Tanks for the memories: Another abandoned army camp

Not much can be gleamed from the old abandoned Panzer Kaserne near Bernau apart from the fact that Russians love covering their walls in newspaper and playing basketball in attics. It’s true. At one time the Red Army’s 90th Guards Tank Division was based here, or so I’ve presumed anyway after conducting my fill of painstaking and contradictory research. It may have been another division. They were definitely Russians, or Soviets at the very least, and they definitely had tanks, missiles, weapons, arms and legs, ready to be put into action quicker than you could say Sputnik. Luckily for me they were gone by the time I hopped over the wall and in. I’d actually been looking for the Wehrmacht’s laundrette during the Second World War. I mean it was the Wehrmacht’s laundrette at the time of the Second World War, not that I came looking for it during the Second World War. I’m not crazy – I’ll wash my own clothes thanks very much. I thought this was where Germans had their uniforms lovingly cleaned, pressed and ironed so soldiers could keep up appearances when off foreign but my explorations established that that was in another location nearby, where the Russians later made themselves at home too. I don’t think they’re there anymore either, but I’ll go back for another look. For now I was happy exploring the deserted army barracks that I found myself in, spread out stoically, with imposing buildings, huge and overbearing, all ringed off by a high wall which left the camp sealed off from the outside world, not that it cares as it sits out its solitude in the forest. Inside, there wasn’t much to learn about out Soviet friends. Nearly 20 years have passed since they left, and each winter has done its worst, during more damage than they did as it turned out, wiping walls clean without emotion, smashing windows, bringing down roofs, stripping the ubiquitous newspaper off the walls, flaking away at the previously inspirational murals to leave patches of paint in their wake, old makeup worn away like Russia herself. Decay and rot are doing their best to erase her memory, though many of the buildings are sound, still good enough to play basketball in their attics, as the Russians must have done with their aforementioned arms and legs to alleviate the boredom of waiting for a war that never came. Now they’re occupied by pigeons – I guess they like basketball too – cooing and whooshing at visitors as they attempt to shoo them away. They’ve waited long enough for peace and quiet, they don’t want to give it up now. Either that or they love scaring the shit out of intrepid explorers... The only other heart in mouth moment was when I walked by yet another doorway to spot the legs of a man inside. A dead soldier. Forgotten perhaps. Maybe he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Russians being Russians, they didn’t bring him either. I’d already walked past the doorway before I realised what I’d seen, the thousand doorways before warranting only half a glance if I was going to see them all. Shit! A fucking corpse! Maybe he’s still alive, maybe he’s only sleeping. Dead or alive. I don’t know which is worse. I inch back, stretch my neck around the corner. A tarp and a pair of shoes. Thank Christ, there’s no body, ‘twas only a trick of the eyes. They love playing tricks in places like these, when nerves are a jangling, every sound is a ghost and the spirits of the past are just waiting for the right time to say hello. You can't expect to wander around an abandoned Russian camp without expecting them to say hello. It’s all part of the fun of camping. No wonder they loved it so much.  

What
Abandoned Soviet military camp, home at one time to tanks and, of course, Russians. None of them are there anymore. Well, just a couple of their ghosts...  

Where  
Schwanebecker Chaussee, Bernau, Germany.  

How to get there  
Get the S2 S-Bahn in the direction of Bernau, get off at Bernau-Friedenstal‎, walk in the direction the train was going, under the underpass, follow the path around to the right until you come to another underpass, this time under the motorway, keep going, take the path up to the right, past a small lake with a private fishing club hut. This is where you cut into the forest. Either follow what you can of the path in a westerly direction and then cut in to the left, or walk to the back of the fishing club and strike a right there. Either way, once you’ve made your choice, stick to it and keep walking until you reach the high wall. Follow it until you find a spot where it’s easier to climb in. Here’s a map in a well meant but ultimately futile attempt to make it easier to find.

Getting in  
Not too hard, once you find a part of the wall which is easy to clamour over. There are parts where it has collapsed or where a convenient mound of muck has gathered to give you an easy jumping off point.  

When to go  
Daylight. You really don’t want to get lost in the woods when it’s dark. For all I know the place is crawling with boars and wolves.  

