Alliedassault - View Single Post

RandyShughart · **ANOTHER New Story (my best one so far) -** 06-06-2004, 03:42 AM

Keep in mind that this story was written from the point of view of a regular German soldier, fighting against the Russians in Berlin. It is what he sees, not what history sees.

A Hope Long Lost

It was late in April of 1945. The Third Reich was in shambles in and around Berlin. My division was one of the last remaining regular divisions, other than the SS. As I stood on the steps of the Reichstag, looking out over the smoldering pile of rubble that was once the beautiful home of a once powerful force and hearing the not so distant pop of gunfire, I lit up a cigarette, knowing very well, it may be my last.

As I stood there pondering how I ever got caught up in this mess, how the Third Reich ever sunk this deep, I realized that we were fighting for the wrong cause. We had been fighting for approximately six years trying to conquer Europe. I then realized we had to keep fighting. We had to stay alive, if not for the good of Germany, then for the good of Europe.

We all knew, as humans, not as Germans, that if the Russians took control of Europe, they would exact revenge for their slain comrades not on the soldiers they had fought, but the citizens of this once great, but now war torn Europe. We could not allow this to happen.

The Americans were closing in from the West, while the Ruskis were banging on Berlin’s Eastern gate. To one, the situation seems hopeless, but if we could only manage to hold out until the Americans arrived, we might have a chance at survival.

Attacks made by the Russians were beginning to occur more frequently. In some extreme cases, maybe even three a day. And with all these attacks came the piling casualty count. I knew we couldn’t hold them off much longer. The thought on everyone’s mind was “When will those damn yanks show up?”

The rain storms had begun late in March and still continued. I once heard an American POW say “April showers bring May flowers.” I couldn’t see how they could call it a shower, for it did not wash away the stains of blood from my uniform.

The Russians had crossed the Oder River and were already in the suburbs of Berlin. I was sent to a housing sector to help hold off the Russians. As I walked toward my position from using the toilet, I walked past a young boy, maybe 15 or so. He was wearing a Hitler Youth uniform and sitting in a shallow foxhole. I knelt down beside him.

“What are you doing here? You should be at home.” I asked. To this, he replied,

“I have no home. My father was killed at Stalingrad. My mother, taken by drunken Russians and my younger sister was executed. I have nowhere else to be.”

I was not surprised. I, too, had fought in the Godforsaken hellhole of Stalingrad and knew what it was like. I had heard rumors of Russians raping young women and little girls, then executing them so they wouldn’t talk. These were the atrocities that we had to fight against. I do not deny that similar atrocities were committed by the SS and some of the Heer, or regular army, but not in such numbers as the Russians. I told the boy,

“If you choose to stay, at least hide in a basement of a house. Take some men and some Panzerfausts and fire at the Russian tanks as they appear.”

“Yes, sir.” He replied. He went back to the ammo dump.

A few days later, the Russians had mounted a full scale assault on Berlin. Bombers, tanks, artillery, infantry, almost everything one could think of was bearing down on the now crumbling defenses.

The house where I sat had a view of the Reichstag, which dominated the view out of that particular window. I fired my rifle at the passing Russians, who didn’t seem to notice me. They began to storm the Reichstag and within minutes, a Red Army soldier appeared on the roof triumphantly waving the soviet flag.

As I ran out of ammunition, I set my weapon down on the floor and put my back against the wall below the window. I began to think back to the days where my unit would march with our heads held high, triumphantly waving to the cheering crowds. The most recent time I remembered that happening was in 1940 when we captured Paris. I brought my knees up to my chin and began to cry. I cried and wept for I realized that the hope I had to make it out alive…was a hope long lost.

What do you think?

	(#1)
RandyShughart is Offline Senior Member Posts: 100 Join Date: Jan 2004 Location: Bunker Hill, IL	ANOTHER New Story (my best one so far) - 06-06-2004, 03:42 AM Keep in mind that this story was written from the point of view of a regular German soldier, fighting against the Russians in Berlin. It is what he sees, not what history sees. A Hope Long Lost It was late in April of 1945. The Third Reich was in shambles in and around Berlin. My division was one of the last remaining regular divisions, other than the SS. As I stood on the steps of the Reichstag, looking out over the smoldering pile of rubble that was once the beautiful home of a once powerful force and hearing the not so distant pop of gunfire, I lit up a cigarette, knowing very well, it may be my last. As I stood there pondering how I ever got caught up in this mess, how the Third Reich ever sunk this deep, I realized that we were fighting for the wrong cause. We had been fighting for approximately six years trying to conquer Europe. I then realized we had to keep fighting. We had to stay alive, if not for the good of Germany, then for the good of Europe. We all knew, as humans, not as Germans, that if the Russians took control of Europe, they would exact revenge for their slain comrades not on the soldiers they had fought, but the citizens of this once great, but now war torn Europe. We could not allow this to happen. The Americans were closing in from the West, while the Ruskis were banging on Berlin’s Eastern gate. To one, the situation seems hopeless, but if we could only manage to hold out until the Americans arrived, we might have a chance at survival. Attacks made by the Russians were beginning to occur more frequently. In some extreme cases, maybe even three a day. And with all these attacks came the piling casualty count. I knew we couldn’t hold them off much longer. The thought on everyone’s mind was “When will those damn yanks show up?” The rain storms had begun late in March and still continued. I once heard an American POW say “April showers bring May flowers.” I couldn’t see how they could call it a shower, for it did not wash away the stains of blood from my uniform. The Russians had crossed the Oder River and were already in the suburbs of Berlin. I was sent to a housing sector to help hold off the Russians. As I walked toward my position from using the toilet, I walked past a young boy, maybe 15 or so. He was wearing a Hitler Youth uniform and sitting in a shallow foxhole. I knelt down beside him. “What are you doing here? You should be at home.” I asked. To this, he replied, “I have no home. My father was killed at Stalingrad. My mother, taken by drunken Russians and my younger sister was executed. I have nowhere else to be.” I was not surprised. I, too, had fought in the Godforsaken hellhole of Stalingrad and knew what it was like. I had heard rumors of Russians raping young women and little girls, then executing them so they wouldn’t talk. These were the atrocities that we had to fight against. I do not deny that similar atrocities were committed by the SS and some of the Heer, or regular army, but not in such numbers as the Russians. I told the boy, “If you choose to stay, at least hide in a basement of a house. Take some men and some Panzerfausts and fire at the Russian tanks as they appear.” “Yes, sir.” He replied. He went back to the ammo dump. A few days later, the Russians had mounted a full scale assault on Berlin. Bombers, tanks, artillery, infantry, almost everything one could think of was bearing down on the now crumbling defenses. The house where I sat had a view of the Reichstag, which dominated the view out of that particular window. I fired my rifle at the passing Russians, who didn’t seem to notice me. They began to storm the Reichstag and within minutes, a Red Army soldier appeared on the roof triumphantly waving the soviet flag. As I ran out of ammunition, I set my weapon down on the floor and put my back against the wall below the window. I began to think back to the days where my unit would march with our heads held high, triumphantly waving to the cheering crowds. The most recent time I remembered that happening was in 1940 when we captured Paris. I brought my knees up to my chin and began to cry. I cried and wept for I realized that the hope I had to make it out alive…was a hope long lost. What do you think?