Devils with Wings (7 page)

After this there was a slight lull in the fighting, giving Paul the opportunity to assess the situation.

Three troop was still in position on the edge of the clearing covering the rest of the platoon. Two troop on Paul’s right had reached the far side of the clearing close to the edge of the wood where the wood restarted, firing on the fleeing soldiers.

One troop on Paul’s left, were mopping up the last of the enemy.

A body suddenly landed next to Paul, the huge bulk proving to be Unterfeldwebel Grun.

“I think it’s all over sir,” beamed Max, his face splitting into a wide grin, “they’ve had enough.”

“Thank god Max,” responded Paul.

He looked at his Commander’s face, the strain on it plain for all to see. “Are you ok sir?” he asked anxiously.

“I’m fine Max, and I’m glad that we’ve won. But this was just slaughter; they just didn’t stand a chance.”

Max grabbed Paul’s shoulders, sensing the deep remorse that he obviously felt at the killing that had just occurred.

“If the boot had been on the other foot sir, they would have done exactly as we’ve just done. By catching them with their pants down, some of our soldiers will live to fight another day now.”

“As ever Max, you’re right, let’s get this finished. Have two troop secure the east, west and north perimeter of the clearing, three troop to remain where they are and one troop to gather up the prisoners and check all of the dead and wounded Polish bodies. Oh, and inform Company HQ that there are some fleeing soldiers heading in two company’s direction.”

“Will do sir.”

Max pushed himself up off the ground with his powerful arms and sprinted away to carry out his officer’s orders.

The silence was palpable. The fighting on hill 172 had long since ceased; the Polish soldiers in the clearing were either dead, wounded or prisoners of war. All that could be heard was the occasional moans from some of the wounded, both German and Poles alike. Paul could smell the sweet scent of blood, almost tasting its metallic tang on his tongue.

He felt tired, exhausted.

The adrenaline rush had all but dissipated, leaving him aching and breathless.

But he had a platoon to command and could not leave all the work to Max. There was also the potential for a Polish counter attack, although he doubted it, but he would still need to check on the disposition of his men. He too pushed himself up off the musty ground to search out his troop Commanders, check that his orders were being carried out, but also to provide encouragement to his men who would also, although elated by their victory, be feeling the strain of the last few hours.

CHAPTER FOUR

Paul looked around him, feeling slightly removed from the activity going on about him, not in a dream state, but nevertheless he felt as if he was on the outside looking in.

He sat on the limber of one of the Polish one hundred and five millimetre artillery pieces, left behind by the Polish artillery battery; in fact all six of the battery’s guns had been left abandoned as they fled from the attack pressed by Paul’s men.

Over sixty men had been overcome and defeated by his thirty-two paratroopers and with only two minor casualties. It was their first battle and their first victory; someone was looking down on them today.

The limber that Paul was sat on shuddered, as the six horses still harnessed to it were skitty even now, even though the firing in the immediate vicinity had ceased. A Polish soldier was talking to the horses in his local tongue, stroking their muzzles, and calming them down.

It had been Max’s idea to use the Polish prisoners to take care of the mounts until a local German supply unit, with horse drawn wagons, could send over some of their men experienced in handling horses.

The fight had been knocked out of them, they would not cause any further problems for the platoon, and in fact they seemed to welcome the opportunity to get close to their animals again. There was plainly some form of a bond between these horses and their keepers. It appeared that the benefit to the horses of having a soothing, recognisable voice calming them was reciprocal, as it had an equally calming influence on the Polish soldiers.

He looked across at his men where they were attending the Polish wounded and gathering the remaining Polish prisoners together; those that had not retreated and run off into the wood to be later captured and imprisoned by the other Fallschirmjager units involved in this operation.

It was eleven forty five; they had been in a raging battle for little over fifteen minutes, yet it felt like they had been fighting for a full day.

