Devils with Wings: Silk Drop (41 page)

“Bergmann, still hugging that box around with you I see,’ he said smiling, the radio tucked inside a wheeled weapons canister. He looked across at the rest of the HQ element, Mauer, Ostermann, heading towards the copse.

“I thought it might come in useful sir. Major Volkman will no doubt be expecting you to make contact.”

“Set up the HQ element by the copse back up the hill, find Leutnant Leeb and he’ll show you where to bed in. Once I’ve seen Feldwebel Grun I’ll join you.”

“Sounds like it’s been a rough few days sir.”

“We’re back in the fold now Bergmann, have comms ready for when I get back.”

“Jawohl sir.”

Paul stepped off, crossed the road and headed towards the temporary medical post, picking his way across the rough ground, the light already fading into dusk. Sesson, who he recognised from 1
st
Platoon, acknowledged him as he walked passed. He pushed the groundsheet, suspended across the entrance, aside and ducked his head under the low doorway, the inside hot and stuffy. A flickering oil lamp, snaffled from a local’s house, cast shadowy shapes on the inside of the stone walls. He recognised the shape of Fink, his company medic, as he got up from crouching over one of his patients.

“Evening sir.”

“It’s bloody warm in here Fink.”

“We’ve had them outside most of the day sir, round the back, in the shade. The heat in here was even worse during the day, but we’ve brought the worst of the cases back inside before the temperature drops.”

“Where’s Feldwebel Grun?”

“Over there sir,” he said pointing to a large shape lying close to the far wall.

The hut could only accommodate five people lying down, with just enough space between them for the medics to get access to them to take care of their wounds.

“Here sir,” said Fink, handing Paul a second oil lamp he’d been using to examine his charges. “I think it’s sheep or goat fat with a wick dipped in to it. It’s pretty basic, but it gives us some light to work with.”

Paul grabbed the cylindrical container, an old tin can with a crude handle stuck on the side, a cap on the top with a protruding, yellow, flaming wick. He stepped carefully over the other bodies, shining the light over their faces, giving them an encouraging smile, not wanting to touch them in case he caught their wound. He didn’t recognise them, they would be from Helmut’s unit. He crouched down next to the form he was told was Max.

“You look like a ghoul sir.”

“I could charge you with being offensive to a senior officer Feldwebel Grun.”

“It was a compliment sir,” his voice croaky. “You always look better in the dark.”

“Is Fink taking good care of you then Max?”

“They’re both doing great.”

Max caught his breath as a shaft of pain stabbed through his side.

“Anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

“A feather mattress... would be good... I feel like... the princess and the pea.”

“I think you would be the frog Max. Have you had any pain relief?”

“None left... sir. But Keufer’s done a great job... patching me up.”

“You’ll be as good as new in no time Max, and back with the company.”

“Richter will do a good job in my absence sir.”

“You know?”

“Nothing... gets by me,” he said with a cracked smile. “He’s only standing in for me. I’m still the company Feldwebel.”

They locked eyes.

“We’ll get you out of here Max, back on form, back with the unit, that’s my promise.”

“I know sir. If you don’t mind... I feel tired... you have a company to lead.”

They gripped hands. A little more strength back in Max’s.

Paul headed for the exit, handing the lamp to Fink on his way out.

“A quick word outside Fink.”

They moved a few metres away from the hut.

“How is he?”

“His shoulder and chest wounds are painful, but clean. I think they will both heal well. But the wound in his side, his abdomen, is chewed up inside. Until we have some decent light and a good surgeon to work on it, we won’t be able to tell how bad it is or repair it.”

“Have you stopped the bleeding?”

“Yes sir, for the moment. Its infection setting in that worries me. It smells clean at the moment, but we need to get him out of here as soon as possible.”

“All in good time Fink, all in good time. We’ll get them all out of here soon. Let me know immediately if there is any change in his condition.”

“Understood sir.”

“How are the rest holding up?”

“Oberleutnant Janke has a few badly wounded, but the rest of our boys are holding up.”

“Are they outside?”

“Yes sir.”

“I’ll see them before I go.”

Paul started off, then turned round, “You’re doing a good job for our men Fink, I’ll leave you to it.”

He chatted briefly with the wounded Fallschirmjager from his company and those from Helmut’s, and then made his way back to company HQ. After a brief communication with his battalion commander, the Raven, instructing him to sit tight, hold the flank and await the main advance, he checked the lines and grabbed a few hours of much needed sleep.

***

Over the next two days the battle intensified around Hania, Souda and Rethymnon, the five regimental combat groups hitting the Allied forces hard. The 5
th
New Zealand and the 19
th
Australian Brigades counter attacked the lead elements of the 1
st
battalion of the 141
st
Gebirgsjager Regiment forcing them to retreat. But, by twenty two hundred hours, on the 27
th
May, the two Allied brigades started to withdraw. By the 28
th
May, the defenders were slowly pushed back and during the 29
th
May, elements of the 141
st
Gebirgsjager Regiment passed through Paul’s and Helmut’s lines on their way, supported by the 85
th
Gebirgsjager Regiment, to relieve the beleaguered Fallschirmjager in Rethymnon and Heraklion. Paul, Helmut and their men were stood down and ordered to move to Rethymnon to link up with the rest of the battalion, where they regrouped and the Raven’s unit was stood down.

