Regina, for her patience and collaboration. For nearly four years she has allowed me to work on my ma.n.u.script, a.s.sisted me in my research, and in her spare time made copies of hundreds of pages.

I am deeply moved by the Introduction which Steve Ambrose has written for this book. He has made my experiences his own. I am proud to be permitted to call this remarkable human being, author, and h istorian my friend.

I first met Hans von Luck in November 1983, in Hamburg. I was there to interview him on his role in the fighting on D-Day. My subject was the action at Pegasus Bridge, over the Caen Ca.n.a.l, which he had defended against a glider-borne attack by British airborne troops. He came to my hotel room, arriving precisely at the stroke of four P.m., as agreed.

The immediate impression was of a thin, wiry, strong man of medium height and, despite his white hair, of medium age. But a closer study of his ruddy, weathered face, deeply lined with wrinkles, revealed a man well into old age (he was in fact 72 years old). He had sharp features, a hawklike nose, deep-set penetrating eyes, a jutting chin, a large broad forehead, high cheekbones, and big jutting ears. Although he was dressed in a business suit, it took only the slightest imagination to see him in his desert uniform, b.u.t.toned to the high stiff collar, his Knight's Cross around his neck, a German officer's hat set back on his head, his goggles in place, the dust of North Africa covering him.

We ordered coffee from room service as he spread out his maps of Normandy. His English was accented but perfectly understandable. His manners, and his mannerisms, were those of an Old World aristocrat. He chain-smoked Marlboro Lights. He was eager to tell me of his experiences in Normandy, enthusiastic about my project.

We talked for four hours, with scarcely a pause. I got the details of his actions on the night of 5/6 June 1944, and an outline of his service elsewhere. As a military historian, I was of course fascinated to hear the war stories of the man who led the way into Poland in 1939, who was at the vanguard of Rommel's thrust to the Channel Coast in June 1940, who actually reached the outskirts of Moscow in November 1941, who supervised Rommel's extreme right flank in North Africa in 1942-43, and who commmanded the armored regiment that met the first D-Day attack in 1944. His stories of life in a POW camp in the Soviet Union, 1945-50, were gripping and revealing. His frequent expression of his great love for the Russian people, and his sympathy for their plight, was quite genuine, and surprising.

Indeed, much as I was impressed by Hans the professional Soldier, I was even more taken, charmed, in fact, by Hans the man. He was kind and open and-I couldn't put the word out of my mind. In 25 years of interviewing veterans, I had never heard war stories so well told, so full of compa.s.sion for the oppressed, of whatever race or nationality. Except for Dwight Eisenhower, I had never met a veteran I liked or admired more.

I urge those American readers who still believe, as I once did, that all the good Germans are either dead or long ago emigrated to the United States, to give Hans a fair reading. He deserves your attention and respect.

Although these are the memoirs of a professional soldier, they are not written for cadets in a military academy, but rather for a general audience. Hans is a raconteur with a sharp eye for the telling anecdote or incident. For a warrior who was in combat almost continuously from September 1939 to April 1945, there is surprisingly little blood and guts. For a man who won his country's highest military decorations for courage, there is surprisingly little boasting about personal exploits. For a man who was a POW doing slave labor, there is surprisingly little bitterness. Instead, there is insight, a marked sympathy for the human condition, good humor, tolerance, and wonder.

What we do have in these memoirs is a remarkable life. We begin with the young Prussian aristocrat following the family tradition by joining the army. We see his training, accompany him on his travels, watch the rise of Hitler, and see the effect of Hitler's policies on the newborn German army. Hans marches us into Poland and carries us along the heady string of victories in France and Russia. He tastes defeat, for the first time, in North Africa, but soon is established in a penthouse in Paris, enjoying the life of a conqueror. He gives us the details of his bittersweet wartime romance. Then he learns about defeat again, from the British in Normandy, the Americans in eastern France, and the Russians south of Berlin. We end up in a POW camp in the Caucasus, with Hans working as a coal miner.

Along the way he gives us marvelous vignettes o f the people he encountered: the pope (priest) at the Cathedral of Smolensk, the madam of a brothel in Bordeaux, the Bedouins in the desert, his French friends in occupied Paris, and many others.

Famous German generals march through these pages, including Jodl, Kesseiring, and Guderian. But the dominant personality, aside from Hans himself, is Fieldmarshal Erwin Rommel. Hans knew him first in the pre-Hitler era, when Rommel was his instructor in tactics. From 1940 to 1944 Hans spent most of his time commanding the recce battalion for Rommel. He was the general Hans admired most, and clearly Rommel not only had a very high opinion of Hans, but felt nearly as close to him as he did to his own son. Thus Hans is able to describe for us Rommel in action as well as Rommel in contemplation. It makes a fascinating portrait of the general many military historians including me) would rank as the best of World War II.

