Title - #640 SS Viewpoint

#640 SS VIEWPOINT Book Series. Translated from the SS newspaper Das Schwarze Korps, select articles from 1941 to 1945. Each volume is focused on a specific theme. If you enjoyed our SS Culture and SS Creed series, you'll enjoy this series as well. Each SC volume has 40-51pp. $10.00 each or Complete Set of All Twelve Volumes just $95.00. Now in preparation. Expected in late April 2007. You can order now for delivery then.

#640-02 SS Viewpoint - Volume Two: SS Front Reports 1942-1943 Add this item to shopping cart.

#640-03 SS Viewpoint - Volume Three: SS Front Reports 1943-1945 Add this item to shopping cart.

#640-04 SS Viewpoint - Volume Four: Heroes Add this item to shopping cart.

#640-05 SS Viewpoint - Volume Five: SS Lead Articles 1941-1942 Add this item to shopping cart.

#640-06 SS Viewpoint - Volume Six: SS Lead Articles 1942-1943 Add this item to shopping cart.

#640-07 SS Viewpoint - Volume Seven: SS Lead Articles 1943-1945 Add this item to shopping cart.

#640-08 SS Viewpoint - Volume Eight: Soldier and War Add this item to shopping cart.

#640-09 SS Viewpoint - Volume Nine: Wife and Family Add this item to shopping cart.

#640-10 SS Viewpoint - Volume Ten: Germany Add this item to shopping cart.

#640-11 SS Viewpoint - Volume Eleven: Europe Add this item to shopping cart.

#640-12 SS Viewpoint - Volume Twelve: Loyalty and Honor Add this item to shopping cart.

#640-912 SS Viewpoint - Complete Set of All Twelve Volumes Add this item to shopping cart.

One lies in the forest. In the Russian forest. Why not? The weather is sunny and as far as one can see, the world is green and blue. A bird sings somewhere, quite light and joyful. Oh, how pitiful the man who cannot identify birds by their voice. What kind is it? Surely a small, warm little fellow with silky feathers. I can just see him opening and closing his beak in the enthrallment of his song. Actually, I do not see it naturally. For I cannot see it. I lie behind a grey rock, my right hand is compressed and my knees are next to each other and sweating. But that is not important. What is important is that an ant is crawling over the rock. It is in a hurry. Funny, how ants are always in a hurry. I can laugh at this haste. For I am not in a hurry at all. All I do is to look over this rock a little at the forest or the sky, which is full of little clouds that act like they are assembling or marching. But it seems to me that they do have a real or serious plan. They only act so. They are playing. And the play is a like a fairy-tale. And because one loves fairy-tales, one also loves clouds. Oh, you little cloud fairy-tales, who despise time. Yes, I feel it, how minutes and hours mean nothing to you. And while I look at you, I also no longer count the minutes and hours. It is as if time stood still. What sublimeness lies in this thought, to stop time within itself! Nothing moves any more, and the dream of dreams comes. And this sleepy mood that is like a great sea that is crossed in a storm by the oddest thoughts. My right hand no longer hurts. But despite all the sleepiness, I feel metal on my finger, the lock of the machine-pistole – it is an armed weariness, and I already know that the dream will die, the dream that wants to make me brothers with the bird’s song, with the secret of the ant’s haste and with the fairy-tale clouds.

Ping! Aha, I probably stuck my foot out too far. It shrieks ugly through my dream. And more important than clouds and forest green becomes again the rock in front of me, and the timelessness of all dreams bows to a single second, because it rides upon a rifle shot.

A blonde lad lies there – is he even 19 years old yet? – leaning against his flame-thrower and – sleeps! Sleeps despite the thundering of the artillery duel and of the battle noise coming from the neighboring sector. He, too, knows that minutes later in the inferno of the machine-gun rounds and shells his life will count for little, very little, and yet this knowledge does not seem to disturb his sleep. He has taken off the steel helmet and placed it under his head, and his features are totally relaxed…

Another man huddles over there, he has pulled a dog-eared booklet from his bread sack and reads in it with a concentration and reverence as if he were sitting somewhere back home in the light of a table lamp and as if absolute silence surrounded him. That third with a wrinkled brow has carefully selected a cigarette from its small leather pouch and smokes it in thoughtful calm as if consciously enjoying each inhalation. They are probably cigarettes of a special kind – perhaps sent from the homeland. That machine-gun squad over there got together as a little choir and hums a little song, and one man whistles along.

