Posts Tagged ‘Eberhard’

TWO BROTHERS

Eberhard and Werner Helwig are two brothers living on opposite sides of the world.  They write to each other with birthday and Christmas greetings. Werner lost Minna when she was eighty years of age, but is not alone. He shares the family home with Richard and Rosel, their daughter Patricia and her two young children.

Eberhard and I share our home with visiting friends and family members, several seasonal backpackers, plus Willing Workers on Organic Farms - the wwoofers who help me maintain the garden.

At Christmas they exchanged these photographs.

Werner Helwig at Wolferborn

Eberhard Helwig with a granddaughter at Glen Aplin

Life is about choices.  Due to ill health at the end of World War Two Werner was lucky when he was taken in by Minna’s family in Wolferborn. He married Minna, who inherited the family farm land and village home. Being an educated man, Werner not only managed their property prudently, but was frequently sought out by other villagers for advice. They reared two children, Richard and Margot. They have three grandchildren and several great-grandchildren.

As revealed in The Forgotten Ones, Eberhard chose to leave Germany and immigrate to Brisbane, Australia in 1950. Two years later he married Elizabeth, the daughter of the German architect who supervised the construction of the Housing Commission homes at Zillmere. Eberhard went on to gain further qualifications which qualified him to become the site manager of commercial structures like hospitals and department stores. After the construction of the Myers Department Store in Toowoomba Eberhard moved his family to the city. He and Elizabeth had two children, Christine and Andreas. They now have four grandchildren and two great-granddaughters.  Elizabeth chose to end the marriage in 1974.

I met Eberhard in 1986 and we were married in 1988. We visited Germany in the spring of 1990 and again in the winter of 1997. In 1992 we purchased our property at Glen Aplin and established Das Helwig Haus B&B. We closed this business two years ago and have retired on site. I wrote an account of our way of life operating a hospitality business in a wine tourism district in my published book Wildflowers, wilderness and wine.

I continue to write about the Granite Belt and our way of life on http://fayhelwig.com

Enjoy!

Wildflowers, wilderness and wine

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN concludes

Our last day of  strolling around the hills above Wolferborn and through the forests was shared by Adolf and Margot. The previous evening when visiting with them I had remarked, “There is still one thing I want to do. I would like to go back into that forest towards Büdingen, where we saw the foxgloves” .

“We will come with you,” Adolf offered. “We can show you a return track so you don’t find yourselves once more sharing the road with traffic.” He chuckled at the memory of encountering us on the road that day.

We walked with Eberhard and Margot leading the way up the hillside and reminiscing about the Wolferborn of their youth when all these farms had been individual plots. Eberhard had already told me that after the war the farms had been amalgamated  into larger holdings and leased out to just four farmers. The lease of Minna’s farm land had provided her with an independent income. At such times Adolf  chose to talk with me about the flowers I had enjoyed photographing on our trip down to Switzerland and return through Bavaria and Baden-Württemberg.

Foxgloves near Wolferborn

When we reached the clearing where the foxgloves were still displaying tall spikes, Adolf fitted a new lens to his camera and appeared to be peering deep into the throat of the bell shaped flowers while Margot wandered up the hill further looking for more of the fingerhut, as she called them. Eberhard and I seated ourselves on a fallen tree. There was an urgency in my request, as we contemplated our return to Australia, that he finish the tale of his first departure from Germany.

“We sailed from Genoa at two o’clock.  The ship, named the Surriento, was a 28,000 tonner of the Flotta Lauro line.”

“What were your quarters like?”

“We finished up in a cabin on E deck, where the portholes were just above the water line. I stayed on deck only until the ship left the pier.  I was lucky to secure a bunk with the porthole just beside me. I didn’t wake until we were entering the harbour of Naples.”

“Did you go ashore?”

“We Germans went ashore for the afternoon.  It was an untidy city full of young boys trying to entice us into the shops, or to other pleasures, and we were constantly surrounded by a hoard of urchins.” Eberhard continued to reminisce about the voyage. He remembered the dark night as the ship passed along the coast of Italy and the sight of bright lava flows down the side of Mt. Etna. At Port Said the water of the Mediterranean sparkled and bright sunlight shone on white painted buildings. The young German men were told they couldn’t disembark as Egypt was still officially at war with Germany.

“Four of us managed to be first off the ship!” Eberhard grinned.

They hadn’t encountered any hostility until they strolled into the native quarter where Europeans were evidently disliked. Bicycle riders harassed them, other people made threatening gestures, but fortunately four Egyptian policemen arrested them for disturbing the peace and they were hastily returned to their ship.

Eberhard recalled the ship entering the Suez Canal, the Egyptian traders boarding the ship to trade their wares and how he had bought a pair of leather sandals that only lasted as long as the trip to Australia. He had spent a long night on deck while the ship floated at a very slow speed towards the mouth of the Red Sea.  He said he would never forget the sight of the sun coming up over large sand dunes that were iridescent with rainbow colours in the early morning light.

“Next stop was Colombo. We were ferried on small boats across the choppy harbour to the city. These ebony-skinned stevedores made us Germans feel particularly welcome.”

“Why?”

“The Ceylonese and Indians hated the British and wanted them out of India. Did you know that there were several Indian divisions in Germany during the war?”

“No!” I was surprised.  “Were they mercenaries?”

“No. They were part of the German army. They were recruited in India and entered Germany via Turkey and Greece. Originally it was intended that they fight on the Russian front, but I don’t think they ever did anything except sit around.”

Adolf slung his camera over his shoulder and once more we resumed our walk. This time, with their guidance, we  descended the steep hill to the roadside and they led the way across and down towards a fast flowing stream.

