This video presents Johann Voss's personal account of serving in the Waffen-SS Gebirgsjägerregiment 11 during World War II, exploring the profound moral and psychological challenges of reconciling one's past with present circumstances. Voss, writing from a POW camp, grapples with questions of identity, loyalty, and conscience, ultimately concluding that one must hold fast to fundamental values while recognizing that no authority—whether national, religious, or military—should demand unconditional commitment. The narrative demonstrates that moral integrity requires balancing individual freedom with collective responsibility, and that true conscience serves as the essential safeguard against abuse of power, regardless of the circumstances or the perceived righteousness of one's cause.
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7 | Black Edelweiss | Serving in the Waffen-SS Gebirgsjägerregiment 11追加:
Black ilis chapter nine in no man's land while writing down my account of the past I am still confined to the prisoner of war camp at Romaley by day my companions and I are occupied with various jobs Pete is an assistant to an American dentista a storekeeper I interpret in the hospital cage and recently sometimes even in the military police station downtown helping out the GIS with French. My life involves talking to all kinds of doctors, American soldiers, and German prisoners, reading the stars and stripes, and to some extent watching the way of life in the US Army.
This character of the world in which I live during the day is determined by fundamental truths that have resulted from the outcome of the war and are uncontested as a whole, even among my German fellow prisoners. The basic truth here is that the war against Germany was a crusade against the arch evil embodied by Hitler and his henchmen, the SS in particular.
At night, however, when I return to my writing, I enter a different world, a world with truths of its own that resulted from a period when the outcome of the war was still undecided, and wherein the arch evil was the communist enemy in the east.
Some fortitude is required to change from one world to the other, and I can never wholly escape the doubt about whether the past ought best be forgotten, since it ended in such singular catastrophe, above all for the people some thought to be inferior, but also for ourselves.
Is there a more convincing proof of the falseness of all our former truths?
There is another nagging doubt. Am I giving up my own self in the course of concealing my true identity as a volunteer of the wuffnesses? Am I leaving behind the person I was together with the dead and the outlaws and trying to reach the other side the land of the righteous? Am I already wandering about in a moral no man's land.
How I wish there was someone to discuss these doubts with, someone my own age who shared the same ideas with whom I could speak in confidence regarding my past and my predicament. However, I am by myself in these surroundings unable to reveal myself in the hostile atmosphere of these days. So sometimes I take to siloquis with my alter ego something rather intricate.
It goes something like this.
Here you are on your own now, out in the open, groping in an unknown environment for an idea of a decent future life. If you aren't prepared to defect to the land of the righteous, where then are you going? And who is your guide?
It's hard for me to find my way in this new condition where facts and values are surrounded by uncertainties and doubts.
But I hope my orientation won't fail. I must rely on the old spirit.
And what my dear force actually is the old spirit and what is it telling you now? Hold fast to the old values despite all those horrible revelations or feel sorry for yourself for the rest of your life. Aren't you too young for that? No.
Neither way, not blind loyalty, but not total abjuration either. Not of the basic values at least, and don't give into self-pity. What is still valid, I think, is loyalty to one's country. So one must continue to serve one's country. I do my best under the circumstances. Do I abandon my old self by proceeding as such?
No, certainly not. It sounds convincing as a general rule. But remember where your service has gotten you and your country. Who would dare say today that you and the old spirit served your country well? Don't get me confused now with our former leadership. All right.
Your service didn't cause the catastrophe, but it was instrumental to it, wasn't it? That doesn't say much.
It's true of any military service if you agree that the war itself was a catastrophe from the outset.
All the same, you said continue to serve. First of all, there won't be any continuation, if at all, we must start from zero.
Whatever it is, it's we who continue to be the ones who are left and the land that is left and from which we'll have to continue to ring a living, our country.
All right, but how do you think it could work in practice? Your country will be has to be some sort of organized community and most probably the rules of that community will be inconsistent with our old self. Maybe a country you won't even want to serve. Don't forget you are an outlaw and judging from the newspapers, it seems likely that the new country too will regard you as such.
Still bound by the old loyalty to the old spirit. No need for crossing the line.
We'll see what can be rescued of the old spirit. At least it won't be inconsistent with the responsibility our country must take on for what has been done to the inferiors. I am quite confident there will be new causes that are worth the effort. I'll have to make my choice when the time is there. We had to make choices before, hadn't we?