Only the platoon leader stands there as if under tension and looks at his watch from time to time. Yet calm also emanates from his movements as well – deep, secure calm.

But when the time "x" approaches, the blonde lad probably curses because one disturbs his beautiful sleep, this man carefully puts aside his book, that man puts out his cigarette without a word, and the squad puts on their assault gear. But the calm remains – even when death stands between them!

You think that is indifference, dullness, resigned fatalism, irresolute devotion to coincidence? How mistaken you are! – Indeed, the infantryman knows more than any other about the apparently blind, random clutch of coincidence. Indeed, he knows better than any other the force of fate, against which any rebellion seems small and helpless. And yet nothing is farther from him than fatalism and indifference, which leads to irresolute lethargy and has nothing in common with the calm that we mean. They hamper manly decision and rob him of drive and emphasis that alone can lead to success. From calm, however, emerges the well thought out planning, the rational estimation of the possible, the cool evaluation of the given facts. But it is also what gives the tenacity to hold out and the courage for what seems impossible.

The calm of the soldier has decided the matter much more beautifully.

So they achieved a penetration. The weak forces of the defenders has to leave the trench into which the Soviets had already penetrated at a few points, if they did not want to come in danger of encirclement and being rolled by from the side. Alarm! The Bolsheviks are in the trenches of Cape Helgoland! That is the news that meets the battalion commander, Hauptsturmführer M.. Fast action is needed, when the possession of such an important key position is at stake such as Cape Helgoland represents. And Hauptsturmführer M. acts. He knows in a moment how dangerous the situation would be if the Soviets managed to establish a firm foothold in the trench. From there a firm supply line leads deep into the regiment’s positions.

He pulls together all the reserve forces at his disposal. Every minute of delay gives the Soviets opportunity to better establish themselves, every new position that can be occupied by the enemies up there in Cape Helgoland, costs precious blood, if it is supposed to be retaken. The commander hesitates for only a moment when he sees the few men in front of him who are supposed to lead the counterthrust, then he gives the order for counterattack! If each does not fight like ten now, then it is a hopeless enterprise, he thinks fleetingly.

So do they go forward. All of them have already been in the hardest fighting in the east for a long time. They utilize every cover, step by step they push toward the waiting enemy, who hesitates in the face of unexpected resistance, as if he believed it to be long broken. But there is a mighty inner drive, a will for decision, in this stubborn, step-by-step pushing ahead, to which no opponent is equal.

The Soviet points are overrun, the first trench stretches are reached, the most terrible combat the infantryman knows begins: the battle in the confusion of the trenches. Each man, a squad! Each squad, a company! These words receive their highest significance. How would it have otherwise been possible to splinter the penetrating enemy forces – best trained glider troops of the Soviet navy – in individual battle groups to strike them from the front, from the flank, from behind, so that the windings of the trenches fill with mountains of corpses.

Advancing under heavy fire through the streets of G., Dorr realized that he wouldn’t have time to completely cleanse the far-flung town G. of the enemy, and that he could not wait for the following portions of the advance unit, if he did not want to run the risk of thereby coming to a standstill in G. with his relatively weak battle group and stopping before the river. If his plan is successful, and in this situation only total daring could work, he will have enabled the division’s further decisive thrust from the bridgehead toward the south.

Perhaps his men, tenaciously fighting their way forward through the fire-spitting town, did not see from their commander’s face – which appealed to their quiet loyalty and rough hearts due to its always happy, charismatic nature and its clear justice – the magnitude of the decision, when he gave the order to push through the town and reach the river bank without regard for the opponent’s behaviour.

The extraordinary thing succeeded: penetrating into the opponent ahead of his men, Hauptsturmführer Dorr himself opened the way to the Kuban. Under most intense enemy fire that sprayed treacherously from overgrown hedges and even down from the trees, at the point of his battle group he crossed the river on rafts, pushing farther ahead, formed the bridgehead and held it against all enemy attacks that were launched with heavy use of artillery and air power, until the town G. was mopped up by following portions of an SS-regiment and it was possible to bring over appropriate reinforcements for the expansion of the bridgehead. It was later learned, and this puts the whole daring of his action in the proper light, that in the process the Battle Group Dorr had faced an opponent with a strength of about a division.

