Date of Birth: 11. June 1920 Decorations: Iron Cross II: 23. June 1944 Iron Cross I: 24. June 1944 Knight's Cross: 23. August 1944 Honor Roll Clasp: 15. September 1944 Date of Death: 27. The following story is quoted verbatim from Hubert Meyers divisional history of the 12. SS-Panzerdivision "Hitlerjugend". It is the story of Emil Dürr, gun commander of Panzerabwehrzug 4.Kompanie I.Battalion SS-Panzergrenadierregiment 26. It is the story of courage. "The tank has to go" They had carried him from the burning house, which the enemy tank guns had picked as their target in the St. Manvieu park, to a hollow under the old shady trees. There he lay, both thighs wrapped in makeshift dressings, quite and withdrawn. His blue eyes clear and calm, his lips pale, pressed together in pain. His comrades stood around him. They would have liked to do something to help him through those last moments he had to live. But there was nothing to do or say. Yes-he only had moments to live. Sighing, the medic had turned away from him, the dressings dripping with unstoppable blood...Did he know that he had to die? The Kompanie commander asked him if he had a wish. Yes-please lift his head a little. If only they had a pillow to offer him a soft headrest-but there was only a gas mask which they carefully pushed under his head. The guns of the enemy tanks surrounding the park sent shell after shell, without pause, into the tree covered terrain. The gable of the house in which the Battalilon command post was located, blew apart with a bang. The beams were smoldering. Here and there the dry ground, set afire by the searing tongues of the flame thrower tanks, was burning. Smoke and dust were creeping through the trees to the hollow. A fine rain drizzled with hopeless monotony on the leaves. The wounded man turned his head a little. He sought to see something. But he only spotted the smoke, the fumes, and the clouds of dust. "You must not let them into the park", he said. He spoke calmly, as if there was nothing to worry about for him. Then he asked for a cigarette. Many hands were extended towards him. He smiled. Yes-the comrades-they knew he was about to begin a long journey, but they did not sense that he, too, knew it. He smoked, composed, as was his manner. He held the cigarette in his right hand, black with Norman soil, a few blood stains on the crust of dirt. His hand, too, was steady, eerily so. His left caressingly stroked the grass on which he was bedded. Under this grass, he would soon be sleeping, sleeping forever... "There is nothing behind us", he said. "You must hold on until they have a new line behind us..." He seemed to want to say more as his lips continued to move, but no words were formed. His left hand gripped the grass more firmly as if it was looking for a hold... "Give my love to my wife", he said. "And the little one...take care of them...And do not be sad-there is nothing sad." Then the cigarette dropped from his hand. He closed his eyes. Once more he breathed, deep and heavy. Then the blood stopped, as did his heart. His comrades took off their helmets and instinctively folded their hands. And tears were running down quite a few cheeks. They were not ashamed in front of each other. Heavier and heavier, the shells from the tanks hammered the park. The beams of the house were splintering, bricks were flying from the park wall. The earth was trembling. In the early morning hours of 26 June 1944, while the sun was still resting behind the Norman hills, the English barrages had set in. For almost three hours they laid salvo after salvo on the line of main defense outside the village of St. Manvieu and on the village itself. And on the grenadiers of I.Battailon of a Regiment of the SS-Panzderdivision "Hitlerjugend", which had been awaiting the major enemy offensive on the Carpiquet airfield and on the Orne river for days now, in front of the gates of Caen. Foxholes were filled in, machine guns were smashed, men were mercilessly ripped apart. Ammunition depots blew apart, telegraph posts tumbled with hollow screams, and wires ripped singing across the roads...Houses caught on fire, gables came crashing down. The earth moaned with it's wounds, dug into the ground in countless numbers. When, three hours later, the enemy guns fell quiet and only shrapnels were whirling and howling through the air, enemy tanks advanced through the smoke and , the stench, and the fog. They broke through the positions and overran St. Manvieu. Like a pack of hungry wolves they surrounded the park. The handful of men in the Battailon command post could count 15 Shermans, with there naked eyes. They were sitting in front of the wall which enclosed one side of the park, and in the grain field on the other side. Whoever had arms left to fight was sent into action in the park, messengers, clerks, orderlies. If they roll over the bridge thought the Grenadiers, if they