Devils with Wings

by Harvey Black

  All three of the Unteroffiziers and their troops looked up to Paul and Max. They were both leaders of men, albeit in slightly different ways, who obviously took an interest in the well being of the platoon as a whole, but also in them as individuals.

  They often walked in awe of the tough Unterfeldwebel, who would brook no nonsense and was extremely protective and supportive of his young Platoon Commander.

  A paratrooper came running over to Paul and gave him a quick salute. It was Obergefrieter Konrad from two troop.

  “No saluting now Konrad, we are on Ops, you don’t want the enemy to single me out do you?”

  “Of course not sir, sorry sir, just reporting with Unteroffizier Kienitz compliments, the troop is ready to move out.”

  “Thank you,” replied Paul, “tell Unteroffizier Kienitz we will move out in five minutes.”

  Konrad just managed to stop the reflex action of saluting again and jogged back to his troop.

  Three troop also reported their readiness to move.

  Paul called over to Unteroffizier Leeb, Commander of number one troop, “we move in five.”

  “Right sir,” Leeb started to gather his troop together ready to move forward.

  Fifty meters to the right, Paul could see Max and Kienitz doing the same with the second troop.

  He also knew that Fischer would be doing the same with three troop. He trusted them, they were good Troop Commanders and good soldiers and would do right today.

  Five minutes later they moved out and had assembled by the trucks waiting to transport them to their drop off zone.

  There were three, two and a half tonne Krupp Kfz 81s waiting for them, one per section. The Kfz 81, or Krupp Boxer as it was known, was one of the workhorses of the German Forces.

  Paul stood by the lead Boxer, watching his platoon assemble by their appropriate vehicle. Although they are not Tante Junes, he thought, at least they had the best vehicles available. Examining the ground they had to cover, they would need the all round, independent suspension to get them across some of the terrain they would encounter. He was glad of their elite status, giving them a priority over other units for these prized vehicles.

  He looked up at the sky. Although today was grey and overcast, the ground was still dry and the dust still invaded every cavity it encountered. Perhaps Erich and Helmut will get the rain they so desire sooner rather than later, he mused.

  He looked about him, saw that the platoon had fully formed up and was awaiting his command to go. He caught Max’s eye and nodded.

  Max then barked, “mount up, vacation time is over. Time to earn your excessive pay.”

  This was the signal they had all been waiting for, and they climbed onboard, one troop per truck.

  Paul took his place next to the driver in the lead vehicle. He gave the word for them to turn their engines over, which started straight away as the drivers had warmed them previously, ensuring that they would start immediately when required. Also, they were in fear of Oberleutnant Volkman’s wrath, should one or more of the vehicles let the Fallschirmjager Company down.

  “Pass the word, laden und sichern (Lock and Load),” commanded Paul.

  Once Paul was given the go ahead by Oberleutnant Volkman, he ordered his platoon to move out, leading first company, followed by the rest of the Battalion, to their drop off point.

  The first two kilometres of the route headed north east, then turning east, following a route just south of the woods, believed to be occupied by a Polish Artillery unit. The route was more of a dirt track than a road, but the vehicles they were in were more than capable of transiting along it.

  Paul was sat in the cab of the lead vehicle and looking behind noticed they were leaving a fairly heavy trail of dust, so ordered the driver to reduce speed. Although German vehicles were continuously active in the local area, he didn’t want to attract specific attention to this particular convoy.

  At the seven kilometre mark, not far from Hill 173, where a platoon of Fallschirmjager led by Oberleutnant Bier, another friend of Paul’s, from second company, should be moving into position, they turned northeast.

  After two kilometres they turned north for the final leg, now they drove over very flat, grassy, open plan fields or pastures, through the occasional gate, which they quickly opened to pass through, until they reached the drop off point. The vehicles came to a halt; they were half a kilometre east of the edge of the woods they had come to conquer.

  The Boxers disembarked their human cargo and returned back to the camp via a different route, so they didn’t get in the way of the rest of the company that was slowly catching up behind them.

  Paul gathered his platoon together and they quickly moved off, leaving the drop zone clear for the rest of the company that was probably no more than five minutes behind them.

  They left the trucks behind, advancing, in line of march, to their start point. Fischer’s troop had already left them earlier to move into position some two hundred metres behind them on their left flank, in line with third platoon acting as the Company reserve. Let’s hope they weren’t needed to get them out of trouble.

  “It’s time sir,” interrupted Leeb.

  Paul nodded in acknowledgment and ordered the men to get into formation.

  The two troops were in line abreast, in a shallow ‘V’ formation, spread across about one hundred metres. The base of the ‘V’ at the front and in the centre, awaiting the command to move forward.

  Paul had one gun group on the left flank and a second gun group on the right flank, ensuring that they were well protected on both flanks with heavy firepower.

  The gun group of a troop consisted of an MG 34; a machine gun first issued in nineteen thirty-four, hence the name, but considered to be the first modern general purpose machine gun. Manned by a three-man team, it provided the troop with a high volume of sustained firepower, designed to keep the heads of any enemy well and truly down. At in excess of 600 rounds per minute, this machine gun gave the troop, and the Platoon, exceptional firepower but did not sacrifice the unit’s speed of movement or its tactical freedom.

