On the Eve of History: Shooting the Afghan War with a WWII Camera

The American soldier crouched in front of me had just started hacking into the dried mud with his combat knife as I moved up from further down the line. The soldiers were spread out over a desolate criss-cross pattern of grape and poppy fields down in Kandahar’s Panjwayi district in Southern Afghanistan. Military intelligence reports had indicated the potential for IEDs, the insurgent’s weapon of choice in the area. These Improvised Explosive Devices would unleash their deadly payload either at the call of a trigger man on the other end of the command wire, trough simple, diabolic mechanisms such as the pressure plate, or, less frequent, a call to a cell phone that is wired to the explosive charge. Now, the mine detector had just sounded off, an uneasy and alarming beep that told its operator to hold it and get down into the dirt, for the sake of his own live as well as that of those around him.

A U.S. Army soldier digs for a possible IED in Pajwayi district of Kandahar, April 2011.

I pulled the old camera out of its bag. It had seen soldiers digging into the ground before.

It unfolded instantly at the press of a button, prompting a sharp sound as its bellows snapped into place. A slight squeeze on its side caused the small viewfinder to pop up.

It had seen all the dust and dirt that embodies the front line, any front line.

Distance to the subject, maybe 1,5 meters (5 feet). The front lens slid smoothly into place, focusing on the soldier who tried to dig up whatever had caused the mine detector to relay its urgent message.

It had seen sweat stained uniforms and all the grime that coats those who put their life on the line for a higher cause, for those back home or simply for their buddies who share the misery common to front line troops.

The ISO 400 film around noon on a sunny spring day called for a short exposure time and a small aperture. I set a tiny metal lever to a 1/125 of a second, another lever set the         f- stop at 8.

It had seen the anxiety that comes when you try to unearth something that might kill you: How far would the blade slice through the earth until it hit something solid, the last object it might ever touch?

The undersized viewfinder didn’t qualify for intricate compositions but only gave a rather vague impression of what might actually end up in the photo. A soft click and the moment was captured on grainy film.

It certainly had seen its fair share of all those moments soldiers in war endure, grueling boredom, deadly terror and pretty much everything in between.

I slid the cover off the two peepholes on the back of the camera that revealed the backside of the film. I flipped a turning knob at the bottom of the camera and cranked the film forward; 8 photos left.

It had seen combat, even though its previous owner had never taken any pictures of what many consider the ultimate experience of war. He had been too busy pulling the trigger of his heavy machine gun, trying to kill those who tried to kill him..

The American soldier pulled up a piece of rusted wire, an expression of relief mixed with an air of annoyance appeared on his face. His laborious work had only yielded a meager find.

Finally, it had seen the young faces of soldiers who had made the ultimate sacrifice and were long since gone. The inimitable General Douglas MacArthur once famously said “old soldiers never die; they just fade away”, and as time had passed, the images of those young men had faded as well. “A good comrade, fallen” the backside of one photo would read, “Company commander, fallen” another.

The small weight of the Zeiss IKON camera was nothing compared to the burden of safeguarding it from the Afghan environment, which has never been as kind to the delicate optomechanics of cameras as Afghans are to their guests. But that feeling was outweighed by the immeasurable honor of shooting war with it, almost 70 years after my grandfather had documented his own war, fighting on the unforgiving Eastern Front with the German Wehrmacht as an infantry soldier from 1941 until 1945.

70 years earlier: My grandfather, Gefreiter (PFC) Alfred Schellenberger in a trench. Precise dates and locations are mostly unknown, but all photos on display were taken on the Eastern Front between 1941 - 45.

When my grandfather Alfred Schellenberger died at the blessed age of 90 last year, he didn’t leave much behind. He had moved to a retirement home after his wife of 60 years had died a few years ago, and all he had taken with him were a few necessary items and a collection of old family photos. He kept one other item in his closet though, a lock box with some money and a few other prized possessions: the various medals he had earned.

Having lived through the horrors and countless savage battles on the Eastern Front, he never fully understood and condoned why I would go to war on my volition, which is understandable given the fact that he was drafted into service. But when he started telling his war stories, which at times degenerated into short wild rants, I was the only one at the table whose face wouldn’t show that annoyed “there- he- goes- again” look.

I had shared a few intimate moments with him when he relayed to me with a low murmuring voice how he had escaped death numerous times and how he had inflicted death on his enemies. He wouldn’t maintain eye contact when he told his stories, but when he was done he would cautiously risk a look and realize I was with him and grasped what he had meant to say. He and I both knew back then that the experience of war can be told and explained to others, but never be absolutely, fully understood by those who haven’t been there.

It didn’t come as a surprise that he chose me as the caretaker of his war memorabilia once he would be gone.

