Devils with Wings (36 page)

“I know we need Military Police, but they don’t half take their duties to the extreme at times,” grumbled Metzger.

“They certainly pick their moment’s sir,” agreed Hoffmann, smiling. He knew that military police baiting was one of the Oberst’s favourite pastimes.

They got to the site where the assault bridge was being assembled across the Maas, the pontoons and boats being floated out in to the centre.

When questioned how long they would be, the bridging unit informed them at least another hour.

By midday, the assault bridge was complete and the Pioneer Battalion was allowed to cross, their task being the most urgent.

Once they had crossed over, the Battalion took a narrow road that ran close alongside a smaller inland waterway that linked the Maas with the Albert canal.

This time they had a Military Police escort, ensuring they had a fast passage to the Kanne Bridge. Parked either side of the road was the paraphernalia of war, tanks, armoured cars, Infantry sat on the roadside, smoking cigarettes and passing the time waiting for the call to go forward and into action, small arms fire and artillery pounding in the distance.

By late afternoon the lead elements of the Pioneer Battalion reached Kanne.

Metzger looked out of the side window; a flight of Stuka’s droned by overhead, en route to inflict more pain on an enemy already in a state of shock after the events of the day.

His thoughts were sharply brought back to his immediate vicinity as the jeep slid to a halt, a half-track blocking the road.

He was out of the vehicle in double quick time, recognising the Oberfeld as one of his advanced guard.

“What’s the problem he demanded?!”

The Oberfeld saluted, “the bridge has been blown sir.”

“God, not another one!”

Hoffmann appeared at his side, “problem sir?”

“You might call it that; the Kanne Bridge is down as well.”

They were again to be frustrated, this time by the demolition of their second crossing point. This was the designated route for the combat engineers, so Metzger had to come up with an alternative plan.

“Christ, this isn’t going our way at all is it, what about one of the other bridges?”

“Even if they’re open, it’s too far to move there now. Anyway, we’d never get our lot through the traffic that’s backing up.”

“Bridging operation?” suggested Hoffmann.

“Take too long, times not on our side Gunther, and we’re running out of it.”

“Excuse me sir,” interrupted the Oberfeld, there’s always the boats.”

“Of course, the boats, how many men could we get over?”

“That’s high risk sir,” challenged Hoffmann, “we only have the four and eight man rubber boats.”

“We’ve no option Hartwig, we’ve got to get across now. I want Oberleutnant Wolf ’s company down to the canal as quickly as possible.”

He turned to Oberfeld Pfeifer, “where are the boats?”

“They’re with the Oberleutnant’s company sir, they were sharing transport.”

“Excellent, right let’s move it.”

He turned to Pfeifer, “re-join your platoon, Oberfeld.”

He laid his hand on the man’s arm, “and thank you,” then he turned and dashed back to the Steiner, Hoffmann already revving the engine.

They arrived at the company position, the company that had the un-envious task of crossing the exposed canal, probably under fire. Although by the time they were ready to cross it would be close to dusk, there would still be enough light to make their crossing difficult.

Metzger quickly got down to briefing the young Oberleutnant, and he and his two senior Commanders stood round the front of the jeep, map spread out across the bonnet, peering at the canal and its approaches.

The Oberstleutnant straightened up, “Wolf, you’ve got twenty boats. Once we get into that water we’ve got to row for our lives. We’ll be even more exposed if we turn back and try to get the men back up the canal bank, so our best option is to keep going.”

“At least we’ll be a moving target sir,” he replied with a grin.”

The adjutant broke in, “you sound like you’re going with him sir,” he said in astonishment.

“This is too important, Hartwig, we’ve got to make it across.”

“Then let me go instead sir,” he said, almost pleading.

The young Oberleutnant looked away slightly embarrassed, feeling like an interloper.

“I need you to look after the Battalion in my absence.”

“But…”he didn’t get to finish as Metzger raised his hand to silence him.