break through the walls, if they push into the park-well, then it would be over. Then the battered Battailon would lose it's leadership, the cornerstone of the uneven battle would be overthrown. Then the desired English breakthrough would succeed, because that is what they wanted-to break through here, to the Orne river, to the last undamaged bridge near St. Andrè, to reach the road Caen-Falaise, to encircle Caen from the south. The Battailon command post had suddenly become an important bastion-and it had no heavy weapons. They had sub-machine guns and rifles. They had Panzerfausts and Magnetic explosives. And only a hand full of men. This could only have a minor effect against a few dozen tanks. Minor effect? Who could predict it? And they had Unterscharführer Dürr. But no one could forsee the outcome at this critical hour. The young, blond haired Unterscharführer himself did not know of it...But two mortars were still sitting in the park, massive and mighty. And their crews had twenty five shells left. These they fired among the tanks, into this corner and that. The shells exploded with bangs and caused confusion. Sharp shooters crept to the hedges and wall ledges and fired at the commanders who came out of there hatches too soon. Some of the tanks turned away. They assumed that the forces in the park were much stronger and did not dare to break through. But the calm did not last long, the tanks returned and fired from all barrels. They picked the house as their target and damaged it so badly that the wounded had to be carried out. Then, suddenly, there was a shout of alarm within the doggedly defending troop. A flame thrower tank had set up at the entrance to the park, dominating the path to the command post, and able to harass any movement. "That tank has to go", the commander ordered. He said it as he was walking by, he had no time to stop. He was needed out there with his men, here and there and everywhere. Unterscharführer Dürr had heard the order. He did not hesitate. "I'll go", he said, and was gone. He took a Panzerfaust and went to scout the situation. It was difficult to get close to the tank. It was sitting in a position that dominated the terrain on all three sides. Unterscharführer Dürr did not calculate for long. He jumped across the inner wall of the yard and ran straight at the tank. But the Panzerfaust did not pierce the tank. Maybe he did not aim accurately in his excitement. Then Dürr felt a blow to the chest, and immediately a warm substance was running down his thighs. Hit! Shot in the chest! Angry, Dürr pulled himself up and ran back the path he had come. He picked up another Panzerfaust and ran up to the tank a second time. This time, since the distance was unfavorable, he aimed at the tracks. The tank rattled, the track ripped. But again, Dürr was covered by violent machinegun fire. Crawling, he worked his way back. With one jump he scaled the wall, out of the range of fire. He spotted a magnetic charge and quickly grabbed it. A comrade wanted to hold him back:"your bleeding..." Dürr did not let himself be stopped. The tank had to go........For a third time he had set out on his dangerous journey. For the third time, already quite weakened, he jumped across the wall. He ran, stumbling, toward the tank, paying no attention to the bullets. Now he was very close, one more jump-attached the charge-He was about to get away when he heard a rumbling sound behind him-the charged had dropped to the ground... Not even seconds were left for him to consider, no time to comtemplate his duty, desires, wishes...the tank had to go-And once again he was at the Flame thrower tank like a flash. He grabbed the charge with a strong fist, pressed it against the tank, staggered once, pushed, gasping, against the diabolic dynamite...Then came the bang-flickering fire, flames, darkness in front of his eyes....As he hit the ground, he saw that the tank was burning. He wanted to jump up- but he could not, as if paralyzed he lay on the ground. He tried it once more, felt a stabbing pain in his thighs...he looked down at his bleeding legs and his heart turned cold with shock...Was it desperation which gave him superhuman strength now? He crawled back down the path, now open, to the command post. The comrades spotted him, pulled him in, took him to the medic. Four hours later his life came to a end. Not a word of complaint had come across his lips. "You must not let them into the park", he said. And he calmly smoked a cigeratte as if he was saying goodbye to his comrades before going on a extended leave. They were silently standing around him, watching this brave man slide into immortality...Over his grave the commander awarded him the Knights Cross to the Iron Cross-as the first non-commissioned officer of the 12. SS-Panzerdivision "Hitlerjugend"... And beyond his grave shines the absolute readiness of this absolute soldier"