“Once we get across here, we can take the wanderweg back through the meadow,” Adolf said. “There is no easy crossing. We will have to take our boots off.”

The cool water was refreshing on our feet.

Preparing to cross the stream

It wasn’t until after abend brot that evening, when we were sitting under the Douglas Fir tree behind the new house that Eberhard was able to resume sharing with me his recollections of the long sea voyage.  Werner had bestowed on Eberhard a dusty bottle of sweet white wine, the warm colour of ripening wheat.

“This is mellow,” I said, holding the glass to the evening light.

“He doesn’t drink it himself,” Eberhard muttered. “Bottles like this were gifts from his clients before he retired. Now he waits until we are leaving to offer us a bottle!”

Eberhard spoke of the pleasure he experienced at night when all was quiet on the ship. He had sat alone at the very front, where he could see the water dividing around the bow, with a constant breeze blowing and clouds moving across the moon, and played familiar melodies on a harmonica.

“Did you encounter any animosity from the other passengers because of your German nationality?”

“Some. The bulk of the passengers were from Italy and Greece, but there were a number of Jewish families and several displaced persons all hoping to make a new life for themselves in Australia.”

“So, how did they react to you young Germans?”

“We spent most of our daylight hours in the swimming pool on the upper deck, noisily exuberant in our enjoyment of the cool water during the hot days we spent crossing the Indian Ocean, much to the annoyance of quieter guests. Our group requisitioned the after deck during the afternoons and there we sang to the accompaniment of a piano accordion that one of our members was taking with him to Australia. This singing of German songs became a further annoyance to some of the emigrants, but we always felt there was nothing wrong with classical folk songs or even the more ribald ditties.”

“So you avoided the marching songs of the Wehrmacht?”

“Not exactly. We weren’t looking for a fight, so we limited our singing to traditional songs. Most of our marching songs were love songs. Crossing the Equator was fun! We young men Christened everyone we could catch, obliging them to go through a big canvas tunnel with fire hoses spraying from the top, to drop with a splash into the pool.”

“Did time ever drag for you?”

“Yes, until I befriended a DP family from East Germany who were going to Melbourne. I then occupied some of my time usefully by giving English lessons to their children.”

Eberhard refilled our glasses.

“The trip from Colombo to Fremantle was an uneventful stretch, except for a tremendous storm about five days out from Fremantle, which the ship weathered better than most of the passengers. Of the twelve hundred immigrants there wouldn’t have been more than twenty-five of us at a meal sitting.”

“What was your first impression of Australia?”

“Not good!  Fremantle proved an eye opener for all of us, with its large galvanised iron sheds. They were lined by wharfies, all standing against the shed walls with nothing to do except roll their smokes and holler at us.” Eberhard grimaced with disgust.

Flotta Lauro Liner Surriento www.fremantleports.com.au

“Did you have any time for sightseeing?”

“A little. We went as far as Perth. Everything was totally alien to our concept of European cities.  In this land of milk and honey, as it had been described to us before we left Germany, we discovered we couldn’t even get a good cup of coffee.”

I laughed at his remembered exasperation. I had grown up with Bushell’s coffee and chicory essence to flavour hot milk and had never tasted percolated coffee until my first trip to Melbourne at the age of eighteen.

“An uneventful Christmas Day was spent between Fremantle and Melbourne. We found Melbourne a dull city since most of the shops were closed for holidays between Christmas and New Year. Not to mention the quaint opening and shutting times of the hotel bars, which to us Germans was a cause of bewilderment.”

“And Sydney - was that disappointing too?”

“It was much better. We had a beautiful trip up Sydney harbour on a bright sunny day, December 31, 1950.  The harbour was spectacular! Sydney was the major departure point for most passengers. We had three days to occupy. Luckily, I had brought a letter from my Uncle Paul in Mannheim to a German doctor in Sydney. When I telephoned, he promised to collect Klaus and I next morning and take us to his home.”

“How did you celebrate New Year?”

“Every hotel was closed. After walking around for hours we finished up at a Milk Bar and I had my first milk shake!”

I understood his contempt and melancholic yearning for traditional celebrations. No decent coffee in Perth and no bars open on New Year’s eve in Sydney.

“Klaus and I waited at the wharf gates for the old doctor to collect us in his ancient Austin car. He drove us to his home at Rose Hill, where his wife invited us inside. They had a magnificent garden full of shrubs and flowers. Once we were comfortable, we were urged to give a report on life in Germany during and after the war.”

“When had the doctor left Germany?”

“In 1938.  He was Jewish, as was his wife. It was difficult for them to believe my account of the devastation bombing had caused in Mannheim. Klaus and I were taken on a picnic to one of the National Parks and shown some of the magnificent countryside around Sydney. The next day we enjoyed another day of walks, picnics and long conversations with this elderly couple, who I remember with fondness.”

“Did you stay in touch with them?”

“No, although the old doctor guarantied that I would be back in Sydney within half a year of arriving in Queensland.  His reasoning was, that anything north of the Tweed River was unsuitable for an educated gentleman like me. Off Caloundra, we were stationary for half the night.  Next morning the pilot came aboard and the long slow trip through Moreton Bay and up the Brisbane River began.  I could now understand the reason for the doctor’s comments.  Apart from a few dinghies and two Sunderland flying boats, we saw no indication of a capital city.  Instead, we saw mangrove swamps for hour after hour.”

Redland Bay Flying Boat Base

These were mainly Sunderland Flying Boats travelling from Sydney … Redland Bay was the closest suitable site to Brisbane for a water airport www.ict.griffith.edu.au/~davidt/redlandbay/flyingboatbase.htm

Sunderland flying boat

The tidal mud flats, the dirty brown water and the shabby industrial buildings lining the shore would have created a disagreeable first impression.

