Last battle

Author: Ryan
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-06-01
Features: The pinnacle of history! An immortal work describing war and human life in the depths of war! The Battle of Berlin, the last offensive launched by Hitler's Third Reich, began at 4:00 a.m. on Monday, April 16, 1945—D-Day for the Western Allies. At this moment, less than 38 miles east of the German capital, the night sky above the floodwaters of the Oder River suddenly burst into red flames, and the astonishing artillery barrage immediately opened fire, marking the beginning of the Russians' assault on the city. This book is a gripping account of the battle, including narratives of the fighting, but it is not a military report. Rather, it is the story of ordinary people, the soldiers and civilians who were caught in the despair, frustration, fear, and brutality that came with defeat and victory. The Battle of Berlin was the struggle that brought the European theater of World War II to its end, the last offensive launched against Hitler's Third Reich, which destroyed a historically significant European capital and led to the downfall of the monstrous Nazi regime. It was also one of the bloodiest and most decisive moments of the war, its consequences would play a decisive role in the complex international politics of the coming decades. The Last Battle is a gripping account of the campaign, telling of extreme barbarity. The "Carthaginian" fate of an ancient city. On one side, there was the astonishing military victory; on the other, the harsh conditions faced by the Berliners as they came under Allied attack. As usual, Vannucci delves into the core of the military and political forces that dominated the events, exploring the more direct question of survival. Here, "eating is more important than love. Hiding is more honorable than fighting. Survival is more militarily correct than winning." The Last Battle is the story of ordinary people in war, the story of soldiers and civilians who were caught in despair, frustration, and fear of failure. It is the pinnacle of history, a masterful interpretation of individual lives and destinies in the depths of war, and one of the most immortal works ever written about war.
1 In the Northern Hemisphere, dawn came early. Even as the bombers were flying away from the city, a sliver of light had already begun to appear in the east. In the stillness of the morning, enormous black smoke columns rose above the districts of Pankow, Wei?ensee, and Lichtenberg. Berlin, struck by artillery, burned fiercely, its reflections blending with the soft daylight above the low clouds, indistinguishable. As the smoke drifted slowly over the ruins, the most severely bombed cities in Germany appeared particularly desolate and terrifying. They were blackened by soot, layered with thousands of craters, and the beams of collapsed buildings leaned at odd angles. Entire residential blocks had vanished, and entire neighborhoods had disappeared right in the heart of the capital. In this wasteland, the once-wide streets and avenues had become winding, uneven paths, snaking through the mountainous ruins. acre after acre, buildings with interiors burned out, windows shattered, and roofs collapsed stared up at the sky in disbelief. After the raid, the remaining fine ash and embers fell like rain, coating the ruins with a thin layer of powder, while the streets lined with towering buildings were littered with broken bricks and twisted steel, with only swirling dust in motion. The dust swirled under the wide (Blossom Tree Avenue), those famous trees now bare, their buds burned black on the branches. The banks, libraries, and elegant shops on either side of this famous avenue were largely spared by the destroyers. However, at the western end of the avenue, Berlin's most famous landmark—the eight-story Brandenburg Gate—stood proudly (victorialis) atop its twelve massive Greek-style columns, though scarred. Nearby on Wilhelmstrasse, government buildings and former palaces lined both sides of the street, now with shards of glass from thousands of windows glittering among the rubble. Number 73 on the street was the beautiful palace, which before the Third Reich had been the residence of several German presidents. Its interior had been destroyed by a fierce fire. It had once been described as a mini Versailles, but now, the decorative fountain in the forecourt, with its sea nymphs, had been shattered and scattered onto the colonnade-style front door. Along the roofline, the sculptures of the Rhine Maidens had been struck by flying debris, their heads blasted off, and they lay prostrate in a chaotic courtyard. A block away, Number 77, though scarred, remained intact. Piles of rubble surrounded the L-shaped three-story building. Its yellow-brown exterior was uneven, and above each entrance, there was a dazzling golden eagle with inscribed claws—now riddled with bullet holes and deep cuts. Extending from above was the magnificent balcony, from which the world had once heard many mad pronouncements and long speeches. The office of the German State Chancellor, Adolf Hitler's official residence, was still standing. Elector's Street, Berlin's Fifth Avenue, had been heavily damaged. At the top of the street stood the once fashionable Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Hall, now its deformed skeletal structure had swelled. The clock on the burned surface of the clock face had stopped at 7:30 a.m.—it had been like that since 1943. In 1943, alone on one night in November, bombs had completely destroyed a thousand acres of the city. A hundred yards away, what had once been the internationally famous Berlin Zoo had become a chaotic ruin. The aquarium had been completely destroyed. The enclosures for reptiles, hippos, kangaroos, tigers, and elephants, as well as dozens of other buildings, had been severely damaged. The Tiergarten, the famous 630-acre park surrounding these enclosures, had become a wasteland. The bomb craters within were as large as rooms, and the lake was filled with rubble. Nearby, the embassy buildings were also partially destroyed. The Tiergarten had once been a natural forest with lush trees, but most of them had been burned, leaving behind ugly stumps. In the northeast corner of the Tiergarten stood Berlin's most spectacular ruin—not destroyed by Allied bombs, but by German politics. The massive Reichstag, the seat of Parliament, had been deliberately set on fire by the Nazis in 1933—blamed on the Communists—to give Hitler an excuse to seize absolute dictatorial power. One of the entrances to the Reichstag, with six columns, had an arcade above inscribed with black letters: "Dem Deutsches Volke"—"To the German People." The arcade had collapsed, and the ruins below it were vast, almost engulfing the entire building.