Besides, I rather thought of a modest, inconspicuous way to serve, the way we did before. Well, let's leave it at that for the time being.
Discussions with my real companions are different. They are more abstract, more philosophical. Normally, at our age, the three of us would be at university now.
And of course, they start from the new varities.
Nevertheless, they are helping me to find my way. Only last Sunday afternoon, Pete, Walta, and I had another one of these discussions when Pete and I, we returned from our Greek lessons with the Protestant chaplain.
Walta is Austrian, or to be more precise, a vianese, tall, haggard, with a distinct aqualine nose between deep set almost black eyes that made me think of Paganini when I first met him. He was called up for service straight after leaving school. Valar is the intellectual among us. He has a piercing analytical mind, is well- read, and in my opinion, a cynic. Pete is different in almost every way. Coming from a Hamburg family, he is sturdy, strong, blonde with blue eyes, a believer rather than an intellectual, optimistic compared to Vala, who always leans toward the gloomy side. When Pete and I entered our tent back from our lesson, we were received by Waltar with one of his typical sarcasms.
Ah, our disciples of Greek are back. Are our educational aspirations satisfied for today? H I hope our distinguished teacher has brought us safely through the Greek alphabet.
Valta was lying on his fieldcot, hands clasped behind his neck, meditating as usual. Without turning his head towards us, he continued, "I wonder what you think you'll gain from Greek. Believe me, it's of no use. At least it's been of no use to me." On the contrary, my education kept me from learning English.
Do I owe my steep career climb in this cage from storeman to storekeeper to Greek?
Not that I know of. Was it of any use to me in the army? No, sir. On the contrary, again, I learned very quickly never to mention my knowledge of Greek, not even that I had been a student at the gumnazium.
Well, for as for me, there's a simple practical reason. Pete took up Valta's skepticism. I want to know the roots of so many medical terms derived from Greek. I'm certain it will help me a lot at university.
Maybe yes. And what about you, Yan? Also interested in ethmology. It's not as obvious as with Pete.
Well, no, you're right. Although it's obvious that you need something to occupy your mind with, I replied rather lamely. I had no desire to let myself be drawn into another one of our discussions that often turned acidic.
What? Walt exploded. Need to occupy your mind? My dear Yan, I don't know how to unload my mind from the heap of problems that keep troubling me. Can you explain to me, for instance, how it could happen that I am stuck in this goddamn cage, although I did everything to stay out of this mess? How did all of this come about? What were the mechanisms at work?
Those are only some of the questions my mind is occupied with day and night.
Don't even start to think, Walter, that you are the only one troubled with these questions, I replied. Privileged as you are with knowing Greek, however, I think the philosophers would make it easy for you to solve your problems. H Are you thinking of someone in particular? Yes.
Plato's state just crossed my mind. The chaplain and I talked about it the other day. Little as I know of him, I would think that you could find some answers there. Wasn't he born into a war as we were? And didn't he know from experience that an individual cannot exist except with a community and that in turn the individual owes certain obligations to the state so that both will survive? I think that's an answer to your question, isn't it? It's a wisdom as old as philosophy. It's a strong argument for Greek, by the way. Dah old and rotten, Walter retorted passionately, rising from his cot. The very idea of the individual as a subordinate of the state is the root of all evil in the history of man. It's the same with the church.
It always ended with the oppression of man by the ruling class in the name of some higher entity. The enlightenment put reason in the place of the authority of the church. The French Revolution restored the natural freedom of the individual. His freedom from state authorities all in vain. Somehow the old institutions and patronage returned or prevailed. Incredible but true. If the state would only ensure that everybody can look after his own interests, all would be fine. Harmony would be the result brought about by the invisible hand of reason. You ever heard about the invisible hand of reason? That's the wisdom of the modern age. Plato's state, my dear Johan is dead.
Va sat down on Pete's field court opposite mine, ready for a new round of discussion.
I am no expert in this. I don't know whether Plato's ideas are that in the world of philosophy, I said, but I do know they are alive in the real world.
Aren't we constantly dealing with national states and the endless rivalries and in the last decades also with aggressive organizations like the comment? The question is how to prevail in this world where insoluble issues are fought out in wars. Individual freedom is fine as long as there is peace. You can't prevail though can't fight or prepare for a war on the basis of individualism. If everybody only looks after his own personal interests, a state cannot exist, nor can a nation.
both will perish in the world of reality and with them the rest of your personal freedom you can only enjoy within an organized community. Thank goodness there are people who feel there are values that reach beyond one's own self and that are worth sacrificing some of one's precious individuality.