“Disembarkation at Brett’s Wharf didn’t take long, but we then stood in a straggling line, stretched out along the hot wharf.  Finally, I entered what I thought was the biggest heap of galvanised iron I had ever seen.  Inside the shed it didn’t look anything like a terminal for overseas shipping!”

“Quite a culture shock.”

“Yes. When the customs officer saw my Reader’s Digest on top of my sea bag, he didn’t search for contraband. As Klaus and I stood outside, I couldn’t believe we were in the capital of Queensland.

“The truck, which picked us up, took us around the outskirts of the city along what I know today was Kingsford Smith Drive, through Eagle Farm, Nudgee, Nundah and on to the suburb of Zillmere where our French firm had contracted to build twelve hundred Housing Commission houses. We were shown our quarters, which were fibro sheds with steel frame beds.”

“You were under a bond to remain for two years, weren’t you?”

“Yes. We had no choice but to accept the conditions. The first evening meal in Australia was so uninteresting that it only added to my feelings of despondency. I was dispirited and knew then that I could never ask Waltraud to come to this harsh land.”

Eberhard had given what was to him a valid reason for breaking his engagement to Waltraud. I wondered though, would Waltraud, if given the chance, have left her home and family and travelled to Australia to be with her lover? Eberhard had made a sympathetic decision, believing that with her health problems Waltraud would be better to remain in a civilised country. Probably he had rationalised that such a lovely looking girl with the prospect of inheriting her Uncle’s construction business would have no difficulty finding another husband.

“With a heavy heart, I wrote to Waltraud and ended our engagement.”

The End

Wildflowers, wilderness and wine

I have written The Forgotten Ones to share with younger generations Eberhard’s life story from 1926 to 1950, as told to me by my husband in 1990. It was not written for any commercial purpose. I have used photographs of Germany taken by me, plus others sourced from such internet sites as http://www.panoramio.com/. If I have inadvertently used any photo without giving credit or without permission of the photographer I offer my apologies.

For those readers of The Forgotten Ones who wish to read more about the life Eberhard and I have shared since 1990 you may obtain my book Wildflowers, wilderness and wine on www.australia-book.com.au or on http://strores.lulu.com/strictlyliterary

I continue to write on http://fayhelwig.com concerning our way of life on the Granite Belt of southern Queensland.

Eberhard’s account of his first short period in hospital, his two weeks of suffering as a Prisoner of War of the Americans and his return to a hospital for further treatment was shared with readers in Chapter Six of THE FORGOTTEN ONES. By clicking on older entries at the bottom of this page, you can go back to earlier chapters to refresh your memory.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN begins

Our breakfast at the Munich Intercity Hotel took the form of a generous buffet. Eberhard left me momentarily at the table to return to the buffet for a second serving.

A waiter approached with the coffee pot. “Coffee?”He asked.

“Please,” I indicated our two empty cups.

He departed and returned with tea.

“He misheard me,” I explained to Eberhard. “I should have said bitte, not please.”

“Never mind. It’s a sunny day again. I think we should take an S-Bahn train out to a small town near Grunwald and walk from there along the Isar River.”

We travelled in silence as the electric train slid effortlessly between stations until we reached our destination. Eberhard set a brisk pace, choosing a path beside wheat fields that led us towards the distant forest lining the high banks of the river. The cool wind of the previous day had dropped and the sun shone brightly. Hand in hand and striding purposely, we had almost reached the forest when I once more sighted a magnificent display of the red poppies. This time they were growing amongst self-sown canola, between rows of fresh young wheat. Clearly the farmer had used a pre-emergent herbicide to prevent poppies from growing amongst the wheat.

Isar River poppies

“The farmers here are obliged to maintain a cover on their soil at all times to avoid contamination of the Munich water catchment,” Eberhard said. “All water that drains off this field will end in the Isar River.”

“That explains why the farmers here are practicing strip-cropping. “

We left the fields behind as we entered the pine forest and began to follow a narrow gravel road down the hillside towards the river. In the distance I heard church bells tolling the hour.

Isar River valley

“There’s probably a cloister or a monastery over there on the far bank of the river,” Eberhard conjectured. “Did I tell you that Weyhers was a Catholic village?”

“No.”

“The normal greeting at school was ‘Guten Morgen, Kinder,’ and we replied ‘Guten Morgen, Herr Lehrer.’ The salute to the Fuhrer wasn’t used at all. But, whenever Werner and I walked past the local Catholic priest we greeted him with the words, ‘Heil Hitler.’ He certainly admonished us as being a couple of young heathen.”

“You larrikins!”

“The yard owned by the two sisters joined the big walled garden and orchard that belonged to the priest. It was our habit to invite our school friends who played with us in the garden to climb over the wall where we helped ourselves to whatever fruit was in season. Not for taking home, but for eating on the spot.”

“Were you ever caught?”

“No, not Werner and I. But it gave us great pleasure knowing our playmates would have to confess their sins to the priest the next Saturday. This always entailed some punishment for them, with a few extra Hail Mary’s thrown in.”

The unmistakable sound of a German brass band playing what I had always known as Oompah music broke the forest quiet, drifting up from the river valley.

“Where’s that music coming from?”

“It must be one of the river rafts – it’s coming closer. Let’s get off this gravel road and cut through the trees  – see if we can find a lookout.” Eberhard thrust aside the undergrowth overgrowing a narrow track clearing our way through to a headland as the sound receded. “Dammit! We missed them!”

“What exactly did we miss?”

“I heard about these excursions from Werner. We’ll probably hear more rafts coming. It’s a tourist gimmick. They start in Munich and spend a few hours floating down the river. The people are bussed back, the log raft is trucked back, and the next day comes down with another group.”

