Heritage of Guns and Glory: My fascinating journey from a childhood in Hitler's Germany to a proud American soldier and citizen.

By Knut Heise

Here is a powerful human-interest account of the life of a young German, born in Berlin the year Adolf Hitler came to power in the Third Reich. Knut (pronounce "Kanute") was totally indoctrinated as a child in Nazi Germany doomed to its total collapse in 1945.
Because of the agony of recognizing all the wrongs of his youthful beliefs, he carried his share of the "collective guilt". Knut embarked upon a new life, still in his early youth at 12, to steer a new course. As an "exchange student" at 16, he was sent to a small "work as you learn" vocational Junior College near Asheville, North Carolina, and experienced much of the American way of life firsthand. After a year, and back in Berlin, he borrowed enough money from an American benefactor to buy his passage on a freighter to return to America, which he was destined to love.
He eventually came to St. Louis earning a BS degree in Political Science at St. Louis University. His student visa was about to expire when fate interceded, as he was given an opportunity to earn a "Green Card" upon successfully completing a three-year "hitch" in the US Army. And so, he was sent back to Germany as an "American" GI. There, he had the discipline of an excellent soldier, who had never quite forgotten his misguided childhood.
Eventually, Knut worked his way through Law school, emerging as an attorney.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9781387745814

Book preview

Copywrite © 2022 By Knut Heise

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior written consent of the author.

Cover art and photograph original design by Andy Rachelski.

Published by Lulu.com

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-387-74581-4

I dedicate this Memoir with all my love

To

Lisa and Eric, my children,

••• and theirs.

So that they may know

and remember their heritage

FOREWORD

I created a record of my life story rather late, at middle age. At the time, it was a series of seemingly unrelated events, curious recollections, and a desire to record and pass along some lessons learned.

It was an exercise in revisiting many experiences and emotions which dominated my early life, spanning into adulthood, and giving meaning to what eventually shaped me into who I am.

The chore of writing it, alone in a trailer on a farm when I was about ⁵⁰, typing away during the night hours (from midnight to sunrise) for about two weeks, remembering, often weeping, and sorting out my life, which had been anything but mundane.

At the time, I did not realize that I would want to share the ups and downs of my often-turbulent life with my children, and theirs. But now my work is truly one of sharing the story with them. If happenstance should lead to sharing my life story with a larger readership, I would offer it, at almost 90, and without reservation, as a life fully lived.

Knut (pronounced Kanute) Heise

Acknowledgment

My lasting gratitude to Andy Rachelski for encouraging me to prepare my work for publication and persuading me to share my story with others, particularly those keenly aware of and familiar with the Third Reich era I struggled to put behind me with my share of guilt, and eventually emerging as an American worthy and proud of his citizenship.

Prologue

Fort Knox, Kentucky, 1956. A cold April wind swirled out of the azure sky, whipping boisterously through the colors up front. Bits of wind-torn commands filtered through from the distance. The young soldier marched precisely one step to the left and two steps behind Captain Nelson, straining to hold the Company’s guidon upright in the wind. His heel-iron combat boots clicked a sharp, metallic cadence upon the concrete roadway. The battalion followed en masse, all five companies, side by side. Knut gripped the guidon tightly and monitored his position from the captain out of the corner of his eye. His pace was measured and his body noticeably erect. The marching drills of his German childhood were still evident. It was something that would stay with him, though the accent in his speech had begun to fade, as he gradually assimilated things American.

With the battalion staff before him and a thousand soldiers marching behind, the guidon bearer for Company B click-clacked his thin, methodic, solitary beat. He cursed his boots. Why had he put them on this particular day?! He had known that there would be a practice march for the big division parade. But there was nothing he could do at the moment. He kept marching, stoically, one step behind and two to the left of his company commander.

Before the large troop unit was halfway to the parade field, Colonel Girard at the point had looked back over his shoulder several times. Big Red was obviously annoyed, and Knut sensed that he was in trouble. Damn those boots!

An eternity later, he saw the parade field up ahead. No more sound then. His boots would fall silent on the green turf.

That evening, long after the troops had been trucked back to their barracks, word had come down from Headquarters that Knut was to report to Big Red.

Colonel Girard was respected among both his officers and the cadre. His light red, bushy hair, the stocky build, and a pronounced South Carolina drawl did not reveal the Colonel’s quick mind and keen sense of absolute dedication to whatever particular task at hand.

Big Red had all the attributes of a field commander.

Private Heise reporting as ordered, Sir!

Instinctively, the lad clicked his heels together as he saluted the colonel, realizing an instant too late that he was still wearing his heel-iron boots.

The colonel stared at the young soldier for a long time until his At ease! broke the silence. Knut unlocked his knees and came to the parade rest position.

