Devils with Wings

by Harvey Black

  Fessman stood up, holding his bayonet up in the air thrusting it up and down twice signalling success to the platoon.

  Paul gave the signal and the platoon of paratroopers moved forward.

  Fischer’s troop on the left flank moved up to the clearing, now reinforced by a gun group from first and second troop, they were to give covering fire. His troop also assigned its rifle squad to support first troop in the assault.

  That meant that Paul would have twenty men to conduct the assault on the enemy unit.

  All three troops were on the tree line, unseen by the unwary Polish soldiers. Thirty two men now overlooked the unsuspecting Polish artillery battery, going about their business, oblivious to the incubus that lay biding their time, waiting for the right moment.

  Max was amazed that the enemy had allowed them to get this close and the consequences for the artillerymen would be plain for all to see once the firing started.

  “Well done Fessman, Stumme, good job carried out on those sentries.” Paul patted them both on the back, “remind me to never meet you two on a dark night!”

  “You sounded like a herd of elephants,” retorted Max, not wanting the trooper’s success to go completely to their heads. But they all knew that the Unterfeldwebel was pleased with their work. Had they messed it up and given the game away, the platoon would be in a very different situation now.

  “If the rest are as incompetent as those sentries sir, then we don’t have a lot to fear from them,” implied Max.

  Paul turned towards him, “We still have sixty rifles pointing our way though Max, don’t forget that.”

  Max nodded, bowing to his Commander’s common sense.

  Paul looked to the left; third troop was in position, MG34’s set up and ready. Two hundred and fifty round belts in each gun, the number twos already lining up the next two hundred and fifty round belts for when they were needed.

  He looked about him and to his right, first and second troop would assault with small arms and grenades while Fischer’s men covered them with the three MG34s. They were dependent on Fischer knowing when to cease-fire or the three MGs would cut Paul’s men down like corn if his timing was wrong.

  If successful, the Polish artillery men would face a swathe of steel that would cut down the unsuspecting soldiers and keep the heads down of those lucky enough to get to ground quickly enough.

  He looked at his watch, it was time. He gave the signal and the two troops rose up. He looked across to second troop, seeking out Max, catching his eye and the slight nod between them reinforcing Paul’s determination and boosting his confidence to lead his men in this attack. This would be his first time under fire, in fact, for all of them except Max who had been involved in the German Army’s operation in Czechoslovakia.

  They started to move forward just as Fischer’s troop opened fire. The devastating hail of bullets hit their targets, the sudden cacophony of noise startling the paratroopers advancing, even though they had been expecting it.

  The first barrage of fire took out a young Polish Korporal sitting astride an ammunition box smoking his fifth cigarette of the day; unfortunately it was to be his last as the two heavy calibre bullets sliced through his body taking him backwards to the ground.

  An officer, a matter of feet away from the soldier, was struck in the back of the neck as he was inspecting the limbered gun to ensure it was ready to move out, it didn’t matter anymore, he would never finish his task.

  Two Polish soldiers playing cards on top of one of the limbers were both hit; one had an arm smashed by a heavy bullet, the second soldier hit in the chest; dead before he hit the ground.

  His fellow card player, still holding his hand of cards in his right hand, the left hanging useless at his side, scrutinising his comrade’s eyes, glazed and watery, staring at him, unblinking.

  The battery Commander, looking about him, shrieking at his men to take cover and return fire, but not taking cover himself.

  Halfway through his final set of commands, a slug from a German rifle, sliced through his lower jaw, severing the lower part of his face, his mind continuing to command his men, his hands clutching what was left of his face in horror.

  A further eight soldiers were hit by the weighty bullets from the MGs and small arms fire coming from the Fischer troop. Considering Fischer’s initial concerns about being left out of the action, it was he and his men that were delivering the first blow.

  Fischer’s onslaught continued, incessantly, five hundred rounds had already been fired by the machine guns and the number two gunners were already feeding in fresh belts.

  The Polish soldiers, who up until now had been focusing on, and hiding from, the gunfire from the machine guns on their right, now saw the rest of Paul’s men advancing on them from their left.

  This second group of soldiers opened fire on them and it seemed as if hell was suddenly on the earth. The ones that weren’t firing back were dead, wounded, or too fearful to raise their heads above whatever shelter they had found.