Difficulty rating  
6/10. Slightly awkward to find, and there’s a bit of a trek through the woods where doubts will enter your head before you finally find the wall. Maybe there’s an easier way in from Schwanebecker Chaussee but I didn’t go that way so I can’t tell you. You’d also be much more likely to be seen going in if you go that way.  

Who to bring  
Probably a good idea to bring someone, in case one of you breaks a leg, gets eaten by a wolf etc.  

What to bring  
Camera, beers, a sandwich or bag of crisps to keep you sustained. Waterproof boots are a must if you’re going to go traipsing through the forest.  

Dangers  
Don’t go into the old theatre because it really does look like it will collapse if someone even sneezes. The roof’s gone already. It’s just a matter of time before the rest goes. As usual, watch out for the Polizei, especially if any of you are brazen enough to approach from the road. There doesn’t seem to be any security on site for now, but I guess once a few visitors arrive someone will have the bright idea to start charging.

Lost hope: The abandoned children's hospital

The fence bends easily like they want you to come in. Some trees sportingly hinder progress briefly so you don’t feel cheated, but the invitation is clear from the open door – they’re willing you, begging you to enter.
No children cry here anymore, no longer do they suffer. No brave little soldiers, sad eyes wide above glistening cheeks, nor any laughter from those over the worst, happy now to be the centre of attention, the cause of so much worry and pain. No birthday parties, Christmas parties, balloons or cake.
Visitors gave up waiting a long time ago. It's too late to save any of them now. They're all gone, the last drama played out before the wards were left creaking and empty, rooms bare and lonely. The Kinderkrankenhaus is krank and no one’s there to provide the cure. No wonder the little souls of those left behind are desperate for visitors to come through its doors once again.
The children’s hospital and women’s clinic in Neukölln was discarded like an old nappy in 2005, when it and two other local hospitals were closed down and shunted together to a new super-duper complex up the road.
Kaiser Wilhelm II, the Prussian king, must be spinning in his mausoleum at the thought. Germany’s last monarch decided in 1913 that Brandenburg needed a midwife school for Brandenburg. Germans not being people to do things by halves, not even for midwives, it was opened on July 1st, 1917, during the war.
Under the leadership of Prof. Sigfrid Hammerschlag, it developed quickly and became very important, 20,000 nippers being brought into the world here by 1928. Unfortunately, another crowd came into the world too and Prof. Hammerschlag was forced into retirement on November 1st, 1933 – because he was Jewish. Fucking Nazis.
In his inauguration speech the next day, Prof. Benno Ottow promised to fight for the “reorganisation and inclusion of this clinic in the whole of the state structure under National Socialism without compromise.” I presume all babies gave Nazi salutes as soon as they came out of the womb.
Prof. Ottow, who even had the Hitler moustache favoured at the time, stayed in charge until 1945, when he managed to escape to Stockholm. There he worked with baby animals and wrote stuff about dinosaurs. He lived to the not insignificant age of 91 before dying in 1975.
Of course, the hospital had been severely damaged in the second war, but was rebuilt and progressively expanded over the decades. A new children’s hospital building was built in 1969 and another new building with surgery and facilities to care for newborns and premature babies was built in 1978.
By this time 3,000 babies a year were seeing their first light of day here, making the Frauenklinik Neukölln the biggest such hospital in Germany for many years.
Now, before it’s converted to apartments, it’s occupied by bums and crawling with Polizei. At least it was when we were there, when one guy was being led away in handcuffs.
“The police are here again! What do they want this time?” an old lady wheeling an even older one around asked us. “The place is full of homeless people, they need somewhere to sleep. One of them was killed in there a couple of weeks ago.”
“Au weia,” groaned the older one.
“That’s shockin’,” I agreed, though I was itching to get in for a look. A murder! How exciting! Maybe the police were leading away the culprit...
Jenny and Nippity weren’t too keen on going in after that, so I skipped around the back of the complex (the police were at the front), turned off my phone (someone always rings at the worst moments) and went in.
No bodies, but long empty crumbling corridors, open doors, smashed glass and concrete crunching underfoot. Cheery paintings on walls somehow having the opposite effect. Everything’s smashed. Most of the buildings are the same.
The older one, from 1917, is magnificent however, with statues on the outside walls, a wonderful stairway, great doorways and fantastic bay windows.
Some idiot tried burning it down though, so be careful if you go to the roof!
Someone else was roaming around too; voices drifted over every so often as I explored and admired the ubiquitous street art. I did stumble across a few hidden lairs, decrepit, dank and lonely, albeit luxurious when compared to what else must be available. There’s not a huge amount else to see unless you get a kick out of meeting homeless people. Just don’t kick them back or you might end up in another hospital.


