Devils with Wings (6 page)

“Right Max, Fischer, what is the situation to your front?”

“We have spotted the clearing too sir, but there are no sentries to our front.”

“I sent a scout forward sir,” informed Kienitz, “and he has reported back saying there is a battery of guns in the clearing.”

“Are they unlimbered?” asked Paul.

“No sir,” replied Kienitz, “they look as if they’ve either just got here or are about to leave.”

“How many men?”

“About sixty sir, typical for an artillery battery I would’ve thought.”

“Was there any activity?”

“They seem pretty relaxed, they only have a few sentries and we can only see two in front of our platoon line.”

“Ok, listen in,” commanded Paul.

“We can’t move forward and the rest of the Battalion should now have finished manoeuvring into position on the edges of the wood. They will be expecting us to kick things off and panic the enemy into withdrawing directly into the blocking force. This is what we are going to do.”

Paul briefed the troop Commanders and informed company Head Quarters of the action he was taking.

He had decided to bring the reserve troop forward for the attack on the Polish troops and had been told by company command that third platoon would move forward to act as their reserve should they need it.

Just as Paul had finished briefing his platoon Commanders they heard gunfire off to the West. First the sound of a light machine gun, clearly not a German weapon so likely to be Polish, followed by Polish small arms fire. Then they could hear the response from an MG34, the distinctive buzz saw sound could not be mistaken.

The sounds came from the West, from Hill 172, the location of the platoon from second company, tasked to secure the hill and act as high cover for the Battalion. Bier obviously had his hands full; soon it would be Paul’s turn.

“Keep the men moving Leeb,” hissed Paul.

Now that the action had well and truly started, the men became even more alert than they were before the firefight on hill 172 had started. The tension was self-evident. They were all hyped and ready to go.

The first thing that needed to be done, to effect Paul’s plan, was to take out the sentries. With them in place, he wouldn’t be able to get his platoon close enough to catch the enemy unawares without being discovered.

The two paratroopers crept forwards quietly; their target, the two sentries spotted to the platoon’s front, on the edge of the clearing. Fessman, with a knife in his right hand, leopard crawled to within twenty paces of the Polish sentry.

He had removed his Fallschirmhelme, his jump helmet, left his rifle and ammunition bandoliers and his stick grenades behind. All he had was his model S84/98 bayonet and his 7.65mm sauer model 38 pistol. He would shortly be using his bayonet in anger, for the first time. The sentry was looking towards the West, away from the direction of first platoon, obviously focusing on the firefight that was in progress on hill 172. It sounded as if second company was in the thick of it; soon it would be first platoon, first company’s turn. Fessman crept closer and closer to the sentry, now fifteen metres away. The sweat was starting to soak his uniform making him shiver as it cooled on his body. Ten metres, he could now see the distinctive features of the sentry’s face. He looked young, no older than eighteen or nineteen, probably a conscript soldier. He remembered his Platoon Commander’s comment, they may not be infantry soldiers, but they can still shoot and kill. Five metres. He was directly behind the sentry now. The sentry was short in height, five foot eight inches, no more than that, not a problem for Fessman’s five, eleven.

He leopard crawled the last stretch without making a sound. The scrape of his boot against a fallen branch or the snap of a twig on the ground would alert the sentry. Then he would have no option but to get up quickly and run at the sentry, killing him before he had time to sound the alarm; that would be a tall order.

These last few moments were crucial. He made it without disturbing the sentry’s attention, which was still firmly transfixed by the firefight in the West.

He could almost reach out and touch him. He could hear him clearing his throat, fumbling in his pocket, for what turned out to be a packet of cigarettes. He would wait until he had lit it and taken his first drag, he didn’t want the sentry’s arms in the way.

Rising up behind the sentry, a strong smell of body odour emanating from him, quickly placing his hand around the sentry’s mouth, the knife placed beneath his chin. In one swift movement Fessman clamped the sentry’s mouth tightly shut to smother any sound, thrust the blade up and into the underside of the lower jaw, through the upper oesophagus and into the brain.

