Devils with Wings (3 page)

Paul recognised that they were ganging up on him, as they often did, and turning it back on them.

“For you Erich,” he said pointing at his friend, “just more dust, come on let’s go.”

They dug in around the airfield only to move again two days later, northeast of the airfield along the railway line, then east to the village of Urszulin. They were getting impatient for action and weary of the trudging around, trying to get to grips with the illusive enemy.

On the afternoon of the twenty third, a German, living in the local area presented himself to a German sentry, claiming he had important information on the whereabouts of the Polish Army.

Although the sentry had his doubts that this little man knew anything, he thought it best to take him to HQ just in case.

He was escorted to the Battalion Command Post and put in front of the Battalion Commander, Major Gruber, who, irritated by the continuing failure to get to grips with the enemy was not best pleased to be interrupted by a local civilian.

The sentry escorting the civilian came stiffly to attention.

“I beg to report sir, this civilian claims to be German and that he has information as to the whereabouts of the enemy.”

Before the Major could respond the civilian blurted out, “There are Polish soldiers in the woods Herr Major, I’ve seen them!” The man was a small, balding individual with a nervous twitch. His naturally nervous disposition exacerbated by the staring eyes of the Battalion Commander and his adjutant, Hauptman Niemeyer.

“Where did you see them and how do you know they were Polish soldiers?” asked Gruber in a clipped voice, showing his obvious annoyance at being disturbed.

“I saw them in the woods next to the village of Wola-Gulowska,” the civilian responded quickly, eager to please and change the oppressive atmosphere that he sensed in the tent.

Gruber turned to Niemeyer and pointing at the map said, “This would place them about eight kilometres from here, north east of Wola-Gulowska.”

He turned sharply towards the civilian, “What business had you in those woods Herr?”

“Onken sir, my name is Onken. I live in the village of Wola-Gulowska and was out walking my dogs in the wood, when I heard horses,” volunteered Onken, wringing his hands constantly as if he was trying to wash something away.

“Horses you say?” asked Gruber leaning forward, starting to take some interest in what this irritating little man was telling them.

“Yes sir, and guns, big guns, artillery pieces,” replied Onken, keen to maintain the positive two-way conversation.

“How many men and guns?” Gruber questioned him urgently now; recognising that perhaps the wait to get to grips with the enemy could be over?

“I only saw half a dozen guns, I didn’t want to hang around; I wanted to get away as quickly as possible before I was seen.”

His eyes flickered from Gruber to Niemeyer and back, beads of sweat trickling down his face, looking for any doubts they may have in his story.

“How do you know that they were Polish Soldiers?” challenged Niemeyer.

The civilian straightened up to his full five feet, three inches and puffed out his chest replying proudly, “I was in the Army during the first world war.” He hesitated before adding, “I was a cook;” he then snapped the heels of his tattered work boots together.

“How many did you see?”

“Hundreds, yes hundreds,” he spoke nervously, knowing that he’d left the woods so fast that he didn’t really see how many there were.

“Jager, take our guest to the Feldgendarmerie and I will send someone to question him further.”

“Yes sir,” responded the sentry, thinking about how he was going to retell the story when he came off duty.

He grabbed the civilian and pulled him to the opening of the tent, leading him out.

The civilian spluttered, “Where are you taking me, I’ve been very helpful to you, I’m a loyal German?”

There was obvious fear in his eyes. He had expected to pass on his information, be thanked, and even given a small reward for his services to the German Army. Not be arrested.

The last the Battalion Commander and the Adjutant heard, as he was escorted, forcefully, out of the HQ, was his mutterings that he was a loyal German and a request for some sort of reward for his services.

Gruber moved to the six-foot table, the centrepiece of the Battalion Command tent. Sitting on its edge, he studied the map spread across the table. The numerous crease marks from this well used map, sometimes making it difficult to read detail.

He beckoned Niemeyer over and pointing to the map, his finger circling the woods by Wola-Gulowska, “It will be a full Battalion effort, two companies acting as blocking forces and one company flushing them out.”

“Volkman’s our man for that sir.”

