Devils with Wings: Silk Drop (26 page)

Just as the British soldiers thought they had caught the impudent invaders on the hop, the tables had in fact been turned on them and they broke, running back the way they had come, fleeing the grenade shrapnel and heavy gunfire, their only thoughts now, one of escape.

“Cease fire, cease fire,” commanded Paul

“Petzel, Stumme, stay where you are. The rest check for any survivors. Jordan to me,” he shouted, wanting an update from the troop commander.

Braemer sprinted towards his company commander, never more glad to see him and the rest of his comrades who had come to their rescue.

“Where’s Uffz Jordan?”

“Gone sir. He was killed in the first attack and Amsel has a shoulder wound, we need to get to him soon.”

“Shit. Right, take temporary command. Secure the British soldiers still alive, see to the wounded and secure this area.”

“Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant.”

Braemer left to carry out his orders and was replaced by a panting Max.

“There are five enemy dead sir and two injured.”

“Braemer has the troop. They will see to the wounded and secure the area, we need to keep pushing forwards Max. You join Fessman, push forwards again and we will move parallel with you.”

“Consider it done sir.”

Max sped across the road, up the bank and joined Fessman again and they advanced further along the village embankment, Paul and his force doing the same lower down, across the other side of the road, moving passed the groaning enemy troops, many of them wounded by Petzel’s devastating fire and the onslaught of grenades thrown at their flank.

Events then moved quickly, the enemy in a complete rout attempted to extract themselves from the village to regroup and lick their wounds, avoiding the intermittent mortar rounds on their left, constantly stealing a glance over their shoulders for the enemy in hot pursuit behind and looking worriedly at the embankment to their right, they ran into the trap that had been set for them.

Tube 3, tipped off by one of Roth’s men, now firing eight rounds in six seconds, helped to decimate the remainder of the platoon, Roth’s thirty men finishing them off. One victim blown into tiny pieces, all Roth could see afterwards was a booted leg, a hand still clasping his Lee Enfield and bits of khaki uniform spread across the white, hard packed road.

Max’s whistle blew an ear-splitting blast, that even managed to pierce the sounds of gunfire still in progress and the firing slowly ceased and the bombs no longer flew overhead. The air was filled with silence other than the cries and whimpers of the wounded. Even the distant battle near the coast failed to intrude. Some of the injured servicemen clasped their wounds, desperately trying to piece their shattered body together. One soldier’s hands skipped over his tortured belly, locating the swelling, lipid mass oozing from his torn abdomen, failing to stop it overwhelming them. His eyes, the wide eyes of an eighteen year old boy, gaping in incredulity at what he was witnessing, knowing deep down that this was the end, but clinging on to life all the same.

Paul approached the scene in front of him and looked about, it was carnage. There was no other way to describe it and he felt sickened by what he had himself instigated. He had wanted this, planned for it. Now it was in front of him he felt nauseous and trembled uncontrollably.

“Max, get Fink up here now. Roth to secure the area, let’s see what we can do for them.”

Max gripped his arm.

“We had to do it sir, this was what we engaged the enemy for, to beat them. Had we not, then this could have been us.”

“I know Max,” Paul said. “I know.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Company had merged together at the northern end of the village, just above the gully they would descend shortly. A patch of green, flush with Olive trees, an unexpected idyll before their descent into the more barren gully. The branches so full and low the soldiers could only sit beneath them.

It was an opportunity to grab something quickly to eat from their bread bags, most opening a can of iron ration, meat, and breaking off a piece of dark bread, now dry from the heat of the baking sun, but welcome all the same. Water was next, initially gulping it down to quench their urgent thirst, then sipping it as if wine. They had found a cistern in the
village, the water from a spring in the mountains, sweet and cool, allowing them to satisfy their craving and top up their depleted water bottles for later. They were encouraged to gorge themselves with water, to rehydrate their bodies, knowing it could be a scarce resource during their time on the island.

The British soldiers, detached from one of the Australian battalions on the island to secure the village, had been brought together and put in the Mandarin house, over half were dead or wounded and three were missing from the platoon size force. Fink was doing what he could for them with his limited supplies. He informed Paul that at least three would be dead before nightfall and possibly another two not long after, unless they received medical attention in a well equipped medical centre or hospital. The remainder had been patched up as best as the resources and skills available allowed.

A troop of Roth’s men were guarding the prisoners, passing round cigarettes, sharing chocolate and swapping stories, Pigeon English and sign language having to suffice. Their weapons had been gathered up and destroyed, their ammunition scattered about the countryside. Roth’s men wouldn’t be staying with the prisoners, Paul had made the decision not to leave anyone behind, other than Forster and Amsel. He would need all of his men, the battle for the island was far from over.

He had contacted Major Volkman, a heated argument ensued over the crackling airways. Paul insisting that a German medical team be released as soon as possible to attend to the British prisoners. The Raven’s response had been conclusive, stating that medical units would not be free for some time, such was the level of Fallschirmjager casualties. Eventually he agreed, after Paul’s persistence, that as soon as a unit was available he would have a British medical team escorted to their location. To reinforce that arrangement, Paul would leave his own wounded men to watch over the prisoners, including Uffz Forster with a broken leg, Amsel with a wound to his right shoulder. Jordan, however, his chest torn apart by .303 rounds from a Bren, had been buried at the top of the gully, a helmet hung on top of an upturned rifle, a mound of reddish earth, now the only visible sign he had existed. They had promised to return when this was over, exhume his body and return him to the Fatherland.

Paul had his officers and senior NCO’s gathered around him at the head of the defile. It was one in the afternoon, they had been on the go now for over eight hours. They had taken some shade beneath two fruit trees, laden with oranges, still too bitter to be eaten, much to Max’s displeasure.

