Yes, the biggest problem today is not the deeds of the Wermacht SS etc, but that we have people like you who so openly (though indirectly) denies the war crimes committed of the third Reich. So, try again, and find a more constructive argument, than comparing the third Reich with Napolion, or colonial England for that sake.
Or simply study the ideology of National Socialism and it’s consequences, and then come back and tell us if it’s makes a difference.
Chers
Try responding to what I wrote, rather than what you, through your blinkered and hostile view of Germany, think I wrote.
I confined my comments to Germany’s military prowess.
As a point of clarification, the SS was never part of the Wehrmacht.
And don’t make such offensively stupid leaps of logic by accusing me of being a denier of Germany’s war crimes. There is nothing in what I wrote which could possibly support such an idiotic comment.
I have studied it, and the Nazi era, off and on for about half a century, both informally and academically. I think I have a reasonable grasp of it by now.
The ideology of National Socialism doesn’t make any difference to the views expressed in my last post.
I am well aware of Germany’s war crimes and crimes against humanity, but they do not bear on the question of whether or not Germans are entitled to be proud of the purely military achievements of their nation independently of those crimes. And the same goes for Japan.
Oh, and by the way, in WWII each Axis power was engaged in its own war of colonial expansion, which was the whole purpose of their wars.
So, my comparisons are apposite while your disparaging dismissal of them merely reveals your lack of understanding of history in general and WWII history in particular.
"As a point of clarification, the SS was never part of the Wehrmacht.
"
I am well aware of that, a misunderstanding due to bad English, sorry.
But I still find your comparison of the Nazi expansion with colonialism grotesque, and it do not serve to enlighten history any further, but rather downgrading the Nazi atrocities.
I have lived in Germany many years, had discussions with many vets, and often been visiting the nearby KZ, where many Europeans lost their lives. So to make it short, the German Wehrmacht cleared the road for the holocaust, or took part themselves in war crimes, not only against humanity, but real people!, so I prefer to honer and remember them instead of the technical skills of the Wehrmacht.
I can understand your fascination of German military from a technical point of view, but the history of National socialism is to complex just to be explained due a simple comparison with colonialism.
What else would you call the acquisition of territories which then had the conquering power’s governments installed in them to run those territories for the conquering power’s benefit?
You’re the one who introduced Nazi atrocities.
I was merely responding to your assertion that the Germans had nothing to be proud of in WWII. I maintain that they do, for the reasons previously set out.
I don’t think the Kriegsmarine had a lot to do with that.
More importantly, the Holocaust process had started long before WWII and was an expression of Nazi Party ideology and activity, which did not involve any branch of the Wehrmacht.
A crime against humanity necessarily constitutes a crime against real people.
I’m not fascinated by the German military or any military. I happen to think that all military activity is a spectacular waste of lives and resources and that it’s a pity humans haven’t found a better way to manage their affairs. But the fact remains that the Wehrmacht, notably the Heer, generally performed very well during WWII and, so far as purely military activities are concerned, Germans if they’re so minded are entitled to be proud of that.
I never said it was.
I was talking about German expansion by military means, not the history of National Socialism which involved a much wider range of issues.
So we come back to my question at the start of this post.
First, your argument that the Wermacht did not take part in the holocaust is not true, the hole philosophy of the Nazis was the driving force of the Wermacht, who from the first day of Barbarossa had the order to execute all red Army Commissars due to political reasons.
And they did*, the Grand Father of my Ex told me face to face(he served as a member of the Wermacht in Russia).
Secondly, you can’t separate the Wermacht from the Nazies on behalf of your needs, because the holocaust could not have been realized without the conquests done by the wermacht, Luftwaffe, and Kriegsmarine. Thought the primary task’s of the wermacht was of pure military nature.
So for my part,combat alone makes no man worth any admiration, only the value of his deeds.
*(there are reports where Wermacht officers denied to take part of executions, mostly they where not sanctioned for it)
This is tragic, but there in Russia EVEN the Soviet fallen soldiers still lie in THOUSANDS of unknown mass-graves.
I agree we Russians shall CARE about all cemeteries , GErmans included , like GErmans care about Russian graves in Berlin.
I know there a lot of graves of Russians in Eastern Germany , and local authorities still do MUCH to support them in good condition.
