23 February, 1945
It was shortly after 7.30pm when the first warning was sounded.
More than 370 British planes were heading towards Pforzheim, a provincial town in South West Germany. They’d already crossed the Rhine and they were flying very low. The town’s inhabitants had less than five minutes to run for shelter.
One teenage girl, Hannelore Schottgen, was cycling across town when the sirens sounded. She was stopped by an air-raid warden who ordered her into the nearest shelter.
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| 'Big groups of enemy planes...' |
‘Big groups of enemy places are coming nearer our area.’
And then - seconds later - it began. Thump. Thump. Overheard, hundreds of Lancaster bombers began dropping their bombs. The aim was not just to destroy the town below (it was wrongly suspected of being a centre for precision bomb-making); it was also to create a firestorm that would engulf the historic centre of town.
‘All we could hear was bomb after bomb,’ recalls Hannelore. ‘Screaming and screeching and noises of things breaking down. The whole house seemed to be moving. A bit of ceiling fell in. Was the house going to collapse on top of us? Was it going to bury us alive?’
On the ground above, Pforzheim was a sheet of flame. More than 90 per cent of buildings in the town centre were already ablaze. In the eye of the firestorm, the temperature approached a staggering 1,600 degrees centigrade - so hot that metal girders were turned to liquid.
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| Pforzheim: believed to be a centre for weapon production |
For Hannelore and the other girls, it was a terrifying experience. ‘The walls were moving and chunks of plaster kept falling into the room. Dust and smoke. We put wet cloths over our mouths and noses.’
There was now a real danger that the building above them would collapse, crushing them all to death. In desperation, the warden began tapping the wall, hoping to smash his way through to an adjoining cellar. As he did so, smoke began pouring into the cellars, suffocating the girls.
Eventually, the warden gave up. ‘The only thing we can now do is pray,’ he said.
But as the heat and smoke became insufferable, the warden made one more attempt to smash a hole through the cellar wall. This time, a stone gave way. And then a second. And finally the hole was big enough for the girls to squeeze through.
No sooner had they reached the relative safety of the adjoining cellar than the one they had just vacated slumped in on itself, bringing down tons of rubble.
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| The old town was obliterated |
Many of the 17,000 Pforzheimers who were killed that night were already dead. Pulverised by bombs, crushed by collapsing buildings or starved of oxygen, their end was terrible but mercifully swift.
The warden looking after Hannelore and the others was acutely aware of the dangers of toxic gas. He smashed open a door that led to the street and ordered the girls out. Hannelore followed him outside, but the others were too scared and stayed behind.
‘Massive flames everywhere - a sea of fire, like a hot tempest. Walls completely red hot and enormous pieces of rubble that were also red hot.’
The streets were blocked with burning masonry and people were running in desperation through the burning streets, looking for a way to escape.
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| It took just 20 minutes to destroy the town |
Some ran towards Hannelore: You can’t get through here,’ they said. ‘It’s too hot.’ She and the warden turned back, only to be met by more refugees. ‘There’s no way out. Just heat, heat.’
The warden now took a decision that was to save both their lives. He told Hannelore to cover her hands and face with her coat and make a charge through the burning street towards the river. It was their last hope of survival.
‘Keep going,’ he shouted as they ran through the flames. ‘Step by step.’
At long last they reached the river and slumped to the bank where they were shielded from the worst of the heat. Hannelore lay on her front, placed her nose just above the water and focused on getting oxygen into her lungs.
She had made it. She was alive.
She could only pray her parents were alive as well.
***
www.gilesmilton.com
The above story is adapted from Chapter Fourteen of my new book: Wolfram: The Boy Who Went to War. Available now from amazon The original account was published by Hannelore Schottgen herself in Wie dunkler Samt um mein Herz published by Wartberg Verlag: all material reproduced with Frau Schottgen’s kind permission.