Biergarten Brückenwirt Panoramio photo by Franco01

“What are they doing?”

“They’re usually all male groups. I guess they spend the trip drinking beer and singing along with the band. It’s a great example of Bavarians knowing how to have fun and turn their joi de vivre into a profitable venture.”

“Hey, what’s this?” As we turned away from the river to return to the road, a metal plaque on a tree beside the track attracted my attention.

Eberhard translated the wording. The plaque, erected by a historical society, recorded the discovery of Roman artifacts on this site. One coin, minted three hundred years after the birth of Christ, roughly verified the date of the settlement. “The river down there was a known route of the Romans.”

“Doesn’t it give you an eerie feeling when you think that you are treading on ground where Roman legions marched?”I asked.

“I don’t think I’ve ever given the ghosts of history much thought.”

Ten more minutes of walking brought us down on to the main road running parallel with the river.

Rounding a bend in the river we came upon a modest hotel, with a large Biergarten fronting the river.  “Would you like to eat there?”  Eberhard pointed to trestle tables in the shade of a large chestnut tree.

“Sure.  It’s a lovely setting.”

Eberhard brushed fallen pink petals from the bare boards, scrubbed and weathered over many years to a silvery sheen to allow us to sit under a Chestnut tree. He ordered a stein of beer for himself, a glass of house wine for me, and a platter of cold sausage meats with black bread.

A Chestnut tree

Our platter arrived and Eberhard ordered another round of drinks.

Our leisurely lunch completed, we returned along the road beside the river, until the gravel track appeared on our right. It was a slow climb with the sun warming our backs.

“When did you learn the war was over?

“I was still in hospital on the 8^th May when it was announced over the radio that Hitler was dead, that Admiral Doenitz was the commander of the German forces and that he had capitulated to the Allies.”

“So what happened then?”

“One of the weekly inspections was by the American doctor who was in charge of our hospital. He was a reasonable man in my eyes until that day, when he decided not to let me go home straight from the hospital, but instead handed me over to the American Military Authorities. I became a Prisoner of War again, this time at Treysa where the Americans had taken over the Rathaus in the middle of the Town Square and erected a high, chain-wire fence around the perimeter to form the POW camp. Although our movements weren’t restricted inside the camp, there was an expectation that we would remain in our rooms. Officers were segregated from the other ranks. There were twelve officers in the room I shared.”

Rathaus Treysa Panoramio photo by sander-rainer

“How did you occupy your time?”

“Twice a day we paraded while the guards counted us to see if we were all present. Meal times became the most important time of the day. The Americans supplied a meagre amount of food. When my fellow officers realised I could cook and had a good eye for portions, they nominated me to divide the rations.”

I recognised that once again Eberhard had accepted responsibility as an honour.

“I listened to them saying ‘hmmm’ while watching me like hawks. Everyone appeared fearful of being cheated. Each man received a dice sized cube of butter and a tiny portion of cheese. I cut the sausages into twelve equal pieces and divided the bread into an even number of slices. We were always hungry.”

“How long were you held there?”

“Until just after my nineteenth birthday. The authorities decided that German soldiers should be sent home, but firstly American army officers interrogated the prisoners. We had to undergo de-Nazification before we could be released. I’m sure they just stuck a pin in a list of names each morning. I was impatient to be interviewed, but I was only a small cog in the German Reich. As I had avoided becoming a member of the Partei, I received my clearance without difficulty. On July 11, four of us stood outside the gate and wondered how we could travel to our homes hundreds of kilometres away.”

“What was the problem?”

“We had no money and nothing to barter. In addition, I was faced with a ruling requiring all Germans to return to the town where they resided on September 3, 1939. I had no relatives or home remaining in Fulda, so I decided to return to Esch, near Idstein.”

“Why Esch?”

“I had left all my possessions – books, photo album, violin and other personal items with a family there and I wanted to reclaim them. Also, I was hopeful of resuming my education and becoming a qualified teacher.”

“How did you avoid the restrictions?”

“We all stuck together for a few days, dodging the allied patrols as we headed in a south-western direction. Although we were legally free, I feared they would turn me back towards Fulda. They had watch points at all the bridges. Eventually a patrol spotted us although we had kept to the side roads and fields. Their only interest was to check that we had dismissal papers from the POW camp. They couldn’t have cared less where we went. We needed to keep on the move, so we begged for food, frequently without success. All I possessed was a small German knapsack, called a Brotbeutel, and this was attached with loops to my army belt. It was about the size of an Australian canvas water bag. In it I carried a safety razor, a small piece of soap and a very small hand towel, with a change of underclothes.”

I marvelled at his recall and then remembered that it is so often the trivial things one recalls when reviewing the painful moments of our lives.

“Late one evening we found a farmer’s wife who allowed us to stay overnight in her barn and to our relief offered us a proper meal, which we ate in the kitchen with her two small children and herself. After the others went out to camp in the hay I engaged her in general conversation about conditions in the country. I discovered that she had lost her husband in Russia and could seldom find anybody on the neighbouring farms to help her with the work. We talked long into the evening. She told me that the German population was demoralised and everyone was having a hard time just doing the best they could to stay alive.”

“Did you sleep with her?”

“No. I’ve no doubt I could have married the widow and acquired the farm if I had chosen to remain. After we cleaned up at the yard pump the next morning the woman invited us for a breakfast of bacon and eggs with a slice of bread. She asked why we must leave? She begged me to stay with her and help on her farm.”

“You refused?’

“Yes. After another week with very little food and constant walking I arrived at Esch. My friends were desperately ill at ease. The family claimed that looters had stolen all my things. More likely, they never expected to see me again and had sold my few personal effects to obtain food.” Eberhard heaved a sigh or resignation. “They didn’t even invite me to stay overnight.”