What  
Abandoned children’s hospital and previously Germany’s biggest women’s gynaecology hospital for births, the care of newborns, premature nippers etc. By that, I mean the clinic was the biggest of its type in Germany, not that it was only for Germany’s biggest women. Ditto the hospital, it was abandoned. It wasn’t a hospital for abandoned children.  

Where
Mariendorfer Weg 28 (older buildings) and Mariendorfer Weg 41, 48 (you guessed it, newer ones), Berlin 12051, Deutschland.  

How to get there  
Hermannstraße‎ U+S-Bahnhof (Or is it S+U Bahnhof?) is quite close, on the U8, which links up with Alexanderplatz, and the Ring Bahn which is handy for everywhere else. A map you say? Why, of course.

Getting in
Pretty damn easy, which is why the place is infested with homeless as that chatty old woman told us. “There are holes all over the place. There’s no way they can keep them out.” I guess that goes for explorers too. I walked around the block and pulled back the fence at the corner on Eschersheimer Straße. 
We’ve an old mattress going if anyone wants to move in. You’ll have to pick it up yourselves though. I’m not bringing a fucking mattress down to Neukölln on me bike...  

When to go
Any time really. I went during the day so I could see things, but it’s probably a lot scarier at night, creeping around with the hospital creeps....  

Difficulty rating
2/10. Easy to get in, easy to get out, accessible by public transport; what more can you ask for?  

Who to bring  
This isn’t really a place for romance, but you might want to bring a companion as back-up in case there are any unpleasant encounters with the inhabitants. 

What to bring  
Camera, beer, a large stick.
 
Dangers  
The aforementioned inhabitants are bound not to be happy by hordes of wide-eyed camera-toting explorers tramping through their living quarters, so I wouldn’t expect a warm welcome from them if I did run into them. It’s understandable really; you wouldn’t like them nosing around your bedroom. Having said that, I didn’t meet actually meet any when I was there. It’s possible they were all off boozing in Berlin for the day, or out looking for jobs, or volunteering at the zoo, or perhaps they had all just been cleared out by the Polizei. The Polizei. I’d forgotten about them, you’ll need to watch out for them too. If it’s not one crowd it’s another...

Frozen out - the abandoned ice factory

An abandoned ice factory sounds cool but I’m sorry to say it’s not. It’s not, because no factory making ice should ever be frozen out, especially if the damned thing is of historical importance, under Denkmalschutz as a protected or listed building. Now they want to destroy it altogether!
The Eisfabrik on Köpenicker Straße had been churning out ice for the inhabitants of this morally-challenged city since 1896 but its chilling activities were halted 99 years later, and it’s been simply chilling since then.
One of the oldest in Germany, it began under the stewardship of Carl Bolle – known affectionately as “Bimmel-Bolle“ (Bell-Bolle) because of the little bells on his dairy trucks – who founded the Norddeutsche Eiswerke (North German Ice-works) in September 1872. He acquired Köpenicker Straße 40-41 in 1893 and began producing ice here three years later.
The Norddeutsche Eiswerke became Germany’s biggest natural ice producers, and Herr Bolle had a larger factory and residential housing built here in 1909/10. More works between 1913 and 1922 saw the building of the boiler house, engine room and three cooling houses, which were insulated with 15cm of cork between the walls.
A great big ice machine from Linde AG was installed in 1914 to make blocks of ice 1.5 metres long. In times without fridges, these were delivered all over Berlin to breweries, pubs, households, fishmongers etc.,apparently until the late 1970s at least.
After “The Emergency” (as we Irish like to trivialise the war) and subsequent partitioning of Germany (which should never to be trivialised), the factory continued in GDR times as the VEB Kühlbetrieb before being heartlessly abandoned by the Berliner Kühlhaus GmbH in 1995. I guess most people had fridges then.