The rest of the German force pushed the remnants of the allied troops south, towards Sphakion, forcing the evacuation of the town, the Royal Navy using Destroyers to evacuate the troops trapped there. By the evening of the 30
th
, the German forces were less than three miles from the town, the rest of the Island now in German hands. On the morning of 1 June, 1941, at nine am, Lieutenant Colonel Walker delivered the surrender to the 100
th
Gebirgsjager Regiment, leaving the Germans in complete control of the island.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Paul stood to attention in front of the Raven as the battalion commander rifled through the papers on his desk in front of him. His dark, deep set eyes scanning the documents searching for the one he needed. He had requisitioned one of the municipality buildings in the town of Rethymnon, a three story structure once used by the local officials. Through the tall window behind the battalion commander, Paul could just make out part of the sweeping bay that bordered the town, the sea calm, the odd palm tree with, their thick, bulbous, spiky trunks, brown tipped green fronds extending upwards, moving slightly in the gentle breeze.

The room wasn’t large, but the Raven had made it his own, choosing a sea front view on the second level, a large balcony behind him, framed by black railings, the open window
allowing some fresh air in to the stifling room. No doubt a room next door had been turned into his sleeping quarters by his orderly, Bachmeier. The dominating piece of furniture in the room was the large, ornate desk Volkman was stood behind. Possibly teak, or maybe a local wood unknown to Paul. It had a leather chair with curved arms, the same colour as the desk, supported by four feet on a central pillar. There were two smaller matching chairs in front of the desk, where Paul was now stood in between them and slightly behind.

Sweat was running down his neck and back, his Fallschirm pressing down on his skull making his temples throb and his head ache. The scar above his left eye pulsated in time with the beat of his heart, the desire to touch it growing ever stronger. But he resisted, remaining at attention.

Looking out of the corner of his left eye, Paul could see his reflection in the large mirror, its ornate frame pinned to the wall above an unused open fireplace, there to keep the occupants warm during the bitter cold winter nights. Even though he had been rested for three days and had been given the chance to clean up, shave and eat some decent rations, he was surprised at how his image looked back at him. His face was drawn and pinched, his uniform loose on his wiry frame, eyes sunken.

Although the battle for Crete had been over for a few days now, his duties as a company commander were not. Ensuring the wounded were cared for, billets and rations organised, his unit rearmed ready for battle if called upon and taking their turn to guard the many prisoners that had befallen as a result of the Allies surrender. The pilot, who they had captured earlier and who had been released during the battle north of Adele, was amongst them. Paul had spoken to him, and with the assistance of Ackermann, their company interpreter, had asked after his wellbeing and apologised for his earlier behaviour. The pilot had thanked him and offered Paul his condolences at his loss and even intimated that, but for the war, he would have liked to have talked more about their individual backgrounds.

The Raven suddenly grunted, pig like, and picked up three sheets of paper. He peered down his slightly hooked, Roman like nose, the reason for his nick name, his dark hooded eyes scanning Paul’s face.

“Your report Brand,” he said brandishing the document in front of Paul.

He turned away, stepped towards the open French window of the balcony and breathed in the fresh air deeply.

“I’ll not be sorry to see the back of this place Brand,” he said tapping his swagger stick against the side of his left leg, Paul’s report in his right hand thrust behind his back.

“Remove your helmet, you must be sweating like a pig,” he ordered without turning around.

Paul took off his helmet, placing it by his feet and returned to his position of attention.

“The operations conducted by you and your men have been exemplary Brand. The routing of the enemy at the village of Pagantha, the ambush of the British company in the gully, forcing them into another trap. A truly remarkable achievement.”

He walked completely on to the balcony, both hands behind his back as he peered over the black, iron railing. Turning on the spot, he walked back in to the room and looked at Paul.

“Even when you encountered a battalion sized counter attack, supported by tanks, you gave them a bloody nose. I have put Uffz Fessman forward for the Iron Cross first class, as you recommended, and have confirmed his new rank.”

He tapped the report. Paul remained quiet, still stood at attention. He knew it was not the moment to interrupt his commander.

“Leutnant Leeb has also been put forward for an award. From what I can gather, although he was not the senior officer when you were detached from your unit,” Paul swallowed, his adams apple bobbing up and down, “he was the one who got to grips with the enemy, coordinating the actions of not only his platoon, but the others as well. He seems to be a good tactician like yourself.”

He locked eyes with Paul.

“It’s a pity you got separated from your unit at such a crucial time Brand, and if I thought,” the intensity of his voice rising, “for one minute, that you chose to go to the rescue of your Company Feldwebel rather than re-join your unit, I would have you court marshalled.”

He slammed the report down on the desk in front of him and Paul made to speak.

“I suggest you remain quiet for the moment Brand. Your duty is to your company, not an individual soldier. If I thought you a coward or a shirker, I would have you thrown out of the Fallschirmjager.”

There was a moment of silence, before Volkman added, “Stand at ease and be seated.”

Paul sat down on the seat to his left, MP40 across his lap, helmet on the floor between his feet. The Raven sat on his chair, the seat creaking as he swivelled it towards Paul.

“How is Feldwebel Grun?”

Paul’s voice cracked as he tried to speak, his throat dry.

“Wait.” Volkman held up his left hand and with the other pulled two glasses and a bottle from his desk drawer. “We have a victory to celebrate Paul,” he said as he poured them both a drink of schnapps.

“We have secured the island, a successful airborne invasion.”

He clinked his glass with Paul’s then threw the drink down his throat, immediately pouring another, the bottle hovering, waiting to top Paul’s up when he had finished. The gesture implicit. Paul held back the cough that was welling up in his windpipe as the raw alcohol bit in to his throat. Volkman topped up his glass and asked Paul the question again, “How is Feldwebel Grun?”