Devils with Wings: Silk Drop (19 page)

“Just rumours of Greek women and debauchery Feldwebel Grun.” Paul couldn’t help but grin.

“God sir, I thought it might have been something serious.”

“There must have been tears last night Max, being your last night for a while.”

Max leant in to his Company Commander, stretching to reach Paul’s ear and whispered, “To tell the truth sir, It was starting to get a bit complicated.”

“Ah, so you’ve two on the go then?”

Max responded with a look of astonishment. “You know me too well sir.”

“Well enough to be thankful that you will be with me and the rest of the Company Max, this operation isn’t going to be the walkover everyone expects it to be.”

Max came to attention, saluted and said, “We’ll be fine sir, you’ll see us through whatever is thrown at us.”

Paul returned the salute. “On your way Feldwebel and get about your business.”

Max strode away, the bond between them as strong as ever, and he was joined by Helmut and the other two Company Commanders, Meinhard and Manfred.

“Mr Brand, we are heading out to a little Taverna in the town and insist that you join us.”

“What about the Raven?”

“He gave us permission to grab a last drink before the op tomorrow, providing we’re back by midday.”

Paul’s first internal reaction was one of panic. He wasn’t sure he was ready for the banter that went hand-in-hand with time spent with his comrades. Once Max had gone he was more than ready to run and hide until his attendance was required again. His heart advocated darkness and solitude, his head counselled him not to spend more time stewing in self pity, but to spend some time with these men, who may well die in tomorrow’s battle.

“Sounds like a good idea Helmut,” said Paul.

“Great,” added Meinhard.

“What are we waiting for then?” said Manfred clutching Paul’s arm and steering him towards the town. Helmut did the same on the other side and Paul recognised that they were in no way going to let him change his mind now.

The four men headed away from the aerodrome until they hit the outskirts of the town, picking their way through the restricted, flat cobbled streets, some so narrow that the balconies above them on either side of the thoroughfare almost touched. As they walked, their studded boots clattered on the flat cobbled streets. Three storey dwellings towered above them, a patchwork of colours, many with paint flaking off the walls and in some cases the rendering itself. Although badly in need of upkeep, most houses had a potted plant outside their very narrow doors, Helmut nearly knocking over a potted fig tree.

They arrived at the end of the street coming face to face with a small church, its square white walls topped with an orange, inverted u-shaped roof. Meinhard led them down another side street, equally as narrow, the towns’ occupants darting back into their houses on seeing the German soldiers heading their way. Eventually they found a Taverna towards the centre of the town, the streets quiet at that time of day.

The paratroopers sat themselves down on the wicker chairs, around the simple wooden table draped with a plain white table cloth placed diagonally across it, inverted triangular shapes dropping to the four sides. The seats were also a simple affair, wooden backed with woven, wicker seats covered with thin embroidered cushions. Above them an arbour adorned with vines, shading them from the sun that was already starting to glare with its fierce heat.

Paul looked up at the canopy above them, the size of the leaves indicating the type of grape. Gewürztraminer he knew since the leaves were small, but those above were much larger and a mystery to him. The grapevines were bare, the harvesting season was now over. The Taverna proprietor approached them anxiously. He didn’t speak German and none of the four comrades spoke Greek, but it didn’t take long for International sign language to conjure up a bottle of red wine and some menus.

“Kotsfali,” said Meinhard holding the bottle up in front of him.

“Guess what, it’s indigenous to Crete, do you think he knows something?” They all chuckled at the irony.

He sipped from his glass. “Tastes a bit like a Bordeaux,” he added.

“Never mind the wine, what the bloody hell does the menu say?” Helmut thrust the tatty menu in front of Meinhard, who had, so it seemed, assumed the mantle of a Greek food and wine expert. Before Meinhard could respond, the Taverna keeper, a mop of wavy black hair crowning his tanned leathery face, dark eyes and dark moustache, returned and placed a board with sliced bread on it, a bowl of olives and a bottle with a narrow spout topping it, which turned out to be olive oil, in front of them. He said something they didn’t understand and went to another table on the other side of the outside area where four locals were sat drinking black coffee, smoking and jabbering away in their local tongue. As they spoke they occasionally stole wary glances at the German soldiers opposite.

