Devils with Wings: Silk Drop (29 page)

To the far left of the line, the troopers had dropped to their knees, Kar98Ks picking off the scurrying soldiers, many making a dash for the slope to seek cover from the onslaught, only to run into a wall of fire from Braemer’s troop covering the goat path.

It turned in to a rout. The Allied troops couldn’t advance south towards Paul’s men due to the ferocity of fire. To go down the slope would expose them to Nadel’s MGs, one already on its second barrel such to the sheer volume of fire being dispensed. To go north along the goat track would eventually get them away from the killing ground, but then they would have to face the mortar rounds that were tearing into the slopes top and sides. One Bren Gun along the line did manage to return fire, but ineffectively, his number two unable to place a fresh magazine into the LMG, his hand frozen to the curved, box like ammunition holder he had been gripping when he had been struck down.

The mortars and Nadel’s MGs had split the allied force in to two. One half was extracting itself from the killing ground, heading down the edge of the gully towards the coast, before it too was decimated. The second half, unable to raise their heads, even for a split second, such was the savagery of fire zipping above their heads, the grazing fire picking off other soldiers attempting to flee the scene.

“Cease fire, cease fire,” screamed Paul, knowing there was no fight left in the men in front of them.

His ears rang and his voice sounded echoey inside his head as he shouted further instructions to his men. He opened his mouth wide, stretching his jaw trying to clear his blocked ears.

“Leeb, secure the force to the front, but send a runner to Feldwebel Grun and Nadel, I don’t want them shooting us up.”

The next thirty minutes passed by swiftly. The enemy along the top and the incline had been disarmed and those prisoners in good shape were being used to patch up their own wounded, the company only suffering two casualties. Thirty two soldiers had been killed or wounded, twenty six alive but now imprisoned by their captors, the rest fled down the gully towards the coast. Paul walked through the group of dispirited soldiers, joined by Max.

“They’re not in good shape sir.”

“Yes, I can see that,” he replied looking at one of the injured men lying on his side. There was a hole in the sole of his boot and his uniform, although not ragged, was in a poor state of repair. They came across a Vickers machine gun, lying on its side, not even set up. Max examined it.

“I can’t see any ammo belts for it sir, these .303 heavy machine guns usually have belts of two hundred and fifty rounds and can fire four hundred and fifty rounds a minute.”

He picked up the cooling water can, still connected to the barrel, just before the muzzle flash excluder, and shook it.

“And this is empty.”

“If they’d managed to get that into action Max, Nadel’s MGs would have known about it.”

“And a reputation for being unstoppable,” added Max.

They continued along the top, finding Fink attending to one of the injured Australians. He had performed well, dealing with the wounded in a professional but compassionate manner, showing no signs of panic at seeing the size of the task in front of him, he had moved from one wounded man to the next, assessing their needs and quickly moving on. The young Australian soldier looked up at Paul and Max.

“Mum... Mum... “ he cried.

Blood was on his lips and his haunches and legs were daubed and caked in dried blood. He tried to pick his head up, but in vain, Paul gently pushed him back down, finding the soldiers pack close by he pushed it beneath his head, making him as comfortable as he could. He fumbled in his Bread Bag until he found a fresh lemon he had picked earlier. He cut it in half with his gravity knife, and crouching down beside him, he squeezed some of the lemon juice on to his parched lips, the boy licking them gratefully, the juice mixed in with his blood. The soldier murmured something, Paul lowering his head so he could hear. The boy took a deep intake of breath and then sighed, his body limp as it moulded itself to the folds in the ground. Paul looked at Fink who shook his head before speeding off to see to the next patient waiting for his appearance.

Paul looked down at the lifeless body. His mother would not see him again, or hear the sound of her son’s voice. His death, although not completely forsaken, his comrades were close by, he could see them looking over, but his family could not take part in it. He and his men had caused so much death in the last twenty four hours.

Paul placed the boy’s jacket over his face, his comrades looking on, one grizzled Corporal nodding, acknowledging that although they were enemies, he appreciated Paul’s demonstration of compassion. Behind him, tugging him back to the world around him, he could hear Bergmann’s radio crackling.

“Venus, Venus, over.”

“Venus receiving, strength five, but you are breaking up, over.”

The caller could clearly be heard, but the signal was weak and the voice crackling. Bergmann conversed with his fellow operator at the other end.

“Oberleutnant Fleck is moving his company to ambush the rest of the escaping Tommies sir. Wait a minute.”

Bergmann listened in to his handset.

“It’s Major Volkman sir.”

Paul turned to Max.

“Get the prisoners and wounded in to the gully and get the recognition strips out. Visibility is good now and our pilots will be out hunting again. I want the two injured men and two men from Braemer’s troop to form a guard. I suspect we’ll be moving again soon.”

Paul didn’t look to see if his orders were being carried out, he knew he could leave it in Max’s hands, the Raven was already on the line.

“Outstanding job Brand, what’s... condition of... company? Over.”

“Still checking sir, but I have a strength of at least two platoons.”

“Good. A Junkers... managed to land... Maleme airfield... “

“Does that mean reinforcements sir, over?”

“Yes Brand, so... low lying hills... east, over.”

“You’re breaking up, head north then east? Over.”

“Yes, over.”

“We need a resupply, over.”

“Liaise with HQ supply, over.”

“What about the prisoners sir? Over.”

“Leave... small guard. Move quickly... hard time... Rethymnon, over.”

“Understood. Rest of the battalion sir? Over.”

“Fleck... south Hania... by… company. Janke’s company... leap frog them... follow... , over.”

“Janke behind us? Over.”

“Yes, get going Brand, out.”