But the real hero of this book is the German soldier. Hans's troops, in the 7th Division in France and Russia, and the 21st Panzer Division in North Africa, Normandy, eastern France and Germany, never let him down. They were remarkable for their endurance, tenacity, boldness, comrades.h.i.+p and loyalty. So was Colonel von Luck. One of the outstanding soldiers of World War II, he has written a memoir that is simply superb, an instant cla.s.sic that will be read for decades to come.

Stephen E. Ambrose.

RELEASE.

It was a cold winter's day at the end of 1949 in a special camp for prisoners of war in the neighborhood of Kiev; at two o'clock in the morning a barrack door flew open.

"Ganz von Luck," shouted a Russian guard. "Davai, to the office." I still have to smile: the Russians cannot p.r.o.nounce the H sound. How amused we had been a few years earlier when at the shout of "Goggenloge" no one had stirred. Intended was Prince Hohenlohe.

We German prisoners of war had been in Russia since June 1945; since the late autumn of 1948, former members of the SS and the police, and also all those who had fought against partisans, had been collected into a kind of punishment camp. Also includedsomething none of us could understand-were all staff officers.

Drunk with sleep I stood up. The Russians were fond of interrogations by night. It was easier to extract something from a tired prisoner.

A few weeks earlier, the camp interpreter, a Jewish doctor with whom I had become friendly, had told me what was in the wind.

"I have heard that under pressure from the Western Allies Stalin has agreed to observe the Geneva Conventions and release the prisoners. In the ordinary camps the releases are almost complete, but even here releases will be made. Fifteen percent will be condemned and remain here. We don't want to send home any war criminals. Besides, we need manpower." Not long after, commissions had indeed arrived from Moscow. At nocturnal hearings, by some system incomprehensible to us, 15 percent had to be sorted out; the rest really would be transported home. A five-person commission from Moscow would make the decision.

And now it was my turn!

My nerves were at breaking point. I forced myself to keep calm.

I spoke good Russian; while a prisoner I had been able to improve my knowledge of the language and had often been used as an interpreter. At the office, the commissioners' interpreter, a young woman I knew well, was waiting for me. "I don't understand or speak a word of Russian," I whispered to her.

"Understand?" She smiled and nodded; she would go along with my charade.

I was led into a large room and saw in front of me a big, T-shaped table, at the head of which sat the commission. In the middle was a Russian colonel, apparently its leader, an affable-iooking man of about my own age, bedecked with orders and with an almost square head. He looked like Marshal Georgi Zhukov, the "liberator" of Berlin.

On either side were civilians, probably a public prosecutor and KGB officers. They looked rather less affable and stared at me with impenetrable expressions. At the other end of the table, about 20 feet away, I took my place with the interpreter.

The hearing began.

"What is your name? Your unit? Where were you in action in Russia?" The interpreter translated, I replied in German, "I have already said all that at least twenty times for the record."

"We want to hear it again," said the Colonel.

My statements seemed to agree with their doc.u.ments. They nodded their approval.

Then, "You capitalist, reactionary; von Luck is like von Ribbentrop (foreign minister under Hitler), von Papen chancellor before Hitler). Everyone with 'von' is a big capitalist and a big n.a.z.i." After the translation I replied, "I have nothing to do with Ribbentrop or Papen. I have been in the war for more than five years and then five years in captivity. That's more than ten years of my life. I should now like to live in peace with my family, follow a profession. I have neither money nor landed property, so what's all this about capitalist, n.a.z.i, and so on?"

"I'he interpreter translated word for word.

They didn't seem to have anything else to lay at my door. So the Colonel turned to his colleague and spoke openly in Russian.

"What shall we do with the polkovnik (colonel)? He's not a member of the SS or the police. At the time of the partisan struggles he was already in Africa. But I hate to let one of these vons get away." One of the KGB officers chimed in, "We can charge him with stealing eggs from Russian villages and thus committing 'sabotage' against the Russian people." That was the last straw. I knew that even such a minor offense could incur ten to fifteen years in a punishment camp.

I stood up and, as a start, uttered one of the worst Russian oaths. (The Russians and Hungarians are said to have the coa.r.s.est of oaths.) I saw the shocked face of the interpreter and the astonishment of the Colonel and his a.s.sociates.

Only now and in this way, I thought, would I have the chance of going home.

After a short pause for effect, I spoke accordingly, "Polkovnik, you are a colonel like me. (I deliberately used the familiar du form of address.) You have done your duty in the war just like me. Both of us believed we had to defend our homeland. We Germans were probably misled by highly accomplished, one-sided propaganda. Both of us have taken an oath." The Colonel listened attentively.

"It's three o'clock in the morning," I went on. "I am tired.