Are you that damn clickety-clack guidon bearer for Company B?

Yes, Sir!

You’ve marched before you joined our Army, haven’t you?

The colonel was not asking a question. It was more of a matter-of-fact comment, with the emphasis on the word our. He had obviously been briefed on Knut’s background.

Can you click off 120 steps a minute? I, I don’t know, Sir.

Well, from what I heard today, I think you can. You even made my staff change step several times because of your damned clickety-clack.

I am sorry, Sir. I didn’t mean. I had forgotten to

Never mind, Heise, the colonel cut in, tomorrow, I want you to wear your clickety-clack irons for the parade and keep that damn battalion of mine in step! That’s all!

Yes Sir! (click)

Back at the barracks, Knut related what had taken place in Big Red’s office to the First Sergeant.

Got yourself quite an order, Heise. Better make sure you can keep it at 120 steps a minute, like it says in the manual!

The German stayed up late, working on his Jumpmaster boots. If they were to sound right, they must look right. Meticulously, he rubbed coat after coat of black polish into the leather with spit and cotton. It was not until well after midnight before the gloss on his boots clearly reflected the wash basins in the latrine.

In the morning he marched, once again, behind Captain Nelson, clutching the Company’s guidon and concentrating on clicking off 120 steps a minute. He knew that his boots were sounding out the cadence for those around and behind him. That had been the order of Big Red!

Knut stepped out methodically click, clack, click, clack nearly in a trance. Occasionally, the wind would gust up and rattle through the fabric of the flag. His right arm ached.

Must not be thrown off he thought. Keep the guidon straight! click, clack, click, clack, Must march evenly! click, clack, click, clack 120 steps a minute!

Relax, Knut! he told himself in German. There is nothing to it! Remember how easy it was - back in Berlin?

His thoughts raced on . . . clack, click clack . . . Germany! Berlin! Back to his boyhood. And in his mind, the thin clicks of his heels gave way to the sound of hundreds of heel-iron and hobnail boots grinding loudly through the wide avenue. The drums were sounding a magnificent, solemn beat. He heard the young voices singing their marching song with exuberance, accented proudly by the guiding rhythm of the drummers, now joined by the fanfares. The melody returned to him, and he began to sing the words again, quietly, his lips barely moving:

Vorwärts, vorwärts, schmettern die hellen Fanfaren.

Vorwärts, vorwärts, Jugend kennt keine Gefahren.

Ist das Ziel auch noch so hoch,

Jugend zwingt es doch!

Uns’re Fahne flattert uns voran.

In die Zukunft ziehn wir Mann für Mann.

Wir marschieren für Hitler durch Nacht und durch Not

Für die Fahne der Jugend und Freiheit und Brot!

(Onward, onward, the fanfares sound.

Onward, onward, boys through danger abound.

Be the goal ever so high,

Youth will reach it or die!

Our flag leads on high up ahead,

Into the future one by one we're led.

We shall march for Hitler through dark and travail,

Youth’s banner of freedom and bread shall prevail!)

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B-A-T-T-A-L-I-O-N. . . . HALT!

The illusion broke abruptly. Private Knut Heise, Company B, 83rd Reconnaissance Battalion, Third Armored Division, U.S. Army, stood at attention, knees locked, one step to the left, two steps behind Captain Nelson. The march had been perfect!

The young German had kept an American army battalion in step with a Nazi song. The irony of the occasion never entered his mind then. Caught in two different worlds, he still bore the marks stamped upon him as a youngster in Hitler’s Germany, but already on his way to becoming an American. Knut had been in the United States seven years then, but World War II had already been over eleven years.

ONE:

Heritage of Guns and Glory

¹

We sang our marching songs in Berlin, and all over Germany, in the Jungvolk (ages 10 to 14), dressed in brown shirts and black shorts and black neckerchiefs, held in place with a brown leather slide.

We were the children born into Hitler’s Germany, looking forward to the Hitler Youth at 14; then the Arbeitsdienst (Labor service) to help the farmers bring in the grain crops at 16; and, finally, become Soldaten (soldiers) of the Reich at 18 to show the world that we were back, never to bow to those countries that still wished us ill.

We were a proud, youthful bunch, who did not understand the word indoctrination. World War II began, and we were defiant of the nations that wished to keep us down. Ours was the heritage of guns and glory.

Perhaps because of the intensities of the war years to follow, Knut’s memories of times prior to 1939, when he was a very young boy, were but a few flashes of places and moments. The family lived in the Schöneberg district of Berlin, within a block of one of the many parks dotting the city. The neighborhood was typically middle class, almost entirely made up of apartment houses with units of four, five or six rooms. The streets were wide and well maintained. It was much more peaceful here compared to the workers’ districts to the north.

