Devils with Wings: Silk Drop (38 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

They kept to the wall for some time; it then disappeared off to the south continuing to box in the large vineyard, now just the dark shape of the foothills his constant shadow. With the wall gone, Paul felt exposed and hurried the pony along, but slowing down again after realising that Max was getting a rough ride. The pony picked its way across the broken ground, the travois jumping as it caught on a rock or a hardy shrub. Paul looked back over his shoulder, the fire was no longer visible, and the lights of the village had long gone. He had no idea how far he was from the road or what lay in front of him, but decided that if he kept the foothills in sight it would keep him from straying too far north.

Although concerned about the effects of the journey on Max’s condition, Paul pressed on. He was torn between stopping and checking Max’s dressings and even putting on a fresh one, the last one, on the wound to his abdomen, or putting as much distance as possible between them and the village. Paul was certain that if he kept moving west, kept out of sight, he could avoid the enemy and hopefully bump into his comrades, perhaps even his own company.

A few hours on, dawn now getting to grips with the nights shadows, he scanned the area in front and around him. Not only keeping a watchful eye for enemy forces, but somewhere to stop and rest, he was desperate to close his eyes, if only for a short time. His legs were ponderous, his eyes heavy, head bowed. Paul gripped on to the mane of the pony who at times was pulling them both along.

An hour later and he spied the ideal place, a small copse above them and to their left. Perfect for hiding not only him and Max, but also the pony who had served them well. As a result of his new found, four legged friend, they had made good progress, far more than if Paul was to haul the stretcher himself.

He steered the pony towards the copse of olive and lemon trees and others he didn’t recognise, dispersed amongst a thicket, which provided ideal cover. The pony changed direction, dragging its load now up the gentle slope. Paul tethered the pony, unhooked the travois and dragged it into the centre of the cluster of trees and bushes. He then moved the pony to the northern edge, further out
of sight, leaving it to pick at what little grass there was about him.

The copse was composed of a dozen trees clustered tightly together, their branches low and sweeping close to the ground, touching the dusty soil where it sloped upwards away from them towards the hills, Paul having to duck constantly. The sun was now peeking above the horizon, giving him some light to check over his charge, before the blistering heat of the day made any form of movement unbearable.

“Are you with us Max?”

His eyes fluttered open, his grimy, bristled face eased into a smile and he croaked back, “Where are... we?”

“Were back south of Rethymnon. We’ll stay here for a bit. Give me a chance to get some sleep and then scout around later.”

Max winced.

“Are you in much pain Max? I have one syringe left if you want it now.”

“Save it... maybe later.”

“Not addicted to it yet then eh? More than we can say for German beer.”

“Water?”

“Hang on Max, I’ll grab some.”

Paul rummaged around his bread bag, secured to his belt at the back, and produced a water bottle.

“Here you go. Take your time.”

Max sipped the water, slowly, still cool and refreshing.

“I owe you my life Max, again. If you hadn’t shot that boy... “

He pulled the water bottle away from Max.

“You owe me... a beer... not getting away... without paying your debts.”

“I need to look at your dressings, ok?” Max nodded his head slightly.

Paul pulled back Max’s shirt. The shoulder and chest dressing were encrusted in blood, but were both dry. He decided to leave them for now. The abdomen dressing was black with blood, although not soaking, just damp. Max had noticed Paul’s pained expression.

“I’ll be ok... sir.”

“I’m not going to move you unnecessarily Max, I’ll just lift the bottom bandage and pack a fresh one underneath.”

Max smiled. “Just... do it.”

He packed bits of kit beneath Max’s buttocks and torso, raising his body on the one side, pulling the older bandage, which had loosened these past couple of days, away from the wound. He sniffed the wound for any signs of infection, and finding none, he placed the fresh one underneath, binding the old one on top of it. Paul felt sure the rear part of the wound was the worst, but at least there was a clean bandage against it now and the old bandages would act as packing to control any bleeding. Once completed, he gave Max some more water and left him to recover from the treatment he had just doled out.

Moving to the northern edge of the copse, he looked out and scanned the terrain. They had dropped much lower than he had anticipated and he could see the coast and the sea clearly, already heavy with its blue tint as the sun’s power increased. Although he had heard the occasional gunshot during the night, there seemed to be a steady build up in the last hour or so, a fire fight was in progress somewhere to his west, not that far from here he surmised. Paul moved back slightly, positioning his back against a tree and dozed for a few hours until the intense heat of midday woke him up.

Paul was groggy with sleep and licked his dry lips, but resisted the temptation to partake in a drink of water, instead he split open a lemon he had picked earlier, sucking its bitter juice and eating the pulp, temporarily slaking his raging thirst. He felt hot, dry and drained.

Paul went back into the cover of the thicket to check on Max’s health. He looked ghastly pale, his skin almost translucent beneath the veneer of his tanned face. Rather than disturb him to give him water, he let him sleep, where at least the discomfort and pain of his wounds were put aside for the moment. Shaking the water bottles, he estimated they had two pints left between them, Max needing all of it if he was to survive the day. He would have to go out and scavenge again.

He made his way back to the edge of the copse and studied the ground in front of him. Gently sloping down, an undulating mish mash of scrub, rocks and trees and reddish earth spread out until it hit the southern outskirts of the eastern part of Rethymnon, some four kilometres away. There were a number of houses dotted about between his position and the town. Paul imprinted their positions on his internal map.

He reflected on the fact that he hadn’t take any of the roasted lamb, but the smell of burning flesh had been too much, the thought of it even now making him gag. He slumped against a tree trunk. Nervous anxiety, a constant state of alertness, lack of food and water along with the ceaseless heat was taking its toll, both on his body and his mind. He constantly worried about his men, angry with himself for deserting them, but equally glad that he was able to aid his sergeant, and friend, who would have died long ago had he not done so.