Alfred Schellenberger, manning his M 34 machine gun position.

It was in early 1945 when the retreat of the Wehrmacht back towards Germany became more frantic and the signs of disintegration became too obvious to ignore that he and a few of his comrades realized that the war was lost. My grandfather had just been shot through the hand, fighting the advance of a Red Army that was hungry for revenge and already certain of victory. His unit, the 252. Infantry Regiment was in a state of dissolution, a “no- holds- barred type of situation” as he had told me one night.

From a military point of view, it was desertion. From a survival point of view, it was common sense. He and a few trusted comrades somehow made their way up north until they reached the Baltic Sea and hijacked a German patrol boat at gunpoint. They made their way to the East coast of Denmark in a grueling trip through mine- infested, ice- cold waters that lasted “one day and one night” as he put it, dodging enemy planes and submarines. Once they were back ashore they turned south, and headed West immediately after they had crossed the Danish- German border. They surrendered to the first U.S. Army unit they came across.

“We knew exactly what awaited us should we be captured by the Russians” my Grandfather had said, “after all we had done to them”. They knew the only way to avoid almost certain death at Russian hands or being picked up by German authorities and sent East again to be used as cannon fodder was to get captured by the U.S. Army and end the war as a POW.

The plan had saved his life, and now I held his U.S. POW personal data sheet, issued in English and German. “Discharged by the Authority of the 12. U.S. Army Group” a faded stamp read in the upper right corner of the document. He was 25 years old upon his release.

Alfred Schellenberger's U.S. Army POW file from 1945.

It was this document, together with the photos from the front lines I had inherited that pushed me to bring his old camera out of retirement. A solid piece of work, its sturdy medal body encapsulates a set of intricate fine mechanics and is a representation of what many consider a pre- war masterpiece of German engineering. It’s safe to assume that in 70 years, my state- of – the- art DSLR cameras will probably be reduced to a lump of molten plastic and electronics, yet this medium- format Zeiss IKON 515 still works. Build sometimes around 1937, it features a “Nettar- Anastigmat” 1:6,3 F= 7,5cm lens with exposure times ranging from 1/15 to 1/125, a bulb mode and even a self- timer. As a former subsidiary of the Carl Zeiss AG, Zeiss IKON doesn’t produce cameras anymore, but in 2004, Zeiss introduced a new IKON camera to revive the famous brand.

The Zeiss IKON 515 camera that saw use on the Eastern and Afghan front lines.

Fast forward 70 years and I take photos with it again, this time of U.S. soldiers, my grandfather’s former enemies. They gladly host me, and as it turns out, covering their fight with this camera is a humbling experience to say at least. It also touches the single most fascinating aspect of this project: the timelessness of war and the images it provides. Taken with the same camera 70 years later, the similarity between those who fight their wars and the misery they endure is evident.

A group of 2/3 Marines pose for a picture in Helmand province, Afghanistan, May 2011.

70 years before, the camera recorded another group of soldiers.

A group of German soldiers poses for a picture next to the horse carts that were used to transport their supplies. My grandfather is the person on the far left.

 Almost all soldiers and Marines I took photos of were honored to have their pictures taken and in awe of this low- tech piece of equipment and the story it carried. The support I received from their end was amazing, given the fact I had had some early doubts that some wouldn’t like to see their images next to that of a German soldier from WW II.

Afghan National Army (ANA) soldiers take a break after securing a compound during an operation in Kandahar province, Afghanistan, April 2011.

While Afghan National Army (ANA) soldiers use the M16 assault rifle, my grandfather’s military occupational specialty as a machine gunner meant he and one of his fellow soldiers carried and often enough fired their crew- served MG 34.

My grandfather and another comrade clean their MG 34 machine gun in front of a bunker.

What prevailed through all this was a compassion that is strange to most civilians, a manifestation of the strong bond forged by war that ties a group of soldiers closer together than anything peace times could ever produce. Sometimes this feeling extends to other soldiers, armies or even enemies as their plight is remarkably similar and almost instinctively comprehensible. The soldiers and Marines simply could relate to what they saw in my grandfathers photos and some paid their heartfelt respect to him even though they never knew him. “He was a soldier just like us”, one of them had said.

Dedication and Acknowledgements

Above all, this project is dedicated in loving memory to Alfred Schellenberger (1920 – 2010), who by all accounts was a fine soldier and an even better grandfather to me.

It is also dedicated to all the U.S. Army soldiers and U.S. Marines who have hosted me so kindly as they were fighting in Afghanistan. Without their cooperation, this project would not have been possible. Equal gratitude and appreciation go to the ANSF.

Finally, shout- outs also go to the Carl Zeiss Lens Team. Your predecessors really knew how to make a good product. I trust their legacy is in good hands.