This I can confirm. We got a Russian military cemetery of deceased POW’s in our area as well and it’s safe to say that it is in a better condition than many German WW2 cemeteries.
I think we can all agree that we should take care of each others war graves, and I know for sure that a lot of Danish SS volunteers found their final rest in a muddy fox hole in Demjansk,(and are probably still there).
4000 of them have a memorial in Mindelunden in Copenhagen, but there have been several attempts to destroy it, even blow it up. So I think the war graves of the fallen SS men posses some problems in most societies, appart from Latvia off course.
Thousands of German civilians who flew from the red Army also found their rest in Copenhagen,(after Danish doctors denied them any medical treatment, caused by an execution of a Danish doctor). But at least our government still take care of the German graves.
http://da.wikipedia.org/wiki/Billede:F%C3%A6llesskabets-Mindelund-3.jpg
Well this would seem a good point to put in a tale.
A very close friend of mine from the army writes, originally for his own pleasure but now for that of his mates too.
Here follows a true story that he first wrote some years back but which is presently in the process of being published.
He has given me his permission for you blokes get a foretaste of things to come.
(I’ve had to cut it into a couple of parts.)
I Remember.
By Richard T. Manners.
It was at Staff Parade that I remember seeing Walter for the first time. That was during the late 1960’s, when I was very young squaddie, and just posted to my Regiment in Germany; a long time ago, but I remember Walter quite clearly.
Staff Parade took place at 2200 hours, every evening. It was one of those curious military institutions that combine regimental ritual and regimental retribution in equal measure.
Retribution consisted of the inspection of the delinquent, those who may have transgressed military punctilio in some way. This part of the proceedings was known as ‘Show Parade’ and here an offender might learn the error of his ways without incurring a mark on his record sheet. Items such as, ‘Show Parade, boots insufficiently cleaned’, because, technically, we didn’t ‘bull’ boots anymore, they were just ‘cleaned to a high standard,’ or, ‘Your mess tins are feckin’ mingin’ - Show Parade!’
One lad turned up with his FV432, gleaming and kitted up to CES, only to find out that it had been a wind-up.
The ritual part of Staff Parade was the solemn lowering of the Union Flag to the tune of ‘Sunset’, played by the duty bugler.
In those days everyone, and I do mean everyone, stopped and stood to attention, no matter what they were doing,
‘Stand still, you c–t!’ was sometimes heard, but rarely.
There was another feature of Staff Parade that did not belong to us but was quite unique and oddly poignant. Every night, just outside the gates, stood an old man, scruffy and unshaven, dressed in a dirty old greatcoat.
When I say ‘an old man’, it was difficult to make a guess at his age. At first you might think that he wore his age in the lines on his face and in the slope of his shoulders which seemed bowed and frail with years. But then, if you looked into his eyes, you saw a deep well of sadness that might have lasted for all eternity.
Truly, I suppose he was about sixty, but then anyone over forty was an old man to a youngster like me.
We came to know him as ‘Walter’. Whether that was his real name or not, I don’t know, but he was there every night, without fail, come rain or snow.
As the Battalion Orderly Sergeant gave the order, ‘Duty bugler, sound off!’, old Walter would draw himself up, standing erect, and as the bugle call began, he would salute. When the parade dismissed he turned about and marched off down the road.
If you saw Walter at any other time and attempted to greet him, you got a tirade of abuse; at times like those I was thankful my German was so poor, Tourette’s syndrome wasn’t in it! The locals shunned the old man. They tapped their heads and said he was mad,
‘The war, you understand. He is kukerne !’
The strange thing was, we didn’t mind Walter being there to pay his respects; it seemed right, he belonged, somehow; he was almost one of us.
One night, after Staff Parade, there was a commotion just down the road. A loud squeal of brakes and voices raised; a woman screeching and the sound of running feet. I was the sentry on the gate and I saw one of the lads come panting through the gate,
‘It’s old Walter ! He’s been run down,’ he gasped and ran into the Guard Room, calling for the Guard Commander to phone for an ambulance.