Looking west, he was sure he could see another gully and studying it with his binoculars he could make out the steepness of its sides. He would never get the pony and travois across that, and made the decision to move lower, further north, although this would take him dangerously close to civilisation, before picking up the trail west again. It was risky, but he had no choice.

He closed his eyes, feeling sleepy and dozed, the sun’s rays quite pleasant at the moment, its full force filtered by the canopies of the trees. He must have cat napped for half an hour before being woken with a jolt as a military vehicle screamed by on the road below. Only the top half of the truck was visible, canvas covered so he couldn’t see inside, but got a view of the khaki clad soldiers over spilling the tailgate, the inside packed to capacity, as it sped away. The truck disappeared leaving a trail of dust and blue smoke, the engine rattling, struggling with the full load and on its last legs.

Paul slipped further back into the copse ensuring he wouldn’t be seen. He saw something move. There it was again, a flash of khaki passed between the gaps in the trees that lined the road. He pulled out his binoculars and looked more closely. Allied soldiers. Bedraggled, heads bowed, weapons slung, an army in retreat. He couldn’t help the smile that cracked the firm lines of his dust encrusted face. Behind those soldiers, he knew, would be his army, the Fallschirmjager, his unit.

He watched them pass for the best part of the day, at least five hundred men, including a mixture of Greek soldiers and the occasional armed civilian. At one point they scattered into the undergrowth as a gaggle of German planes flew high overhead, bypassing the tasty target below. Paul looked up, surmising that they had already hit their target and were returning to base, or were on route to a second objective. He moved back in to the centre of the copse.

“Max, Max,” he hissed, touching his good shoulder. “It looks like the enemy is pulling back.”

Max croaked an unintelligible reply, his condition clearly worsening.

“Take some water, then I’m going to scout the road and suss out what is happening. Keep an eye open for our boys eh Max? They will be coming for us soon.”

Although Max didn’t verbally respond, he did instinctively drink from the water bottle that Paul offered to him.

Leaving Max, he went to the edge of the copse, scanning the road with his binoculars searching for signs of the enemy, or even friendly forces. There was nothing, it seemed still. Paul exited his hiding place and skirmished down to the road, less than half a kilometre away, his Fallschirm heavy on his head again, his MP40 at the ready.

Paul found a small ditch close to the road and collapsed in to it, exhausted. The half pint of water he had allowed himself had long since evaporated, his body craving for the life sustaining liquid that he had previously taken for granted. He crawled to the edge of the road, his splinter pattern tunic helping him blend in with the undergrowth. He was now too low to see far and could no longer see Rethymnon to the north, but some six hundred metres away a large house stood in isolation and he logged it away in his mind as a possible target for later that night.

To his immediate front a small hut, but he saw no signs of life. He looked along the road that seemed to skirt the steep gully he would need to avoid on his journey west. It was a dilemma, cross it close to the road and he risked being seen by passing vehicles, move further north and he would be too close to the approaching outskirts of the town.

He pulled the undergrowth about him, confident that anyone walking passed, unless they deliberately studied his position and looked at him directly, would walk by without seeing him. His camouflage was tested only minutes later as an enemy unit approached from the west, at least a platoon in size. They looked like they were the tail end of the larger unit that had passed throughout the day, constantly looking over their shoulders at the invisible enemy tracking them.

Paul gripped his MP40 tightly, in case he was discovered, pushing his face into the ground, the earthy smell of the undergrowth filling his nostrils. He need not have worried, the soldiers were too occupied with looking to their rear to worry about looking for a dishevelled Fallschirmjager in the undergrowth. They passed him by, their ammo boots clattering on the road as they shambled passed, the sound diminishing as they faded into the distance, leaving Paul alone again.

It was four in the afternoon, light would be fading soon and he questioned whether he should stay where he was and wait for friendly forces, or head back to the copse. He was loathed to leave Max alone for long, reminiscing on what had occurred last time he had been away. But his decision was made for him as he saw movement down the road, soldiers in file either side, close to the verge, their weapons sweeping from side to side as they patrolled towards him in good order. The distinctive rimless helmet, the profile of the tunics, their confident bearing, all indicating they were Fallschirmjager.

Paul waited until they moved closer, not wanting to startle them into thinking it was an ambush. As they got nearer, their studded jump boots scraping across the surface of the road, their eyes flicking left and right, the furthest forward scanning the undergrowth at the roadside, the scouts of the unit, searching for signs of the enemy.

“Venus,” Paul called out. “Venus.”

The advance party’s reaction was instantaneous, scattering to each side of the road, throwing themselves to the ground. It was only the voice that had spoken in German that held them back from spraying the ground in front of them with gunfire. One trooper was already clutching a hand grenade, ready to inflict death on any potential attackers.

“Comet,” called the leading soldier, an Unteroffizier.

“Show yourself, but keep your bloody arms at your side. If you have a weapon sling it.”

Paul rose slowly from his hiding place in the undergrowth, his MP40 slung over his shoulder, his hands low and spread wide either side of his body.

“Unteroffizier Spiegler.”

“Gott im Himmel, Oberleutnant Brand. Where the bloody hell have you been sir? Sorry Oberleutnant, but we’ve been looking for you.”

Paul moved closer, he had recognised the Unteroffizier as being a troop commander from Helmut’s unit.

“Watching your back for you Uffz.”

The Uffz grinned back. “Pardon me for saying so sir, but you look a bloody mess, are you wounded?”

Paul looked puzzled, then looking down at his tunic and trousers realised he was not only covered in dust and grime, but Max’s blood as well.