| The Battle of Jebsheim, France from a French point-of-view. Page 10 |
| IN REED STREET (La rue des Roseaux) MRS CATHERINE HUG, 48 YEARS OLD AT THE TIME OF THE BATTLE. I live in the little house at #24 rue des Roseauz. At the time of the battle I had with me my mother, 75 years old, and my two nieces: Marlene Hug and Aline Husser. Towards the evening on 22 January, we suddenly head a bomb explode in the upper village and a few seconds later, the noise of a detonation in the house next to us. It was a bomb that had been dropped by the same plane. It is true that the Germans had been quartered in this house and, a little farther along, in the Sembach house (today it belongs to Andre Zimmerlin), they had set up a command post or an important communications post and this seems to have been the target. A portion of our roof was knocked off, our yard is full of roof tiles, beams, and chunks of walls. We go have a look--the beginning of a fire is quickly put out, the Germans free one of their soldiers who was buried in the rubble, our neighbor Jenny Zimmerlin is dead--she was hanging out the wash. A German soldier says that two bombs were dropped and that since the second one did not go off, we could not stay there. And in fact, a bomb nearly a meter long and weighing 250 kilograms had fallen on our barn, slid on the hay, and is lying there, near the entry to the barn. We cross over to the other side of the street to our neighbor's, Frederic Fritsch, where we spent the night. It is still snowing. Around 5 in the morning, a bomb falls on the roof of the house were we are, crosses the attic, exits near the front door and explodes under the shed. Three German soldiers who had taken shelter there are killed immediately and a little later their lieutenant is found dead, covered by the fresh snow. Once again we have had a narrow escape, but we cannot stay here. The Fritsch family goes to stay with Henri Zimmerlin, my mother and I, we go to the upper village to Jules Husser's, my brother-in-law. We get there after stopping several times because my mother was very old--there was snow and we keep hearing the cannon booming. In the distance, the mill is burning and fires in Grussenheim can be made out in the distance. At my brother-in-law's we sleep first in the kitchen and then when the situation grows more dangerous, in the cellar. German soldiers move in with us. They ask us for firewood and food- they ofter leave in the daytime and return in the evening, always with bottles of schnapps. They are not very kind to us. But the Allies must not be very far away. A shot rings out in or near the house. My brother-in-law who wanted to go feed the livestock is suddenly surrounded by Germans who take aim at him, maintaining that we have arms in the house, that someone fired. There are nervous and excited. My brother-in-law, pale as death, thinks that the end has come. We run out, succeed in calming the soldiers and suggest that we all search the entire house. But they no longer want to come in and quickly disappear at the back of the yard. It is true that our house, hit by a shell, has a large opening on the north side, making it possible for someone to enter and leave without being seen. Early in the morning, someone knocks at the door. It is an American officer who speaks a little German and asks if there are still any enemy soldiers within. At that very moment, an American soldier came down the stairs from our attic. He had already looked everywhere within. He must have spent part of the night in the house without being seen. We consider ourselves safe now, but the fighting still continues in the south of the village--one fire after another breaks out--my brother-in-law wants to leave no matter what and gets a horse and wagon ready. But the women want to stay. I cross the street to speak to my brother Henri Hug and Henri Oberlin. A French officer calms us and assures us that if the battle were to continue, we would be evacuated in military trucks. He also admits to Henri Oberlin that if the Germans insist on continuing the fight the next day, the entire upper village will be flattened by bombs.( This is confirmed in military accounts. But the bombing cannot be carried out because of the many civilians in the houses) After the Americans leave, we have French soldiers in the house; an officer with his dog and about seven men, all very nice. On the 29th, in the evening, we saw a long file of German prisoners being taken to the rear. Yet, a shell coming from the direction of Muntzenheim, pierces the south wall of our bedroom, killing one soldier and seriously wounding another---the dog on the other had is unharmed. When calm is restored we decide to go back to my house on Reed Street,but that cannot be done without serious difficulties. My brother-in-law comes with me to look things over. I find the house occupied by other soldiers who refuse to let us in. I spent yet another night