After I had been lying there for a few days, our company commander, the young Boy Hansen (German), came to visit me and the other Danes who were in different wards.
He brought the distressing news that von Schalburg had been killed, along with several others. The Frikorps had carried out an assault operation on 2 June against the enemy directly opposite our H.K.L., and Schalburg had fallen together with several others.
The attack had gone very well, and the Russians had been driven out of their positions. Our men had taken many prisoners and captured a large amount of weapons and ammunition, and the Russians had suffered numerous dead. This small operation had such significance that it was mentioned in the Wehrmacht report a few days later.
The commander of the SS Totenkopf Division, General SS Eiche, sent his congratulations and many decorations to the Frikorps on this occasion.
Our dear Tyrolean Oberhuben and Mads had also fallen that day, and Kling had been wounded, later dying from his injuries some time afterward. But the successful execution of the action was not able to erase the pain of losing so many good comrades.
Von Schalburg’s successor as commander of the corps became the German Obersturmbannführer (equivalent to a Danish lieutenant colonel) Lettow-Vorbeck. This commander was very well liked by the Danes, and they were fond of him.
But he was only with us for three days, then he also fell, and the last words he said were to his adjutant, and they were, word for word:
“Grüssen Sie meine tapfere und treue dänische Soldaten” (“Greet my brave and loyal Danish soldiers”).
From that day until the corps’ final day, K.B. Martinsen was the commander. He was at that time a captain in the SS. He was undoubtedly the most respected and most intelligent leader I have known.
He was never afraid to strike, but it was always carefully planned, and not a single man was sacrificed unless it was necessary.
When Boy Hansen had told me how things stood, he took his leave, and it was the last time I saw him; he fell a few days later in heavy fighting, as a brave soldier and a much-loved leader.
That was also a hard blow, but one gradually became accustomed to it, even though it was depressing at the moment. There was so much else to think about.
A few days later I was sent to a convalescent home, located at the other end of Demyansk, and there I met my cousin Peder again, who had also been admitted with swamp fever a couple of days after me.
Now we were together day and night for the rest of the time I was in Russia.
At the convalescent home we had to take more care of ourselves than in the hospital. We fetched our own food and kept the house in order with the help of some Russian women.
In return, we were free to walk around the town during the day, and there was plenty to see. There were large workshops and much else.
There was also a large and beautifully maintained cemetery for fallen soldiers, always kept in the most immaculate condition.
A cinema was also present. It had been built by the Germans, and there I saw a very good film with the wonderful Viennese comedian Hans Moser in the leading role.
Peder and I had some wonderful days in Demyansk, and it was the most beautiful summer weather one could wish for.
Right up to the town there was a large lake, and we went there almost every day to swim, sail, and fish, and we brought packed lunches with us—these were truly splendid outings. There were many small boats we could sail around in.
This lake lay right next to the airfield where we had landed.
One day, while we were at the lake, about fifty Ju 52 transport aircraft had just landed on the field, and shortly afterward some heavy Russian bombers appeared on the horizon. They flew directly over the airfield and over our heads and dropped several heavy bombs on the airfield, causing fires and huge clouds of smoke.
We were afraid they had hit the group of “Tante Ju’s” that had just landed—which was probably also their intention (the “Tante Ju’s” were the only connection the approximately 90,000 soldiers in the “kettle” had with the outside world).
But shortly afterward we were pleasantly surprised to see all the black birds take off in full strength and fly back again, most likely carrying a load of badly wounded soldiers.
Those were the ones who had received a “Heimatschuss” — a term used for a wound that meant you were sent to a hospital in Germany.
The convalescent home also had a section in a forest that stretched up toward the town, consisting of a couple of large pavilions.
When we were nearly recovered, we were sent up there, and it was a wonderful place. There was life and cheerful days. Everyone there was more or less fully recovered and waiting to return to their comrades again.
A large orchestra had been formed there, conducted by a Danish pioneer, an incorrigible joker named Larsen, who was mostly called “Skipper Skræk” or simply “Skipper.”
We had some unforgettable and joyful days there together with many other Danes.
The entire hospital stay described here lasted only 12 to 14 days, after which we were well enough to set out again toward the front lines.
Peder and I were fortunate enough to be discharged at the same time, together with another Dane.
But now we were healthy again, and that meant it was over with having anyone to take care of us. We had to figure out ourselves how to get the roughly 100 km back out to the Frikorps.
We took what we had at hand, namely our own feet and a walking stick, and set off.
It was not at all unpleasant, and we were in the best of spirits. There was much to see, and the weather was wonderful, and last but not least, we had plenty of time to enjoy the journey.
The poor road led through wild forests and over deserted, uncultivated land. Even this wild nature was wonderfully beautiful in its early summer splendour.
There were tall, slender birch trunks, spruce and pine, many kinds of deciduous trees, and wild flowers—all mixed together in the wildest confusion, yet beautiful.
Such beautiful wild nature does not exist in the over-civilized countries of the West. We felt so free and content in these surroundings. It was like being far away from people and their trivial routines, far outside the boundaries of time and place.
We enjoyed it and trudged onward with our walking sticks as our only weapons. Weapons are taken from the sick and wounded.
However, now and then we saw one of nature’s damned hallmarks of so-called civilisation. It appeared in the form of soldiers’ graves, arranged in several places as small cemeteries along the road.
They were beautifully laid out with flowers and small trees. On each grave there was a white birch cross with the carved name of the fallen. A steel helmet stood in the centre of the grave.
There stood these fine graves, silently shouting—but still so eloquently—their message to mankind about its cruel brutality and selfish, hypocritical reasons for allowing millions of young men to be killed, and leaving even more millions of broken and unhappy homes behind, all so that a clique of financiers could continue to live with the power to decide over life and death for their fellow human beings, a power which the same clique’s ancestors have held since time immemorial.
From what I have seen of the war at the front and behind its scenes, I have never doubted that there is no more ruthless and sanctimonious predator than man, who truly deserves the death and destruction he himself brings upon himself.
Later that day we were fortunate enough to be allowed to ride in a vehicle to Lasnitzi. We reached the town in the evening without major difficulties. Here we received the latest news from our comrades and slept there overnight.
The next morning we continued on foot with our walking sticks, but that day we were also lucky enough to catch a ride in a truck to Biakowo.
In Biakowo we saw von Schalburg’s grave, which was there and beautifully maintained. But we were somewhat shocked when we learned that the Frikorps had withdrawn and was no longer there, and even worse, no one knew where the corps had gone.