“I’ve made my decision. Wolf, get those boats moving.”

They made two attempts at crossing the canal, but had been driven back on both occasions, receiving heavy fire from Canal Nord. Embedded in the sheer wall of the cutting, it had two mutually supporting, two-story emplacements, with a sixty millimetre anti tank gun and supporting machine gun.

It was now twilight, the early hours of the morning and the Oberst was pushing his men to make yet another attempt.

The increasing pressure to get across and relieve the paratroopers was adding to the Battalion’s woes.

They approached the Albert Canal again; the water looked deep and unwelcoming. Above and to their left towered the cliff face with its gun emplacement embedded deep in its side. At the moment it lay quiet, like an omnipotent demon.

The company making the crossing on this occasion was lined up on the bank of the canal; it was Wolf ’s company again. They had made the first attempt earlier the previous day. But now, rested and reinforced from three company they were to try again.

Alongside the men, lay a mixture of four and eight man, black, rubber inflatable boats, lined up and ready.

They threw rope ladders down the sheer concrete sides of the canal, looking nervously at the cliff face that dominated their view.

The Anti-aircraft guns, assigned to Metzger’s unit, moved into position to their north, setting up on the eastern bank of the canal to provide fire support for the river crossing. Once the crossing attempt was spotted, which was inevitable, they would discharge their projectiles at the Belgian bunkers across the river.

They would hold their fire until the last minute, not wanting to give the enemy prior warning of the impending third canal crossing. The hope was that the enemy, having thrown the German sappers back twice, would think they had given up.

They groped their way down the ladders to the bank, the heavy boats straining at their shoulders, crushing the men underneath, pulling at the soldiers lowering it from the top.

Once the boats were grounded, they had a few moments to catch their breath; the last thing the Commander wanted was his men totally exhausted before they had even started to make the crossing.

Eight soldiers carried the larger assault boats, four either side.

The boats were heavy and cumbersome, lighter once in the water, but would offer no protection should they be hit by enemy fire.

Metzger and his nine men, and their eight man dingy reached the water’s edge and they eased the assault boat into the water. He had decided to squeeze two more soldiers in; they would be needed on the other side.

Either side of them were a further eight to ten assault boats also being tentatively edged into the water with over one hundred assault troops quietly embarking.

The Commander looked across the eighty metres of the canal, it looked silent to the front, but in the distance a fire-fight was ensuing on top and beneath Fort Eben Emael.

Once across they needed to fight their way into the fort and meet up with Faust’s force.

The water was relatively calm with a slow meandering flow making the going easy. The conditions were good but it would still be a strong pull for his men and when on the other side they would still need to find the reserves to fight the enemy waiting for them.

They had to cross; they had to relieve the embattled paratroopers, isolated in hostile territory.

The commander stepped into the boat, being held by one of the soldiers. It wallowed beneath his weight and he had to shuffle his boots to maintain his balance.

The last soldier boarded; the one who had been holding the boat and they pushed off.

The four oars, two either side, propelled them slowly across the canal with the water rippling around the oars as they thrust the boat forward.

Ten men in the inflatable boat caused it to be overcrowded and unsteady; the slightest movement that placed excessive weight on any one side the dingy would tip over.

The soldiers listened, not without some trepidation, at the noise created by the rowing. To them the sound seemed magnified beyond all proportion to the actual noise they were creating.

The soldiers not occupied with the rowing, watching the puddles created by the oars, rippling out across the canal waters; willing the rowers to be quieter.

In reality they would not be heard by the Belgian soldiers on the opposite bank, the fighting on Eben Emael and the fighting at the bridges would mask their approach. Their biggest risk was actually being seen, from reflections off their equipment or splashes from their oars in the water.

The other boats were in the water now, heading west to the opposite bank. Looking down on them they would look like black beetles or water Boatman scurrying across the black water.

Under cover of twilight, the rubber dinghies crawled across the water, their immediate vicinity still relatively undisturbed.