At the same time he pulled them both to the ground with the Polish soldier’s body on top of him, wrapping his legs round the Polish soldier’s legs, clamping them, preventing him from thrashing around. The hand remained clamped around his mouth pulling his head back, scrambling the blade around inside his skull until all that was left was a minor tremble as the force of life was extinguished from the unknown soldier.

Fessman felt the trickle of urine being absorbed into his own uniform as the sentry evacuated his bowels during those moments of death.

Over to the right, a second sentry met the same fate at the hands of the equally proficient Stumme.

Fessman stood up, holding his bayonet up in the air thrusting it up and down twice signalling success to the platoon.

Paul gave the signal and the platoon of paratroopers moved forward.

Fischer’s troop on the left flank moved up to the clearing, now reinforced by a gun group from first and second troop, they were to give covering fire. His troop also assigned its rifle squad to support first troop in the assault.

That meant that Paul would have twenty men to conduct the assault on the enemy unit.

All three troops were on the tree line, unseen by the unwary Polish soldiers. Thirty two men now overlooked the unsuspecting Polish artillery battery, going about their business, oblivious to the incubus that lay biding their time, waiting for the right moment.

Max was amazed that the enemy had allowed them to get this close and the consequences for the artillerymen would be plain for all to see once the firing started.

“Well done Fessman, Stumme, good job carried out on those sentries.” Paul patted them both on the back, “remind me to never meet you two on a dark night!”

“You sounded like a herd of elephants,” retorted Max, not wanting the trooper’s success to go completely to their heads. But they all knew that the Unterfeldwebel was pleased with their work. Had they messed it up and given the game away, the platoon would be in a very different situation now.

“If the rest are as incompetent as those sentries sir, then we don’t have a lot to fear from them,” implied Max.

Paul turned towards him, “We still have sixty rifles pointing our way though Max, don’t forget that.”

Max nodded, bowing to his Commander’s common sense.

Paul looked to the left; third troop was in position, MG34’s set up and ready. Two hundred and fifty round belts in each gun, the number twos already lining up the next two hundred and fifty round belts for when they were needed.

He looked about him and to his right, first and second troop would assault with small arms and grenades while Fischer’s men covered them with the three MG34s. They were dependent on Fischer knowing when to cease-fire or the three MGs would cut Paul’s men down like corn if his timing was wrong.

If successful, the Polish artillery men would face a swathe of steel that would cut down the unsuspecting soldiers and keep the heads down of those lucky enough to get to ground quickly enough.

He looked at his watch, it was time. He gave the signal and the two troops rose up. He looked across to second troop, seeking out Max, catching his eye and the slight nod between them reinforcing Paul’s determination and boosting his confidence to lead his men in this attack. This would be his first time under fire, in fact, for all of them except Max who had been involved in the German Army’s operation in Czechoslovakia.

They started to move forward just as Fischer’s troop opened fire. The devastating hail of bullets hit their targets, the sudden cacophony of noise startling the paratroopers advancing, even though they had been expecting it.

The first barrage of fire took out a young Polish Korporal sitting astride an ammunition box smoking his fifth cigarette of the day; unfortunately it was to be his last as the two heavy calibre bullets sliced through his body taking him backwards to the ground.

An officer, a matter of feet away from the soldier, was struck in the back of the neck as he was inspecting the limbered gun to ensure it was ready to move out, it didn’t matter anymore, he would never finish his task.

Two Polish soldiers playing cards on top of one of the limbers were both hit; one had an arm smashed by a heavy bullet, the second soldier hit in the chest; dead before he hit the ground.

His fellow card player, still holding his hand of cards in his right hand, the left hanging useless at his side, scrutinising his comrade’s eyes, glazed and watery, staring at him, unblinking.

The battery Commander, looking about him, shrieking at his men to take cover and return fire, but not taking cover himself.

Halfway through his final set of commands, a slug from a German rifle, sliced through his lower jaw, severing the lower part of his face, his mind continuing to command his men, his hands clutching what was left of his face in horror.