We do not presume to rule the world, to tell Indians how they should arrange their existence, or to tell Americans how to better organize their continent. Our opinion that East Asia belongs to the East Asians comes from our most sincere heart. We only want to establish ourselves where we can also maintain ourselves in the long-run. Our living space should not be larger than our life can really fill with the strength of our hearts, with the might of our swords and the fertility of our clans.

The plutocrats, however, indeed traders, shopkeepers and speculators, live in a world of unrealities. Only during the short apparent bloom of mercantilism did they appear to be the great realists, whose "sense of reality" dominated the world. On what is their claim based and on what is their power based?

In Australia, the descendants of a handful of adventurers occupy a continent. Their land acquisition met no resistance from the infinitely primitive natives. Literally taken, they moved into an empty house. But does an empty house always belong to whoever moves in? The Australians were only happy with their property so long as nobody showed up to contest it. They have nothing to show except right of custom. No folk energy, no weapons, not even a colonial achievement. But Japan knocks at the gate of their still empty house with its overwhelming folk energy, with the might of its weapons and with its mission to creatively shape Greater East Asia, which is assigned to it by fate. The 100 million Japanese must live in this space. The 6 million Australians do not have to.

The 100 million Japanese are a reality. The 6 million Australians are just the victims of a false world-view that confuses the transitory power of money with history-forming forces.

Because the many millennia old Chinese Empire has in the last centuries experienced a political-spiritual depression, the British and American traders, missionaries and their armed guards have been able to established themselves in its life centers and strangle. Their legal rights were only to be read by the rates of a few East Asian stock shares. They held as long as East Asia was weak and disunited. Their days are numbered since Japan sets out to fulfill its "Prussian" task in Greater East Asia.

The life of the man makes it easy for us. Who wants to view it as a mere and hence lapidary coincidence that the creator of Greater Germany was born at the border of both German states, his life beginning with a directing, symbolic start? How should the man who overcame the lethal class struggle have come from other strata than the utterly healthy small peasantry that, timeless and without prejudice, has always been the source of rising clans? Unthinkable that Hitler would have come from upper officialdom, would have enjoyed a one-sided academic education, would have come from the high nobility or the narrow horizons of the metropolitan world of housing projects?

In this life, everything is from one mold. That the need of his youth had to leave a mark, this was just as necessary as he received his first political schooling in Vienna, where the class struggle waged most crassly, where the national passions became most clearly visible, but where in Schönerer’s movement at the same time the new idea to be striven for first announced itself. And who wishes to just see a dispensable coincidence that the Austrian citizen Hitler in 1914 joined the Reich German army, anticipating the fulfillment that many, many years later would first withstand the great test in Narvik?

The corporal Hitler: Was it not an iron necessity that he experienced the war in the grey army of nameless millions? Who other than one of these nameless could politically interpret the experience of comradeship in the following years, discover in it the laws of community that had to one day cover the whole folk?

After the war they were plenty of generals, heroes with great names, experienced politicians, who with far-sight and passionate heart endeavoured to again resurrect folk and Reich. A Ludendorff, a Kapp, a Hindenburg, the many young, unbending Freikorps leaders – they felt hardly less yearning than the unknown corporal Hitler. But, becoming tired, they had to give up the struggle, they stumbled into deep ends, or they subordinated themselves to him in recognition of the limitation of their own possibilities. Why? But none of them came from the world without prejudice, from which one had to come, if one wanted to build anew from the ground up.

In the field hospital of Pasewalk the unknown corporal Hitler made the decision to become a politician and attempt the rescue of the Reich. We know today that it the beginning of a rise unique in world history. But we do not need to forget that back similar decisions had to be made by the hundreds and thousands as well.

We may argue about whether mistakes were made and who made them. We may argue about the paths that led us out of distress and mortal danger into the future. But all this can only happen within the power sphere of a greater spirit and a reason that, after all, thinks more clearly than our own.

So let us contently argue about what the Führer knows and what he will probably do. But only a fool talks beyond the limits of his ability to comprehend. And whoever plans to criticize the Führer should add that he holds himself more significant and more clever than Adolf Hitler and that he would better bear the burden of responsibility and that the essence of the Germans and the conscience of the nation are more perfectly embodied in him.

