D-Day Tank Hunter The World War II memoirs of a frontline officer from North Africa to the bloody soil of Normandy

Hans Hoeller joined the war in 1941 and was trained as a tank hunter. After his first assignment to North Africa he returned to Germany for officerґs training. Once again, he deployed to the desert to take part in the last battles of the Wehrmacht in Tunisia. Badly wounded in close combat, he was lucky enough to be evacuated by plane - right in time to help rebuilding 21st Panzer Division in Northern France.
Hans recounts feverishly waiting for the Allied landing. As it finally came, he saw months of intense fighting, north of Caen, in the Falaise pocket and covering the Wehrmacht`s retreat to the east. Hans` war formally ended in late 1944, when he was taking prisoner and shipped to the USA. However, the war insight him rages on to this very day. He wrote this memoire to come to terms with that time. To give a name to all those soldiers who had died next to him, under his command, or even because of his actions. He hopes that never again shall our children and grandchildren face each other in the trenches - that the bloodshed remains in the past alone.
What awaits the reader:
Never will I forget how my father came home time and again, feeling so ashamed and desperate he did not have the heart to tell my mother that he had lost yet another job. Of course, she would register and start crying. And me, the little nipper, would play around them, anxious to cheer them up. Back then I swore to myself that I would do anything to change these conditions when I grew up.
What had landed on me were the mutilated remains of my sergeant. His right side was unrecognizable. Everywhere blood streamed out of his torn-up body. We had to move away if we wanted to survive. I looked around; we were no more than ten to twelve men. Without further thinking I drew my pistol and yelled "Assault, forward!"
I was rudely awoken by somebody shaking my shoulder. I blinked and looked at my watch; it was just after midnight on 6th June 1944. My trusted runner was standing at my bedside, reporting in a low voice, "Lieutenant, sir, enemy paratroopers have landed along the coast forward of our location." So, this was it, I thought. The enemy had finally set foot in Normandy.