This video presents Johann Voss's personal account of his training with the SS-Gebirgsjägerregiment 11 'Reinhard Heydrich' in February 1943, revealing that despite the unit's reputation as politically indoctrinated fanatics, the actual training focused on athletic preparation for modern warfare, with officers selected from the best soldiers and treated with respect. However, Voss's experience witnessing Jewish prisoners being abused during a train journey to Finland marked his first encounter with the dark side of the Third Reich, demonstrating how even well-intentioned soldiers can be confronted with atrocities that challenge their moral compass.
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6 | Black Edelweiss | Serving in the Waffen-SS Gebirgsjägerregiment 11Added:
Black ilis chapter 7 Jagger training February 1943 our platoon had ascended the steep slope on skis in combat gear with full equipment. We assembled on the saddle of the Toronto some 1,800 m above the Kernik on one side and the valley of the Zals on the other. Panting and leaning on our ski poles, we enjoyed the short break. Clad in snowshirts with hoods drawn over our mountain caps, we were discernable only by the machine guns, the rifles and our other military equipment against the general whiteness of our surroundings, a whiteness that dazzled in the intense midday sun. Some had removed their caps and revealed sharp contrasts between the white skin of their hairlines and the dark tan of their faces. Our lips were covered with a thick layer of cream, our eyes protected by blue tinted glasses with gleaming aluminum frames.
We had received our tans during field training over the last few weeks. The time had proved extremely demanding, making up for the absence of the military drill that regular recruits must endure on the parade ground.
Accommodations were of Spartan simplicity. put up in two lodges, one of them on top, the other huddled to the side of the saddle. The company rose at dawn, washed outside in the snow, performed calisthenics, ate breakfast, and then began ski instruction and other high mountain training, such as traversing ice fields, building igloos, and so on. The snow on the ridge was hard and iced over, as the wind up here gave no rest to anything loose, and the sun melted what was left of the fresh snow. Less than 10 km away, the white massive of the Vatzman stood out against the blue sky. Here on our side of the lake, the whole girl and the Schnipstein towered north and south of the saddle.
The spectacular tableau was a grand sight indeed. Looking around in the midst of my comrades, I thought that this was what I had wanted.
Before we finished the morning's exercise, we would have one more downhill run. At the moment, we were practicing gun displacement. Our machine guns were mounted on akias, small boatlike sleds that were guided by three men harnessed to each, two in front and a machine gunner in the back. The first gun got ready. Rifles tightly slung across the back and ammunition cases strapped to the body, the three men with the aka formed their triangle and off they went. The leader went ahead, the machine gun unit behind, the other Jagger following. All of them rushing down in wide swinging turns, moving in full harmony. The last week's ski training was paying off. Soon they would disappear behind a rock, and then it was our turn.
Fresh snow fell in the afternoon. We returned to the lodge early. After supper, I stood guard duty for the first two hours of the night. Gusts of wind drove snow over the ridge and around the house, piling up drifts in the lee.
Inside, in the light shining through the curtains, my comrades were singing. Our repertoire then had a distinct South Tyrrollian touch for the majority of our company came from that region. Their national anthem, a song of gladness and praise of South Tyrroll, had become the battalion's main song.
Shine mine.
The world so great and wide and full of bright sunshine, but the most beautiful part of all is still that home of mine.
In a cramped room with the large tiled stove, the men sat tightly packed around ashts scrub white. The NCOs's were among them, and the company commander Hopped Schmfer Fonhartman dropped in regularly.
We recruits respected him greatly, and he seemed to have a soft spot in his heart for us. His training program was tough, but he always ensured that we found pleasure in the performance of our duty. He was a handsome man, and he had style, dark-haired, cultivated of barrerian nobility. His mother allegedly came from Hungary. In his features, however, there were also distinct marks of toughness and willpower. A wounded leg forced him to walk with a stick, which he did with grace. The iron cross on the left side of his tunic added to the overall image of a seasoned veteran whom we could admire and be inspired to emulate.
Often on those evenings at the lodge, he would play his guitar and teach us new songs.
When I was relieved from the guard post, a welcome surprise was waiting for me.
Our platoon leader ordered me and three others to go down to the village of Kernig the next morning for provisions.
To receive that duty was a privilege, almost as good as being on leave.