Their apartment was situated in the rear wing. The view was across the courtyard to the rear wing of the neighboring apartment building. But off to the open side, especially from the vantage of their little balcony, one could see hundreds of mini gardens, some not larger than thirty by twenty-foot plots. These little green places, the Schrebergärten, offered weekend tranquility, as well as self-grown vegetables and fruits to their owners.

Down the street, the Schöneberger Park, appropriately named after the district, was there for those who had no garden. The park’s lake was ruled by majestic white swans and its hilly terrain abounded with lilac bushes and chestnut trees. The park was truly a serene place. In years to come, it would also become Knut’s first make-believe battle ground in the game of war.

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His father Hermann, affectionately called Vati, operated a small advertising agency on the Wilhelmstrasse downtown. It was a small business with only eight employees, including Vati’s two brothers, Jochen and Karl. The agency had enough clients to provide them all a reasonable income to maintain their middle-class status in the big city.

The family took their annual vacations at Kolberg on the Baltic Sea where Knut, his brother Jürgen and sister Ellen explored the sandy shores for shells and other curios. They were still close-knit then, despite their age differences. Jürgen was eight years and Ellen ten years senior to Knut.

The first two events of major significance in the boy’s young life coincided in the fall of 1939. Germany declared war and he entered school. On that day, the old synagogue, across from the school in the Babelsberger Strasse, stood in flames. For a while, Knut had stood silently and watched the raging fire.  There seemed something different about this particular blaze. But his mind was on the school, and it did not occur to him then that there was no firefighting equipment on hand. The flames consumed the structure as people stood around in small clusters, speaking in hushed voices.

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The child’s first day of school was mostly one of celebration, but also one of a sentimental farewells, especially for the mother, who gave him up to the rigors of the German, state-run educational system. Knut got his traditional Zuckertüte, a cone-shaped, colorfully decorated cardboard container filled with small gifts and sweets. The candy represented a parting gesture by parents and relatives as the child was ushered from the protection of his home to his first social responsibilities - getting along with fellow pupils and the formal acquisition of knowledge. Knut was outfitted with his Ranzen, a leather case carried on his back, knapsack style, containing his slate board, sponge, chalk, and lunch.

School was totally different from Kindergarten. Coeducation was not yet fashionable. His class consisted of twenty boys. It was work from the very first day. Arithmetic, German, Geography, Reading, Writing, History and Sports. Discipline was absolute! Any infraction of the rules called for stinging slaps on his fingers administered with a thin cane. The young culprit was expected to hold palm up and receive the teacher’s punishment without flinching.

If he pulled back his hand, he was not only subject to additional smacks, but worse, the taunting of his classmates for a Feigling, a coward. To be labeled a Feigling was worse than being called a thief or an idiot.

Knut’s school was located in the neighboring district of Wilmersdorf. Nearly half of his classmates lived in Wilmersdorf. The rest, like Knut, came from Schöneberg. Rivalry between the two groups sprang up out of nowhere. The boys were either loyal Schönebergers or loyal Wilmersdorfers. The disciplined aura of the school itself would not allow any activity involving this rivalry. But after school, in the afternoon, they would do battle with determination. At first, it was nothing more than playing Panzer, a simple act of shoving an opponent around with the leather Ranzen, now strapped against the chest. As the contests became more involved, oppositions organized and were led into battle by self-appointed leaders. The Panzer game gave way to impromptu wrestling or light punching matches. By the time the young combatants were ten and had reached the fourth grade, their fights were carefully mapped out. The Schönebergers had to cross through the park to get back to their own district. Scouts were dispatched to determine at which point in the park they were likely to be ambushed. Attacks and counterattacks were devised with great care and enthusiasm. The child of the Third Reich was conditioned early on to conflict, military strategy and a desire to be victorious. Sometimes, things got out of hand. Rocks were thrown and when someone came away with a cut scalp, the magic of the contest ended quickly. Realizing the foolish risks, they had taken, the boys disbanded demurely.

Many years later, Knut would wonder what might have inspired them so to fight in the first place. The boys did not hate each other. They sat in the same classrooms and discussed assigned matters with all the serious-mindedness of young adults. But beyond the children’s classrooms and parks, beyond Berlin and beyond the borders of their beloved Germany, a real war was happening. They saw their soldiers’ home on leave, wearing smart uniforms with decorations on their chests. They recognized the medals and imagined the heroics it must surely have taken to earn them. German armies had penetrated deeply into Bolshevick territory and were steadfastly driving toward the very center of evil - Moscow! In the West, the Wehrmacht stood guard at the Atlantic shores to meet any attack from England. And German U-Boats patrolled the vast waters beyond. To Knut and his mates, it was fashionable to measure up, to be brave, to win!

