Episodes of War: The bombing of Bitburg at Christmas 1944 (Published on 24/12/2024)
In a publication by Volksbund Deutsche Kriegsgräberfürsorge, Franz Hauser reports on the bombing of Bitburg on 24 and 25 December 1944, which he witnessed himself as a soldier on site (Franz Hauser, “Stille Nacht im Bombenhagel”, from: Volksbund Deutsche Kriegsgräberfürsorge e.V., Unter den Sternen – Weihnachtsgeschichten aus schwerer Zeit (2006), p. 48 ff. [translation from German language]):
“For us young Landser, born in 1927, Christmas Eve 1944 begins on the evening of 23 December. A night march was arranged at short notice. Destination: some Eifel village. As we leave our bombed-out barracks outside Bitburg, there are suddenly glittering Christmas trees in the black night sky. A spectacle for the uninitiated, like a Christmas surprise for children. We know better: target shots of enemy reconnaissance aircraft. As Flakhelfer [anti-aircraft helpers], we have already experienced this kind of light magic at home. That’s why we know what’s in store for the town and its inhabitants. Nobody talks about it aloud. Suddenly the night march also has a good side. Every step takes us a little further away from the expected air raid. At dawn on the 24th, we return to our ruins. Frozen, hungry, our knapsacks packed with ammunition for our light grenade launchers, tired to the point of falling over. Bitburg is still standing. Children dreaming modest Christmas dreams in their beds. Fir trees, stars, Christmas Eve. For us, sleeping is more important now.
In the afternoon, our platoon receives orders to guard a small prisoner-of-war camp on the outskirts of the town for the next few days. The barracks ducking behind barbed wire are marked with the Red Cross on the roofs, as are the roofs of the war hospital opposite. The internationally recognized protective sign suggests safety. Nevertheless, the Christmas trees from the evening before refuse to be thought away.
At 4 p.m., I take over the first watch with a comrade. We are supposed to be relieved after two hours. An eternity. Everyone does their rounds alone along the barbed wire, alone with themselves and their thoughts. Only the cold clings to us, seeking closeness. In the city, children behind darkened windows are probably gazing blissfully into the golden glow of a small candle on the Christmas tree. Christmas tree? Christmas trees?!
Sirens wail – bomber engines roar ominously – anti-aircraft guns bark like watchdogs – bombs burst, catapulting debris and fire into the night. People flee in fear and panic – scream in pain or in impotent rage – become silent – remain silent – silent forever.
The bombers leave. Orders executed! Holy night bombed out! Over the canal, medals are pinned to generals’ proudly beating hearts.
The comrades run into town with the platoon leader to help, save and rescue. I stay behind. Alone. The prisoners of war, locked in their barracks, suffered the same fear during the bombing as everyone else in Bitburg. They also screamed and raved in fear and panic because their helplessness in the face of the horror that shook the thin walls of the barracks did not allow for anything else. I try to calm them down over the barbed wire. The same distress unites.
Shortly before midnight, the comrades return from the rescue operation. Tired, exhausted, silent. Two are missing. They have remained in the rubble. After two hours, a comrade takes over from me. He volunteers to take over the watch. After the experience of this unholy night, he can’t sleep. In the warm guardroom, I manage to struggle out of my gnarled boots and fall onto the straw sack, dead tired. Christmas Eve – Bethlehem – stable. Wasn’t there straw involved as well? Thank goodness for straw!
25 December 1944: I have to go back on guard duty at eight o’clock. The cold smell of burning hangs over the grounds. The sun, wrestling with gray clouds of smoke, licks the wounds that bombs have inflicted on the city, wants to take the children in its arms, wants to caress and comfort them.
It’s just before ten. I’m already counting the minutes until I’m relieved. Engines humming! I look up and see the enemy bombers appearing over the hospital, carrying destruction. Where are the sirens? I scream, warn loudly, won’t anyone understand? That’s when the inferno starts.
The air roars, howls, trembles under the weight of the falling bombs. Then the earth rips open, cries out like an army of women in labor, pushing death and chaos out of their raped wombs. I am thrown into the barbed wire by the air pressure of bursting bombs, I feel pain, yet I press myself under the sharp wire spikes, seeking protection. Detonations pull me up again and again. I want to claw into the earth. Why is it frozen hard right now? All around me, apartment buildings are shredding apart, falling to their knees as if they wanted to put their slipping roofs on the executioner’s scaffold. The Red Cross sign collapses along with the hospital roof. A wounded soldier hangs in a window. He no longer needs help. He is saved.
How long did the inferno last? I no longer know today. Nor do I remember how long it took the bomber engine to plummet from the sky and burrow into the ground next to me. But there is one thing I do remember and I never want to forget it: God held me in his good hands at Christmas 1944!”
(Head picture: Damaged gravestone of Helene Nosbüsch, 11 years old,
at the German military cemetery Bitburg-Kolmeshöhe in September 2022.
There is no further information on her dates of birth and death,
but she lies between victims of the attacks on 24 and 25/12/1944.)
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