Paul handed the handset back to Bergmann and sought out Max

“How is it going Max?”

“Most of the wounded are down sir. They’re in shit state, even the non-wounded.”

“How are they off for water?”

“Not a lot sir.”

“Ok, send one of our guys with a couple of prisoners back up the gully to the village to get some water. If they’ve got a medic send him as well, he can look at their wounded. Then get the officers together Max, we’re moving out again.”

Paul looked across at the sun, now above the horizon. It was going to be a long, tiring, hot day.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The sun was glaring. Not yet overhead, but already fierce and unrelenting as they picked their way down the gully that was widening the closer they got to the bottom. They passed the goat herder’s hut, but of him, or his goats and sheep, there was no sign. A bird circled above them, a ‘Bearded Vulture’ a knowledgeable paratrooper informed the group, with a wingspan of nearly three metres.

“It’s tracking us,” one of the men was heard to say.

“Probably a Tommy spy,” added
another.

Leeb’s platoon led the way down the gully, Fessman’s troop in the lead as usual. The troop proud of their acting Uffz’s reputation and theirs now, as the scouts of the company. Nadel’s men followed behind them, then Richter’s Mortar troop and Roth’s platoon acting as tail end charlie. The headquarters company was ensconced in the middle. The two wounded soldiers from Leeb’s platoon and two others from Nadel’s already depleted platoon, had been left behind to secure the prisoners. Paul was comfortable they could handle the task, even though wounded. He couldn’t leave anyone else, if they met a much stronger force he would need all of his fit men.

The column halted and Paul and Max made their way forward to the front of the line, knowing Fessman would have only stopped the march for a good reason. They arrived at the head of the line, the inverted triangle of Hania much broader now that they were closer, the slopes either side of the gully more shallow, the ground levelling out ahead. Gunfire could be heard coming from the direction of the coast, the 3
rd
Fallschirmjager Regiment probing the 10
th
New Zealand Brigades front line.

“We can swing east now sir. It looks like a track about two hundred metres ahead on the right,” pointed out Fessman, and handed Paul his binoculars and shifted his favoured Kar 98K/42 into position to repel any possible attack.

His troop had already fanned out either side of the gully providing cover for the company commander and the head of the column. He takes command well, thought Paul.

Studying the route ahead he could see the ground flattened out further, the drop towards Hania more gradual. There were a number of buildings scattered about before the ground reached the more densely populated town, some two to three kilometres away. To the right, the track Fessman had picked out. He would not normally choose to use it. Everything he had ever been taught about tactical movement, excluded the use of tracks, ideal locations for an ambush. But, he knew he had no choice if he wanted to move east quickly and get to the southern point of Rethymnon and take some of the pressure off the Fallschirmjager there who were battling to clear the landing strip and break out of Stavromenos. He needed the track; to try and move across the rough ground quickly was not an option.

Paul handed the binoculars back to Fessman, looked at his watch, it was showing ten fifteen. He turned to Max.

“We have about three klicks to go until we get to the resupply drop area.”

“We’ll have time sir, it’s not due ‘till mid-day. So long as we don’t get held up again,” replied Max.

They all looked north. The firing south of Hania was escalating, bursts of MG 34s more persistent now as the battle raged.

“Do you think the Tommie’s have run into Oberleutnant Janke’s boys sir?”

“Quite possibly Max.” He turned to Fessman. “Move out Uffz, take the track. I don’t need to remind you to keep your eyes peeled.”

“Yes sir. Right you lot, move out,” he called to his troop, indicating that they angle across to the track ahead.

They moved off. Paul raised his arm in the air signalling the company to move, then, along with Max tagged on the end of Fessman’s troop. They turned right along the narrow, gravelled track, almost tinged pink in colour, following its weaving path. To the right, the slope leading back up to the low foothills where they had come from earlier and to the north gently sloping down towards Hania to their northwest.

The first few hundred yards took them passed one of the many olive groves that seemed to dominate the countryside and on their left an orchard of lemon trees. Although the temperature was slowly ramping up to its peak of forty degrees, this early part of the morning was almost pleasant and the steady rhythmic march of boots along the elongated column was therapeutic.

“You wouldn’t think we were in a bloody war sir.”

“It does seem a bit surreal Max.”

“What’s that sir?”

“What Max?”

“Listen, it’s like a hum, a steady hum, almost a droning sound.”

“You’re right, I can hear something.”

They continued to tramp east, the track taking them left and right as it meandered across the landscape ahead of them. On their right the olive grove had long since been replaced by scattered trees strewn with broken rocks. The humming became louder, clearly heard now above the steady footfall of their boots, the sound almost pulsating.

“There sir,” pointed Max to the left. “Beehives.”

In a small open patch, there must have been at least thirty beehives, in undeviating rows, alive with drones and worker bees, returning with a stash of nectar appropriated from the nearby plants. Looking more closely at the track side the soldiers could see the purple plants were alive with honeybees darting from flower to flower.

“It’s a shame we didn’t have time to raid them, fresh honey would be nice,” mused Paul.

“You’d be on your own sir, you won’t catch me going near them.”

The droning sound slowly diminished as they moved down in to a shallow dip in the track, continuing round a long bend, ahead of them row upon row of cultivated trees in yet another grove. The track narrowed even further, overgrown with ankle to knee high grass in places, dropping down to meet the exit point of a small gully, before rising back up again and levelling out. Petzel leading the way, Fessman slightly behind his right shoulder, both scanning left and right, aware of the possibility of an ambush along this particularly narrow stretch of path. Suddenly Fessman reached out with his left hand, grabbed the back of Petzel’s ‘Y’ strap, and yanked him back.