at my neighbor Fritsch's and the next day, after long negotiations, we are finally allowed to enter my house since that are still empty houses elsewhere. I finally take possession, send for my mother, and temporarily plug up the holes that were letting in rain and cold. ON THE FARM, GRAND RUE # 75 AND 75a, MR. ALBERT SCHERER- 78 YEARS OLD (At the time of this writing) We had taken refuge in the cellar of our second house at #75a. Although not very deep, it seems better protected than the first house that sits directly on Artzenheim Street on the east and on the courtyard towards the north and west. Here we are surrounded by inhabited buildings and by our neighbor's house. Counting the Schott family, the smith across the street, there are seven of us in all. The Germans had set up a transmitting station in our courtyard. No sooner is it working than a shell hits the roof of our house. So I start talking to the soldiers and explain to them the danger to the civilians who are so close by. The Germans take down their equipment and set it up again in the empty restaurant next door. But there, once again, they have barely started transmitting when a shell comes crashing through the roof of the restaurant, falls right on the counter, destroying the installation and killing several soldiers. My mother who was sixty-six and crippled, unable to move about, had wanted to stay in the house at #75. Seated in her armchair that she cannot leave, she remains alone in the bedroom next to the porcelain stove. From time to time, we go and check on her, bring her some food, and light the fire in the stove. One day, after many shells had exploded in the vicinity, we hear my mother moaning and screaming for help! We run to see what is the matter. A shell had come through the roof and the bedroom on the second floor and rolled up to her feet without exploding. She is covered with plaster and debris, but she is not wounded. With Mr. Schott's help, we carry her in her chair to the cellar where she has to settle down as best she can. A German soldier goes and gets the shell, a fine specimen, that he picks up and carries. He wants to place it on the manure heap, but with a glass of schnapps, I persuade him to put this deadly device at the back of the garden. In all, seven shells hit the building where we are in the last days of January. On the morning of the 27th, the first Americans arrive. The Germans had already withdrawn and everything is going well. With an American soldier holding a revolver to my back, I make a tour of all the rooms and the farm, but I am not afraid, because we did not have any Germans present- at least at that time. Then some strange Americans moved in with us. A Platoon, doubtlessly under discipline, stayed in the room next to the cellar where we were. As soon as they returned from duty, they were locked up in the room, their rifles and shoes were left out in the corridor and an armed guard placed at the door that was locked. It was the reverse stratagem when they went back out to fight! In our courtyard was parked a vehicle with tracks and an anti-aircraft turret, as well as a big truck. The guard spoke neither French nor German, but appreciated a good glass of wine or schnapps! One morning, I don't remember if it was the 28th or the 29th, in any case, it was very early because it was still dark, I had gone out to feed the stock.(This was not done at fixed times, but whenever the relative calm permitted.) Coming back from the stable, I poured a glass of schnapps for the guard who was in the courtyard. At the same moment, I still had the bottle in my hand, I saw the small door on the barn crack open. Surprised and uneasy, I pointed the spot out to the American and immediately we saw a long blue flame streak out from the door and race towards the bren-gun carrier that caught fire at once.. (It was a bazooka!) The American pushed me toward the door and signaled to me to take cover. He got in the big truck and screamed: "dynamite, dynamite.". In the bren-gun carrier, ammunition was exploding at regular intervals. The blasts flew up to the roofs, the windows, the doors and under the truck. (I learned later that the truck contained explosives for the entire division for the destruction of bridges, etc) There was a mad scene in the courtyard and in the house. The truck driver who had been sleeping in the room above our cellar, came flying down the stairs (He was still in his underwear), jumped in the cab of the truck and cranked it up. I attempted, with Mr. Schott's aid, to open the gate to the courtyard, but the snow was too thick and we couldn't get it open. The driver was waving for us to get our of the way. He screamed: "dynamite, dynamite!". Then he bore down on the gate, knocked it off its hinges with the front of the truck as he ran over it, and took off at high speed towards the lower village. We had once again had a narrow escape because if the truck