You just won't learn, V replied. If it weren't for people like you, always eager to make sacrifices for the so-called common good, people like Hitler or Stalin would never succeed.
You are nothing. Your people are all that matter. That's what you were taught in the Reich. It's the philosophy of all totalitarian systems. They depend on people like you. The evil lies with the idealists. God save us from the faithful, the patriots, the dogooders.
It wasn't Walter's first challenge, but this time it was unmistakably serious.
He was glaring at me with flashing eyes, waiting for me to reply.
H, now you're talking nonsense, Walter.
It's not the philosophy of totalitarian systems. It's true of all states.
Neither Churchill nor Roosevelt could have waged war without suspending individual freedom and relying on the idealists to whom I gladly profess allegiance. With individualists, both would have lost their war long since, which I'm afraid is not quite what you had in mind, I added accusingly. I can see no virtue in individualism nor reason. In the world we are living in, it comes down to egoism, selfishness.
What's the opinion of a medic on that? I added, seeing that the discussion with Valta wouldn't get us anywhere.
Well, coming from my practicing Protestant family, I must raise objections against both of your attitudes, Pete began. I don't know what to do with the state, the common goal, the invisible hand of reason, liberalism, and all that. A Christian simply wants to help his fellow human beings. Love thy neighbor is the guiding principle. Doing that, you have to make sacrifices to give away much of your personal interests and freedom. It's quite natural. Yes, there will always be sacrifices for goals that reach beyond your own self, but in the name of God rather than in the name of the people, which is a questionable authority. And then yes, there must be freedom of the individual, freedom to act as a Christian. As long as you are aware of that, I mean, of serving God, you are secure from sacrifices in the name of evil and from egoism and selfishness.
It's all quite simple, he smiled at us.
It's too simple. Wa said. Must I enumerate all the evil done in the world in the name of Christianity? There is no security against abuse as long as man will continue to act in the name of some higher authority. First subordination, then devotion and slavish obedience, fanaticism, inquisition, security police, and in the end slavery and death for all who want to resist. It's so obvious after all we have been through.
No more altruism, Christian or national.
No more idealists, for these are the elements of collectivism, which is the arch enemy of individual freedom and is the reason why I am here.
Sophism, Walter, pure sophism, Pete protested. With that, you won't overthrow basic principles of Christian religion. So obvious to me that it is a natural virtue of man to want to serve a cause that reaches beyond his own self.
Of course, it must be safeguarded against abuse, namely by the conscience, sharpened by the principles of our religion. The safeguard of conscience may fail with the weak, but it is there.
It's the true and natural authority within ourselves.
I have severe reservations too, Va. I said, nothing of your chain of events was bound to happen, nor were there events linked together by altruism and idealism. There always were so many factors and vectors involved, each oscillating continuously from weak to strong that any outcome, the obvious, as well as the inconceivable is possible. I simply can't accept the view that with national socialism, it was clear from the outset where it would end, anything could have happened, even peace after the Anelos, and perhaps even after our campaign in Poland and France. All the same, one lesson is clear. Never again must there be any public authority without active popular control.
In writing down the details of this discussion, it becomes quite clear there is much truth in Pete's view. There must be some reasonable combination of altruism and individualism to combat both egoism and collectivism. The core of individual freedom must be preserved under all circumstances, even in war.
And there must be no such thing as unconditional commitment. I think that is the lesson we learn from our experience.
Perhaps partly out of an intellectual thirst and partly from a desire for more congenial surroundings, I suddenly wished I would harden work in my grandmother's library to have a closer look into Plato's state and into the philosophers of the Enlightenment.
Chapter 10. The 66th parallel.
The messenger stood before us. We hadn't noticed him in the twilight that enveloped the snow-covered woodland. The motionless white figure seemed a mere part of the frozen environment, leaning against a fur helmet and parker covered with a hooded snowshirt, his right arm resting on the black barrel of the machine pistol that hung horizontally under his shoulder.
Even now, pushing himself off the trunk and coming closer, his face could barely be seen. Only his eyes were visible under the brim of his helmet as he watched our small group.
We were assembled on the path leading to the front line. I started to report name, rank, and assignment. The messenger made a motion of his hand to indicate that I should lower my voice.
