Devils with Wings: Silk Drop (8 page)

“Not yet Ernst, but I will no doubt know more by tonight and will share it with you the minute I know.”

“Where are we shipping out to sir?” questioned Nadel.

“Initially we’ll be flying to Plovdiv in Bulgaria.”

“Bloody hell, that’s some journey sir,” exclaimed Max

“A mere two thousand kilometres Feldwebel Grun.”

“Happy times stuck in a Tante June then sir,” added Roth laughing.

“We’ll be flying out at dawn,” Paul pressed on.

“Will the weapons containers be flying across with us sir?”

“Yes Feldwebel, we need to be prepared for a full operation immediately on arrival.”

“Are events moving swiftly then sir?”

“Yes Viktor, it appears that 9
th
Panzer Division has already crossed the Aliakmon River.”

“They obviously need some real soldiers to help ease their way,” Roth said smiling.

“They’ve called for the best eh?” interjected Nadel.

“That makes it even tougher for us Heinrich. They naturally have high expectations of us, so the pressure is on. Do we have a full company Max?”

“Yes sir, no sickies and no injuries.”

“Excellent. Right then gentlemen. We shall wrap it up for now and I’ll leave you to get your men ready. I’ve already spoken to your men Ernst, so be ready to be bombarded with questions before you even begin to brief them.”

“Thank you for that sir,” he replied grinning.

“Inspection tonight?”

“Of course Max, but only after you have done yours.”

“Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant,” he replied with a mischievous smile.

Leeb was already aware of the tight bond between the company commander and the company sergeant, the other platoon commanders were also slowly becoming aware. Although they were all senior to Feldwebel Grun by rank, they didn’t relish the prospect of any faults being found by this war decorated hero. More importantly, it would reflect badly on their professionalism. But, any mistakes found were never passed on to the company commander, Max always gave them a discrete nod giving them the opportunity to put things right before Paul’s final scrutiny.

“Right, snap to it,” ordered Paul as he stood up.

They all jumped up from their seats, stood to attention, saluted and called out, “Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant.”

They then left the hut to go and prepare their men for the forthcoming operation. Max, as usual, hung back knowing that his company commander may have some concerns that he would want to run by him.

“Anything you want me to pick up on sir?” asked Max as he leant up against the back of his chair.

Paul drifted over to one of the hut’s small windows, watching his platoon commanders gathering their men together to give them the same briefing just given by him. Then they would be marched back to the barracks. No Steiner jeep for them, thought Paul smiling to himself. He turned to face Max.

“Leeb is the most junior officer I have, yet the most combat experienced,” he mused.

“We didn’t have that experience either sir, until Poland and Belgium, it’s something we all have to go through. You got us through it and you’ll lead Leutnant’s Nadel and Roth through next one in the same way.”

Paul brushed his hand over his short cropped, fair hair, then touched the scar above his left eye, something he did unknowingly when myriads of thoughts rattled through his mind.

“I know Max, but you had, and will have, a big role to play as well.”

He reflected back briefly to the moment when the Polish soldier had risen up in front of him, weapon aimed directly at his chest and the muffled retort of a machine pistol and the artilleryman’s silent scream as he was struck by the bullets spat out from Max’s machine pistol. He shuddered at the thought at how close he had come to death.

“We still need to keep an eye on all of the men Max.”

“Will do sir, anything else?”

“No. Wait, yes, extra water bottles. It was bad enough running out of water at Eben Emael, Greece will be altogether different.”

“Battle certainly gives you a thirst sir, I’ll see to it.”

It was already on Max’s list, but the NCO knew that his commander needed to offload these thoughts. His company commander may only be twenty two years old and less experienced than Max, but was rapidly overtaking his senior NCO in the area of combative skills and had proven to be a shrewd tactician. Paul headed for the door.

“Come on Max, let’s walk back.”

“Agreed sir. Stretch our legs before they get cramped up in a Tante June.”

They made their way back to the barracks, a good three kilometre walk, but nothing to these tough veterans. Once back at the camp, they eat and then involved themselves in the rigorous preparations necessary to go to war. Checks were made and made again and again. Both Paul and Max were relentless in their pursuit of perfection. It wasn’t resented by the men. Many had seen combat and many had seen combat with Paul and Max and knew the consequences of being ill prepared. Equipment lists were made, remade and finalised. Extra supplies were drawn from the Quartermaster’s store, Max having to overcome the usual reluctance of the stores to release any of their precious stock. The soldiers often wondered who actually owned the stock; the German Army or the Quartermaster himself. It was the same the world over. They would take a small amount of ammunition with them, just in case they were in action immediately on landing, but would draw the remainder when they arrived in theatre. The weapons canisters were loaded and checked, all sixty of them. Enough to give the company its minimum requirements to sustain combat for at least twenty four hours.

They had spent the evening in one of the aircraft hangars, specifically put aside for the paratroopers. The parachutes were decked out on the long, six metre tables, and pairs of paratroopers working together to pack their chutes. They were packing the new RZ20 chute, a vast improvement on the previous models, the RZ1 and the RZ16. The canopy was camouflaged green and brown, rather than white, and had four quick release buckles enabling the paratrooper to release it swiftly on landing.

Once Paul, Max and the three platoon commanders were satisfied, and only then, the men were released to get some food and rest. It had been an exhausting day. The leggy officer, his thickset, fair haired sidekick stayed behind, going over a few minor details. Scanning their eyes over the packed parachutes, the readied canisters and the other paraphernalia of war.

“Job done sir.”

“Yes Max, job done.”

He patted Max’s solid shoulder. “we just wait now and see what tomorrow has in store for us.”