As we returned on the electric S-Bahn train to Munich I asked Eberhard about the miniature suburbs of tiny dwellings, not much bigger than a child’s cubby house, which I had observed beside the railway line on the edge of every city.   Each structure was situated within a small square vegetable plot, with perhaps one cherry or apple tree shading the doorway and a grape vine or clematis scrambling over the walls.

“Do people live in those huts?” I had seldom seen people working amongst the rows of neatly planted vegetables, nor the familiar signs of habitation – cars or clothing on washing lines.

“Not permanently. During summer weekends when there’s a lot of activity in the gardens, people use these buildings much like a garden gazebo – somewhere to relax with a cool drink and talk to the neighbours.”

“Some of those sheds are very rustic. I remember seeing one group of little log cabins.”

“Obviously a new development. The land is leased from the railway department or city councils. Brother Uwe sheltered in one of these Schrebergartens for a number of years after the war when housing was scarce, until an apartment became available in Berlin. As I told you earlier, he was a prisoner in Siberia until early in 1949.  When tuberculosis was diagnosed he was allowed to return to German hospitals.  I visited him in a Bad Neustadt hospital.  He has received a one hundred percent invalid pension from the German government ever since leaving hospital.”

“And Werner got TB too, didn’t he?”

“Yes, silly fool brought a lot of his troubles on himself by volunteering.”

Uwe and Eberhard had maintained twice yearly exchanges of Christmas and birthday greetings. They never developed a close relationship as boys and Eberhard reckoned there was no reason to go out of our way to visit Uwe in Berlin on this holiday.

To be continued.

Wildflowers, wilderness and wine

In my book Wildflowers, wilderness and wine I shared with my readers a year in our lives here on the Granite Belt. You may purchase the book on http://stores.lulu.com/strictlyliterary or www.australia-book.com.au

This week on http://fayhelwig.com I have posted an account of how we have spent the previous week. Read and enjoy!

CHAPTER FOURTEEN concludes

Our path through the forest took us over the hills and from the high ground provided an excellent view of the Starnberger See. This extended walk gave Eberhard the opportunity to tell me more about his battalion’s encounters with the advancing Americans. As every day passed more Americans were pouring over the Rhine River from France and others were surging up from Bavaria.

“Early the next morning, 29th March 1945, one of our forward companies surprised an American unit and took about a hundred prisoners, plus all their equipment.”

It really was amazing to consider how effectively these young officers fought against the better equipped but undisciplined Americans.

“We were rapidly acquiring the trappings and ordnance of a motorised battalion. With each encounter we were gaining experience and expected to soon be beating the pants off them!”

“Obviously, the Americans couldn’t allow your successes to continue.”

“Belatedly, they recognised the danger we posed and made a concerted effort to pin us down. We stopped in Hausen Arnsbach. The village was situated on a knoll in the middle of open fields, with forests two kilometres away in the east.”

“Wasn’t that rather an exposed position?”

“I believe our commanders suspected the Americans were already positioned in the forest. The hill top afforded us a view in all directions. We dispersed into houses with a platoon or more to each house. My platoon was placed in the sixth house along the road, where we were ordered to remain in the basement. It was intended that we rest – none of us had slept the previous night.”

“The Lieutenant in charge of our platoon placed an observer at the top of the house to keep watch from a window under the roof. We heard nothing for two hours, apart from aircraft noise, nor saw any activity.”

Our rambling through the forest brought us over the hills and away from views of the Starnberger See. Once more we were amongst cultivated fields as we approached the small village of Neufahrn.

Starnberg Google image

We were hungry and decided to seek out a local establishment where we could get a meal. Eberhard knew my preference was always to eat in an unpretentious cafe where the food was wholesome and authentically German.

Bavarian stove

Although our meal was served from the kitchen, Eberhard could not take his eyes off the unusual stove in the midst of the dining tables.

“In cooler weather they would burn wood in that fire to heat this whole room,” he explained, “and probably keep a pot of soup on the boil.”

Replete from yet another hearty meal we set out to walk back towards the lake taking a different wanderweg through the fields. Clearly the weather here was warmer than in the north at Wolferborn, or in Switzerland, as we encountered several fields of the red poppies, which Eberhard always referred to as, “The Mohn.”

Panoramio photo of Mohnfeld bei Neufahrn by Franco01

“This is delightful,” I said. “It is the way I have always pictured the German countryside. It must look really different to when you were skirmishing with the Americans.”

“It sure is. The ground was still half frozen and the deciduous trees hadn’t yet leafed out.”

I observed the way Eberhard clenched his hands and then cracked his knuckles. There was a grim resignation in the way the corners of his mouth tightened as he prepared to continue his tale.  I realised he was remembering how his platoon had endured a lull before the storm that would inevitably overtake his battalion.

“The Americans had watched us move into the village. At noon they commenced an effective bombardment with tank artillery and mortars. Our lookout was called down. Within minutes the first mortar hit the house and another struck the barn behind the house. Judging by the noise the mortars were striking every house in the village.”

“Were you frightened?”

“No. The Lieutenant and eleven men were sitting in the cellar with the family of the house occupying another basement room. I sat on the stairs, the top step, while my friends in the basement urged me to come down to their comparative safety.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to die like a rat in a hole. By then I was pretty tired and disgusted with the whole thing. I opened a packet of cigarettes, a hundred pack, and chain smoked while listening to the bombardment.”

I pictured him sitting with his back against the jamb of the door, steadily smoking.

“An ear splitting crack came from within the basement. I leaped down the stairs, horrified to see the blast had struck my mates. The Americans had fired a tank shell through the very small cellar window and it exploded in the confined space.”

“So, you would have died if you had remained with your platoon?” His lucky escape was astounding.