A further eight soldiers were hit by the weighty bullets from the MGs and small arms fire coming from the Fischer troop. Considering Fischer’s initial concerns about being left out of the action, it was he and his men that were delivering the first blow.

Fischer’s onslaught continued, incessantly, five hundred rounds had already been fired by the machine guns and the number two gunners were already feeding in fresh belts.

The Polish soldiers, who up until now had been focusing on, and hiding from, the gunfire from the machine guns on their right, now saw the rest of Paul’s men advancing on them from their left.

This second group of soldiers opened fire on them and it seemed as if hell was suddenly on the earth. The ones that weren’t firing back were dead, wounded, or too fearful to raise their heads above whatever shelter they had found.

Paul saw a Polish soldier rise up about two metres away in front of him, his rifle, although shaking was still aimed directly at his chest. His eyes staring, displaying hatred or fear, he could not tell.

He had heard it said that at the time of death your past flashed before your eyes. This did not happen for Paul, but he did feel a deep dread in the pit of his stomach and it did flash through his mind, for a split second, that his life was about to be ended.

He didn’t hear the shots that took the young Polish soldier’s life, half a dozen rounds from a machine pistol striking the soldier in the chest and abdomen. He didn’t hear the soldiers scream or hear the gun that killed him; all was drowned out by the discordant sound around him.

But he did see the soldier flung back by the force of the bullets, he saw the rifle drop from his grip and he saw the man’s eyes widen even further, in horror and disbelief, his mouth gaping open in a silent scream before he died.

What seemed like minutes later, but in fact was less than a couple of seconds, Paul was back in the real world of a continuing battle and looking to his left he saw Max with a smoking machine pistol and an assured Hamburg smile that said it all.

The moment had past and both he and Max were moving forward to continue the action.

He came across a young artilleryman cowering on the ground beneath him, his rifle held out in front, acting as a shield. He knew that he should dispatch the enemy soldier, take away the threat of an armed combatant left in the rear, but his finger, resting on the trigger of his MP40, failed to respond.

Common sense prevailed, and as he was about to extinguish the vulnerable soldier’s life, a paratrooper running passed, put two rounds into him without even a second thought, continuing to pursue the retreating enemy.

The Polish lines were in chaos, officers and NCOs calling to their men in an attempt to rally them, but to no avail. Although the onslaught from the machines guns suddenly ceased, Paul’s two remaining troops were amongst them causing further casualties and the Polish troop’s courage was waning.

For the first time, Paul could hear the squealing horses. They were trapped in the harnesses, tethered to the limbered artillery pieces. The horses’ heads were held high, exhaling through their extended, flaring nostrils, their eyes wide with trepidation, squealing in fear.

The Polish artillerymen were pulling back, seeking shelter and protection from amongst the trees, leaving their artillery guns and horses behind, little knowing that the Fallschirmjager of Second Company were waiting for them, to sweep up any stragglers that will have escaped First Platoon’s onslaught.

The savage crack of a German grenade, thrown at the fleeing Polish soldiers by Obergefrieter Herzog from one troop, was immediately followed by the heavier detonation of a Polish grenade. Although fleeing the paratroopers, some of the Polish soldiers were doing their best to cover their comrades’ withdrawal.

A sergeant could be seen rallying some of his men behind a limbered artillery piece, using it for cover. He had managed to get half a dozen young soldiers together, pulling them in to position, thrusting their rifles forwards in an effort to get them firing at the paratroopers coming their way.

A few of them started to get some rounds off, but they were so badly shaken that they probably wouldn’t have hit a German soldier had he been directly in front of them.

But, the sergeant’s efforts weren’t totally in vain as it gave the Polish force a few extra seconds to extricate themselves and flee deep into the woods.

They had held the Fallschirmjager up for a matter of seconds before grenades thrown by Jager’s Geyer, Lanz and Renisch exploded amongst them, killing the sergeant and two of the gunners, injuring one, the remaining two discarding their rifles, raising their hands in the air and throwing themselves at the mercy of the Green Devils.