He spoke softly when he greeted us and shook hands with me and the other four replacements. I was to go with him to the outcome fleer, the main combat line.
But first, we had to take the other four to the [ __ ] imp placement which was nearby. He pointed to the right where the path disappeared between the birch trees and the furs around the foot of the little hill. It was the first time I heard mortars called mongos.
As we were taking up our gear, one of our group let his rifle butt clank against his metal gas mask container.
The messenger quickly stepped up to the man, took his rifle off his back, arranged it under his right shoulder so that the barrel pointed down, and gently laid the man's hand on top. I understood that the Russians were within earshot.
And now, for the first time on this day, I noticed how still everything was around us, a frozen stillness that seemed to be the very nature of this strange terrain.
The messenger motioned the group to the path, and we set off in single file for the [ __ ] imp placement. He pointed up the hill. Right over there behind is the HKL, the main combat line, he said. On the hill, the thin stand of furs and birches stood out still in black from the snow and the semi- darkness of the sky. The mortar platoon imp placement was almost invisible. Only when standing in front of a ditch leading to an entrance did I realize that the flat mount on top of the burrow was the top of a snow-covered bunker.
The messenger and my four companions disappeared in the first bunker, leaving me waiting outside for a while.
We had come with the mules from the rear echelon up to here. It had been a march of about 2 hours, trudging along the supply trail in single file. The mules accompanied us with their warm smell, their soft snorts, and the creaking of the wicker baskets that swung at their sides in the rhythm of their steady pace. After a while, I was lulled into a semi-hypnotic state, strangely possessed by a monotonous song I had heard at Ulu, the seapport. Trivially romantic stuff in Ulu.
We have landed there at Ulu. Our dreams sank into the sea. It expressed the sentiments of those who saw themselves against all their zealous expectations banished to the ass of the earth as this remote Arctic region generally was called.
For the last kilometer we had been on our own. The mule drivers had stayed back and described the way to the spot where we would meet the messenger. And yet, standing here in the darkness at this strange place, I felt I hadn't arrived yet. I was still somewhere in between a former and a future existence.
I had seen the contrast of both when more than a week ago we were putting out to see and were watching the coast of East Prussia disappear in the night. I had been there at that coast 6 years ago in the sun on the beach of Palniken with Nick and the other boys of our hiking group. I was diving for amber then in the surf again and again and I would throw the pieces I had found on the hot sand proud and full of joy. Now leaving the coast on a troop ship, I understood that now it wasn't a time for fun on the beach. It was a time to serve, a time of duty. It was as if I was leaving somebody back on that coast, an old acquaintance of mine whom I hadn't seen for quite a while. There were other strange moments on the way to the front when our ship was maneuvering through the marvels of the archipelago of Toku and we were looking over the railing down on the numerous green islands adorned with little red painted huts and boats when we were amused at the toylike woodf fired locomotive that was to take our train to the north and when eventually after our arrival at the port of Ulu we were sitting in our huts together with our comrades.
All were but fleeting phrases in the prelude to my new life.
There at our base at Ulu, we had received our new equipment, winter uniform items in particular. The camp was in a grove at the outskirts of the little town. The camp was comprised of dispersed huts, and the aromatic smell of wood smoke filled the air. The first snow of the early winter decked the ground throughout the camp. In the few evenings while waiting for our transport, we sat in the canteen drinking and singing, sometimes being joined by some of the veterans of our division's motorized infantry battalion, SS Shutsenbayon 6, located in reserve there. On the third morning, I had seen off the first batch of replacements to the front. They were a resolute pack of young volunteers sitting in the rear of the trucks with eager faces under their helmets, framed by the furlined hoods of their parkas, rifles upright between their knees. The chance of running into one of them or someone of my former training company out there was small.
Another farewell then, some brave smiles, some waving, and the transport quickly vanished into the whirling snow.
Cigarette. I spun around facing the messenger who silently had returned from the bunker. My revery was over.
Thanks. I lit the match for him, cupping the flame. For the first time, I could see his features more closely. He had a pleasant, clean shaven young face and light hair. He was only two or three years older than I, but looked seasoned.
Under his halfopen parker, I could see the ribbon of the iron cross.
Welcome again," he said in a soft way of speaking that I'd become accustomed to.
