Devils with Wings: Silk Drop (25 page)

***

Richter also took his cue and ordered tubes one and two to open fire. Trommler, holding the bomb above the tube, dropped it and immediately went for the trigger, both of them burying their faces in the ground.

Thunk, thunk, the two mortars lobbed their bombs over the tree line, over the heads of the units near the road, landing the other side of the HQ building, left and right. They didn’t fire a second round, waiting for confirmation that the rounds had landed where they were meant to.

“There,” shouted Keller, seeing a trooper with his rifle held in both hands above his head, the signal that they were on target.

“Now we have work to do,” added Richter, giving the order to recommence firing.

They fired the rounds slowly and deliberately, working them along the far side of the road, not the rapid six rounds in eight seconds they were capable of. Instead they created a wall of high explosives and splinters discouraging the enemy from even considering moving in that direction.

***

A Bren gun, it’s distinctive curved, thirty round magazine clearly visible, had been set up in the upper window at the end of the tangerine house, the paratroopers nicknaming it, the ‘Mandarin’. Now it was spitting .303 rounds towards Paul and his men. In the window below it, two men were firing rounds as fast as they could cock their rifles, emptying their ten round magazines, thrusting new five round chargers in as rapidly as they could. Three men who had got out of the door further back had thrown themselves down by the side wall on the side of the road, were also firing back, the rest of the men remaining inside covering other sectors should an attack from another direction emerge.

Jordan, across the other side of the road, could see the firefight taking place and hear the clamour of sound, splintering trees and chipped walls, but dare not fire for fear of hitting his own men.

Bullets whistled passed Paul’s head as he too went to ground. He was anxious, he knew they had to do something, or they would lose the initiative and get bogged down. The approaching six men had prevented them from getting close to the house unseen. Richter’s mortar rounds were not limitless and a counter attack was inevitable. His tactics were based on keeping the enemy on the move, forcing them out of the village where Roth and his men, supported by Richter’s mortars, were waiting to spring the trap. Without another thought, he pulled a grenade from his belt, unscrewed the cap, pulled the string, counted two seconds, and then threw it as far as he could towards the enemy lines, some forty metres away. Before it had exploded he was up on his feet, his MP 40 clutched at waist height, a fresh magazine loaded, was spitting fire at the entrenched enemy.

Rounds zipped past him as he sprinted towards his foes, his boots pounding on the ground, his heart pumping in sync, hammering in his ears. The grenade exploded in front of the soldiers at the side of the house, stunning them temporarily, the Bren gunner ceasing fire as he endeavoured to reposition the light machine gun to fire down on the interloper getting dangerously close.

The two in the doorway both aimed at Paul as he ran through the dissipated explosion, the gleam in their eyes indicating their confidence in being able to kill this German soldier with ease. Their faith quickly evaporating as a 9mm round from Paul’s machine pistol struck the soldier on the left and a 7.92mm round struck the one on the right, Fessman’s Kar98/42 still smoking as he chambered another round.

Petzel and Stumme with the MG 34, now had their turn, spraying the upper window with a lethal rain, Max’s grenade following through, flying through the window finishing the Bren Gun’s dominance for good.

The enemy had had enough, evacuating through the rear door of the house, leaving the dead and wounded in their haste to escape the onslaught of these devils, particularly the officer at the front, the manic grin on his blackened face, he was the devil incarnate.

“Cease fire, cease fire,” yelled Leeb. “Secure the house, check weapons and ammo, get ready to move forward.”

He waved his arm above his head towards Jordan’s position across the road letting him know the area was secured and they would be moving on again soon.

Paul stood in front of the doorway, bent at the waist, hands on hips, his body heaving with exertion as he struggled to drag air into his depleted lungs. A shadow loomed over him, its size signifying it could only be Max.

“A word sir.”

“In a minute Max, let me catch my breath.”

“Now sir.”

Paul looked up, could see anger in Max’s eyes, his nose, slightly askew caused from a previous injury during one of his many fights on the docks, inches away from his face. He raised himself up to his full height.

“Not now Feldwebel Grun.”

“We can have this out here sir, or we can move over to those trees. Either way, I’ll say my piece.”

A confrontation in front of the men was not good and Paul could already see sideways glances from some of the troopers. He looked at Max’s heavy, square jaw, the suppressed anger still hovering beneath the surface. They moved away to the side of some olive trees, gaining some privacy from the rest of the unit.

“What the fuck was all that about sir?” hissed Max.

“We had to break the deadlock Max, we couldn’t afford to get bogged down.”

“Your suicide charge certainly broke the deadlock sir, but it also nearly got you bloody killed.”

“It had to be done Max,” Paul responded.

“We’re a team sir, we work together. We’ve survived this far by working together.”

“Life just seems so cheap Max.”

“Killing yourself won’t bring her back,” said Max, more softly. “But it could kill these men here, the ones you’re responsible for. They need, we need, you to lead us through this mess and bring us all back in one piece.”

Paul hung his head, his energy sapped, his truculence evaporating away. He looked up, gripped his NCO, his friends shoulder.

“You’re right, as ever. Let’s get this business over with, the Company needs its Commander and senior NCO.”

There was a moment of silence between them, only interrupted by the continuing exploding mortar bombs throwing up sprays of earth and shattered rocks and splintering trees. Leeb ran towards them breaking the moment.

“The house is clear sir, Fessman is sweeping forwards, we’re ready to move out.”

“Let’s go then Ernst.”

***

Nadel sent four men towards the house to check and clear the building, disarm any soldiers that may still be alive and secure it. Two soldiers were found dead and two injured, one mortally, the other a minor leg wound. They signalled to Nadel that the house was in safe hands and then patched up their prisoners as best they could.