At six we shall be woken up again to start another day of our captivity.,, "I know the Russian law. The accused has to prove his innocence and not the court the guilt of the defendant. How shall I defend myself? If you want to keep me here, you'll find a reason all right. So make it brief and then let me go to sleep." There followed a short whispered conversation between the Colonel and his colleagues. Then the Colonel said, "You speak Russian. Where did you learn it?" His tone was placid, almost benevolent.

"I was interested in the Russian language, Russian music, and Russian writers even as a young man. Long before this wretched war broke out I learned Russian from emigrants. In the nine months of my service in Russia, but above all in the last four and a half years, I have been able to improve my knowledge. I admit it was tactics to let the interpreter translate." They smiled and my position seemed to me to be a little less hopeless.

Then came a surprising question from the Colonel, "What do you think of Russia and her people?"

"I have seen much and learned much in the years of my captivity.

I like your vast country, I like the people, their readiness to help, their love of their homeland. I think I have grasped something of the Russian mentality and soul. But I am not a Communist and never in my life will I be one. I am disappointed by what is left of Marx's ideas and Lenin's revolution. I should like our people to learn to understand each other, in spite of our many contrasts and different ideologies. That is my answer to your question, Polkovnik." It was a gamble, but I felt that in my situation attack was the best form of defense.

"If you are allowed to go home," continued the Colonel, "we know you will become a soldier again and fight against us." I shook my head and replied, "I should like to get home at last and help to rebuild my bomb-damaged country and establish a democracy and live in peace, nothing else." At that came the familiar "Davai" from the Colonel.

I went back to my barrack. My fellow prisoners crowded around me at once, and after I had described the course of the hearing, they all said the same, "You're mad, that's your undoing.

You'll have to stay here." But I judged the Russians differently.

Next morning the interpreter came along. "That was risky, Polkovnik, but good. I think you impressed the Colonel. He was a frontline soldier like you and he understands tough talking." Two days later, in the early hours of the morning, I was called out of bed by one of the guards. My roommates said good-bye to me: "All the best, old man, wherever your journey may take you." In the courtyard prisoners from every barrack were a.s.sembling with their few possessions. At a table sat a Russian otticer with a list of names, from which he called out one after the other. The man who was called went to the table. There he heard either "Davai," which now meant release, or the fateful "Niet." We saw the stricken faces of those who had been singled out with "Niet" and hardly trusted ourselves to look at them. I was the third of our section who had to step up to the table. As the man before me heard "Niet," I patted him sympathetically on the shoulder.

Which word would I hear? It was "Davai"!

More running than walking, I hurried to the camp gate. A great stone fell from my heart. We didn't dare look round for fear they might still fetch us back. Did this really mean release?

There I found the interpreter. "Domoi, Polkovnik, all the best." I still think of her today, full of grat.i.tude.

Then we marched to the station, where a train was standing ready to take us away. We still didn't trust the Russians. In which direction would it go? But after we had got in, the doors remained unlocked, for the first time in five years. Our joy knew no bounds. We could hardly take it in, that the day we had dreamed of for so many years had now come at last.

It was bitterly cold. In spite of that we left the doors open a crack, for fear they might be bolted again. We lay pressed tight together and hardly felt the cold.

A few sang quietly, others imagined the first thing they would eat, what it would be like after nearly five years to be face to face with their own wife or girlfriend. No one was ashamed of his feelings.

We all knew that when we reached home it would be like being born again.

My thoughts went back to my youth, to the security of my parents' house and to the many pleasant years, until Hitler came along and the war began. Of my 39 years I had spent more than 10 at war and in captivity.

Growing Up"

1911-1929.

I come from an old military family whose roots can be traced back into the thirteenth century. Monastic records show that my ancestors fought successfully against the Tartars in Silesia in 1213-since that time they have been allowed to bear a Tartar cap in their coat of arms. Family tradition required service in the Prussian army. The name of von Luck crops up several times in the letters of Frederick the Great; two originals hang in the living room of my house in Hamburg. On 29 May 1759, during the Seven Years War, the King wrote to "Lieutenant von Luck" asking him to find out what the Austrian enemy was up to: My dear Lieutenant von Luck. I am very pleased with your report but you must now try to find out through your patrols what the officers of the Austrians seen near Hermsdorff were doing there and what they were looking for and asking about, then we will soon see from the circ.u.mstances why they were there. This much is certain, when we moved off yesterday, they struck many tents on the Rehom. It can be therefore that where the heights of Hermsdorff dominate, they have recognized our camp. You will be able to find out about all this from the people of Herinsdorff.

I am your affectionate King.

Reich Hennersdorff 29 May 1759 Written by a clerk.) Added by Frederick 11 in his own hand: His report is very good, only (illegible) for spies and when he has them before (him) then he must bring (them) here tomorrow.