  Paul saw a Polish soldier rise up about two metres away in front of him, his rifle, although shaking was still aimed directly at his chest. His eyes staring, displaying hatred or fear, he could not tell.

  He had heard it said that at the time of death your past flashed before your eyes. This did not happen for Paul, but he did feel a deep dread in the pit of his stomach and it did flash through his mind, for a split second, that his life was about to be ended.

  He didn’t hear the shots that took the young Polish soldier’s life, half a dozen rounds from a machine pistol striking the soldier in the chest and abdomen. He didn’t hear the soldiers scream or hear the gun that killed him; all was drowned out by the discordant sound around him.

  But he did see the soldier flung back by the force of the bullets, he saw the rifle drop from his grip and he saw the man’s eyes widen even further, in horror and disbelief, his mouth gaping open in a silent scream before he died.

  What seemed like minutes later, but in fact was less than a couple of seconds, Paul was back in the real world of a continuing battle and looking to his left he saw Max with a smoking machine pistol and an assured Hamburg smile that said it all.

  The moment had past and both he and Max were moving forward to continue the action.

  He came across a young artilleryman cowering on the ground beneath him, his rifle held out in front, acting as a shield. He knew that he should dispatch the enemy soldier, take away the threat of an armed combatant left in the rear, but his finger, resting on the trigger of his MP40, failed to respond.

  Common sense prevailed, and as he was about to extinguish the vulnerable soldier’s life, a paratrooper running passed, put two rounds into him without even a second thought, continuing to pursue the retreating enemy.

  The Polish lines were in chaos, officers and NCOs calling to their men in an attempt to rally them, but to no avail. Although the onslaught from the machines guns suddenly ceased, Paul’s two remaining troops were amongst them causing further casualties and the Polish troop’s courage was waning.

  For the first time, Paul could hear the squealing horses. They were trapped in the harnesses, tethered to the limbered artillery pieces. The horses’ heads were held high, exhaling through their extended, flaring nostrils, their eyes wide with trepidation, squealing in fear.

  The Polish artillerymen were pulling back, seeking shelter and protection from amongst the trees, leaving their artillery guns and horses behind, little knowing that the Fallschirmjager of Second Company were waiting for them, to sweep up any stragglers that will have escaped First Platoon’s onslaught.

  The savage crack of a German grenade, thrown at the fleeing Polish soldiers by Obergefrieter Herzog from one troop, was immediately followed by the heavier detonation of a Polish grenade. Although fleeing the paratroopers, some of the Polish soldiers were doing their best to cover their comrades’ withdrawal.

  A sergeant could be seen rallying some of his men behind a limbered artillery piece, usi
ng it for cover. He had managed to get half a dozen young soldiers together, pulling them in to position, thrusting their rifles forwards in an effort to get them firing at the paratroopers coming their way.

  A few of them started to get some rounds off, but they were so badly shaken that they probably wouldn’t have hit a German soldier had he been directly in front of them.

  But, the sergeant’s efforts weren’t totally in vain as it gave the Polish force a few extra seconds to extricate themselves and flee deep into the woods.

  They had held the Fallschirmjager up for a matter of seconds before grenades thrown by Jager’s Geyer, Lanz and Renisch exploded amongst them, killing the sergeant and two of the gunners, injuring one, the remaining two discarding their rifles, raising their hands in the air and throwing themselves at the mercy of the Green Devils.

  After this there was a slight lull in the fighting, giving Paul the opportunity to assess the situation.

  Three troop was still in position on the edge of the clearing covering the rest of the platoon. Two troop on Paul’s right had reached the far side of the clearing close to the edge of the wood where the wood restarted, firing on the fleeing soldiers.

  One troop on Paul’s left, were mopping up the last of the enemy.

  A body suddenly landed next to Paul, the huge bulk proving to be Unterfeldwebel Grun.

  “I think it’s all over sir,” beamed Max, his face splitting into a wide grin, “they’ve had enough.”

  “Thank god Max,” responded Paul.

  He looked at his Commander’s face, the strain on it plain for all to see. “Are you ok sir?” he asked anxiously.

  “I’m fine Max, and I’m glad that we’ve won. But this was just slaughter; they just didn’t stand a chance.”

  Max grabbed Paul’s shoulders, sensing the deep remorse that he obviously felt at the killing that had just occurred.

  “If the boot had been on the other foot sir, they would have done exactly as we’ve just done. By catching them with their pants down, some of our soldiers will live to fight another day now.”