One of the residential buildings had been destroyed by bombs at the end of the war, but the rest somehow survived the various bombs and several fires – until last year that is, when the old cooling houses were ripped down by, and under the “protection” of, the Treuhand Liegenschaftsgesellschaft.
The original Treuhand was the state company responsible for the privatisation of East German enterprises once the Wall came down, generally responsible for the closing of factories, loss of jobs and selling of assets.
The Eisfabrik is now caught in the web of the huge Mediaspree project which wants to allow corporate greed corrupt Berlin’s riversides with apartments, office spaces and gold mines for investors. I guess this is how they can demolish a listed building...
According to those who want to save Berlin’s Eisfabrik and Wikipedia, the cool houses torn down last year were Europe’s oldest. The rest of the factory is also to be destroyed, except for the apartments currently undergoing modernisation (no doubt before the inhabitants are paid to leave so they can be sold at wildly inflated prices). The ice factory will be replaced by a building made of glass. Berlin is going to the dogs. Not cool.

What
Berliner Eisfabrik. Abandoned ice factory, one of Germany’s oldest, which managed to survive two world wars, several fires and countless parties but is about to meet its fate at the hands of developers to make way for luxury apartments despite being a protected building. There's a nice view of the river and my beloved Fernsehturm from the roof, and it’s also home to some fine street art.

Where
Köpenicker Straße 40/41, 10179 Berlin, Germany.

How to get there
It’s very central so shouldn’t be a problem. Berlin Ostbahnhof is a two minute walk away. Here’s a map to make it even easier.

Getting in
Not as difficult as I thought it would be. Apparently there used to be security but they don’t seem to bother anymore, probably since they destroyed the cool houses. Simply stroll in past the offices to the left of the factory, ignoring any busybodies on the way, past the loose fence at the back and you’re in!

When to go
As soon as you can. Winter’s coming, light’s failing, and this baby’s days are numbered. It’s already too late to see the cool houses, but the rest should be savoured before it’s replaced by some overpaid architect’s hideous creation.

Difficulty rating
2/10. Central, easy to get in – not difficult at all.

Who to bring
All your friends. Have a party! Or your boyfriend/girlfriend/hermaphrodite-friend for the view from the roof.

What to bring
Camera, torch, beer, warm clothes if you’re planning on visiting anytime soon.

Dangers
No obvious ones beyond the usual that come with wandrin’ around a deserted, decaying, crumbling building. Best not to be too averse to the smell of piss. There was some lunatic at the site shouting loudly when we were there but he may have been just a passer-through. Street artists are generally friendly as long as you’re not the Polizei.

Bunkers for Russian nukes, lost city of Vogelsang

Shadowed by fear, consumed by guilt, somewhere in the contradiction of nowhere lies a forgotten city so secret only darkness and light know it’s there. A whole city without a soul. Curtains flutter nonchalantly through broken windows, backs turned on hollow rooms and impotent corridors, while outside stand giant empty hangers shellshocked and still, doors creaking forlornly, their stash of deadly nuclear missiles long gone and with it their raison d’être.
Welcome to Vogelsang, where the Russians once had atomic weapons earmarked for Western Europe’s consumption, ready to launch at a moment’s folly in retaliation for a pre-emptive strike or pre-emption of an imminent retaliation.
Construction at this 7,000 hectare site began in 1951 (one of the few complexes purpose-built by the Russians, most likely off plans seized from the Germans after the war) before the garrison became home to around 18,000 soldiers and civilians, a shit load of tanks, anti-aircraft missiles, tactical missiles and the most fiendish missiles of all – nuclear missiles.
Soldiers carried out manoeuvres at night to avoid American surveillance, and locals had no idea what kind of shenanigans were going on behind those guarded walls.
R5-M (SS-3 Shyster) missiles were brought here by the elite 72nd RVGK Engineer Brigade in January 1959, and allegedly aimed at London, Paris, Brussels, the Ruhrgebiet and Bonn (where an atomic bomb would actually be an improvement). These things were HUGE, weighing 29.1 tonnes and reaching 20.74 meters, and much more powerful than those dropped on Nagasaki or Hiroshima.
The East Germans were not informed, and the missiles were delivered under cover of darkness using back roads so they wouldn’t find out.
The Russians withdrew the weapons in September, as part of a disarmament pact Nikita Khrushchev agreed with the Americans in return for the removal of US missiles in Turkey.

