Devils with Wings: Silk Drop (20 page)

“Ready for tomorrow Fessman?”

“As I’ll ever be sir. If I check my kit again I’ll wear it out.”

“Nice Mauser you have there.”

“Not many were made sir, I was lucky that the armorer owed me a big, big favour.”

Fessman shuffled his feet and a sombre looked clouded his face. “Are you scared about tomorrow sir?”

“Probably all of us experience some sense of anxiety about tomorrow, only a fool wouldn’t. It’s controlling that fear that counts.”

“Easier said than done sir.”

“Are you afraid then Fessman?”

“Not so much of getting killed sir, more afraid of letting myself and my comrades down.”

“That’s not something you’ll do Fessman,” said Paul gripping the trooper’s shoulder.

“The men look to your skills and strengths, you’ll not let them or me down.”

Fessman nodded in acceptance of what he was being told. “Thank you sir.”

Paul left him to continue polishing his rifle and made his way further into the lines, chatting to his men who seemed to be in excellent spirits. All were taking pride in their equipment, making sure it was in tip-top shape for the forthcoming battle. Cracking jokes with their commander, asking if it was too late to book some leave.

He came across Unterfeldwebel Richter and his Mortar Troop.

“You have more than most to check today Unterfeld.”

Richter stood up, along with the rest of his nine man troop.

“Carry on.” Indicated Paul with a hand gesture and, except for the troop commander, they continued checking over their equipment, the mortar numbers bumped up to three.

The eighteen inch barrels of the three Granatwerfer 36, were laid on their sides on a separate ground sheet, alongside their respective baseplate. Each had the key elements to the mortars laid carefully next to the barrels for checking and cleaning, the barrel handle, sliding collar with traversing hand wheel and levelling handle, the traversing bracket and the delicate range finder.

“Did you get the drop canisters you needed?”

“Yes sir, Feldwebel Grun came up trumps. We can now take a full load of forty bombs per tube.”

“You’re not taking practice bombs with you I hope,” said Paul smiling, noticing the blue practice round.

“No sir, just taking the lads through some last minute practice. When you need our punch, we’ll be ready sir.”

Paul liked this NCO. He was confident but without the bluster and clearly took pride in his equipment and his small unit.

“We’ll be operating on undulating ground at times, lobbing some of your bombs will hopefully help to smoke them out.”

“We’ll be ready for your call sir.”

Paul thanked him, spent a few minutes passing the time with the rest of the Mortar troop and then continued threading his way through the display of various weapons being checked, from MP 40s, Kar 98Ks, MG 34s and grenades, firepower that would give the enemy something to think about when they landed. He also noticed there were many water purification kits amongst the trooper’s equipment. Drinking could be a real problem on the island, particularly as it was moving into the hot season.

He looked across the taxiway to the other hard gravelled area and could see a Gebirgsjager unit carrying out similar checks of their hardware and trappings. These mountain soldiers were light infantry, well trained and would be a reliable and effective force to have fighting alongside the Fallschirmjager. They would be particularly useful if the battle moved into the higher ground, towards the more mountainous central area where their inherent skills would come to the fore.

Paul studied their uniforms, very different from his and his men’s. They wore the typical standard service uniform, the M36, but consisting of special, field grey, heavy-weight and spacious trousers, allowing other clothing to be worn beneath should it be needed. All were wearing their Bergmutze, mountain field cap and on their right sleeve they proudly displayed the famous badge, the Edelweiss. The Company Commander in charge saw Paul watching and raised his arm in acknowledgement. Two men of a similar age, preparing their units for a battle, shared a fleeting connection before being dragged back to the matters in hand.

“We’re more than ready sir.” Max, contrary to his size always seemed to manage to approach unheard.

“You’ll be the death of me Max, unless you make some noise before creeping up on me.”

“Just helping you to hone your senses sir.”

“Honing is what they obviously need Feldwebel Grun. Unterfeld Richter seems to be a competent soldier Max.”

“That he does sir, he fought in the initial assault on Greece. If it all goes to rat shit we may well need him and his boys.”

“They will give us an edge in making headway if we get bogged down.”

“It’s good just to have the extra manpower sir, they make up an additional troop.”

“That they do. Are you ready Max?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be sir,” he replied, taking off his helmet and wiping his forehead with his tunic sleeve.

“Fighting in this bloody heat won’t help much.”

“I know, but it could get cold during the night hours, so make sure you take some warm clothing with you.”

“Already done sir.”

“I suppose you’ve suggested that to the Platoon Commanders as well?”

“I assumed you’d want me to sir,” he said smiling.

“Right, well dismiss the men when they’re done Max, let them have some space to prepare for tomorrow in their own way.”

Paul gripped Max’s arm. “I’m glad you’re with us tomorrow Max, I will need you at my side for this one.”

“I’ll be there sir.”

The mobile kitchen turned up at that moment, breaking the spell. The two-wheeled trailer was unhitched from its transport, a steady stream of white smoke leaving the chimney of the coal-fired burner, the internal cauldrons awash with soup and hot water for coffee.

“Let’s go and get some coffee and grub, eh sir?”

The tall rangy officer and the burly NCO made their way over to the mobile kitchen, a queue already forming. Their bond was intact, their mutual need for each others strength reinforced, they were both ready to confront whatever came their way.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It was four in the morning on the 20 May, 1941. The air was cool and although the dawn was some hours away the aerodrome was a hive of activity. Paul’s Company were assembled close to one of the hangars,
completing last minute checks, taking it in turns to examine each other’s gear. Junker 52’s could be heard manoeuvring on the taxiways and the single runway, flights of Heinkel bombers from Athens could be heard overhead, escorted by Me 109 fighters from MoaaoI. Although none could be seen clearly, they were just shadows in the darkened sky, their droning engines gave away their positions. A flight of Dornier bombers, their pilots hunched over their control sticks in their distinctive glazed cockpits, chaperoned by Me 110 fighters, were close behind them. They were heading for Crete, each one carrying in the region of 2,000 Kg of bombs to soften up the enemy defences prior to the assault going in.