“Yes. Acting instinctively, I bolted back up the stairs, just as a second explosion went off behind me and threw me face down on the top landing. There was no escape – mortars were falling in the yard too.”

“What did you do?”

“I scrambled over the debris and down the stairs once more. I saw at a glance that the men of my platoon, with the exception of one injured fellow, were all dead. The second tank shell had entered through the other basement window, killing the family. I heard my wounded mate screaming for assistance and saw that he was pleading for a tourniquet.  His leg was bleeding profusely – just hanging by a thread. I fumbled, trying to take the belt off my army overcoat and had just undone the buckle when I saw blood streaming down my right hand. I fainted.”

“Fainted?”

“Yes, before I even realised I was wounded, I fainted and toppled amongst my dead friends. When I recovered consciousness, I helped apply the tourniquet and confirmed that the others were dead.”

“What about your own injuries?”

“My overcoat was in shreds over the upper arm and I started feeling the pain. Until then I hadn’t felt any pain. I decided to make my way to the First Aid station to get assistance for my wounded fellow officer. I climbed over the rubble at the southern end of the house and observed that half the house was demolished. The barn on the other side of the yard was badly damaged too.”

“What terrible devastation your battalion had brought upon the village.”

“Worse was to come! I was still dazed and didn’t heed my training to avoid moving about during an artillery barrage.  Just crouching, I ran towards the next house. At once, bullets whizzed past me, prompting me to jump the distance and lie on the ground behind the house.”

“It seems to me that you were leading a charmed life!”

“Under cover of their artillery fire, the Americans had moved up and encircled the village. I continued crawling between houses, low on my belly, still hearing the bullets flying above me. Adding to my despair,  I had taken another hit.”

“Where?”

“In the backside!  I could feel the wetness of blood trickling down my legs and I could see a red stain seeping through my trousers, but I kept on crawling towards the First Aid post.”

“Oh how dreadful!”

“The medical orderly could see the blood oozing out of my arm and immediately insisted on slitting the sleeve along the outside of my tunic, through the shirt and undershirt until he uncovered several shrapnel wounds to my elbow and upper arm. He tut tutted a bit as his supplies were limited, but he bandaged my arm tightly to stop the blood flowing.”

“What about your other wound?”

Eberhard surprised me by chuckling. “Initially, the lack of pain from the second wound, where I thought I had copped a bullet in my backside didn’t surprise me. You see I hadn’t felt the pain of the shrapnel wounds during those first shocking moments in the basement. The orderly discovered a bullet hole through my water flask.”

“You said, blood was staining your trousers.”

“Ach Fay, it was only red wine. I had earlier filled my Feldflasche with wine from the cellar. We were living off the land and taking supplies from villagers.”

We were in no hurry to return to Munich.  The gentle twilight would continue to provide adequate light until 10.00pm. We decided to stroll along the foreshore of the Starnberger See until we found a terrace with a view where we could relax with wine and see the sun set over the water. Hotel Lioni proved the perfect location. We settled into the comfortable cane chairs and Eberhard ordered a bottle of Reisling.

Hotel Lioni terrace Starnberger See

“The First Aid orderly asked me to report to the battalion commander further up the village.  This time I decided to hold up my wounded arm, which was bandaged and very white against my uniform and walk amongst the houses.”

“Wasn’t that a bit foolhardy?”

“I didn’t feel like crawling on only one arm. To my relief the enemy didn’t shoot at me.”

“Thank God for that!”

“I sought out the battalion commander and gave him my name and rank. He had heard how I had destroyed the two tanks the previous night. He advised me of my promotion – a field promotion to Lieutenant and entered it into my Soldbuch – army pass book.”

“You had graduated!”

“He instructed me to return to my post to aid my seriously wounded Kamerade. He informed me that by four o’clock an ambulance bus should arrive to collect all the wounded.”

“I take it, that bombardment had ceased?”

“Yes, everything was quiet again. I returned to the damaged house, holding my bandaged arm above my head. Once more I viewed the tremendous devastation in the basement. By then the First Aid orderly had retrieved the wounded man after amputating his leg.”

“The fellow who had asked for your belt?”

“Yes. I felt terribly dejected.”

“It must have been horrible for you to see everyone else die around you like that.”  I reached across the table to touch his hands in a gesture of comfort.

“When the ambulance eventually arrived it stopped about a hundred metres from the village in full sight of the Americans. I helped the stretcher-bearers carry other severely wounded soldiers to the ambulance. They held white flags to indicate we were non-combatants. We weren’t bothered by enemy fire.”

“It’s nice to think of the conventions being observed.”

“Even so, I felt very exposed until we shoved the stretchers with the seriously wounded into the ambulance bus. I climbed aboard to sit amongst them. Only when the driver slammed the doors behind me did I feel relatively safe.”

Now I knew the details of my husband’s war service. In bits and pieces Eberhard had reconstructed for me the experiences of his childhood, his college days at Idstein, followed by his training as an officer in the Wehrmacht.

Starnberger See sunset

The setting of the sun over the lake appeared as symbolic of the end of this chapter of his life. As the ambulance carried him away with the other wounded his role as a fighting soldier ended.

To be continued.