Halfway across, the Commander looked left and right to check that the assault boats, immediately adjacent, were in line. The boats either side would line up on their leader, ensuring that they all hit the shore at the same time. The second wave, four or five boat lengths behind the first wave, would land some twenty seconds later when, hopefully, if all went to plan, the first wave had disembarked and was making its way inland to secure the landing area.

All was well, they were three quarters of the way across now, and they could do this thought Metzger. Just as his optimism grew, the sky lit up. The fort’s defenders had launched a flare, the Commander, not tracking it as it arced across the sky.

Although his night vision had been affected, he still closed one eye, safeguarding his night sight as best he could, and looking down into the boat to protect the other from the blinding light.

It didn’t matter, it was too late. The fire suddenly started and they were now under a continuous hail of fire from the opposite bank.

Thump, thump, thump, of the anti aircraft guns could be heard, and the subsequent whine of the shells rebounding off the rock and the immense concrete bunker.

Boat after boat frantically crossed the river, undeterred by the incessant bombardment of grenades, machine gun fire and the occasional shell from the turrets still operating on Eben Emael.

The rowers hacking at the water with their oars, the other soldiers joining in with their rifle butts, anything to get more speed out of the ponderous boats, get them to the bank. Not necessarily to safety, but at least to get their feet on terra firma.

The first pioneer assault wave reached the western bank, despite the hail of gunfire being thrown at them.

They leapt out, guns facing towards the unseen enemy, firing their rifles from the hip, more for their own peace of mind than to hit anything. But, it would perhaps help to keep the enemies heads down.

Metzger charged forward, his machine pistol spluttering death ahead of him. They threw themselves down on the ground, just behind a lip in the terrain. Wolf hurled himself down alongside him.

“The second wave has landed sir,” he informed him, looking back.

“Right, let’s keep moving then,” and he was up and forward again.

They ran forward to meet with the lead platoon that had secured the enemy positions, now abandoned. They had deserted their positions once the pioneer’s had landed, knowing that there were too few of them to hold back the onslaught.

Once landed and re-grouped, the reinforced company advanced towards the Northern tip of Eben Emael to relieve the paratroopers still in combat there.

They grabbed whatever transport they could, local cars and merchant vehicles, bicycles, anything, loaded them up and travelled as fast as they could, taking out any enemy on the way.

They had to root some of the enemy out of trenches, shell holes and buildings, those who stubbornly continued to put up a defence. They made steady progress, but had still not reached the embattled paratroopers.

Metzger called a council of war with his senior staff, going through the options open to them.

They huddled in a bomb crater, a result of the earlier bombing by the screaming Stuka’s.

“The options open to us gentlemen, are pretty limited.”

“When will we get more support sir?” Wolf enquired.

Metzger shifted in the crater, trying to get more comfortable, ducking down when a bullet plucked a stone from the edge of the crater. “There’s still some fight in them yet,” he surmised.

“We’ll have another company joining us, but we need to do something now, we’ve to get into the fort. I’m less worried about securing the surrounding area at the moment.”

Oberfeldwebel Pfeifer, spoke up, “my platoon could make it into the fort sir.”

Metzger looked round at him, “and how do you propose to do that?”

“With a reinforced platoon sir, I could take them south along the edge of the canal, hit the moat, a cul-de-sac, that leads to the fort and attack them right under their noses.”

Metzger looked at him, mulling it over in his mind.

“Where’s the map?”

The Oberfeld pulled a map from his tunic pocket, unfolded it in front of his Commander and pointed to the canal tributary that he was referring to.

It was still quite dark and he could barely make out the detail, but could just about extract enough information for him to agree with the sergeant’s suggestion.

He suddenly grasped the Oberfeld’s left arm, “I think that just might work.”

He turned to Wolf, “we could continue to probe west, keep them occupied.”

“We’ve only got just over a hundred men across at the moment, but it could be done” he responded enthusiastically.”

He turned to Pfeifer, “Would fifty men be enough?”