“The Commander looked up, a slight twinkle in his eyes,” he sometimes scares me more than the enemy,” they both laughed.

The sentry outside was nonplussed by his senior officers behaviour; he would never understand what made them tick.

Gruber turned to Niemeyer, “get the Company Commanders together, if he is right we could see some action for the Battalion at last.”

They both grinned conspiratorially. Although mature Luftwaffe officers, the excitement they felt at finally tracking down the enemy was palpable. Finally the Battalion was to get to see some action.

Erich ran up behind Paul, calling to him.

“Paul, Paul, the alarm’s gone off! We’re to report to Volkman for a briefing at Company HQ.”

“Any idea what it’s about?” responded Paul as Erich came alongside him.

“I don’t know what the flap is, but we’ve got to get our platoons ready to move out at one hour’s notice.”

“Packed rucksacks and make ready the weapons containers,” said Paul, quoting the Fallschirmjager mantra.

“Something at last eh Erich, let’s go and get the teams ready then,” responded Paul gleefully.

“I saw Unterfeldwebel Grun and forewarned him; I told him I would get hold of you while he gets our platoons together. We’ll meet him back at the lines.”

“Well, what are we waiting for then, let’s go.”

Leutnant Paul Otto Brand was a tall, twenty one year old, athletic Fallschirmjager officer, Commander of the first Platoon of first Company, the first Battalion the first Fallschirmjager Regiment, and proud of it.

Paul was born in Brandenburg an der Havel, a town in the state of Brandenburg, west of Berlin. It is located on the banks of the Havel, with a population of some eighty thousand people.

After leaving school his first job was working in an aircraft manufacturing company, Arado Flugzeugwerke, where as an apprentice he learnt the trade of aircraft building.

In nineteen thirty seven, he volunteered for service with the R A D, the Reichsarbeitsdienst; the Reich Labour Service and spent nine months with an Arbeitsgruppen, where he was encouraged to join the Army. It was while serving in the Army that his desire was born to serve in the Fallschirmtruppe, and was subsequently sent to Fallschirmjager Regiment 1, in Stendal.

He had only been serving with the paratroopers for twelve months, but felt at home with this unit and the thought of finally experiencing action with this elite Regiment was the last tick in the box. This was his first command and he was keen to do right by his country, right by his unit and right by his men.

Leutnant Erich Fleck, also twenty one years old, but two inches shorter than Paul’s six foot two, commanded the second platoon of one company. He and Paul had gone through the intense paratrooper training together at Stendal-Borstal.

They came across the two paraded platoons, and Paul left Erich to go and join number one Platoon and his Senior Non Commissioned Officer, Unterfeldwebel Max Grun.

Unterfeldwebel Max Grun, Platoon Sergeant for first platoon, quickly came to attention on seeing his Platoon Commander approaching and saluted.

“Platoon paraded and ready for inspection sir.”

Paul returned the Feldwebel’s parade ground salute.

“Thank you Max, stand them at ease and call the Troop Commanders over.”

“Leeb, Kienitz and Fischer, front and centre now!” bellowed Max.

Max was the senior Non Commissioned Officer for the platoon. He was the disciplinarian, the enforcer of military discipline for the unit. Although still a key position in the paratroopers, the role differed slightly in that in the Fallschirmjager, self-discipline was paramount. These were elite soldiers, proud of their regiment, proud that they were paratroopers, ‘The Green Devils’.

Max, born on the sixteenth of May, nineteen eleven, a couple of years before the Great War, was the son of a docker in Hamburg. He himself had followed in his father’s footsteps straight from leaving school at sixteen, where he too became a docker on the famous Hamburg docks.

Midway through his twenty-second year, he lost interest in his father’s profession, but he also had a hankering for something different, something more exciting, so he joined the German Army. It was also said, although no one would actually say it straight to the tough docker’s face, that there was a possible paternity suit in the offing, hence the desire for the army and foreign shores.

He excelled in his new chosen profession and quickly moved up through the ranks to become the Unterfeldwebel he was now. He had earned the respect of not only his subordinates, but also his superiors.