Wildflowers, wilderness and wine

It was two years after we spent this extended holiday period in Germany that we moved to the Granite Belt of southern Queensland to establish Das Helwig Haus B&B. While Eberhard began constructing the guest wing, I created an extensive garden featuring many of the flowers, shrubs and trees I had seen in Germany. I recognised that in the cool mountain highlands of the Granite Belt we would be able to grow the type of garden I had seen in the Northern Hemisphere. The story of how we  established our garden is told in Wildflowers, wilderness and wine available on http://stores.lulu.com/strictlyliterary or http://www.australia-book.com.au

I also write and illustrate with photographs the life we share on the Granite Belt on http://fayhelwig.com

CHAPTER FOURTEEN continues

The next morning Eberhard suggested that we take the S-Bahn train from Munich down to the Starnberger See.  I readily agreed. The suburban train quickly delivered us to the station at Starnberg and from there we walked down to the waterfront. The water in the lake was crystal clear, revealing the pebbled base gently sloping out from the shore.  A crisp, cool wind was blowing and although several people sat in folding canvas chairs, their backs against the concrete steps, no one ventured into the water. Several white swans and their grey cygnets swept past like miniature flotillas before the wind. They turned with necks arched and eyes questing whenever an arm was waved, constantly in expectation of thrown bread crusts.

Swans on the Starnberger See

Eberhard and I began to stroll around the lake along the pebble beach and once more he took up his narrative.

It is a fact of modern warfare that it is now understood soldiers often need therapy to overcome the painful trauma they have experienced. I realized that not only had Eberhard not received any such assistance to come to terms with the horrors he had witnessed, until now he had never had the opportunity to recount his personal story to an impartial listener.

“I missed the action the next morning as we marched towards a village, because my company was bringing up the rear.  All I heard was a fusillade of rifle fire. We halted, taking cover on the outskirts of the village. I learned that our battalion had lost the first men to American snipers. They had lain in wait for us. My best friend, my mate from all these school and training years, was the first killed.”

“How awful for you,” I commiserated.

“He had marched at the front of my old company and was striding across an open meadow when struck down with one accurate shot. He was buried near that village with full military honours.”

“Were you able to see him buried?”

“No. Only the few officers present in this skirmish were allowed to participate in the service. Years later, I visited his parents in Bad Hersfeld to tell them how their son met his death.”

So it is with war. One day the battalion waylaid and attacked the unsuspecting American unit. The following day they suffered casualties when the Americans anticipated their arrival.

Eberhard changed the topic.  “It was here at the Starnberger See that King Ludwig II died.  He came to the throne in 1864 and by 1886 had nearly beggared Bavaria, building and furnishing his fairytale castles – Linderhof, Neuschwanstein and Herrenchiemsee.”

Panoramio photo of Neuschwanstein by PeSchn

“His Ministers then had him declared insane as a justification to depose him from the throne. Three days after the King was placed in the custody of his doctor the two men went for a walk along this beach. Apparently Ludwig became distraught, drowned his doctor and then took his own life. The facts were hushed up to allow the King to be buried in holy ground – the Wittelsbach court chapel.”

“Was he truly mad?”

“Ach Fay, who can say? He was out of touch with his people and living increasingly a theatrical existence. The strain of madness was strong in the Wittelsbach family – his brother, Otto, also went mad.”

Our stroll halted abruptly when we discovered our way blocked by fencing across the pebbled beach. Eberhard growled, “This barricade protects privately owned lake frontage.”

“Would it be possible to by-pass the houses and come on to the shore again further around the bay?”

“We can try.”

The move was to no avail – the houses stretched endlessly as far as we could see along the beach.

“We’re wasting our time walking along this street looking at high fences and hedges,” Eberhard complained. “How would you feel about it if we struck inland and took one of the forest walks?”

Readily, I assented. We skirted the town until we met a boy on a bicycle. Eberhard asked his advice and he pointed us in the direction of a footpath, which would take us over the hills and provide an excellent view of the lake. A tiny black squirrel broke cover from fallen forest debris near our feet and scampered up a tree trunk, chiding us angrily. We joined in laughter at its indignation.

“Our commanding officer ordered us to secure a wooded hill on the southern side of a significant highway. As we proceeded up a wooded track with trees all around us, we encountered rifle fire. We hurriedly dispersed into the edge of the forest, crawling to what we hoped were safe positions and dug in where we lay.” Eberhard eased the remembered tension, with a chuckle. “It was the quickest digging I had ever done after practising digging during twelve months of army exercises.”

Ahead we could see a clearing, but this section of the path we were following was overgrown with wild raspberry brambles. Eberhard carefully pushed them aside with his walking stick. Never in Australia had I seen him use a walking stick, but no sooner were we settled in at Wolferborn than Eberhard acquired a sturdy cane. Since then I had noticed that even the young men and women we encountered on our walks frequently affected the use of this sensible accessory when tramping through rough country or hill climbing.

“Everything stayed fairly quiet for the remainder of the afternoon in this section and my company established a reasonable perimeter of defence against the higher section of the forest.”

“Just lying about, waiting for something to happen would impose its own strain.”

“I didn’t get a chance to lie about. Four of us were asked to undertake reconnaissance.”

Again Eberhard had been singled out. I wondered if there had always been an aura of authority – a determination of purpose in his bearing that senior officers recognised and encouraged?

“Knowing the enemy were already in part of the village, we edged up the hill cautiously, climbed through fences and over logs. We stealthily made our way around barns at the rear of the houses, always proceeding in a westerly direction towards the other side of the village.”

I found it easy to visualise the four youths in their green uniforms blending into the shadows while they crawled through the undergrowth of the wooded hillside, but once they were amongst the village buildings the danger of imminent exposure was increased.

“From an elevated position within the village I sighted a tank column parked on the main road. I carefully noted their position, observing a stream with high banks close to the road.  Then we noticed a spotter aircraft above us and prayed that the pilot wouldn’t see us.”

“Did he spot you?”

“Yes. He must have radioed our position to Americans on the ground, for within minutes we heard the familiar whistle of mortars. The first mortar lobbed down not more than fifty metres behind us.”

“Surely that was attempted overkill – firing mortars at four boys!”