Normally, our supplies would come up with the mules. But when there was heavy snowfall more than 1 m deep, the pack animals with their large wicker baskets strapped to their sides would get stuck before they reached our station.
Living the life of monks, every one of us used to look forward to a few hours of village life, no matter how innocent the diversion offered.
There was another very special reason for my anticipation. If I was lucky, I would find Christina there, as I learned from her last letter, as a leader of the young medal. He was assigned to one of the hotels at Kernix that had been turned into a camp of the Kinderan Shikong, that is accommodations in remote regions of Germany for children from bombed out cities.
She should have arrived there by now.
Unfortunately though, I didn't know at which hotel she was staying. The snow stopped falling on the next morning. Our squad fell in in our winter outfits. We made a smartlooking group. We wore stretch trousers and white anorex with black epolets and the emblem of the GKE on the right sleeve. The distinctive insignia was an illise on a black oval badge. We had slung furs around our waists which we would need under the skis on our way back up.
Despite the deep snow, we were at once engaged in a wild race toward the Alm, an alpine pasture where the mules were stationed and which was about halfway down. The first to arrive was Striker, who later on was to be my faithful, reliable number two machine gunner. He was a sturdy farmer's son from the South Tyro, with a shock of hair as yellow white as the mane of a halflinger pony from his home pastures. He was by far the wildest of us on skis, and the most experienced from the Yenna Alm. The way was less steep, and we arrived safely at the lake. There were 2 hours to go before we would meet at our base in the village to pick up the provisions and start back to our station.
We found the village deep in fresh snow.
Calling along the lake, we were already passing hotels now serving the KV camps, for we could see the children and their leaders in young medal uniform. I left the others and inquired about Christina.
I had been in and out of almost all the places without success when I suddenly stood before her face to face on the village street.
I had to say, "Hello, Christina." before she recognized me. Amazed, her face lit up with joy. When we kissed, she said quite exasperated, "What on earth are you doing here?" I told her, and she said she had arrived here only one week ago and now was on duty, so there was nothing I could do but walk her back to her hotel, where I met two of her teammates and her superior, a girl of 18. There was no time left for the two of us, except for a cup of coffee in the kitchen. children ran about noisily as in an elementary school. I was able to watch her handle the gang of little girls which she did with firm ease, a new and endearing side of her that begiled my heart even more.
Walking back to our base in the village, I was not disappointed with the brevity of our meeting. What else could we expect in these days? Was it not a lucky coincidence to have met at all in this remote corner of Germany?
At the base, we stuffed our rucks sacks full of fresh food, among others, a special Bavarian sausage that was part of the high altitude ration. And when we began our ascent back to the station, I kept thinking of all the girls who were on duty so far away from home. For all their cheerfulness and charm, there was little girlishness about them, but instead a self-confident, matter-of-act way in their manner, reflecting the unusual responsibility with which they were entrusted at an early age.
That was the last time I saw Christina.
Two months later, she wrote that she was assigned to another camp far away in Austria in the province of Styria.
Up on the ridge, our training program continued for several more weeks.
Looking back, my impression is that we and our instructors were a team. They wanted us to become highly proficient soldiers, acting with others in small groups on our own, knowing how to survive not only in combat, but also in a hostile wilderness and moving about in difficult terrain with vigor, circumspection, and in particular speed.
Our exercises, therefore, had a distinctly athletic touch, a training for winners in regions where heavy weapons and armored vehicles were of no use.
The notion of the Vuffness S as politically or racially indoctrinated fanatics driven by party ideology and hate was in my experience far from reality.
Our training was focused on preparation for victory in modern warfare and all of us were volunteers who wanted just that kind of preparation.
Yes, we did feel a bit different from other parts of the armed forces, but this was true of many other units as well, such as the Pansa and Panza Grenadier divisions and the Falchiega or paratroops. In the VNess, the officers did not belong to a different class.
They were picked from among the best seasoned soldiers who had shown leadership qualities in combat. Officers were not to be addressed as sir, but with their rank only. It was the same with the NCOs.
There was this special military salute of ours, not the right hand to the cap, but the right arm raised at eye level.
