SS Viewpoint – Volume One: SS Front Reports 1941-1942


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.

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Each SC volume has 40-51pp.

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.