"You know, it's the heavy machine gun company of our battalion you're going to, the 14th. The gun I will bring you to is integrated in the sector of the other mountain infantry regiment in our division, pretty near the Ivan, hardly 150 m distant. Over there is our company command post," he continued, pointing in the direction opposite the [ __ ] imp placement. "The chief wants to see you in the morning. I'll take you there.
Turning ahead, he pointed to the left.
Over there is a lake. That's where the sector of our regiment ends toward the north. On the other side of the lake, the positions of our sister regiment begin, stretching farther up to the north and ending nowhere in the swamps and lakes with only some strong points.
That's the north flank, which was a common expression with us. And over there to the right runs the road to Lori, the road as we call it. That's where other parts of our regiment are positioned on both sides of it. I nodded to all he had said, but I must have looked somewhat perplexed. I had understood nothing. All I could perceive was that the division's positions were concealed somewhere in this snow-covered, thinly wooded environment.
"You'll figure it out for yourself before long," he said. We put out our cigarettes. "Let's go and be quiet.
There are snipers over there, even when it's dark." He went ahead along the path up the hill. Suddenly, I heard a pistol shot. A flare hissed skyward, quivering high above the ground and casting a tremulous white magnesium light over the sparse birch trees and carnifers. Black stripes shaded the snow. Both of us stood frozen on the flat top of the hill. He from experience and I from awe.
Now I could see that the slope ended in a depression which extended to what a hill opposite ours. I tried in vain to discover the enemy positions. The messenger said were only 150 m away. The flare went out and another sword up. At that moment, further down on our side, a machine pistol opened up, firing two short bursts. Then the sustained fire of a machine gun followed. Immediately, all hell broke loose. From the opposite hill, two machine guns opened fire. To the left, another one of our machine guns joined in. I remained standing upright in the shade of a tree, just as if I were a bystander, uninvolved in what was happening in front of us, only that there were strange sounds all around me.
Take cover. Hit the ground, man. The messenger shouted. He was lying flat in a small hollow. I came down in the same second, suddenly realizing that we were amidst the scattered fire of a Russian machine gun that was raking the surface of the hill and hitting the trunks with sharp smacks. It dawned on me that I had just escaped an early death, a stupid and entirely useless one. Over here, the messenger shouted. With a few jumps, I was at his side. Down in front, short burps of submachine guns mixed with the other small arms fire. The messenger cursed. He pointed down the slope. Over there, the ditch. We must be in there before they start off with their mongos.
I will jump first. You follow me right away, he hissed. When the messenger darted off, I heard the mortar discharges on the other side. Pop, pop, pop, pop. I waited. Then the bursts of the first round came hurrying up the slope. Wham! Wham! Wham! In rapid succession. "Now quick!" the messenger yelled, and up I jumped and landed beside him in the ditch. The reality of the front line was tougher and cruer than I had imagined, reminding me of the surprise in my boxing lessons in the Yungfolk camp when I got hit full in the face for the first time. More mortar fire followed with shells bursting all over the hill, and there were more firings on both sides in between. But the messenger, disregarding the turmoil, rushed forward along the system of ditches we were in now, ducking and running, while I kept stumbling and panting behind. Suddenly hearing the swish of another shell quite close, we took cover on the floor of the ditch.
Instantly I was shocked by the blast of the shell bursting right on the parapet.
When I came to the messenger was kneeling beside me. You all right? Yes, yes, quite all right. I think it's over, he said.
I got up and looked over the parapet where the impact had torn a dirty gap, but the woodland around us was dark and still as before. I felt a sharp pain behind my left ear and realized that when I had thrown myself down on the floor, I had been hit hard by the butt of my rifle.
The bunker was right behind the next corner. A curved ditch led down to the entrance. A few steps and we stopped short in front of the crude door. We could hear a tune being played on the harmonica coming from within. The messenger grinned and pushed the door open. Nobody was there except for a fire guard slowly emerging from the dark background and casually knocking out his instrument in his palm. "You're a fine one playing your harmonica while hell is breaking loose outside," the messenger said and shook hands with the blackhaired sturdy man. "It's just because of the noise," he said with a broad grin. "Gets on my nerves." "And whom do we have here?" "Our replacement, I guess." "Ah, right. It's Yan Foss and this is Hines Bmer rifleman three on this gun.
We shook hands. I had a look around. It was a dugout built for seven, warmed by a small stove and lit by a carbide lamp that gave off a blue white light and a pungent smell. In the back, squeezed under the low ceiling of thick logs, were some bunk beds crudely joined together by spruce sticks and sprigs.