The Invasion of Crete by the German Army was a milestone in the use of airborne forces. Up until that point the German High Command, the OKW, had used the Fallschirmjager for mainly tactical operations. Battalion sized actions in Poland, where Paul’s old platoon had been particularly successful, and later, playing a key role in the seizing of the Eben Emael fortress and facilitating the crossing of the Albert Canal to ensure the successful Invasion of Belgium and ultimately France. They had also been used successfully in Norway, but this was different, this was a full Divisional airborne operation.

Paul thought back to his conversation with the Raven the previous evening. He had informed Paul that advance parties were already being parachuted into the area, radioing feedback on the enemy’s activities. He was to be met by one of these small four man groups, who would first guide the Junker’s pilots of Paul’s company drop, to the drop zone. This one was led by his friend Erich. He smiled at the thought of his friend. His and Helmut’s assumption was that Erich had landed on his feet and was, as Helmut put it, ponsing around Regimental Headquarters, shuffling paper.

“Something tickled you sir?”

“Just thinking about Oberleutnant Fleck Max.”

“Yeah, that’s a turn up for the books. Just when we think he is pandering to his betters he goes and spoils it by doing something useful.”

“How are preparations going?”

“Nearly there sir. Drop canisters have been loaded and the men are just sorting out their chute packs.”

“Transport?”

“Raring to go sir.”

Paul was about to respond when a swathe of dust, kicked up by a departing aircraft, blowing across their faces. The dry, un-metaled taxi-ways and runway created clouds of dust. Not whipped up by the wind, but by the taxiing planes and those flat out on take off. The dust had proven to be the bane of the paratrooper’s lives. Grit got into their clothing, their food and more importantly the working parts of their weapons.

“Time for you to get your equipment sorted sir, if you don’t mind me saying. I have your chute here.”

Max handed him the chute and Paul placed it at his feet, Max then leaving him to organise himself. Paul was wearing, as were the rest of his battalion, his second pattern front-laced jump boots, bloused over with his standard issue trousers. He had already donned his second-pattern, splinter jump smock, an improvement on the first-pattern, which was found to be too restrictive. He had buttoned the shorter section around his upper legs, ready for the jump ahead. It would be warm fighting in this gear in Crete, but there had not been time to change the uniform, which was originally adapted for Central European climate, to tropical gear.

His leather map case and Zeiss binoculars were also laid at his booted feet along with his canvass MP40 magazine pouches. He ran his steady hand through his recently cropped fair hair and touched the scar above and to the side of his left eye. It felt pronounced and swollen and he could feel it pulsing beneath his fingers. His foot caught his battered Fallschirmjager helmet as he moved. No longer the chipped and scarred Luftwaffe blue grey Fallschirm, but now painted a matt beige colour to aid camouflage. But still a deep pitted line could be seen beneath its new coat of paint, a vivid reminder of the day he was downed by a Belgian artillery salvo. Max, he noticed, had covered his with a square of hessian, secured with a length of twine.

He unbuttoned the upper portion of his smock and shrugged it off his shoulders allowing it to drop to his waist, enabling him to then slip on his assault pack, with his bread bag, water bottle and gas respirator attached. The gas respirator case, against orders, was defunct as a gas mask carrier and now contained his personal effects, such as washing kit, rather than the gas mask it was intended for. Most, like Paul, believed that the use of gas was unlikely. He then slung his ammunition pouches over his head and shoulders before pulling the smock back over, wrapping it around his pistol holder and re-buttoning it. He tapped his pockets, his torch in the lower left, along with his first, first aid bandage, compass and in his right a box of Benzedrine and his gravity knife.

Max re-joined him, a lighter and chunk of cork in his hands which he then preceded to burn, applying the black substance to his face, smearing it over his forehead, cheeks, chin and neck. Shine was one of the soldier’s key vulnerabilities and one that they needed to counter. A white face could stand out vividly giving the enemy a clear target. There were others, like shape, silhouette, shadow and movement, equally as important in ensuring concealment. Max handed him the now blackened cork and Paul proceeded to darken his tanned, but still white in comparison, features.

“We load in twenty minutes sir.”

“Platoon Commanders ready?”

“With their platoons, they’ll be over shortly. I said you might want a quick word.”

“Thank you Max, but I’ll join them with their platoons. Get them to form up in the aircraft groups will you?”

“I’m on it now sir.”

Max left and Paul finished plastering his face with the burnt cork, then applying it with equal relish to his exposed arms, his sleeves rolled up above the elbow in an effort to keep cool when the heat hit them. He stuffed the remains of the cork in his pocket, picked up his chute, eased his way into it and buckled it up. It felt strange not having his MP40 at his side, he thought, but that had been secured in one of the many drop containers and was now loaded on his particular aircraft.

He waddled over to join the rest of his men and was greeted with various pronouncements.

“Well this is it sir.”

“Has my leave request been approved?”

“Is it too late to put in for a transfer?”

The joviality hid the seriousness of the event they were about to embark on, and helped to steady the nerves, whilst adding to the camaraderie that would see them through what they were about to face.

The men were grouped into their respective sticks which had been assigned to a specific aircraft. Some talked to fortify the link with their comrades or friends, others as a way help master the fear that was building up inside of them. Each trooper prepared himself mentally to board the plane, to make the jump when the time came, to be ready to fight and kill on landing.