On the horizon, in the direction of the coast, the air shimmered, the panorama beyond wavering in the rising heat. Close by his men chatted.

“I thought I was going to get killed today,” one was heard to say.

“I anticipated a quick death or I would come out without a scrape,” said another.

Paul had conversed with his Battalion Commander for as long as the radio signal allowed, talking through what had occurred and what their next movements were to be. He also had an update on the progress of the strategic battle for the occupation of the two hundred and fifty kilometre long island.

At Maleme airfield, second and fourth LLSR had landed west of Tavronitis, with two battalions being sent to secure Hill 107 from the south. Third LLSR, had landed to the south and east of the airfield and suffered considerable casualties.

To the north west of their current position, at Hania, success had also eluded the Fallschirmjager. The Third Fallschirmjager Regiment, 3FJR, supported by an engineer battalion, had landed in Prison Valley, southwest of Hania, again suffering substantial casualties, the third battalion was widely scattered. These isolated units would have to continue hostilities until reinforcements could be flown in. Paul had made sure that the black and yellow recognition strips had been laid out in case a stray Luftwaffe fighter bomber took an interest in them.

He looked around at his men, their blackened, dusty faces, streaks of white where rivulets of sweat had run down their faces during the heat of battle. In spite of being dog tired, the men’s spirits were high. He was proud of them, proud of the way they had performed today. Despite the fact that they had outnumbered the enemy force by over three to one and had routed them completely, it was with minimal casualties, Fallschirmjager’s skills and professionalism coming to the fore.

The sun was beating down on them and even in the shade of the low olive trees under which they sought respite, the heat was unbearable. Helmet removed, Paul wiped his brow with the sleeve of his smock, catching the slightly extended scar above his left eye.

He turned to the group close by.

“Listen up,” warned Max, knowing his commander was ready to brief them.

“The next twelve hours gentlemen. We move out at fourteen hundred, taking a route down through the gully that starts just below us, which will lead us slightly north west. We’ll move about two thirds of the way down, then set up a base camp for the night. There will be no fires, so it will be cold food again I’m afraid.”

“Jaeger schnitzel not on the menu then sir?”

“No Feldwebel Grun, it will be of the tinned variety,” he responded, smiling. All was well again between the two friends, although Max had already resolved to keep a very close eye on his young commander.

“Leutnant Nadel, I want a half troop to explore the upper part of the gully, suss out the lay of the land, but don’t go too deep into the defile.”

“Shall I send them now sir?”

“Yes, but they need to be back here by thirteen forty five.”

“Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant.”

Nadel called over one of his troop commanders and gave them their instructions, Paul waiting until he had finished before continuing.

“For our night stop, I want four Listening Posts out, one either side of the defile exit, one behind and one in front of us.”

“How far out do you want the LPs sir?”

“Between fifty and a hundred metres Ernst, but closer to fifty would be better providing they can find cover.”

Paul shifted his position to get more shade from the tree, the sun glaring in his eyes, making him squint.

“There will be further landings by our forces, so we need to be in position to watch for any enemy movement and interdict any enemy flanking units attempting a counter attack. Or move further north to support any unit in need.”

“After that sir?” asked Max.

“We will move east probably, and depending on the outcome of the battles along the coast, we may need to march some distance and at speed. Hence the break we will have tonight.”

“Order of march sir?”

“Glad you asked that Dietrich, your platoon can have the pleasure of taking the lead. You’re next Ernst, Unterfeld Richter after you and your platoon can have the tail end position Viktor.”

“Headquarters sir?”

“We’ll slot in behind Leutnant Leeb. How is Fink doing with the wounded?”

“Amsel is comfortable sir and he has patched up the British soldiers as best he can. Some are in a bad way though,” responded Max.

“They should get some help in the next twenty four hours sir,” informed Bergmann. “HQ say they’ve allocated a unit, along with some British medics, who will move up here as soon as they can be released.”

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

Bergmann looked at Paul for permission to continue, to which Paul nodded his assent.

“The other three companies are in the process of moving lower down from the high ground, just like us and then await further orders. It’s all dependent on taking Maleme airfield and landing further reinforcements, Feld.”

“So, gentlemen,” continued Paul. “We move to lower ground and await further orders. Any questions?”

“What time will we secure for the night sir?”

“As soon as we come out of the defile, probably dusk Ernst. Any more? No? Ok, we move in... “ He looked at his watch. “Thirty minutes.”

Thirty minutes later, briefed by the recce team that all seemed clear they moved out from their position, dropping into the gully, the initial entrance being quite shallow. The ground in front and around them, strewn with whitish, irregularly shaped rocks, not hard like granite, but not as soft as limestone, somewhere in between, but still able to catch an unwary boot and turn an ankle. The immediate ground in front of them was almost desert like, the trees foliage free, the branches bleached white. The pale pink earth beneath was dispersed with small clumps of scrub and indigenous plants of various types, evidently adapted to the dry terrain. Fifty metres in front, a lone lemon tree stood out, green and yellow in its isolation, its yellow fruit defying the desolate ground.

As they snaked across the terrain, the occasional grunt could be heard from a trooper, his leg jarred by a small hole secreted beneath the scattered plants, catching him unawares. The random chink of weapons and equipment as they continued forwards, their weapons and eyes scanning the ground in front of them, then switching to the sides, feeling exposed now they had left the relative safety of the village. In the distance they could just glimpse the white buildings of Hania, the windows glittering from the reflected rays of the sun. The town framed in a tapestry of colour, ringed by patches of green, red and brown, a streak of blue sea beyond it, the even paler blue sky beyond that.