  Paul scanned the woods for the third time with his binoculars, straining to see into the wood and seek out any potential ambush. At this distance, he could make out the edge of the wood, but could not distinguish individual trees. He could wait no longer and had to put his doubts aside. Besides, if he waited any longer he would have the Raven breathing down his neck. He wasn’t quite sure what he feared most, the enemy or his Company Commander. He smiled at that thought.

  Unteroffizier Leeb also smiled, his Platoon Commander seemed quite relaxed, so it should go smoothly and they could soon be back at camp for a well-earned schnapps.

  They were just less than half a kilometre from the woods, giving them the opportunity to form up without the enemy easily bouncing them.

  “Let’s go Ernst.”

  The troop got up from the crouching position in the ankle high grass and started to move forward in a line towards the wood in front of them, some three hundred metres away.

  Second platoon, led by Erich, was on their right flank with third platoon in reserve. On their left flank some two hundred metres behind was his own third troop.

  If the enemy were waiting for them and Paul and his men walked into an ambush, the Polish soldiers would probably wait until they got closer, in all likelihood when they could make out and target individual soldiers, or even less when they could see the whites of the paratrooper’s eyes.

  Close enough that they would make easier targets and would find it difficult to extricate themselves, but not so close that they were in easy grenade range.

  At such close range, it would be very difficult for Paul and his men to disengage without taking heavy casualties and they would very much need the help of the rest of the platoon and the company mortar troop. Even then, the consequences would be dire.

  Think positive, thought Paul. It was a very large wooded area and the odds that a Polish unit would be waiting at this
exact spot were slim.

  They continued to move forward, and he could now distinguish the odd large, individual tree standing out from the obscurity of the rest. He scanned left and right to check that his two troops were holding the line and looked behind over his left shoulder to confirm that Unteroffizier Fischer and his troop were keeping pace with them.

  Two hundred paces to go and the edge of the wood was becoming more defined. Paul could distinguish the odd oak tree on the extreme, thinned, edge of the wood, an ideal hiding place for a trap.

  One hundred paces and the edge of the wood could clearly be seen, but looking beyond the edge into the depths of the wood, only darkness remained.

  Paul felt edgy, if they were going to be hit, it would be anytime now.

  The wood was old, made up of mainly deciduous trees, turning brown due to the onset of the fall. The trees had large trunks with widespread branches, interspersed with brambles and thorn bushes and smaller saplings struggling to survive in the limited space between the larger trees and undergrowth.

  Paul recognised the tree in front of him as an oak; reminding him of the oak tree he used to climb as a boy back home.

  Fifty paces. If they were ambushed now, they would have no option but to charge straight at it and fight their way through.

  As they entered the wood, the foliage and canopy closed in around them, shutting out what little light there was on this dull, grey, overcast day. It smelt musty; the damp, stale smell of mould pervaded his nostrils.

  Paul then fully appreciated Max’s warning to the Troop Commanders at the briefing. They would have to keep a close eye on their men to ensure none got mislaid. Equally important, ensuring that they didn’t get too far ahead and get mistaken for the enemy or get shot by friendly fire should any action with the enemy occur.

  The ground under foot was treacherous, fallen, broken branches, slippery autumn leaves, and hidden hollows, all ready to trip up an unsuspecting paratrooper. The woods were quiet, only the occasional drone of a bee or the flapping wings of birds flying from tree to tree. Being autumn the leaves had started to fall to the ground creating brown mulch in places underfoot. The decaying, damp smell of rotten vegetation, reminding Jager Fessman of his poaching days.

  They were well into the wood now. Initially some eight hundred plus men assaulting the wood seemed like overkill, but now, being completely enclosed by trees and undergrowth; it felt like the entire Battalion would be swallowed up by its enormity.

  They continued forward slowly, the odd snap of a branch or twig as a paratrooper trod on one hidden beneath the carpet of leaves and decay. Occasionally a grunt could be heard as a paratrooper missed his footing and stepped into a hole or burrow, left by some animal of the wood.

  He looked back and could barely see the external edge where they had just entered. He checked his compass to confirm they were headed in the right direction. The last thing Paul wanted was to suddenly find themselves back out of the wood again having walked in a circle.

  They were going slightly too far to the right and Paul had the word passed along to the two Troop Commanders to follow his lead as he turned slightly left. He also warned them about making too much noise. They all knew this, but it had to be said.

  The right of the line speeded up slightly and the left of the line slowed down until they matched Paul’s directions and then continued on.

  They were well inside the wood now and with instincts sharper than most, Fessman sensed danger. His warning to the platoon Commander was timely, had it not been so the platoon may well have blundered straight into the Polish troops and the element of surprise would have been lost.

  “Down,” hissed Fessman. “Ahead sir, you can just see a clearing through the gap in the trees there. I think I can see a sentry at the edge of the clearing!”

  The platoon took to the ground, hugging it closely, trying to become a part of the foliage that was beneath them and around them.

  “You must have eyes like a hawk Fessman, well done.”