Manfred grabbed the menu from Meinhard and tossing it over to Paul said, “It’s in English on the other side. You speak some English Paul, what does it say?”

Paul held the menu up in front of him, scanning the lines of unfamiliar text. Helmut topped up their wine glasses, pulling a face as he sipped his way through his second glass of the day.

“A bit rough this.”

“You just lack an acquired taste,” teased Meinhard

“You can’t beat a good Keller bier.”

“That says it all.”

“Well, what you’re eating now Helmut is flatbread,” said Paul as he dipped a piece of it into the olive oil, soaking it up and taking a bite.

“What about some appetisers? They have tzatziki, tirokafteri or soup.”

“What the bloody hell is that?” responded Helmut, frustrated that he couldn’t read the menu and expedite the ordering process.

“Tzatziki is a yogurt, garlic and cucumber dip and Tirokafteri is whipped feta cheese with hot peppers and olive oil dip.”

“Yes, but what about the meat?”

Paul scanned further down the menu, struggling with some of the English words.

“There are some baked and grilled dishes, but I’m not sure whether it’s meat or fish.”

“If it’s grilled it will do.”

“It will probably be fish as we’re so close to the coast,” added Meinhard.

But Helmut was too busy breaking up bits of bread and tentatively dipping it into the oil to pay too much attention.

“What’s wrong with good old fashioned Bratwurst and Brotchen,” he moaned.

The waiter came over and after a few minutes of he and Paul pointing at the menu and using various gestures the order was placed. The Taverna proprietor, who was probably the only one who new what food they were going to end up with, slipped passed the four of them to fulfil their order.

Within ten minutes they were re-joined by the waiter, this time he was carrying a small table which he proceeded to unfold next to them. He placed onto this a large tray overlaid with a further selection of delicacies. They were then joined by a second waiter, sweat marks already starting to show on the armpits of his grey white shirt, his black trousers having never seen an iron. The second waiter placed china plates and cutlery on the table in front of each one of them, adding a white, triangular serviette later. The first waiter, the typical straight nose and strong chin, focused on his task, transferred the dishes from the tray to their table. There was an eclectic mix of food, from steaming, baked fish to a large bowl of Greek salad, covered with feta cheese, tomatoes and swamped with olive oil.

Helmut immediately pounced on something he recognised and scooped large slices of beef tomato, lettuce and tuna onto his plate, already eyeing up what he would sample next. His comrades looked at each other and burst into laughter. He looked up, a mouth full of food. “What?”

Before he continued eating, he did notice Paul laughing along with the others. The first time he had seen his friend do that since his return from Berlin.

“Well Paul, what were the enemy like to fight in Greece?” asked Manfred, his thin face peering at the food in front of him deciding what to put on his plate.

“How were they compared to the Poles?” added Meinhard, holding his glass of wine up in the air, examining its colour through the well used wine glass.

“Nobody can fight as badly as they did,” stated Helmut, much happier now he had some grilled fish on his plate.

“The Belgians and the French were no better,” suggested Meinhard. “They didn’t last much more than six weeks. Let’s face it, the Third Reich has the best soldiers, the best armed forces and the best attributes than any where else in the world.”

“You’ve been listening to too much propaganda,” rebutted Manfred.

Paul, recognising Meinhard’s and Manfred’s differing views and sensing a disagreement in the offing answered their question. “Yes, but they hadn’t trained for war and their tactics were based on fighting World War One all over again.”

“Come on then, tell us,” urged Helmut, washing down his food with yet more wine.

“I don’t know if they were brave or not, but the Allied soldiers we came up against were certainly aggressive.”

“But you beat them.”

