Devils with Wings: Silk Drop (11 page)

“I don’t know who was more bloody scared, her or me.”

“You’re enough to scare anyone,” muttered Stumme.

“Move out,” called Forster, impatient to get his men moving again, conscious that his company commander was in attendance.

The section continued on, hearing an increase of gunfire in the distance, the recently landed Fallschirmjager clearly in action. The buzz saw resonation of an MG 34 adding to the cacophony of sound. They must have passed a dozen houses and as the road started to bend round to the right the church came into view on the right side of the stony road.

“Down, down,” hissed Fessman.

The unit stopped and hunkered down, Paul ran forward in a crouch to see what the problem was. Fessman pointed to the soldier leaning against the front of the Church, facing away from them, smoking a cigarette, his Lee Enfield propped up against the wall. His Slouch hat indicating he was Australian Infantry, part of the British Commonwealth Forces. He was dressed in British tropical uniform, shorts with knee high socks. The church was situated on the corner of a junction, the soldier positioned a couple of metres from the corner.

“Can you handle him Fessman?”

“Of course sir,” replied a disgruntled Fessman amused at the question as his commander had seen him in action taking out a sentry in Poland. “There’s a road back there on the left sir,” he said pointing back down the road they had patrolled down. “It will take me on a circuit and bring me to the corner without being seen.”

“Ok, we’ll cover you from here, do your stuff.”

Fessman made his way backward slowly, not wanting his boots to scrape on the ground. Although the fire fight in the distance covered some noise, the scraping of a boot on the gravelled road would be quite distinctive. He left the bulk of his equipment with Stumme, all he needed was his knife and pistol.

“Found something for you to do at last?”

“Best man for the job Friedrich mate.”

Stumme patted his shoulder as Fessman ran softly down the road, turning left, heading east. After he passed half a dozen houses there was a narrow passageway on his left, he darted down it until it brought him out on the road that dissected with the corner of the church. He turned left, moving more slowly now as he could see the T-junction at the end. He passed the last house and was now up against the Church’s southern wall. He crept forward, running his right hand across the cool, flaking white washed side of the building, all was quiet.

Two metres from the corner, he sidled further forward, desperately trying to bring his breathing under control, sounding like a wind tunnel in his head, listening for any activity coming from the vicinity of the enemy soldier. There was the crump of an explosion in the distance, thank God for the firefight. He crossed himself. Although not a religious man, he thought it better not to take any chances.

He got to the corner and could see the Oberleutnant covering him and keeping his eye on the sentry. He was given the thumbs up; the soldier was still looking the other way. He crouched down and anxiously peered round the corner of the church wall. The soldier was still leaning against the wall, lighting up yet another cigarette, almost nonchalantly, oblivious to the German paratroopers close by. He placed his Luger P08 in its holster.

He peered around the corner once more; the soldier was at least two metres away. He wouldn’t be able to creep right up to him; the crunch of grit beneath his boots was bound to give him away. He would be able to take a couple of steps and then would be reliant on speed and surprise. He didn’t dwell on it any longer, slipping round the corner, gripping the knife he would use, tightly in his right hand.

He eased forwards, then froze as the soldier shuffled slightly, relighting his cigarette. He used this opportunity to move closer to the unsuspecting Australian and when within one metre he made his strike. Stepping forward onto his left foot, reaching round with his left hand, clamping the surprised Australian’s mouth in one swift movement before the soldier could take a second drag on his cigarette, crushing his jaw preventing even the slightest sound from escaping. Sliding the blade between the base of his jaw and neck, pushing it through the soft flesh, blood running down the knife onto his hand, at the same time yanking him backwards and down onto the ground on top of him wrapping his legs round the soldiers thrashing limbs, gripping them like a vice, restricting his movements.

The thrashing accelerated as the soldier’s panic escalated, his hands tearing at Fessman’s in a last desperate attempt to pull them away, knowing that death was moments away. But it was too late, Fessman’s kill was assured as the knife went deeper, severing the Carotid Artery, and slicing into the gristled oesophagus, extinguishing life.

The body went limp, a warm trickle of urine released by the dead body wetting Fessman’s combat trousers, the smell as the bowels also evacuated making him gag. He pushed the now limp, but heavy corpse off him, extracting the knife that may be required at a later date, wiping it on the Allied soldiers tunic top.

He was joined by the rest of the section.

“Well done Fessman,” whispered Paul grasping his shoulder. “You’re getting to good at this.”

“Glad to be of service sir, but I think it unlikely he is on his own.”

The rest of the section covered the entrance to the church and the surrounding area as a couple of paratroopers dragged the body away from the doorway.

“Stumme,” he hissed.

“Yes sir?” he responded joining his commander.

“Your turn. He probably has some friends in the tower. I want you to check it out. I’ll be right behind you.”

“What’s the AI, Immediate Action, sir?”

“If there’s just one of them, then take him out silently. If more than one then it will be both of us and it’ll be pistols.”

“Understood sir.”

Stumme led the way, his Model 38, Sauer, drawn and in his right hand, his knife tucked into his belt ready. Paul had also drawn his Walther and was ready to support him. They made their way through the doorway beyond the pushed back, wooden double doors and entered the dim, cool interior of the church. Stumme waited, allowing his sight to adjust to the sudden dark interior, four metres above him the flat roof supported by decorative dark wooden arches.

They inched their way down the central aisle, ornate, wooden pews in neat rows either side of them, heading for the alter and the door that was located to its right, where they felt sure they would find the steps that would lead them to the tower. They reached the alter, beyond it the paraphernalia of objects associated with the locals religious beliefs, probably Christian Orthodox. An ornate wooden framework stood behind it, some three metres high, taking it close to the ceiling, religious paintings either side, a large two metre high cross stood in the centre. To the right, the door.