  He turned to Leeb who had moved closer to his side, “Send a runner to Unterfeldwebel Grun, and tell him and Unteroffizier Kienitz to get over here now.”

  “Right sir.”

  He turned towards his troop, “Herzog, get Unterfeldwebel Grun and Unteroffizier Kienitz now,” he hissed to the paratrooper to his immediate left.

  “Shall I get Fischer as well sir?”

  “Yes, but whoever you send tell them to go carefully, Fischer’s men will have itchy trigger fingers.”

  Leeb had dispatched two troopers for the task and within ten minutes there was a platoon conference.

  “Right Max, Fischer, what is the situation to your front?”

  “We have spotted the clearing too sir, but there are no sentries to our front.”

  “I sent a scout forward sir,” informed Kienitz, “and he has reported back saying there is a battery of guns in the clearing.”

  “Are they unlimbered?” asked Paul.

  “No sir,” replied Kienitz, “they look as if they’ve either just got here or are about to leave.”

  “How many men?”

  “About sixty sir, typical for an artillery battery I would’ve thought.”

  “Was there any activity?”

  “They seem pretty relaxed, they only have a few sentries and we can only see two in front of our platoon line.”

  “Ok, listen in,” commanded Paul.

  “We can’t move forward and the rest of the Battalion should now have finished manoeuvring into position on the edges of the wood. They will be expecting us to kick things off and panic the enemy into withdrawing directly into the blocking force. This is what we are going to do.”

  Paul briefed the troop Commanders and informed company Head Quarters of the action he was taking.

  He had decided to bring the reserve troop forward for the attack on the Polish troops and had been told by company command that third platoon would move forward to act as their reserve should they need it.

  Just as Paul had finished briefing his platoon Commanders they heard gunfire off to the West. First the sound of a light machine gun, clearly not a German weapon so likely to be Polish, followed by Polish small arms fire. Then they could hear the response from an MG34, the distinctive buzz saw sound could not be mistaken.

  The sounds came from the West, from Hill 172, the location of the platoon from second company, tasked to secure the hill and act as high cover for the Battalion. Bier obviously had his hands full; soon it would be Paul’s turn.

  “Keep the men moving Leeb,” hissed Paul.

  Now that the action had well and truly started, the men became even more alert than they were before the firefight on hill 172 had started. The tension was self-evident. They were all hyped and ready to go.

  The first thing that needed to be done, to effect Paul’s plan, was to take out the sentries. With them in place, he wouldn’t be able to get his platoon close enough to catch the enemy unawares without being discovered.

  The two paratroopers crept forwards quietly; their target, the two sentries spotted to the platoon’s front, on the edge of the clearing. Fessman, with a knife in his right hand, leopard crawled to within twenty paces of the Polish sentry.

  He had removed his Fallschirmhelme, his jump helmet, left his rifle and ammunition bandoliers and his stick grenades behind. All he had was his model S84/98 bayonet and his 7.65mm sauer model 38 pistol. He would shortly be using his bayonet in anger, for the first time. The sentry was looking towards the West, away from the direction of first platoon, obviously focusing on the firefight that was in progress on hill 172. It sounded as if second company was in the thick of it; soon it would be first platoon, first company’s turn. Fessman crept closer and closer to the sentry, now fifteen metres away. The sweat was starting to soak his uniform making him shiver as it cooled on his body. Ten metres, he could now see the distinctive features of the sentry’s face. He looked young, no older than eighteen or nineteen, probably a conscript soldier. He reme
mbered his Platoon Commander’s comment, they may not be infantry soldiers, but they can still shoot and kill. Five metres. He was directly behind the sentry now. The sentry was short in height, five foot eight inches, no more than that, not a problem for Fessman’s five, eleven.

  He leopard crawled the last stretch without making a sound. The scrape of his boot against a fallen branch or the snap of a twig on the ground would alert the sentry. Then he would have no option but to get up quickly and run at the sentry, killing him before he had time to sound the alarm; that would be a tall order.

  These last few moments were crucial. He made it without disturbing the sentry’s attention, which was still firmly transfixed by the firefight in the West.

  He could almost reach out and touch him. He could hear him clearing his throat, fumbling in his pocket, for what turned out to be a packet of cigarettes. He would wait until he had lit it and taken his first drag, he didn’t want the sentry’s arms in the way.

  Rising up behind the sentry, a strong smell of body odour emanating from him, quickly placing his hand around the sentry’s mouth, the knife placed beneath his chin. In one swift movement Fessman clamped the sentry’s mouth tightly shut to smother any sound, thrust the blade up and into the underside of the lower jaw, through the upper oesophagus and into the brain.

  At the same time he pulled them both to the ground with the Polish soldier’s body on top of him, wrapping his legs round the Polish soldier’s legs, clamping them, preventing him from thrashing around. The hand remained clamped around his mouth pulling his head back, scrambling the blade around inside his skull until all that was left was a minor tremble as the force of life was extinguished from the unknown soldier.

  Fessman felt the trickle of urine being absorbed into his own uniform as the sentry evacuated his bowels during those moments of death.

  Over to the right, a second sentry met the same fate at the hands of the equally proficient Stumme.