“Hauptman Volkman not more forthcoming then sir?”

“No, he’s not giving anything away at the moment. I’m not so sure he knows anything himself yet.”

“Well, we’ll find out soon enough no doubt. With your permission sir, I’ll join the NCOs for a few minutes before I knock it on the head for the night?”

“Of course Max. I’ll see you at the crack of dawn.”

Max came to attention, saluted his company commander and left the hangar.

It was late in the evening now and the large hangar was empty and in the dim, even eerie, light, Paul looked about him. To his right were the parachute tables with the meticulously packed chutes. In front, in the distant cavernous space were three Luftwaffe fighters, three Messerschmitt bf 109s, in for repairs. Although not a forward airbase, it still fulfilled a minor role in the servicing and repair of damaged aircraft. To his left, two DFS 230 Gliders, used for training glider pilots. He gave an involuntary shiver as he had a flashback of the glider landing on top of the Eben Emael Fort, the flak speeding towards them and the thud as the glider hit the hard, grassy surface.

What would be expected of them over the next few days, he reflected. This time he was responsible for a full company, not just a single platoon. Would he be up to the task? He had to be. His men were dependent on him. Not just thirty this time, but nearly one hundred men. He turned around to face the tall hangar doors as the flashlight of a Luftwaffe airman disturbed him.

“Have you finished in here sir, so I can shut the doors?”

“Yes, I have, carry on.”

Paul took one last look around, and then strode out through the doors to his billet.

CHAPTER SIX

In the twilight they boarded the twelve Junkers transport aircraft that would fly them to Plovdiv in in Bulgaria. The take-off was without incident. The first leg of the flight took them five hours and after a brief stopover in Austria to refuel, they continued the rest of their journey for a further five hours.

Paul bent his head down between his knees, feeling slightly nauseous, the fumes from the engines, the cramped conditions and the constant buffeting for the last hour of this second leg were having their effect.

“You ok sir?” asked Max, gripping Paul’s shoulder

“I’m fine Max, I shouldn’t have eaten during the stop over.”

“Just keep your head down sir and breath nice and shallow.”

All were relieved when the journey was over. The paratroopers were exhausted. Although they had been sat down through the entire journey, apart from a sixty minute stretch during the stopover in Austria, ten
hours crammed together on a droning transport was far from pleasurable.

The next day they were off again, transferring from Plovdiv to a former British airfield in Larisa, Greece. The co-pilot came back and warned Paul that they were on the final approach to the airfield and would be on the ground in the next ten minutes. Paul thanked him and leant towards Max, sat opposite him, who was shouting something.

“We’ll know what it’s all about soon sir.”

“It all comes to those that wait Max,” he responded.

Then to himself, “Whatever it is, it will be coming our way soon.”

They landed and the plane taxied to the end of the runway, along one of the taxiways and onto a concrete apron where they were able to disembark. The planes came to a halt and the relieved paratroopers clambered down through the now open door at the rear of the plane, sucking in the fresh as they did so. Max stretched his arms above his head, rolling his burly shoulders, easing the tension in his rock like form. His five feet ten frame ached just about everywhere you could imagine. Paul, with his extra ten centimetres had fared equally badly.

“Thank God we didn’t have to jump straight after that lot.”

“That’s why they made Tante June so small Max, to encourage us to leave when we get over the target,” said Paul smiling.

“What now then sir?”

“One of the ground crew informed me we have that row of tents over there,” said Paul pointing to a string of eight man tents.

“Nice and cosy, eh sir? Looks like there are a couple of battalions here already,” said Max looking at the one hundred or more tents in lines close to theirs.

“Get the men allocated to their billets Max, and see if you can suss out the messing facilities while I go and find Regimental HQ.”

“Meet up with you in the canteen afterwards sir?”

“Sounds good Max.”

“I’d like to do a final equipment check afterwards sir.”

“Don’t you trust our Luftwaffe ground crew?”

“They don’t know their arse from their elbow that lot sir.”

“Very succinctly put Max. We’ll get on to it as soon as we’ve eaten.”

“You never know what’s coming sir.”

“What would I do without you, Feldwebel Grun?” said Paul patting him on his arm.

“You need never find out sir,” he replied smiling.

Paul was about to walk away but stop and turned. “Oh and make sure the platoon commanders and Unterfeldwebel’s join us as well.”

“Will do sir.”

Max headed over to the row of pitched tents allocated to their company and could see the men were already making themselves comfortable.

Paul headed along a different row of tents, all neatly laid out in typical military fashion. He looked about him as he walked in between the rows and could see that all the soldiers in and around the tented compound were Fallschirmjager. It had all the makings of a large airborne operation in the offing.

The sentry, in full combat gear, his Kar 98K at the ready, stood to attention in front of the large tent as Paul approached the Regimental Command Post. He returned the paratroopers salute and bent down to enter what was more of a marquee than a tent. As he pushed his body through the flaps of the entrance, a fog of smoke and fetid air met him. A smoky layer hovered in the upper parts of the tent, swirling around the three suspended lights providing a limited, but warm glow.

He pulled the tent flaps back together. Although fairly mild outside, it was warmer still inside the HQ. He looked about him attempting to identify the occupants. To his left was a six foot, wooden, fold up table supporting various pieces of radio communications equipment manned by two Fallschirmjager signallers. To his right a second table covered in various maps, some fostering military markings, showing positions of friendly and enemy troops. At the far end a smaller table, with three compact, plain wooden chairs around it. Two were occupied. In one sat, Volkman, his battalion commander. The hooded eyes and slightly bent nose making him look very much like his nickname, The Raven.