had exploded, it would have leveled the entire neighborhood. The munitions of the bren-gun carrier continued to pop and when the gas tank exploded, a part of the motor went flying up on the top of the barn. Fortunately, the melting snow prevented any fire from catching. IN ARTZENHEIM STREET, FARM #78, MR ANDRE OBERLIN, 51 YEARS OLD Ten days or so before January 27, we were already set up in the stable and the forage area, which offered much better protection against the Allied artillery shells and later the bombs. There were ten of us in all: My family (5) and a refugee family from Illhaeusern (also 5). From time to time a shell exploded on our property or in the vicinity. The Allied artillery was firing on Jebsheim. After 29 January, it was the German artillery that sent us its shells, the only difference was that with the latter, one shell in three did not go off. We called the defective ones. "Blendganger." In all, sixteen shells exploded on our buildings. With us was a German soldier, an Austrian, who had put down his rifle and his gun belt, He wanted to be taken prisoner. Papa took his rifle from him. On 27 January at about 0800 hours (8 AM), the first American soldiers came into our courtyard. A few of them spoke German. One of them asked my father, "Are there any enemy soldiers here?". My father replied, "one, I will get him for you.". He got the Austrian and led him to the Americans. Then my father said, "I will get you his rifle". He went to the barn and brought the rifle to the Americans who led the prisoner away. Around 1100 hours (11 AM), French soldiers with three tanks arrived. At the intersection of Artzenheim and Grand Rue, a tank pointed its gun towards the upper village, another towards the lower village, and a third towards the cemetery and Artzenheim. A few French soldiers went up to the attic. I accompanied them. By lifting up the tiles, they hoped to see what was going on over by the cemetery. I had some binoculars and looked out at the same time under a raised tile. On the first path beyond the cemetery, less than 100 meters away, German soldiers were busy digging in., The French soldiers fired on them and killed several. The same day, the French advanced towards Artzenheim, but did not reach the Roman way. They had to turn back. On 28 January, the Germans launched a counterattack from Hardt Woods and came at us with tanks and infantry as far as the edge of the cemetery. The tank "Alsace" positioned in Nussbaumer Garden, was destroyed and its men killed. A French soldier trying to exit through our courtyard was killed by a German soldier hidden behind the wall that closes off the garden. At the same time, a shell exploded in the stable where we were, killing a soldier and a cow. On 28 and 29 January, the French set up a command post in our house and civilians were denied entry. In out courtyard, there were ten tanks assembled, ready to leave. From the cemetery, the Germans continued to fire at our roof because the scouts were scrutinizing the countryside. A legionnaire, who spoke German very well, screamed through a megaphone: "Give up, or we'll come at you with tanks." A tank followed by a legionnaire moved forward towards the cemetery. Some Germans came out, arms in the air, and were taken prisoners. On 30 January, after the attack on Hardt Woods, a large number of the dead, nearly 100, were collected and laid out in front of the cemetery to be buried later. The wounded were brought to our house. The kitchen and corridor were filled with wounded who received their emergency treatment here before being transferred elsewhere. But many of them, some of who were horribly mutilated, died in our house. In spite of my youth, I was 13 at the time, I didn't know what fear was and I was always to be found among the soldiers. Adopted by them, I became their mascot. They taught me how to use all the weapons and organized shooting matches with cardboard targets for my benefit. Thus all that spring and the beginning of the summer, together with other pals from the village, I collected weapons and munitions that were lying in great profusion all around our place and organized games of "little wars." We shot the German "Mauser", the American Garrand Rifle, machine guns including the German MG452; we launched grenades, took apart all kinds of shells to get the powder, set fires in shell holes that we had first filled with ammunition- entire strings of machine gun bullets. We did this to have fun from behind our shelters and to show that we knew how to make explosions just like big people. We took apart the treads of tanks to play marbles; we set off smoke shells that were one meter tall by rubbing the cover as one strikes a match. We did all this in a mockery of safety rules and in spite of the anguish of our mothers. It took an accident and the death of two young men of the region before the authorities took measures to stop these dangerous games. |