He was proud of his men in their first operation, their first time under fire and they had not let him down, they had not succumbed to the fear that grips your stomach so tightly, like a vice, that can make your legs jelly like, losing their strength and the dry mouth that makes your tongue feel outsized and misshapen.

His thoughts were interrupted as Max came running over to him, this bringing him back to reality, back in control, back to being a Platoon Commander.

“Right Unterfeldwebel, report.”

Max immediately stood to attention in front of his Platoon Commander to formerly present his report in true German military fashion. There was a time for the informality that often existed between the two comrades in arms who held a mutual respect for each other and there was a time for the formal disciplined approach as required by the German military machine.

“Herr Leutnant, I beg to report that we have taken twenty prisoners, found nineteen dead and seven wounded.”

“What about the platoon’s casualties?” Paul was immediately concerned about the welfare of his own men.

“We have two casualties sir, two minor wounds. Jager Geyer has a shrapnel wound in the buttocks, the rest of the platoon have found this to be a cause for humour and their entertainment for the day.”

Paul smiled in return, the informality they were used to slowly returning. “We’ll have to find him some cushions for the return trip, who is the other one?”

“Jager Kempf from second troop, a round clipped his wing, but he’ll be back on strength within the month.”

“And the horses?” enquired Paul

“Well,” grimaced Max. “Out of the thirty six, eight have either been killed or injured. The two injured ones have been put out of their misery. The Polish soldiers begged us to shoot the horses; in fact we gave them a weapon and allowed them to do it themselves. I don’t think any of the platoon were up for it to be honest. Shooting a soldier shooting back at you is one thing, shooting a defenceless animal is another matter.”

“It is strange Max, I almost feel more for the horses than I do for the soldiers we’ve killed,” reflected Paul.

“I understand where you’re coming from sir,” empathised Max, “they have been bought here at man’s bidding, not of their own choosing.”

“It was a good idea to let the Poles look after the remaining horses, I’m not sure what we would have done with them otherwise”

“Again, they requested to be allowed to take care of them. The ones still alive are even now traumatised by today’s events, much like their keepers.”

“Just as well, our troopers may be good at soothing a good woman, but a horse? Never!” said Max grinning.

“Thank you Max. Have the platoon assemble, gather the prisoners together we’ll be returning to our transport.”

“What about the Polish wounded?”

“Leave them, another company is on its way to take control of the local area, they can take care of them.”

“What about the rest of the Battalion?” asked Max.

Small arms fire could now be heard in the wood to the north.

“I’ve just been informed by Oberleutnant Volkman, that the remnants of the artillery regiment have surrendered and some three hundred prisoners have been taken. Over fifty Polish dead counted so far, and god knows how many wounded.”

“What about our casualties sir?”

We have got off fairly lightly Max, the Battalion has only eight killed and thirteen wounded. The Oberleutnant was particularly pleased with the platoon, it has put the company in good standing as a whole and the Battalion Commander is well pleased. If he is pleased then our lord and master is also pleased it seems.”

“They performed well sir, for their first action and so did you. The platoon was well trained, well led and the action well executed and our casualties low as a result of that.”

“Thank you Max,” responded Paul, slightly embarrassed by the sudden tribute from his senior NCO, who he himself looked up to. “The success of their training lies very much in your court.”

Looking around the battlefield he reflected on the differing fortunes of the enemy, glad that it was not he and his platoon suffering defeat and all that went with it.

“Not so good for the Polish eh Max, they’ll not be heading back to barracks for a celebrity drink today. Gather the men Max, let’s get out of here.”

Max came to attention. “Jawohl Herr Leutnant.”

The Infantry company turned up, along with some Farriers from the supply regiment, to take control of the prisoners, the Polish wounded, and of course the horses.

The Farriers actually looked quite pleased, it seemed, to quote, “they were good horse flesh”, and would quickly be integrated into the supply unit pulling the wagons that kept the German Army fed and watered.

An Artillery officer also turned up, it seemed that the surviving guns left by the Polish Artillery regiment, were also going to find service in the German Army.