The Drum Major, known to one and all as ‘Piggy’, had been present on Staff Parade, to supervise the bugle debut of a new member of the Corps of Drums. Piggy came hurtling out of the Guard Room, closely followed by the BOS. I knew that Piggy had a soft spot for old Walter and he was one of the voices in favour of allowing the old man to attend, albeit at a distance,
‘He pays his respects and that’s all that counts,’ Piggy used to say and I like to think that most people agreed with him.
Sadly, that was the end of Walter; the car was going too fast and Walter hadn’t seen it coming, probably still wrapped up in whatever strange world of memory he inhabited.
I saw Piggy come back in through the gate. He stopped, looking at something in his hand and I thought that I could see tears on his cheeks.
He saw me staring and turned, glaring at me,
‘Smarten yourself up, boy ! You look like a bag o’ shit ! Show parade tomorrow; those boots need more attention !’ and he stamped off, thrusting whatever it was into his pocket.
Somehow Staff Parade seemed a bit sadder, even more poignant, without Walter standing outside the gate, hunched up, tensely waiting for his moment to take part. We missed him.
A couple of days after the incident Piggy posted a notice on each Company notice board. It said that old Walter’s funeral would take place at the local cemetery on the next Wednesday afternoon.
The CO had given his permission that anyone who wished to attend should give Piggy their names after Staff Parade that evening.
It was a bit of a shock to see just how many turned up. Everyone there seemed to have some sort of story to tell about Walter; usually a tale of being roundly abused by him but oddly no one seemed to have been offended by the old man, it was almost like achieving some sort of award.
There were all kinds of rumours about him; how he’d fought on the Eastern Front, how he’d been taken prisoner by the Russians, how he’d escaped and walked home, avoiding recapture. And how he’d come home to find his family wiped out. Rumour had it that that was when Walter went mad.
cont’d.
Copyright Richard T. Manners.
I Remember (Cont’d)
By Richard T. Manners
Piggy was a bit taken aback by the turn out and I think he almost panicked, you could tell by the way that his head twitched back as he viewed the assembled crowd,
‘Three ranks there ! Three ranks !’ he squeaked and we all shuffled into ranks,
‘Urm, urm…Quite a lot, yes, well ! It’s like this, lads. The locals are a bit sniffy about old Walter, y’know. Don’t like to be reminded about the war and all that, so we don’t want to make this too… urm… public. Urm… dress; best bib and tucker, jacket and tie, clean shoes, okay ?’
‘Yes, Drum Major !’ was the dutiful chorus and off we trooped, heading for the NAAFI bar and our Company clubs. No one had any idea what Piggy was planning but if he’d let us in on the secret we would have kept it as close as the Crown Jewels.
It seems that the burgomeister got some faint wind of the fact that British soldiers were going to attend Walter’s funeral. I expect he thought that it would just be one or two but he felt moved to request an interview with the CO. Rumour has it that he expressed his surprise and distress that we should be bothered with someone who was so patently unhinged and worthless,
‘He was an embarrassment to the community,’ he was heard to say.
The CO’s reply was not overheard but, knowing him, it was undoubtedly acerbic and to the point.
The burgomeister left hurriedly, looking very flustered, and the Old Man was in a bad mood for the rest of the day.
Wednesday dawned and we all got our best jackets out, mostly sports jackets but quite a few blazers with regimental badges, old and post amalgamation, and we shined our civvy shoes. After lunch we mustered by the Guard Room and then, in small groups, we made our way on foot to the cemetery.
Walter had no surviving relatives or, at least, none that were prepared to turn up.
I suppose he was what you might call ‘indigent on the parish’, on benefits, the ‘buroo’, the dole or whatever you like to call it.
It also meant that the parish was responsible for burying him. No service, as such, just a quick few words by the pastor for form’s sake, shovel the soil in on top of the box and forget about him and whatever it was he’d done in the war because this was the new Germany and no one wanted to be reminded about the war.
I was in the first group to arrive at the cemetery, with Piggy leading us. The pastor was standing near the chapel, next to Walter’s coffin, which rested on a trolley; one shirt sleeved workman was apparently there to push it along, manhandle the coffin into the grave and fill it in afterwards.
Piggy turned to us, fixed us with a beady eye and said quietly,
‘Listen in, lads ! Tallest on the right, shortest on the left, in single rank, size !’ and we obediently shuffled into line.