Always looking for a challenge, wanting to take ever-greater risks, at the age of twenty six, he volunteered for the newly formed Fallschirmjager. He successfully completed his training at Stendal, and was now happily the platoon Feldwebel for First Platoon.

If this was Paul’s first command, then the heavily built, ex Hamburg docker, with over five years’ army service behind him, did not take advantage of it. In fact they had a rapport from their very first meeting. When, at their first encounter, Max had pointed out that the Leutnant should take his lead and allow Max to run the platoon, Paul’s response had been simple.

“But who will lead you Unterfeldwebel Grun, and keep you out of the Hamburg bars and brothels and out of trouble?”

The Leutnant had clearly read Max’s personnel file and was aware of his escapade when last on leave.

Members of the Heer, the Wehrmacht, had been taking the piss out of the Luftwaffe soldiers, not realising they were Fallschirmjager, and after Max’s response, clearly wished they had left the Luftwaffe soldiers alone. Subsequently though, Max was arrested by the Hamburg police.

Fortunately for Max, one of the police officers knew him and knew he was a Fallschirmjager and so he got off lightly. Max couldn’t suppress a smile at the Leutnant’s response. Leadership was established, a rapport had been fostered and the relationship between the stocky ex-docker and the tall athletic officer was sound.

To Max, Paul was not like many of the other officers, there was strength but without arrogance, there was knowledge, but he was not afraid to ask his NCO’s advice if he was unsure of something and he was loyal to his men.

The three Troop Commanders’, Unteroffiziers, gathered around their officer and senior NCO, pulling up canvas chairs, at Paul’s direction.

“Gentlemen,” said Paul, “the Oberleutnant has called all senior officers for a briefing. I don’t know what it concerns as yet, but we’ve been ordered to prepare our equipment for an operation. So, just go through the basics, make sure all of the men’s equipment is present and functional.”

“And check with the quartermaster,” interjected Max, “see if they’ve been given any indications of ammunition and food requirements, it might give us advance warning of how long we’ll be away.”

“Are all the men fit and well?” questioned Paul.

They all nodded in the affirmative.

“Good, also make sure your men get their letters finished and lodged with the Feld Post. We don’t want to think the worst, but we don’t know how long we’ll be away on operations.”

“Make sure they stay in touch with their loved ones,” added Max smiling.

“Don’t let me down; I’m looking to you to ensure that the men are ready. We may need to move with as little as one hour’s notice, so keep on your toes.”

The Unteroffiziers shuffled their feet, looked at each other and at Paul and Max expectantly. They were picking up on the obvious suppressed excitement within their officer commanding. They were equally keen to see some action and prove themselves, because many, like Paul, had not yet seen combat.

In fact Max was the only one to have seen any action and that was in Czechoslovakia.

“Right dismissed.”

The Uffzs saluted and returned to their units to get them ready for the impending operation.

“Max, a quick word. I want you to check and double check the platoon’s readiness. I want them ready for any contingency. Once I know what’s expected of us we can finalise our equipment. Keep the troops on their toes and be ready to move out at a moment’s notice.”

“They will be,” assured Max as he saluted.

Paul returned the salute and left them to it.

He headed off to look for Erich and Helmut, his two fellow Platoon Commanders, leaving his Troop Commanders and Max to prepare for their upcoming operation. He had every confidence in them.

He could see Erich, where he too had just finished briefing his men and made his way over to join him.

They were camped at a large Polish farm about forty kilometres from the town of Pulawy, a town in Eastern Poland, in the Lublin Province.

The farm consisted of a number of large barns which first company was using as its billet. Erich’s platoon was paraded in front of one of those barns, which was also their eating and sleeping quarters. His and Helmut’s platoons were similarly accommodated, at the much larger barn, much to the farmer’s displeasure, on the other side of the farm.

“Have you heard anything yet?” enquired Erich as he saw Paul approaching.

“No,” replied Paul, taking advantage of the bale of straw and sitting himself down, “I was hoping you might have picked something up.”

“What do you think it’s all about Paul? Do you think it’s another wild goose chase? We’ve been running around after these Poles for days now! They’re like ghosts. My troopers are starting to get pissed off with it, but then so am I!”