²

Although his parents had divorced some time earlier, Knut had not realized the full impact of the parental separation unti1 he was nine. It had never occurred to him that the family should all have been living together. Ellen was attending a fashionable girls’ boarding school and Jürgen a boys’ military academy. Both institutions were in Potsdam, just outside of Berlin - the historic grounds of Frederick the Great and shrine of Prussian military heritage. To be educated at Potsdam was a privilege. It was a place where Germany’s military leaders of the past and future were spawned.

Vati had been given custody of all three children. As the youngest, Knut was to remain with his mother, Mutti, until further decisions could be made. But he spent much time at his father’s apartment or at the office on the Wilhelmstrasse. Sometimes, Vati would come to visit Mutti. After the boy had been sent to bed, he would hear his parents quarrel in the living room. Though he was unable to make out the words through the thick walls, he knew they were loud and harsh. On his way out, his father would softly open the bedroom door, look at Knut, who pretended to be asleep, and whisper Gute Nacht, mein Junge.

Long after Vati had left the apartment, Knut lay awake, his thoughts racing, not understanding what was happening between his parents. He only knew that they always quarreled when they were together and that he would rather have been at Potsdam, like his brother, at the academy. Sleep eventually numbed his thoughts, and he was faintly aware of music drifting softly from the living room. Whatever distress or grief his mother might have felt after these quarrelsome evenings, she always seemed to find solace in the sounds of Beethoven or other masters of the classics.

She had come from Stettin, once a key shipping center on Germany’s northeast Baltic coast. Her father had been in charge of its famous Opernhaus, the city’s cultural center. As a young woman, she had become accustomed to observing and often attending the lavish balls and affairs of Stettin’s high society. Her family had not been rich by many standards and although not a part of Stettin’s upper class, Mutti had been privileged to experience its elegance. She had learned to love and later demanded a higher lifestyle than Vati could afford. He did appreciate good things and the arts, but he was not given to a life of make-believe elegance. Hermann Heise had been brought up on a modest country estate near Prenzlau, not too distant from Berlin. His own father had suddenly died, leaving a widow to look after three boys and two girls. It was just before World War I, and times had been very difficult. After serving the Vaterland in the trenches of Verdun, Vati had returned to Prenzlau to assume the role as head of the family. Foregoing the expected rewards, a university education might have provided, he had worked hard and managed the farm. In the end, he had brought the family through the post-war depression.

Of necessity or convenience, Knut continued to live with his mother, who tried hard to cultivate in the boy the mannerisms and elegance reminiscent of her own childhood in Stettin - right down to the hand kiss. On coming home from his battles in the park, Knut would often scrub, put on his good suit and accompany his mother to a concert or opera.

Mutti was also a disciplinarian, quick with the slap behind the ear, who saw to it, that her son would be fully prepared for the responsibility of adulthood. Homework always came first. Every day, without fail, she checked her son’s school assignments and assured herself that the work was completed. Perhaps her greatest influence, which affected him deeply, was her love for the classics. In years to come, during some of the darkest hours of his life, Knut could reach deep into his soul, while listening to the music he had so learned to love and find new strength and peace.

But for now, a war was on. Times were exciting and glorious. He was profoundly moved when war victory bulletins were solemnly broadcast over the radio. These special news announcements were always preceded by the revolutionary crescendos of the first segment of Liszt’s Les Preludes. When it was reported that France had capitulated, Knut and Ellen, who was home at the time, danced around the dining room table and wept with joy.

All seemed well in Germany then. The aura of strength and success was al1 around the boy. He had been born into a life of challenges and victories, of bravery and honor. He was still too young to reason why there was a war in the first place. It was a war of honor, he was told, to keep foreign powers from crushing the Vaterland into oblivion. He was aware that soldiers were killed on the battlefields but too young to realize that thousands of his heroic soldiers died on the fronts. During the summer and fall of 1942, the Wehrmacht had bitterly fought for and finally taken the big prize - Stalingrad. The great Soviet counteroffensive was not to begin for several months.

On a brilliant fall morning, Vati took the boy to the office downtown. Hitler’s motorcade was scheduled down the Wilhelmstrasse. Vati’s office windows on the fourth floor invited an excellent view of the avenue below. The weather was uncommonly warm so late in the year. Not a cloud was to be seen. Today, Knut was to see Adolf Hitler for the first and only time. It would be a very special day, which became deeply embedded in the boy’s mind and memory.

His father busied himself at his desk. It was a Saturday, and they were alone in the office. Knut stood by the window and marveled at the scene below him. Tens of thousands of people had filled the spacious sidewalks, spilling over