‘Quietly now; from the right, number !’ and we called off.
‘Right hand man, stand fast ! Even numbers one pace step forward, odd numbers one pace step back, march !’
‘Front rank to the right, rear rank to the left; ranks right and left, turn !’
‘Form three ranks, quick march !’
The pastor and the workman watched in mute astonishment as we carried out these manoeuvres.
Piggy stood back and considered the squad, now nicely sized off,
‘You short-arses, in the middle,’ he pointed at the two centre files, which included me, ‘You’ll do ! You’re the bearer party; you at the front, you centre and you rear ! Okay ?’ his head jerked back as he pointed at each pair,
‘Remainder of you is escort ! Right, that’s got that sorted out, now we waits for the rest of the mourners to arrive !’ and he arranged us around Walter’s coffin is such a way that there was absolutely no argument as to how things were going to proceed.
Within fifteen minutes the cemetery was filled with soldiers in their smartest civvies, except for six who were wearing beige military mackintoshes over suspiciously dark blue trousers with red stripes and highly polished boots.
‘Jesus Christ !’ muttered someone, ‘it’s the Old Man !’ and there, in his favourite tweed jacket and brown trilby hat, was the CO, closely followed by the RSM and any number of other tweedy, trilby hatted figures.
When the CO decides to turn out for something unofficial, like Walter’s funeral, there is no official requirement for the rest of the Officers’ Mess to turn up as well and nobody tells them to attend; they just do !
The Old Man looked around and nodded, satisfied with what he saw. He doffed his trilby and murmured,
‘Carry on, Drum Major !’
‘Sir!’ said Piggy and he turned to us,
‘Bearer party, take your positions; lift !’
And, led by the pastor, we carried Walter towards the corner of the cemetery where his grave waited. There wasn’t a lot of room in the shaded corner, not with nearly a whole battalion crowded in, but at least it had the advantage of keeping things private from the growing crowd of townsfolk who had started to assemble to see what was going on. Perhaps they thought we were going to have a riot or something.
We set the coffin down on the planks that bridged the grave and slid the strops under it. The pastor stepped forward to speak but Piggy held up his hand,
‘Ein moment, bitte,’ he said and reached down to place something on the coffin.
The pastors eyes bulged and he spluttered, stammering,
‘N-Nein! Das ist n-n-nicht g-g-oooot !’ stretching the last word out in a strangled squeak as he pointed at the object…
It was a small, black cross with a frayed and dirty piece of black, white and red ribbon, surmounted by a small, silver oak leaf brooch.
Piggy glared at the pastor,
‘SPRECHEN SIE !’ he snarled.
The pastor swallowed and began to speak, gabbling his words and trying to get the committal over as quickly as possible.
When he was finished, Piggy said,
‘Bearer party, take up !’ and we took up the strain on the strops and the planks were removed,
‘Bearer party, lower !’ and we carefully lowered Walter into his grave,
‘Buglers, take post !’ and the mackintoshes came off to reveal six buglers in No.1 Dress blues.
Hats and bugles were handed to them, by other members of the Corps of Drums, and the buglers stood at the end of the grave.
Piggy looked around and said,
‘Walter was one of us, even if he was once an enemy; he kept the faith with us every night for as long as anyone can remember. None of us should ever forget him, even if his own don’t want to know him,’ his head jerked back and he barked,
‘Parade! Para-a-de, ‘shun ! Buglers, sound off !’
And the cemetery rang with the sound of six silver bugles, bugles which were never used on a daily basis but only on special occasions, as they played the beautiful, haunting notes of Sunset.
We all stood for several moments after the last notes echoed off the surrounding buildings; I couldn’t see a lot because my eyes were unaccountably full of tears. The silence you could have cut with a knife.
At last Piggy jerked his head up and said,
‘Parade, stand at ease. Before we leave I want everyone to put one shovel of earth into Walter’s grave. I don’t want that Knight’s Cross gettin’ nicked !’ he glared at the pastor again and took up the workman’s shovel. He drove the shovel into the heap of spoil, as if it was the pastor’s head, and carefully dropped the earth over the cross.
The CO stepped up and said,
‘Thank you, Drum Major. That was very well done. My turn, I think,’ and he added his shovel full to the grave.
