QUOTE(Martin M @ Wed 3 Aug 2005 1549)
They did, but it wasn't fun:
QUOTE
My fourth and final wound occurred on August 8, 1944 on a beautiful summer day about two miles south of Raseinen, Lithuania. Our tank was detailed to investigate, as the lead tank of the Company, the activities of the Russians in the vicinity of Raseinen. As we pulled up behind some bushes on a hill, I spotted a Russian T-34 tank diagonally crossing the valley in front of us. I had fired my first shot at the Russian tank when, at that instant, I sensed a shiny object approach our tank at a tremendous speed from the direction of eleven o'clock. Describing the event takes time, but this was an instantaneous occurrence. All I knew that danger was approaching and before I could shout, "Aufpassen!" (watch out!), there was a bright flash and then nothing - no sound no following explosion. I subconsciously crawled out of the tank.
I regained consciousness when kneeling on the ground behind the tank. I saw my driver, also kneeling, in front of me. "What happened?", I asked him and he replied, "We got hit!" When I asked him where the other members of our crew were he replied, "They are dead." As the tank engine finally sputtered and died, I heard a moaning and told the driver, "I think one of them is alive, let's help." As we both leapt up onto the rear of the tank, we found the loader alive but he had a gun in his hand and was preparing to shoot himself. This was often the reaction of a tank crew member who, when his tank was hit and he seemed unable to exit the vehicle, he preferred to commit suicide rather than go through the agony of slowly burning to death or to be captured by the Russians. I immediately knocked the weapon out of his hand and told the driver, "Help me pull him out." We tried but found that we could not budge him for there was considerable debris throughout the tank's interior which had his legs trapped. At that moment, we heard our commander begin to moan. We moved over to the left side of the tank where we found him as securely caught in the wreckage as the loader. At that moment, Russian machine gun fire began strafing our disabled vehicle so, following our trained reactions, we jumped off the tank and went behind it.
Following this, my eyesight was getting progressively worse, so I asked the driver, "Do you see anything?" - meaning, "Can You still see?" He obviously thought that I was asking him if he saw any Russians for he replied, "No." Well, I concluded, in that case I better go back for help, but when I informed of my intentions he said, "You look like a mess, your arms and face!" It was only then that I realized that I was indeed wounded. Both of my arms were burned - the right one so severely that the skin was rolling up. My shirt was completely burned off on the right hand side, and when I touched my face and head, all I could feel was a gooey mess. Moreover, my hair was totally burned away and blood poured over my face. Considering the extent of my injuries, it was incredible that someone had to tell me that I was wounded before I realized that I was injured! With comprehension came pain and I found that the only way I could relieve the excruciating condition of my arms was to raise them above me.
It was like this that I stumbled my way back down the hill, barely able to see the track marks our tank made in the grass, to the gravel pit where help and safety awaited. By this time, all that I could see was a milky blur in front of my eyes, and a voice called out, "who is that?" "Rudi, from Tank 541!", I replied. "Oh, my gosh," he exclaimed, "is anybody else alive?" "Yes," I answered, "the other three are hurt, but we can't get them out and they need help." "Alright," he said, "we are getting help for them!" My sight, by this time, was almost completely gone, so I called out, "I am blind!" "You just stand there, help is coming," he replied. I was told later that one of the tanks broke away from the battle formation and towed my tank and crew back to safety. I went into unconsciousness for all I remember was that someone was speaking to me while I was lying on a cot most likely on the ground. Whatever he was saying seemed to me incomprehensible. According to my Verwundetenkarte (a tag with medical and other information that accompanies the wounded soldier), I was given the Last Rites by the Chaplain. My loader's and my conditions were considered grave enough that they had given us up as beyond help and, expecting us two to die shortly, they left us in the Field Hospital rather then ship us back to Germany.
After about two weeks during which time I was still unconscious, my health began to improve and I recall gaining consciousness just as I was being unloaded from the troop train in Dresden, Germany.