***

Richter, continued to adjust the range and fall of his mortars, allowing for the additional distance as he shifted their fire to the right, tracking the fire fight in progress, updated by the troopers in the tree line.

***

Fessman’s troop moved forward again carefully. Although the ground wasn’t completely open, it lacked the depth of cover they had earlier, the number of trees and scrub severely diminished.

“Petzel, Stumme, I want the MG on the left flank. Watch out for a counterattack, they may risk using the mortar fire to cover an assault.”

Crump, crump. Two rounds landed within fifty metres of them, the eruption showering them with debris, a piece of shrapnel glancing off Stumme’s helmet.

“Bloody hell, I hope Richter’s boys don’t get any closer,” commented Stumme, ducking his head low.”

“The rounds are no where near you Friedrich. Anyway, we need them to keep the British away.”

“Just keep a watch for a counter attack along there, mortars or no mortars,” ordered Fessman, concerned that the British troops may brave the mortar fire to slip through and fire and attack their flank, or even worse, from behind.

***

Jordan’s troop, now beneath Straube’s MG position, continued to move south, keeping parallel with their comrades across the road. Still no contact with the enemy.

“Aaagh!” screamed Amsel as a round struck him in the shoulder, spinning him round and forcing to fall sideways to the ground. “I’m hit.”

“Keep low and quiet,” barked Jordan.

More .303 rounds zipped through the undergrowth from the hastily set up Bren Gun, the thirty round magazine emptied in not much more than five seconds, the gunner’s assistant slamming a second curved magazine on top of the weapon. Fessman had been right to expect a counter attack.

Once the British had recovered from their initial shock, they had crossed the road with some fifteen men in order to outflank the Germans, not yet aware of the scale of the force they were up against.

Jordan’s thoughts raced, but his notion to order the MG to put down suppressing fire, his need to get grenades thrown so they could pull back under cover, were never uttered, were never followed through as he was hit twice as the second Bren Gun magazine was put to use. A .303 round striking his chest, his heart ruptured, both lungs perforated, pink froth at his mouth as he tried to rally and command his men, his last thoughts of thirst and the cold beer with his comrades in Corinth as his spirit left him and he lay sleepily on the ground.

Braemer, a veteran of Poland, Eben Emael and Corinth, didn’t need orders to figure out what to do next, it was second nature to him. He plucked three, Model 34, stick grenades from his grenade bag and quickly unscrewed each cap. Keeping his head low, bullets still whistling passed above him. His comrades were now returning fire, the pruurrrrr of the MG versus the heavier, slower sounding thud of the Bren, fighting their own almost intimate clash for supremacy of the battle ground.

But he knew the stalemate wouldn’t last for long as a second Bren joined the uproar. He lined his grenades on the dusty ground in front, keeping low behind the scrub in front of him, so far unseen by the enemy, he pulled the cord on the first one. He counted to two, got up on one knee and threw the grenade as far as he could towards the enemy, it landing some thirty metres away. Before it had chance to explode, a second one had been fused and was in the air landing to the right of the first one which suddenly exploded. The third one he threw from a standing position, its flight making some forty metres. The second grenade exploded short of the British lines, but the third landed close to the second Bren Gun team, giving Braemer and his colleagues an opportunity to move to a more advantageous position and extract themselves from the onslaught in front of them. Return fire could now be ramped up in preparation to repulse the attack that was inevitable.

***

Fessman ran at a crouch to Paul and Max’s position.

“Jordan’s in big trouble sir.”

“I know, but we daren’t fire across the road until we know his and his men’s true position.”

The MG34, across the road; finally opened up, giving them some indication of the unit’s position, but not enough to risk enfilade fire support.

“Uffz, stay here with three men, just in case there is a second counter attack along this stretch, the rest with me. Max, you stay... “

“I’m going nowhere but with you sir.”

Paul could see the determination in Max’s face and nodded.

“Assemble the men Max, then with me.”

The selected men quickly gathered around their leader, heeding his warning to watch out for their own men in the heat of the impending firefight, as the demarcation line was uncertain. Paul saw that a couple had attached their bayonets, clearly expecting to get close in with the enemy.

“Let’s go.”

Paul dashed off, taking long strides across the uneven ground, shortening them as he continued down the slope hitting the edge of the hard packed road with a thump, his machine pistol flicking from side to side, seeking out the hidden enemy.

Petzel tightened his hand around the pistol grip of the MG 34, settling the butt beneath his arm, his left hand gripping the bipod to control its tendency to rear up when being fired. Next to him was his number two, Stumme, two belts of ammunition criss crossed over his shoulders and chest, looking as much like a Mexican comanchero as a paratrooper, his Kar 98K ready should he need it.

A soldier lying on the ground on the other side of the road, close to the edge, suddenly jumped up, surprised by the sudden appearance of a German paratrooper adjacent to his position. He lunged at Rammelt with his bayoneted rifle. Rammelt, equally surprised at the appearance of the Tommy, leant to his right raising his left arm as the bayonet was thrust upwards towards his face. The muzzle and bayonet of the Lee Enfield, now parried, skimmed passed his left shoulder, just scoring the side of his neck, allowing him to counteract with a butt strike to the soldier’s head. His cheek bone smashed, he stumbled and fell at Rammelt’s feet, who quickly drew back his weapon from the swing firing a round into his chest, cocking the rifle and firing a second shot.

Braemer suddenly reared up from the undergrowth in front of them to their right, shouting.

“This is the furthest point of our position.”

That was all they needed to know. Petzel put twenty to thirty rounds into the undergrowth to their left, before hitting the deck and putting up sustained fire. The rest of Paul’s group joined them. Grenades were tossed, the enemy no more than twenty metres opposite them.