There must be a final court for our thinking and acting, from which criticism is reflected and on which our faith has a solid support. Whoever drags it down into the sphere of his own capacity for comprehension or whoever flees past it into a metaphysical cloud will be the poorest among the poor, the most tormented about the tormented, the most fearful among the fearing.

For he does not have the solid support that is named Adolf Hitler.

His birthday will in this year as well only be a day of heavy fighting and great suffering, a day that sees us worry about the Reich and struggle for the intactness of our faith. And the Führer as well will on this day give himself no rest and nobody will be able to relieve him of even one of his cares.

But he will feel the waves of confidence and courageous faith that on such a day of reflection and inner composure break forth from even despairing hearts.

He must know that we love him more than ever and that we need him more than ever and that our wish comes from the deepest conviction:

Long live the Führer, because Germany must live!

April 12, 1945

The successes of the German soldier are the fruit of his psychological attitude. It encompasses within itself the final consequence of the warrior: readiness for death. But the readiness for death of Germanic man is not that self-tormenting flirtation with death that belongs to the oriental and is praised by oriental religions as a special virtue, as a commendable disregard for the earthly existence.

We love this earthly life, we seek in it the highest test and final fulfillment of our existence. We do not throw life away in order to trade it for a doubtful prospect for a better beyond. And our readiness for the final consequence of fighting spirit, for sacrifice of life, stems only from the certainty of a higher necessity. The oriental sacrifices his life in the belief that the sacrifice would bring him or his immortal soul personal advantages. Germanic man sacrifices it for the life of his children, of his family, of his clan, of his folk.

But if the fallen of the war die for the community, if their readiness for death provides the proof that the life of the man belongs to the community, then this tenet must hold true for all members of the folk, for the non-combatants as well. After all, we have no warrior caste with its own rights and duties. Whether or not one is a warrior, initially depends on secondary things. The difference is first made by the fact that it is more dangerous to stand behind an anti-tank gun than behind a shop counter. So why should the totally subordinate question whether one, due to his age or profession, does not stand at the front give him the right to value his life and his purpose of existence differently than the soldier?

"I want to also give you an example that will deeply move you. When I studied in Tr., I was, as you will remember, often with acquaintances. They had a son. He married just before war. He wanted to have children only after the war. He fell in Russia. – His young wife will forget him. His parents are grieved to death. And then? Do you know what his parents said, crying, when they met my wife and my little daughter at my parents’, at Easter?

"‘If our good boy had just left behind a child for us, we would want to live for his child. But now our life no longer has any meaning!’

"Yes, Herta, when it is about the genuine meaning of life, then reason no longer speaks anymore. Only blood still speaks! Try to comfort such parents with reason! We will have to realize that they think too naturally to let reason – in this sense – hold valid. Then our little, logical reason does not speak, rather the natural reason of flowing life! And you see, Herta, based on this reason I want to use the saying "the clever man takes precautions" only positively, that means, only when this man passes along his blood, his life, as long as there is still time for it.

"I know that I have said a lot and in the process – in order to be as clear as possible – spoken many a harsh word. I do not have to fear that I have been misunderstood. But I hope very, very much that I have converted you, converted you from your intention! That I have succeeded in convincing you how urgent it can be to still want a child or at least to have the firm will to do it! Perhaps you now also understand your brother Herbert. He has now found the women who according to his heart is the one with whom he wants to live and with whom he wants to pass along his blood, even if he should die.

"The man who loves his wife also trusts his wife to raise their shared children and to make decent people out of them. I am far from wanting to evade responsibility for child-raising, but I have boundless faith in my wife that she will find and take the right path. And if there should someday be an obstacle that she believes she cannot overcome alone, then she will find advice everywhere. It does not even have to be the right advice. But any bad advice will find a positive echo in her, just like our thoughts are often fertilized not by the good, rather in healthy defense against the bad come to the good.

A father, himself am old officer World War veteran, has now also lost the third and last son in the field. A friend of the house expresses his sympathy to him. From the reply of the old gentlemen speaks that escalation of the Eternal-German that we call in the best sense Prussianism.

"My wife and I thank you much for your friendly words of sympathy. Naturally, it is hard to lose all sons. But I am even harder. My greatest concern is not that the last boy has now fallen in battle, rather that I can send no more sons to the front as replacements. And that nobody will take me, because I am myself 72 years old.

"My wife has been hard hit, that is natural. But perhaps she will also get a stout heart and say: ‘Germany! Germany!’