In practice, however, the arm wasn't quite stretched, but rather casually raised as to avoid conformity with the party salute. Some regulations were in sharp contrast to those of the army, such as those regarding rations, which were equal for officers and men, or regarding lockers in the barracks. In the army, an unlocked locker meant three days in the guard house. In the buffnesses, it was the opposite way around. The very thought of a soldier stealing or touching his comrad's belongings was completely incompatible with our code of honor.
The company returned to the barracks in the valley by the middle of April.
Descending the other side of the ridge opposite the Kernix, we experienced the sudden transition from winter to spring so common in the mountains. As the long single file of men and mules walked down the narrow path to the valley, suddenly halfway down, the snow cover ended abruptly, melted away by the alpine sun.
From under the snow's fringe, green meadows with hundreds of primeas, gention, and other spring flowers had already come to full blossom.
During our time down in the barracks, the company would march to the firing range once a week, quite a distance. We would depart at dawn and walk over the hills between the Zalzar and Behisg. He would arrive just in time to wake up the residents of the narrow streets with our battalion songs.
Many a face ugly from sleep or lovely as the morning would appear from behind the green shutters that opened as we marched through the little town. Our commander on horseback politely responded to the salutes and salutations from some of the windows.
In the afternoon, on our way back, we crossed Bis Garden once more, singing, yodelling, and showing off our cheerful, disciplined unit. Upon entering the hills east of the town, however, we would form a single file again, take off our caps, roll up the sleeves of our tunics, and slowly climb the winding, steep ascent. This march always was once more part of our physical conditioning, especially in summer, when the sun heated up the hillside all afternoon.
Then the unique beauty of the surrounding area would soon become irrelevant, and grinding uphill our eyes would be fixed on our hobnail boots as they ground step by step into the trails white limestone.
Tired from the day strain, we would think of a decent meal and of stretching out on our bunks.
Passing the Bhov on the Oaz, our attention would be diverted for a short while from the monotonous pace. We hoped to catch a glimpse of something important appropriate to the importance of the place. Although the Fura's residence was bypassed in a wide arc and could be seen only from afar, what we actually could see were the SS guards outposts in black uniforms, black helmets, polished boots, submachine guns, and so forth. They were strangely different, this old guard, with their sinister or inspiring look. Here was the seat of ultimate power, of ultimate responsibility for our country's cause through this war. It was the place where the highest representatives of the European powers had come to parlay, the place where the fur sought to relax from his aesthetic and focused life. To know all that amounted to the atmosphere of awe that surrounded the beov.
There were exercises far more demanding than our home track, such as ascending the unpackag, the massive towering over the city of Zaltzburg. We took off at dawn to what a hamlet south of the city.
We carried no heavy gear, just rifles.
At the hamlet, however, our rucksacks were filled with potatoes, supply for the station on the mountain peak, 35 for each of us, which was quite something given that 1,300 m of altitude had to be conquered along a horizontal distance of only 2 km.
The first quarter of our way up was normal strain, the potatoes on our backs seeming heavier and heavier. The second quarter became steeper as we turned toward a huge wall above us. Yet we carried on with long steps at a steady pace.
Some of us experienced difficulty on this part of the way. Our company commander coming up from the rear and guiding his horse by the rain noticed the man behind me panting and barely keeping pace. He approached him as a coach would do. Come on, soldier. You can do it. Let me take your rifle for a while. I'll be back soon to see how you're doing. Okay.
With that, he slung the rifle over his shoulder and passed on at a quicker pace than ours, nimly using his stick and guiding his horse at the same time.
Halfway up, we paused. The commander's orderly was to return from here with the horse and take those with him who seemed unfit to make it up the wall. Pride forbade any of us to report sick, but the commander singled out a few whom he considered to be not in adequate shape for the climb.
We then started for the wall, first crossing screed that seemed to bleed away the strength we had left with each stride of poor foothold on the loose gravel. Then, before sailing the rock, we paused again to build up strength for the last and most difficult stretch. The rock was fairly well prepared for climbing. The path was at some stretches he into the stone itself. Higher up, though, an irregular flight of steps began. Huge steps impossible for us to master. Carrying 35 pounds of potatoes and our gear on our backs without pulling ourselves up by the ropes fastened along the steps. This last part of the climb turned out to be the ultimate athletic performance of our training course. We were sweating, panting, cursing, and yet doggedly pulling ourselves up the steps one by one. Eventually, the men ahead and above me, one after another, disappeared over the edge. Only a few more steps, a last effort, and it would be done.