The Platoon collected its gear, assembled by the edge of the clearing and headed back the way they had come.

The trek through the wood seemed very different this time and somehow faster. Once they had cleared the outer edge and back out into daylight, they found the Boxers waiting for them. It seemed that Paul’s platoon had been given precedence over all other units.

The paratroopers climbed wearily onboard, the fatigue of the last few hours had clearly taken its toll. The earlier banter and swapping of stories on the way to the woods had gone. Post the battle the journey was completed in silence. All the Fallschirmjager, the Green Devils, wanted now was to get back to their camp and sleep. For some, it would probably be a fitful sleep.

In the cab of the lead vehicle, Max watched as his Platoon Commander’s head slowly slid down the window of the Boxer, sleep overcoming all. The noise of the trucks, the nattering of the driver seeking information about the battle, the insecure thoughts as to whether he had acted correctly throughout the action, drifted away.

You sleep, thought Max. You deserve it. We came through today and survived, we owe that to you.

CHAPTER FIVE

By the twenty seventh of September, the Battalion had set up a new camp just east of Pulawy, Poland. They were on the outskirts of a small village called Zagrody, in the administrative district of Gmina Zyrzyn, situated in Eastern Poland, forty-one kilometres north west of Lublin.

The village was quite small, the population no more than a few hundred. The Battalion had moved there to rest and re-fit after their action in the woods outside of Wola-Gulowska and await further orders.

Earlier that month, on Sunday the seventeenth of September, Lublin had finally surrendered to the German Army; on that same day, as per the Ribbentrop-Molotov pact, the Soviet Union invaded Poland from the East. The Red Army’s invasion had made the Polish defence plan defunct, as they now had to fight on a second front so the overall battle was clearly lost.

The invasion by the Soviets had come as a surprise to Paul and his fellow officers, but they welcomed the possibility that it would bring the war to a close sooner than expected.

Saying that, the invasion of Poland had progressed very quickly and the unit in its entirety believed that the Poles would have succumbed to the superior German forces very quickly.

The company HQ staff, Paul, Erich and Helmut, along with the senior NCOs, moved to a complex close to a working mill which sat next to a small brook running off the Kuraowka river.

Max had made good friends with a pretty young woman who worked at the Mill and just happened to be the Miller’s daughter. Max, with his ludicrous Polish, attempted to speak to her as often as possible much to the disgust of her father.

The daughter, Magdalena, was a tall, dark haired beauty, with high cheekbones and slightly pinched face, typical of Polish women in that area.

One morning, the furious Miller, berating him and waving his arms about with gestures of indignation, approached Paul. Paul, after calling over one of the Battalion clerks, who spoke Polish, to translate for him, was informed that the ‘blond beast’ was bedding his daughter and that he expected Paul to stop it immediately.

He partially placated the angry father by telling him that although it was not his responsibility to manage the love affairs of his daughter, he would investigate the matter. This did not please him entirely but he left with the knowledge that Paul had promised to look into the matter further.

“Max,” called Paul next time he saw the big blond, ex-Hamburg docker.

“I believe you have a sudden passion for freshly baked bread?” he said, grinning.

“I don’t know what you’re on about Sir,” replied the disgruntled Unterfeldwebel. “I’m just making sure the men get their rations of fresh bread, we don’t know when we will have the opportunity again.”

“Are you sure it is not your rations that get priority Max,” continued Paul, baiting him. “Make sure you don’t put any buns in the oven.”

At this point Max, red faced, realised that his platoon Leutnant was making fun of him and a grin slowly spread across his face.

“I will make sure that the oven door is kept firmly shut Sir.”

“See you do Max,” replied Paul patting him on his solid shoulder, “we don’t want any broken hearts and trouble with the natives, do we?”

Magdalena had clearly developed a deep attachment for her ‘olbrzym blondyn’, ‘giant blonde’ man, and was distraught when the unit pulled out later and she was no longer going to see the love of her life.