Piggy stood there and waited until everyone had taken their turn.
By the time it came to the bearer party’s turn, at the last, the grave was pretty well mounded and nearly everyone had left the cemetery.
Piggy took the shovel from us and carefully patted the mound, rounding it off,
‘This’ll need some grass and maybe a few flowers,’ he muttered to himself, then he straightened up, looked at us and his face crinkled up; I’d never seen Piggy smile before and it didn’t really improve his looks but it was something of an event,
‘Thanks, lads. You did well. Off you go, now- Smartly, mind,’ he snapped, the smile gone.
As we left the cemetery the locals had drifted away, all except for a small group of elderly men, who stood hesitantly, by the gate. One of them stepped up to Piggy and stretched out a frail hand, to touch his sleeve,
‘Mein Herr, danke, danke !’ he said and they trooped off into the cemetery, towards Walter’s grave, looking remarkably upright, as if someone had called them to attention after all that time,
‘Well,’ said Piggy, ‘it just goes to show, don’t it. It just goes to show !’ and he marched away, humming a brisk march, his head jerking back as always.
Copyright Richard T. Manners.
Wow…awesome story Cuts. Very emotional at the end. Thanks for posting the story for us to read.
“At the rising of the sun and at it’s going down we will remember them.”
Many Many Respectful Thanks to you Cuts, for sharing that record of a deeply personal event in your post.
Personally, I found it very moving, and a great read.
Respectful Regards, Uyraell.
…“At the going down of the sun,
We Will Remember Them.”
I have a collection of death cards of German ( wehrmacht ) soldiers from WW2.What strikes me always is how young they all were; 19,20 21,22,years old when they died.They believed in what they were fighting for,for their homeland.They were brought up to believe this.I doubt very much if they knew what their leaders were really up to.
Acquaintence of mine, SF vet, toured Europe recently, visiting lots of military related sites.
He described the Allied cemetaries in terms of lots of marble, light, and splendor.
Lots of US families chose to let their lost ones to remain there post war.
He characterised the German cemetaries as frightfull dark gothic affairs with lots of miserable abstract art.
There were references like “We died for nothing-our cause was a swindle.”
Poor Jerry, indeed-no mention of his countless victims.
The insensitive guys who like to display nazi insignia in avatars and signatures are so far separated from the real world and actual history would be laughable.
Except it ain’t a funny subject.
Sieg friggen heil.
Hello, I am new to this forum. My father was a foreign born American soldier who served in the US Army in North Africa, Italy and Austria. He told us that the Germans were very tough and proud. They were excellent soldiers. Like most soldiers from any country and any war, they likely fought less for political reasons and more for their fellow soldiers. When I was a boy, I remember a former German soldier who worked for the same company that my father worked for. He would have been about 45 years of age at the time. My father quietly told us not to ask about his wartime service in the Wehrmacht unless he mentioned it first. To our disappointment, he never did. When I was old enough to join and serve during the Cold War, I learned from the German spouses of American service men and women that World War II was a subject not to be spoken of and to be forgotten if possible. I always thought that that practice was wrong. I hope that the German people and their former enemies in Europe and Russia will choose to better understand each other. National cemeteries are for the fallen warriors who died fighting for the societies that later shun them, not the politics that sent them to war.
I read that the great Wittmann remains were found in 1978, in a dirty road in France. Fancy cemeteries are just a showing of human vanity and silliness, what remains is the deeds of the men and we will keep them in our hearts as defenders of our fatherland, beyond political considerations.
We are so proud of them.
The German soldiers who died in WW2 should never be forgotten.Everyones remains deserve to be treated with respect.I recently uploaded photos of German Death Cards on this wed site,poignant reminders that these people did exist;they fought and died for what they believed in,whether one agrees with this or not.They are still fallen soldiers.Atrocities were committed on all sides during the war,the sinking of the Whilm Gustloff,the bombing of Dresden,etc,etc.For a long time all German forces during WW2 seem to have been tarred with the same “SS ATROCITIES BRUSH”, how untrue this has now been proven to be.
Last year I went to Normandy and visited several German War Cemitery.
In Beauvais I found the grave of Egon Albrecht Lemke, a brazilian born Luftwaffe ace.