Paul nodded to Stumme, indicating that he should proceed through the door. The heavy wooden door was ajar and he carefully eased it open, praying that the hinges were well oiled, peering round it to the left. He indicated that all was clear and stepped silently through the doorway.

Paul followed finding himself in a narrow corridor, leading round to the left going behind the wall containing the religious idols. They both waited, allowing their eyes to adjust to the gloom inside. After less than a minute, but seeming longer, they were both able to see a faint light coming from the centre of this second wall, and what looked like concrete or stone steps leading upwards.

Paul tapped Stumme on his shoulder and they made their way up the steps, taking them one at a time and being careful how they placed their booted feet. Stumme leant back against the dusty wall edging round to the right as he slowly ascended, peering upwards as he went, his Luger gripped in his right hand, his left hand cupping the butt. After three full circuits of the upward winding steps the light had improved significantly and Stumme held up his hand and hissed to Paul.

“I can hear voices sir, sounds like two of them.”

He acknowledged and they continued upwards, both gripping their pistols tighter as they went, their breathing laboured as the adrenaline kicked in, knowing now that it would be pistols and not a knife that would deal with the spotters above them. Stumme hesitated and called his commander forward pointing to the brightly lit exit right in front of them and the two soldiers leaning, chatting, on the parapet wall that encircled the tower.

There were four sides to the tower, the entrance where they stood and three sides, with a one and a half metre parapet wall closing them in, overlooking the town below. A supporting leg on each corner, holding up the dome above them. The two soldiers were directly opposite the entrance, one of them using binoculars, probably attempting to ascertain what was going on at the Canal.

“I don’t know what’s bloody keeping Davy, said the taller one, “he was only going for a piss.”

“We’ll give him five minutes, then you can go and look for him,” said the other who was wearing a Lance Corporal Chevron on his sleeve.

“Probably chatting up some local bird,” the other responded.

“Yeah, but with these Krauts about we’d better be sure.”

Paul was about to indicate that he would take out the soldier on the left, the one closest to him, and Stumme the other, when the taller soldier turned to face them.

“I’m going to find the lazy... “ He didn’t finish his sentence. His mouth dropped open, his eyes widened as he saw the two helmeted, dusty German Paratroopers, pistols held out in front of them, looking back at him.

He grabbed for his rifle that was resting by his side up against the parapet, but Paul’s pistol barked twice as he double tapped and two nine millimetre rounds stopped him in his tracks. One round hit him in the chest, the second his shoulder. The enemy was pushed back against the wall and then slumped to his knees, his hand clutching his chest as his heart failed him, pink froth forming at his mouth as he coughed, trying to clear his lungs and catch his breath as his lungs started to fail, falling forward on top of the Lee Enfield rifle he was so desperate to reach for.

The second Australian had even less time to react as Stumme’s two, 7.6mm rounds, both hit him in the side of his chest as he turned, finished the soldier’s life in seconds as he too collapsed to the ground.

The two paratroopers reacted quickly not allowing the killings to cloud their thoughts; there would be time for that later. They rushed forwards, moving any weapons out of reach and checking the two men for life. There was none. It was war, thought Paul, but somehow it didn’t make the killing any easier.

“Let’s drag them out of the way,” he instructed Stumme. Paul grabbed the one he had shot, pulling his body into a corner of the tower, Stumme following suit.

“Someone was bound to have heard that sir.”

“Possibly, there is so much going on out there that they may not suss where it came from,” he replied placing the Walther back in its holster. Suddenly Forster crashed through the entrance, down on one knee, his MP 40 sweeping the area seeking out potential targets.

“A bit dramatic Uffz,” he joked, grinning.

“That’s how they do it in the movies sir,” he said standing back up. “But it looks like we weren’t needed. What now sir?”

“I’ll take Fessman with me and we’ll re-join the Platoon while you take command here. I suggest you leave two men at the door downstairs, or else,” he said as he mimicked a knife blade across the throat.

“Yes sir, lesson learnt there I think,” he replied as he looked about him at the two dead Australian soldiers.

Paul moved across the concrete floor of the tower to the parapet and looked out over at the flat roofed houses, some with orange, terracotta tiles, the relatively straight streets crisscrossing below.

The tower gave them a two hundred and seventy degree view, fortunately where they needed it, from the northwest to the southwest. He looked right and could just see the hillock. He pulled out his Zeiss binoculars from their dark brown, leather case and scanned the area. Paul could just make out Roth’s troop digging in on the top, realising how exposed they were. Should they evacuate the church tower, they would have to move from the top of the hillock, an enemy spotter up here could bring down accurate artillery or mortar fire right on top of them. Their shallow trenches wouldn’t be sufficient protection, he thought. Looking down he could make out the olive grove and the tree line where Nadel’s men were set up, although he couldn’t see them. When they pulled back through this position, moving east along the edge of the grove would provide them with good cover.

Sweeping the binoculars slightly left he could see the derelict buildings where the rest of Roth’s platoon would be ensconced, giving them cover while they pulled back from the hill top. They too were well hidden.

He switched to the east, shielding the lenses from the sun that could clearly be seen on the horizon, preventing any glint from the lenses giving away their position. He could make out the coast, but wasn’t high enough to get a good view of the canal where the battle was still in progress. He stuffed his binoculars back in their case and turned just as they were joined by two troopers who would take the first stint with their troop commander, Uffz Forster.

“We’ll leave you to it. Any enemy movement, send a runner to look for us.”

“Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant.”