Then, standing there on the flat, slightly sloped roof, seeing the lodge only a 100 meters away, I fainted. My knees began to give. The sky started to whirl, and I collapsed. The spell lasted only a short moment, a fit of altitude sickness that did not spoil the unequal joy of the mountaineer who made it to the top. The land lady, grateful for the potato supply, rewarded us with a hearty meal.
The descent two hours later followed an easier route. As soon as we reached the forest, we took the most direct way down. Rifles slung around the neck and resting across the breast, firmly gripped by both hands, we cut all corners of the winding serpentine path in wide downward leaps, and eventually assembled at the hamlet with less than half an hour.
Down there, we laughed at each other's uncontrollably shaking knees.
That event marked the end of our training course. The tempo slowed. There was time and strength left for trips to Zszborg. Exploring this city and going to concerts added much to the wonderful time of my military training around Zsborg and Behis Garden. At that time, however, our training company received an assignment that was quite apart from our training program, namely one week's guard duty at the labor camp with about 50 inmates. Our duty was limited to guarding the enclosure. Two guards had to walk around the outside of the perimeter fence for two-hour reliefs. It was a dull, tiresome duty which we performed with less than full enthusiasm, as we felt it was beneath our dignity. Within the camp were a few huts, wooden structures with bunks. The military discipline with which the camp was run corresponded as far as we could see to the tidiness with which the whole place was kept. Except for the sick, the inmates used to leave for work early in the morning and return for supper.
The camp kitchen, a small shack with a field stove under an awning, was in a corner of the compound immediately adjacent to the fence. The cook stayed in during the day. He was a huge middle-aged man, bull necked with thick muscles on his arms and chest, which he kept bare on warm days, and which was like his bald head, deeply tanned. I watched him working with deaf motions, cleaning, maintaining the fire under the kettle each day, preparing different stews, often cutting thick slabs of meat into it, a remarkable thing at that time of general rationing. Apparently, he took no notice of me. Likewise, I avoided showing him that I found him a figure of some interest, but on my last day of duty there in the afternoon, he approached me without turning from his work. It's your last day with us, isn't it? Well, yes, that's right. How did you know? I replied, stopping slightly startled. He ignored my question and continued. You didn't like your duty here, h I know none of you boys do.
Can't wait to go up front, but believe me, it's better here than out there. One day, you will be longing to be back.
I was in no mood to comment on that remark, but I could not help asking what had been on my mind the whole time. By the way, why are you here?
He shot a glance at me that expressed self-esteem, mockery, and total frankness. I'm a communist, a foxfind, a public enemy.
They picked me up the day the war began, and they won't let me lose before it ends. Won't be for long anymore, I guess.
I felt some respect for his frankness.
It's a pity you might have made a good soldier. He chuckled. Both his hands gripped a large wooden spoon that he continued to stir in the stew, which by now should have been ready. "Want a plateful?" he suddenly asked. "You're hungry, aren't you?" "No, not really." I lied. Don't deny it. You boys are always hungry. He insisted. And then, without waiting for me to reply, he put some stew on a dish and passed it to me through the fence. "May at least have a try. It's not too bad."
I instinctively took the dish. His was a simple gesture of friendliness, however undeserved, without a trace of calculation. How could I reject it? I wasn't that narrow-minded. Still, it was an awkward situation. I did my best to cover up my confusion. The stew, by the way, was good. Quite a decent meal.
Soon after, the men of our training company left for Finland. I was picked for additional training as an NCO, which meant another stay up at the Toronto. I was taught to lead a heavy machine gun squad in action. Apart from that, the training was a rather advanced course in alpine techniques.
When we were back in the valley, it was autumn. A small silver braid on my epolettes marked the end of the course.
Soon I would be in combat. I wondered which division I would join. There was an SS mountain division, the seventh, operating in the Balkans. Most likely, though, my assignment would be to the outfit operating near the Arctic Circle.