"I myself would be very sad, if I now thought differently and I have thought, written and preached all my life. Germany! And not: ‘The boy, the boy!’ Besides, all three really took their path consciously and joyfully. The second as well, happily married, wife, four children, wrote just a few days before his end: ‘The most beautiful thing that I can imagine is: somewhere a wooden cross, on it my steel helmet.’ And three strove, even when another activity offered itself, toward the fighting front. Splendid that none disappointed me!

"With the Best Greetings,

"Your old Adolf Stein."

The name of Major Adolf Stein was familiar to millions of Germans in the times of the intermediate Reich. He became even more popular under the fairy-tale name Rumpelstilzchen. Yes, it is the same man who once in countless essays and book took any spiritual credit from the spoilers of the Reich in the camp of all decent Germans and now stands so too the demands of his life work: even harder than the hard fate that met him.

The current President of the United States of North America saw the moment had arrived to degrade Europe, the old mother house, to a branch office. He hates in Hitler not just National Socialist Germany, rather also self-aware, independent, freedom-desiring Europe. Roosevelt and the ringleaders of World Jewry who surround him evidently want to force the continents into a kind of huge trust, whose general directorship is supposed to sit in the White House in Washington. Roosevelt, a wave-maker in tuxedo and top hit, probably already sees himself as the President of Mankind. But it is incomprehensible, how he actually intends to make the poor inhabitants of the earth happy. Should it perhaps be the backward social conditions that has led to mass unemployment in the United States? Or the lack of culture of North American society circles who know nothing but money and pleasure, who can converse a whole evening about how much this ball gown and that tennis jacket cost? May the planet be spared the embarrassment that the trivialities of the North American department store culture become world dominant. The mere thought of it evokes cold shivers. In the course of millennia many a misfortune has befallen mankind, but a world domination by this powdered barbarism would be the worst catastrophe.

What made the United States great and strong, yes, possible at all, it owes to European mankind: racial basis, vitality, ability for economics and technology. German settlers and soldiers have made immortal contributions to the United States. If the American hatred against Germany and Europe were to come from Aryan America, it would be incest, it would be an unnatural erring. But it is a Jewish hared that is pumped into the Americans like a new fashion. Roosevelt and his Jews would apply against Europe the historical law of ingratitude.

This strength will prove itself today as well, in the most difficult struggle of our long history. The opponent knows nothing about us. He surmises us with distrust and scorn with mixed dislike, yes, with hatred, the foreign and impenetrable, whose origin and essence he is incapable of interpreting. Perplexed and gnashing teeth, he stands before the revelations of a spiritual bearing that escapes his understanding. Must we not, in according to his apparently flawless calculation, have long ago collapsed? Against the unshakeable will for resistance of a folk that, knowing the whole terrible seriousness of the threat, forges itself into an iron block and entrenches itself behind its borders, he does not know anything else to employ than ever new concentrations of men and material.

He experiences the German soldier who opposed him with stubborn, dogged fury, wherever he attacks. He experiences young men hardly outgrown the school bench who know how to fight and to die with a fanaticism and a strength of faith without equal, he experiences grey-haired soldiers marked by hard life who combine the daring of youth with the calm confidence of mature experience, he again and again encounters this final determination of the warrior, shaken by no danger and no distress, who stands for a sacred cause justifying any sacrifice. What did an English newspaper write recently? One must exterminate them, this generation of young fanatics, because any means to convert would be in vain.

To what do they want to covert us? To the speculative shopkeeper and trader spirit that makes the world seem to Britain’s sons a trade domain to be converted into money? To the Hollywood ideal of smart dance hour boys? To the robot existence of Soviet collective slaves?

No, they know nothing about us. Nothing about the overwhelming magic of German inwardness that promises us a richer, deeper life. No German escapes this magic, whatever level of education and whatever origin he may have. This magic can express itself in colorful and diverse ways. In the quiet circle of the family, to one, in a small patch of garden land, in the scent of a flower. In calm submersion to another, in a book, a verse, a song. In the great works of art to a third, a Wagnerian opera, a classical play, a Bach concert.

All this is our rich, unique and irreplaceable world. To defend it with the last strength, with claws and teeth, if necessary, we have assembled. Really, they will have to exterminate us, for they won’t convert us otherwise. But we believe that the strength of German inwardness will let us withstand this test as well.

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