“Yes we beat them Helmut, but we’ve fought in Poland, Belgium, France and Greece. This is probably the first time they’ve come face to face with experienced professional soldiers.”

“Exactly, and Crete will be the same. They will be completely enveloped and destroyed.”

“Don’t underestimate the enemy Meinhard, they are putting up a pretty stiff resistance in the desert and Rommel will be the first one to admit that they’re no walk over. I’ve heard that they’ve taken back Halfaya Pass.”

“Rommel will kick them back out again Paul, don’t you worry about that.”

Helmut stabbed at a piece of what looked liked chicken and munched like he had not eaten for weeks, his confidence in Rommel and the Afrika Corps beyond question.

“The Luftwaffe have already started bombing Crete, so they must know we’re coming,” noted Manfred.

“But they won’t know it’s a silk drop will they?” suggested Manfred, at the same time adding some baked fish to his salad.

“They will when they see over five hundred Tante Junes flying over them,” spluttered Helmut with a mouth full of food.

“The drop in Norway went ok.”

“But that was only a couple of hundred men, Manfred, nothing close to the scale of the drop tomorrow,” warned Paul.

“The Luftwaffe will soften them up,” boasted Meinhard

“They’re causing havoc with the British,” informed Helmut.

“But they’re giving us some stick too. Feldwebel Grun was telling me they’ve bombed Hamburg again,” reminded Manfred.

There was a sudden hush as it dawned on the three officers that they were talking about a subject that lived close to home and Paul’s loss was still very fresh. Paul looked up and could see the consternation in their faces.

“It’s ok guys, you don’t have to tread lightly on my account, she’s still here inside.” He tapped his chest.

“Anyway, the food’s getting cold and if we leave Helmut to it on his own there’ll be none left.”

This brought a chuckle from the group. They continued with their meal, the conversation focused more on lighter subjects concerning family and friends.

After finishing their early lunch, they paid the bill in Deutschmarks, much to the consternation of the Taverna owner. But that was the way it would be from now on and he was already doing the exchange rate calculation in his head.

They headed back to the airfield and the tented camp to complete any last minute checks with their units. They went back by a different route, not from choice, but as a result of Helmut insisting he knew the way and getting them lost. They made their way through streets that all seemed to look the same, eventually collaring a local who, understanding Helmut’s aircraft impressions, pointed them in the right direction.

On arrival at the airfield Paul found his entire company occupying a small section of the taxiway close to the gravelled runway. Groundsheets were laid out to protect the personal equipment that was on display for final checking and inspection.

Max and the three platoon commanders approached him and saluted. Nadel’s face still pale compared with his fellow officers, Roth’s blond wiry hair bleached almost white from the burning sun. The slim, wiry, Leeb, his confidence as a Fallschirmjager officer growing daily.

“Would you like to inspect the lines Herr Oberleutnant?”

“I’ll take a walk around Feldwebel Grun, but not an inspection. I’m sure you gentlemen have everything in hand,” he said smiling, looking at the keen faces of his three young platoon commanders.

“Lead on Feldwebel Grun.”

The group walked down the neat lines, the troopers running through a final scrutiny check of their kit, wiping a way the dust that was their constant enemy, pervading their weapons, their clothing and even their rations. Secreting away the little extras, such as a bar of chocolate or an orange snaffled from the canteen, which would make life just that little bit more comfortable. The three Leutnant’s and Max wandered off to mix with the paratroopers leaving Paul stood above Oberjager Fessman.

The paratrooper looked up at his Company Commander, his hand continuing to polish the wooden stock of his Kar 98K, the metal cup-type butt plate and the enclosed funnel fore sight showing it to be a 98k/42. This was a weapon rarely seen and Fessman must have had good contacts to secure one. He stood up, and even at five feet eleven his wiry frame fell short of his tall commander. His laughing brown eyes looked out from beneath his slightly arched eyebrows. The habit of always having a joke on the tip of his tongue had gained him the reputation as the company comedian.