This area had remained strange for me, cold and very far away. What I had heard of Wolf and Philip, however, had stirred some warm feelings in me about the land and its people. I again took up my visits to Zborg, indulging in concerts and operas. But upon returning one Sunday night, Puchini's powerful music of Madame Butterfly still ringing in my ears, and realizing that on this night I had once more been in the very center of Europe's cultural life, I learned that my training time was coming to an abrupt end. When I passed the guard room about midnight, the NCO on duty called me in and said, "Fos, you're on the transport leaving for Finland tomorrow morning at 6."
Chapter 8. A glimpse into an Abyss.
The train had been slowing down for a while and now came to a halt. The dim light of dawn peaked through the little openings in the walls of our box car, but was too weak to reveal the soldiers who stretched out under their blankets on the straw covered floor.
Dozing and still half asleep, pictures of our journey to the north came back to my mind. We had reached Vienna at dusk on our first day. I'd never been there before, but the name had inspired images of magnificent edififices, wide boulevards and parks, all symbols of the city's splendor. Instead, we saw only the backyards, infinitely depressing in their shabess and obscurity. From there, delayed by endless stops and for lawn sidings, our progress on this journey was slow.
The train had wound through the hillsides of Bohemia and Moravia, which was occupied Czechoslovakia, and then had entered the industrial areas of Upper Cellesia. Now, on the morning of our third day, we were perhaps somewhere on the plains of the Vatiland, the western part of occupied Poland.
I knew only three or four of the men in the car from the course of the last 3 months. The others belonged to the recruits training course that had followed ours. I was very glad to hear that Fon Hartman was on the train, though. They said he had asked for a transfer back to his division. He was still using his stick.
I rose and cautiously stepped over the two bodies toward the door, which I opened just a bit to climb outside. The train had stopped between stations. The locomotive arithmically hissed, puffed, and clanked, emitting white plumes of steam, which quickly dissolved in the drizzling rain. The scene was somber.
Far ahead, dark shadows moved around the track. a repair gang apparently already at work at this early hour. No sooner had I relieved myself than the train again began to move. The few of us still outside jumped on the cars. I remained at the door, joined by a few others, curious to see the cause of our delay.
Slowly, the shadows I had seen from afar took shape. They were ragged figures, 20 or 30 of them in civilian clothes, dark and skimpy, guarded by men who wore the great coats of the wuffnesses, and who were armed with rifles loosely held in the crooks of their right arms. As the train crawled over the stretch under repaired, I saw the faces of the gang who had stepped back from the rails as we passed by. Horror struck me. large black eyes in deep eye sockets imploring and frightened stared from pale emaciated faces under woolen peaked caps that looked ridiculously large. Most of them wore the yellow six-pointed star of David on their jackets. I shivered as I watched them lift their hands to us and timidly shout as bit Mr. Soldier sir a piece of bread please.
Their spindly arms sticking out of the sleeves so that their hands appeared much too large, emphasizing their imploring gestures. These were humans at their lowest level of the basement.
As the train moved slowly on, we who stood by the door wanted to give them something, but there weren't any provisions left as we were living from hand to mouth. I saw half a loaf of bread handed down from the wagon next to us, snatched up by a youngster who immediately hid it under his jacket.
The train stopped again, and we could see from afar what was happening now.
The youngster with the half loaf was dragged by one of his maids toward the guard next to him. As it seemed, he was ordered to hand over the bread, but refused to obey. The guard ripped the bread from him, and violently flung it away. At once, the youngster darted after it. He had thrown himself over his prey before he could be stopped by the sharp command, which is the ultimate order before a guard shoots. The guard stepped up to him, first gesturing with his rifle to make him stand up and then kicked him as he lay on the ground. The guard beat him with the butt of his rifle. The sight was intolerable. There were angry shouts of, "Hey, hey, hey, hey," from our wagons, even threats from those who were near. Then the rest happened quickly.
From the passenger coach of our train, two of our officers resolutely went to the scene. The first was Fon Hartman.
The second one, unknown to me, and Majanga, followed. approaching the guard from the side from Hatman shouted a command that could be heard clearly by all. Stop that immediately. That's an order. The guard spun his rifle now pointed at the two officers. The younger officer, standing one step behind the senior, drew his pistol and pointed it at the guard. The confrontation lasted only seconds. The guard sat down his rifle and the pistol went back into the holster. Fadman gave an order which we could not understand, but without further delay, the young prisoner went over to the two officers. He appeared to be taken into our officer's custody.