Signed F. And ten years later, on 13 October 1769, the King informed his "General of Cavalry von Zieten": My dear General of Cavalry von Zieten. Reluctant as I usually am to grant my Hussar officers permission to marry, owing to the enc.u.mbrance that results, which is too worrying and useless in time of war, I am nevertheless willing this once to yield to the marriage of Cavalry Captain von Luck of your Regiment, for which you sought my consent in your letter of the 11th of this month, and I remain your affectionate King.

Potsdam, the 13th 8 her 1769 The letter was evidently written by a clerk to dictation and signed by Frederick II.) Against the background of this family tradition my father, Otto von Luck, was almost a freak, for he was a naval officer. When I was born, in Flensburg on 15 July 1911, he was with a unit of the fleet, as a lieutenant, in the Chinese port of Tsingtan his way into a world which was accessible at that time only to sailors and merchants.

Our house in Flensburg was full of valuable pieces from East Asia. As the remains of this collection I still treasure today a precious Chinese vase and a j.a.panese tea set which my father had made when I was born. A few years ago a j.a.panese business friend was very impressed when he drank tea with me from these eggsh.e.l.lthin cups. "Nothing like these can be made today," he said. "Earlier, the j.a.panese used to go out in a boat on a quiet lake, before the firing, in order to do the hand-painting free from dust." After the outbreak of the First World War, and after he had taken part in the battle of Jutland, my father was transferred to the naval school in Flensburg-Muerwik. Among my childhood memories, one of the happiest is playing with my younger brother on the wars.h.i.+ps lying in the harbor and eating snacks with the sailors in the galleys. My father was an enthusiastic sportsman and was regarded as the best gymnast in the navy.

Our father was a model for me and for my brother, Ernst -Angust, born in 1913. We loved his sense of humor and his athletic ability. When he came home from work at the naval school, he sometimes came up the stairs to the upper story on his hands, in full uniform, in order to greet us there.

Our generation was born into the First World War. As little children, we lived through its bitter end, the revolution and the difficult years that followed. In contrast to the Second World War, the first took place outside Germany. All we knew of it was the worsening food supply, for turnips in every form became our basic nourishment. We longed for the seamen's diet on the wars.h.i.+ps.

Growing Up, 1911-1929 At the beginning of July 1918, at the time of my seventh birthday, my father died from an influenza virus brought in from Fast Asia. With him we lost the most precious thing in our lives: a model a partner, whose influence on us can still be traced today.

The full implications of the end of the war and the revolution of 1918, which began in the navy, were naturally beyond me. I couldn't understand why the young mids.h.i.+pmen, who had been trained by my father, were now being dragged through the streets by shouting sailors who had been our friends. We found it exciting that one or two cadets fled to us and hid themselves in our attic.

Our father's death changed our lives. Our mother had to give up our house. We found a farmer to stay with in the neighborhood.

To ensure that we were provided for in the hard times, our mother married again. Our stepfather was a naval chaplain and teacher at a cadet school.

We were now brought up in the "Prussian" manner. Our blond hair was cropped into a crew cut, the beds had to be made armystyle.

To be late was to be punished. From our stepfather we learned to take care of ourselves, including all household ch.o.r.es. This stood me in good stead later, especially in captivity.

On 1 April 1917, I was enrolled in the Monastery School in Flensburg, one of the oldest schools in north Germany. My stepfather wanted me to go in for the cla.s.sics, which I have never regretted. Thanks to my study of Latin and Greek, modern languages came very easily to me. My stepfather insisted on my learning the origin of all foreign words. Even at mealtime, the moment I used a foreign word I had to get up from the table, pick up the dictionary, and read out to him the definition of the word employed.

In 1929, at the age of 17, I took my Abitur, or graduation examimates always sent his car and chauffeur for us on weekends, as the nation, which I very nearly missed. The father of one of my cla.s.s family lived outside Flensburg. Once we decided to take a diversion to a little seaside resort on the Firth to meet our girlfriends. Wearing our school caps and smoking cigarettes, we were sitting ostentatiously in the backseat when we overtook our headmaster, who was out for his Sat.u.r.day drive.

Not only was smoking strictly forbidden, but on top of that our headmaster had to swallow our dust. He recognized us and the next morning we were summoned to his study.

"You know that smoking in school caps is forbidden. The staff have decided to exclude you from sitting the Abitur on account of immaturity." My cla.s.smate seemed unimpressed, for one way or another he was going to take over his father's factory. For me things looked differently, everything was at stake.

Family tradition and my stepfather had decided that I was to embark on a career as an army officer. Out of more than a thousand applicants for only about 140 places in the 100,000-strong army, the Reichswehr, I had been accepted. A postponement of the Abitur would have meant the end of my career before it had begun.