However, another sneaky deployment – this time with R-12 (SS-4 Sandal) nuclear missiles – was sent here in 1961 during the top secret Operation Tuman.
It was so damned secret even the soldiers did not know where they were being deployed.
“Officers and career servicemen for a long time had no clue that the road ahead of them crosses the western border of the USSR and transited to the GDR,” reported the commander in charge, Colonel Vladimir Aleksandrov from Smolensk.
Col. Aleksandrov’s forces waited for the order to fire. “Everyone agonized from the suspense. But the command to load up never came,” he said. “On several occasions I reported to division command ... but each time I got the same answer: ‘Wait. Increase the regiment’s training and combat readiness.’”
In the end, the Soviet Union’s production of the R-14 Chusovaya missile (SS-5 Skean) with its much greater range eliminated the need for armed nuclear missiles in Germany, and Col. Aleksandrov was given the order to disband on July 12th, 1962.
Of course, there was still enough going on through the Cold War and beyond to keep Vogelsang busy. The Russians didn’t leave until 1993.
Now the Germans want to wipe it from the face of the earth. It’s not so secret that they can leave it alone. Mechanical rubble makers are slowly making their way from the north, gobbling and grinding their way through history, while the forest does its best to reclaim the 4,000 hectares of woodland cut down before construction began.
I entered through the south and promptly found a corpse. In the middle of a dark shed. A ram ravaged by wild dogs or a forgotten soldier. Teeth bared by lack of flesh in a permanent grimace, bones poking awkwardly toward the ceiling reaching for the spirit which left it behind.
Hordes of mosquitoes attacked to keep me from venturing further – must have been under Khrushchev’s orders – but there was no way I could turn back now. Bunkers, bombs, battalions – all were discoverable in my head as I and searched for clues to secrets nobody wants me to know, hiding from time to time as I heard voices, other people perhaps, perhaps not. Lenin was definitely there and more besides (electric fuses boxes made by J.W. Stalin in Treptow, Berlin!) but despite a day picking my way through scattered roof tiles and scurrying from one building to the next, peering, poring, pontificating, I only made a scratch. Interrupted by darkness and wolves, I didn’t see it all. I have to go back, I’ll go back.

What
Kaserne Vogelsang. Soviet military barracks and top secret nuclear missile launching site. This image gives you an overview of the site and run down of what happened where.

Where
Vogelsang, 16792 Zehdenick, Oberhavel, Brandenburg, Germany.

How to get there
Get the S1 S-Bahn to Oranienburg and then the RB12 (a weird little regional train that comes along every half hour or so) in the direction of Templin. You might need to push the button to request a stop at Vogelsang train station. Bring your bike – Vogelsang itself is tiny, but the abandoned site you’ve come to explore is huge. One day is not enough, so if you’re brave or crazy enough you could always sleep in one of the buildings to continue exploring the next day. The site of interest is to the northwest of the train station. Map here.

Getting in
Either hop the fence (quite easy) or cycle on until there’s no fence (even easier).

When to go
Now. As I wrote, they’re intent on destroying anything remotely interesting around here. I mean, what harm is an abandoned Russian nuclear missile launching site in the middle of a forest? Nope, they just can’t leave anything alone.

Difficulty rating
$/10. The main problem is getting here and the expense that incurs. Train tickets for human and bike (necessary because they do check) come to a whopping €18 or so return! The train ride from Oranienburg is about 30 mins.

Who to bring
Like-minded explorers. A Russian would be useful for translation purposes. 

What to bring
Camera, torch, anti-mosquito spray, snack, bicycle, sleeping bag and more snacks if you’re overnighting. Phones don’t work here so maybe let someone know where you’re going so if you don’t return after a week they’ll know to send help, somewhere. Ah yes, a map!

Dangers
Some – scrap that – all of the buildings are in a bad way. Be careful etc. etc. and don’t trip over any atomic bombs or anything like that. Also watch out for the mozzies. In fact, you won’t need to – they’ll find you. Just make sure to bring a good mozzie spray to keep the hungry buggers at bay.

Many thanks to Danish nuclear missile expert Martin Trolle Mikkelsen for much of the background info on the Russians' covert activities. It seems he misses the Russian nuclear missiles as much as I do!