The side walls were also solid blocks of logs. There was a neat gun rack, a little table, and two benches around it.
On the walls, all sorts of equipment were stashed. Ammunition, clothes, felt boots, and among others, two expanded artillery shell casings connected with the outside by a string.
The others returned in a moment. First in was a group of three with white covered helmets, their faces flushed with excitement, and all armed to the teeth. They squeezed themselves through the narrow entrance with easy practiced movements. The silver runes on their right collar patches glinted in the light of the carbide lamp. They were all talking at the same time, animated by the short fight. I gathered that a Russian patrol must have been lying for hours in the snow, not far in front of our positions to wait for its chance to jump into our ditch. One of the three who had just come in, a blonde one called Schmidten, recounted in a strong Cur accent how he had been on guard, had fired the flares, and then was lucky enough to kill the first one of the patrol. The Russian had jumped up right in front of him, but entangled his submachine gun in his own snowshirt, and enabled Schmidt to get the better of him. The other Russians had been caught by our machine gun fire, and with their attack stalled, the rest had taken flight, probably with some casualties.
The three of them removed their helmets and stashed their rifles into the rack.
Two others were still out in the ditch.
One they called their altar, the old one, and the first gunner named Hinrich.
I was standing in the background by a bunk. They hadn't noticed me. Then I saw the alter coming in. A submachine gun hung across his lean figure. A pair of deep set eyes peered out under the brim of his steel helmet, and a wide mouth formed two strong parallel lines above the square jaw. It was a face like a woodcut.
"Attention," he called, while he slowly filled his two pouches with new magazines for his machine pistol. "Order of the chief. You stay as you are, all of you. No taking off your boots, no sleeping, absolutely no schnups. Ivan might try again before long."
He had spoken in a calm, commanding voice, salted by a very strong upper Clesian dialect, his protrusive Adam's apple bopping up and down his long throat. He was the leader of this gun section, about 25 years old, one of the old guard who had joined up before the war.
Just as I was going to report to him, he spotted me. Hey, soldier, who are you?
The others, too, then noticed me. The messenger had already left. I went forward, saluted, and reported for duty.
His salute was casual. A thin smile went over his face. Perhaps my report had turned out a bit too snappily for these wizard combat veterans.
He sized me up. Both of us were feeling the certain difference between the old and the young volunteers. His manner was neither cold nor warm. His nickname, though, appeared quite appropriate to me, as he obviously was the oldest and the most seasoned of the squad. His stern nutcracker face also matched with the name. He seemed to enjoy a considerable mutual respect among the men of his squad.
Put your things on the bunk in the upper left. In case of an alarm, don't come out under any circumstances. And turning to the others, take care of him.
I shook hands with the others and answered their questions about my personal and military backgrounds. Such was my first encounter with the front line. I arrived in a still forest, experienced an explosion of violence, and had a friendly reception in the bunker. The vague notions about my new assignment now had found their form. the land, the front and the faces of my new comrades. Here in this setting of icy marshes and swamps, of snow-covered woodland, of brooks and lakes, of a frontline clutching at a forn slope, and rips of land at the 66th degree north latitude, the Arctic Circle, I had met what would from now on be my home, my life, and my fate, the third battalion.
So that's how it goes in war, I guess.
Our man arrives and suddenly he gets shot at without warning. At least his welcome committee inside the bunker was a lot more friendly than what we've seen in the other books. It's almost like they actually care about him. Either way, what I found interesting was him mentioning them using mules as transport. That's cute and you may laugh, but jokes on you because the German army still uses them to this day in some mountain units. And apparently they are super effective. Dosile don't need much food and can carry quite a lot of stuff. About 80 of these are active in the so-called beast of burden company. That's the actual translation of the name. And they serve for about 15 years each and have their own NATO stock number. As such, they are standardized material items of supply. And finally, I had to laugh when the author recounts the story of the failed trench raid by the Russians and how one of the SS guys apparently talked with the thick Cologne dialect because the greater Cologne area is where I live currently and the local dialect is very thick and sounds rather comical to me. So, in my mind, the scene played out immediately with this seasoned war fighter blabbering on in a way that sounds like a comedy skit. Oh, and his buddy Walt in the beginning sounds like a gradea nihilist. Anyway, combat is upon our man. Let's see how he fares. See you next time.
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