“Ach Fay. Don’t think of us as boys. Despite our youth, we considered ourselves men. Since we weren’t under rifle fire we bolted back towards the forest, sprinting through the yards and jumping fences like expert hurdlers, with the mortar shells landing ever closer. I remember thinking a little later that I could have won the Gold medal in my college sports program with that one hurdle run. We just went! It must have been good fortune that they didn’t get us for the enemy certainly had our range!”

“And they knew where you had gone.”

“They already had the battalion pinned down in the forest. Once the sun dropped below the horizon we were fired on from three directions. The whole forest perimeter on both sides and in front of us was filled with Americans, in and under trees, and they tried to pick us off, one by one. The main part of our group was ordered to stay put, while I crawled back to give our battalion commander my reconnaissance report.”

“How long was the battalion under fire?”

“Perhaps an hour. We were fortunate that the Americans gave up fighting each night.”

“They did! Why?”

“They knew what we didn’t know, that the war was almost over. They weren’t pushing themselves in any heroic effort to get killed in the last days of the conflict.”

“We stayed in hiding, waiting for total darkness to fall. About eight o’clock in the evening I made my move. Carrying two of my bazookas I skirted the village, going to the far side where I had sighted the American tanks. Six fully mobile tanks were standing on the road, not more than a hundred metres away.”

A shiver ran up my spine in anticipation, as I sensed the stealth of the young soldier preparing to act alone.That morning he had lost his best friend and was set on revenge.

“I decided to enter the stream when the night was darker and crawl closer in the water. About ten-thirty I slipped into the water, staying close in against the bank until with four to five metres of the tanks above me on the road. I decided to hit the first of the two Sherman tanks – the fifty-four tonners. I fired into the middle of the tank’s tracks and it exploded in a tremendous shower of fireworks. I desperately hurried to fire the second bazooka for the flames had lit up the night sky.”

“Illuminating your position?” The barrier of the creek bank had sheltered him from the shock wave of air and flying shrapnel as the tanks exploded in roaring sheets of flame.

“True, I felt vulnerable, but my attack was so unexpected that even after the second tank exploded I completed my retreat unmolested. There was no attempt to pursue me. The Americans had been settling down to sleep. They didn’t know what hit them, or from what direction the attack had originated.”

“I guess they never thought that just one soldier acting alone could wreak such havoc.” I could hear the admiration in my voice. I was surprised by the realisation of how rapidly I had empathised with my husband’s battalion.

“After surveying the damage from my earlier observation point I returned and advised my company commander of my achievement. He was rather upset because I had acted without orders. Anyway, he decided the action deserved commendation and congratulated me. Then he asked me to enter the forest again and inform our men that we were pulling out.”

While other soldiers had waited tensely in their shallow forest dug-outs throughout the afternoon and night Eberhard had reconnoitred the enemy position, fled under mortar fire, reported to the battalion commander, and returned stealthily to attack and destroy two enemy tanks.  And, after communicating that achievement he had been entrusted with another errand.

“I ducked and weaved my way up the hill, trying to avoid making any noise, and crawled along the edge of the forest to where I thought our fellows would be.”

“Did you think there could still be some Americans in the trees?”

“Of course! I hadn’t comprehended that they weren’t fighting men like us, or that under cover of darkness they pulled back to sleep in comfort.” Scorn for the enemy who hadn’t even posted a guard around their tank column registered in Eberhard’s voice. “I passed on the order and was relieved to hear that our company had suffered no casualties. Either the Americans were lousy shots or were only trying to frighten us.”

“Is it possible that they expected you to surrender?”

“Yes, it’s possible. By that stage of the war German divisions were constantly being surrounded, cut off from supplies or any support, and the Americans had taken a great many prisoners.”

“It probably baffled them that you continued to fight so tenaciously.”

As Eberhard had said earlier, his battalion was not a regular Wehrmacht unit. They were an efficient battalion of highly trained and dedicated young officers under the command of experienced instructors. Although they lacked hardware to engage an armoured division of the American army they had trained to pit their available skills against the enemy.

“That night the whole battalion assembled on the road to march right through the village past the Americans. We tied hessian bags around the wheels of wagons we had commandeered from the farmers and on the hoofs of the horses and cows that were pulling the wagons.”

“Why did you need wagons?”

“To carry our wounded with us. The captured jeeps and trucks were pushed. There were Americans in some of the houses and we could even see them moving about as we crept past. We aimed to be kilometres away by daylight.

“Did the whole battalion move together?”

“We moved in companies, with my bazooka platoon always in the rear.

To be continued.

Wildflowers, wilderness and wine

In his professional role as Surgeon General of the Australian Defence Force, Eberhard and Fay welcomed to their home, Major-General John Pearn as guest speaker for a Legacy Flanders Poppy Festival of Faith. In appreciation of their hospitality he had given Eberhard and Fay copies of some of his published books. When Fay’s book was published she sent him a  copy of Wildflowers, wilderness and wine.

He responded with these words:

“I was very touched to receive the beautiful inscribed copy of “Wildflowers, wilderness and wine”. It brought back such wonderful memories of our stay with you and the very moving occasion when we walked in the field of wheat, cornflowers and Flander’s poppies. I have read the book in detail. It is a wonderful account of personal lives, experience of hospitality and of course wonderful recipes as well. We will be trying these out in the future.

Professor John Pearn, Preceptor, School of Medicine, C/- Discipline of Paediatrics & Child Health, Royal Children’s Hospital, Brisbane.

Fay book Wildflowers, wilderness and wine is available within Australia on  http://www.australia-book.com.au and overseas on http://stores.lulu.com/strictlyliterary

Fay regularly posts features about her present way of life on the Granite Belt of Southern Queensland, Australia on http://fayhelwig.com