The officers returned to the train and waved the youngster to march ahead. To watch Fanhartman walking from the scene at a measured pace, and with his graceful limp was deeply impressive.
They stopped in front of the box car next to the officer's coach, handed the prisoner over to the NCO in the car and mounted the train, which soon jerked into motion and slowly picked up speed.
We closed the door and started tidying up our quarters. Those who had watched from the door told the others what had happened. All of us were glad of the interference of our officers. One of my mates said he hoped the youngster would get double rations at the next station where we would have breakfast.
The incident had disturbed me deeply.
Certainly, in this case, and for the time being, order had been restored, but a strong feeling of uneasiness continued all the same.
We reached the port of Danik in the evening. On the train, I had been thinking of the city with growing anticipation. I had been there before, 6 years ago, 1937, together with Nick, at the end of a four-week Yungfolk hike through East Prussia. An independent German city lying in the middle of the otherwise Polish controlled corridor artificially created by the Allies at Versailles, Dansik had long been a symbol of the humiliation inflicted on Germany after the armistice of 1918.
During that summer of 1937, there had been many Yungfolk hiking groups in this region. And at the end we all had met at Dansik for a torch light rally with fanf fairs and drums. A stirring experience.
Since then for me Danig was a town full of bright memories of ancient houses and beautiful streets and sunlight on glittering water. Now the town was lying in the dark and we were at war. The large ship was more than the key. Her bow towering above our heads as we waited to embark. We would spend the night on the ship. As we stood around, Fhatman came out of the dark, accompanied by the NCO who was in charge of the forced laborer. Seeing us, he turned to our group and greeted us quite casually. And how are our young heroes feeling? Looking forward to a cruise on the Baltic Sea. Has it happened? I was standing face to face with him. You're feeling great, I said.
May I add, with your permission that we were relieved when you intervened in the incident this morning? His face grew stern. only his eyes showed that he appreciated what was implied. "It was a severe offense against discipline," he said. "In a case like this, it is the duty of everyone to see that discipline is restored on the spot."
He went on to have a few words with the next group. "We were curious and asked the NCO what had happened to the Jewish youngster." "All and well," he said. The chief made a report and personally handed him over to the local authority.
They were understanding. He made sure that the boy will not be sent back to his former labor unit.
This incident was my first encounter with the dark side of the Third Reich, cruel and inhumane. I had seen a concrete example of what the persecution of the Jews was like, what was being done to subjects who were regarded as public enemies or as scum of the earth.
At that time, however, I played down my feelings. Yes, we were aware of certain things that we thought must be changed right after the war ended. But first, we must win this war. I remember recalling then an incident my mother was teased about in the family. Amusing and encouraging as well. She, as a young girl, under the eyes of people in the street at Hardenborg, furiously beat up a coachman with her umbrella to stop him from cruy whipping his horse which had fallen on the ground and tried in vain to stand up.
That's the right spirit, I told myself when it came back to my mind on that transport. The same spirit from Hartman had just shown and which was shared by all who had watched. I was convinced that in the end this spirit would prevail.
What had only been a vague feeling at that time, however, seems now established that I had only had a glimpse into the abyss of evil.
So, some interesting moments in this episode, some of which I can relate to in ways. First, I chuckled when he mentioned the fact that all their lockers weren't locked as it was, as opposed to the Vmar, where leaving it open would result in a three-day detention because that was practically identical to when I served back in the mid to late 2000s. You see, there was this latent threat of an NJP when you left your locker open starting on day one. Apparently, in doing so, you would entice others to stealing. Now, looking back, this is of course BS, but the threat worked, and I now see that this is apparently a traditional aspect of service, although I've never seen it enforced.
Either way, the training he describes appears harsh, but goal oriented and fitnesscentric. Oh, and by the way, the area they are training in is one of the most beautiful in all of Germany. So, if you get the chance to visit Bis Garden and the Kernix, go do it. also and again we meet another officer that despite his physical ailment is a shining example of integrity to the men. Why? Because he treats them with respect and genuinely cares for their well-being as well as sharing their hardships. His integrity shows later in the episode with the young prisoner and him stepping in.
Again, not something we hear about often. As for the author, he is on his way north and soon there will be some combat. So, see you then. Cheers.
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