4. Januar 1944
It seems to me that the Bolsheviks have recognised my command post, because their mortar fire is clearly directed at my dugout. At the moment, there's another crashing around the bunker. I am lying below with my company squad. There's only one sentry outside. Tsanng - that was close, and at the same moment the sentry outside screams loudly. The medic and a messenger crawl out and drag the body of the sentry through the narrow entrance into the bunker. The soldier is wailing terribly. I felt sick at first, but it passed quickly. While the medic examines the wounded, the latter keeps shouting: "I'm dead, I'm dead!". But it turns out that the shock was greater than the wound. He only got a splinter through his nasal bone when the grenade crashed on the edge of the trench right in front of him. After he had calmed down a bit, he asked the medic: "Is my nose still on?"
In the meantime, I've sent out the second messenger because the observation has to continue. The man stammers around and is obviously scared. So I go out myself and take over the observation post.
Second Wound
Another day has passed. Darkness falls over the land. The field kitchen rattles up, as it does every evening. It drives into a small but quite deep hollow near my command post. This is where the food carriers come from the individual positions and then leave with their full mess kits. I also go down, place my mess kit on a wagon wheel of the field kitchen and start sipping the hot soup.
But Ivan also seems to have heard the rattling (or he knows that the supplies are rolling in now), because suddenly a whole salvo of mortar shells crashes around me. Tsack - I'm like stabbed in the back. Wounded! The wound burns, but it can't be that bad, otherwise I wouldn't be able to stand. I spit out once. The saliva isn't bloody. I can still breathe. So the lungs haven't been hit. I therefore finish my soup and then go to the battalion doctor with the field kitchen. Apart from me, a non-commissioned officer had been wounded by a splinter in his ankle during the fire. They had put the man in an infantry cart and attached the vehicle to the field kitchen. At the battalion doctor's I report us both as wounded. I have to strip my back. The doctor tinkered with my wound for a while and then calmly said to me: "Now you can go back to front!". The splinter hadn't penetrated my body, it had just scratched my back. And the doctor had taped this graze with Elastoplast. I was a little disappointed at the moment. My dream of a military hospital and peacefulness was shattered. I returned to the front. The non-commissioned officer, however, was taken to the military hospital.
I had already asked the commander several times to let me see the train for a day so that I could finally wash and shave again. I could also take the opportunity to inspect the train, which would certainly be an advantage. Now Gust has finally allowed it. Tonight I'm going back to the train with the field kitchen.
Long-lost, cosy warmth surrounds me here in the Russian farmhouse. But first, the "body care". I look at myself in the mirror. I haven't washed or shaved for four weeks. And that's what I look like. The morning cat bath in the snow on the front line seemed to have had no effect at all. I now have the sergeant major cut off my beard with a pair of scissors as far as it will go. Then I soap myself up and tackle the rest of my beard with the razor. Then I wash myself as thoroughly as I can in a wash bowl. My hair is so matted that I have to rinse it three times, and even then it's still sticky. Finally, I change the underwear that I've been wearing for weeks. Then, freshly shaved and in a good mood, I sit down at the table with the sergeant major and have a proper meal served to me. Afterwards, we chat by the light of the paraffin lamp until the warmth and alcohol take effect. I get tired and go to bed after the cunning sergeant (most of the Spießes are rascals) has bought me another bottle of schnapps. I don't drink much, but I know that the sergeant major can do good business with it. I would do it differently today. I'd take the bottle to the front for my comrades in the trench.
I stretch out in bed with relish. A real, soft, warm bed. I must have fallen asleep immediately, and when I opened my eyes again, it was broad daylight. During the course of the day, I take a look at the train. Most of the drivers are Russians! Hiwis (volunteers))!
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