  “As ever Max, you’re right, let’s get this finished. Have two troop secure the east, west and north perimeter of the clearing, three troop to remain where they are and one troop to gather up the prisoners and check all of the dead and wounded Polish bodies. Oh, and inform Company HQ that there are some fleeing soldiers heading in two company’s direction.”

  “Will do sir.”

  Max pushed himself up off the ground with his powerful arms and sprinted away to carry out his officer’s orders.

  The silence was palpable. The fighting on hill 172 had long since ceased; the Polish soldiers in the clearing were either dead, wounded or prisoners of war. All that could be heard was the occasional moans from some of the wounded, both German and Poles alike. Paul could smell the sweet scent of blood, almost tasting its metallic tang on his tongue.

  He felt tired, exhausted.

  The adrenaline rush had all but dissipated, leaving him aching and breathless.

  But he had a platoon to command and could not leave all the work to Max. There was also the potential for a Polish counter attack, although he doubted it, but he would still need to check on the disposition of his men. He too pushed himself up off the musty ground to search out his troop Commanders, check that his orders were being carried out, but also to provide encouragement to his men who would also, although elated by their victory, be feeling the strain of the last few hours.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Paul looked around him, feeling slightly removed from the activity going on about him, not in a dream state, but nevertheless he felt as if he was on the outside looking in.

  He sat on the limber of one of the Polish one hundred and five millimetre artillery pieces, left behind by the Polish artillery battery; in fact all six of the battery’s guns had been left abandoned as they fled from the attack pressed by Paul’s men.

  Over sixty men had been overcome and defeated by his thirty-two paratroopers and with only two minor casualties. It was their first battle and their first victory; someone was looking down on them today.

  The limber that Paul was sat on shuddered, as the six horses still harnessed to it were skitty even now, even though the firing in the immediate vicinity had ceased. A Polish soldier was talking to the horses in his local tongue, stroking their muzzles, and calming them down.

  It had been Max’s idea to use the Polish prisoners to take care of the mounts until a local German supply unit, with horse drawn wagons, could send over some of their men experienced in handling horses.

  The fight had been knocked out of them, they would not cause any further problems for the platoon, and in fact they seemed to welcome the opportunity to get close to their animals again. There was plainly some form of a bond between these horses and their keepers. It appeared that the benefit to the horses of having a soothing, recognisable voice calming them was reciprocal, as it had an equally calming influence on the Polish soldiers.

  He looked across at his men where they were attending the Polish wounded and gathering the remaining Polish prisoners together; those that had not retreated and run off into the wood to be later captured and imprisoned by the other Fallschirmjager units involved in this operation.

  It was eleven forty five; they had been in a raging battle for little over fifteen minutes, yet it felt like they had been fighting for a full day.

  He was proud of his men in their first operation, their first time under fire and they had not let him down, they had not succumbed to the fear that grips your stomach so tightly, like a vice, that can make your legs jelly like, losing their strength and the dry mouth that makes your tongue feel outsized and misshapen.

  His thoughts were interrupted as Max came running over to him, this bringing him back to reality, back in control, back to being a Platoon Commander.

  “Right Unterfeldwebel, report.”

  Max immediately stood to attention in front of his Platoon Commander to formerly present his report in true German military fashion. There was a time for the informality that often existed between the two comrades in arms who held a mutual respect for each other and there was a time for the formal disciplined approach as required by the German military machine.

  “Herr Leutnant, I beg to report that we have taken twenty prisoners, found nineteen dead and seven wounded.”

  “What about the platoon’s casualties?” Paul was immediately concerned about the welfare of his own men.

  “We have two casualties sir, two minor wounds. Jager Geyer has a shrapnel wound in the buttocks, the rest of the platoon have found this to be a cause for humour and their entertainment for the day.”

  Paul smiled in return, the informality they were used to slowly returning. “We’ll have to find him some cushions for the return trip, who is the other one?”

  “Jager Kempf from second troop, a round clipped his wing, but he’ll be back on strength within the month.”

  “And the horses?” enquired Paul

  “Well,” grimaced Max. “Out of the thirty six, eight have either been killed or injured. The two injured ones have been put out of their misery. The Polish soldiers begged us to shoot the horses; in fact we gave them a weapon and allowed them to do it themselves. I don’t think any of the platoon were up for it to be honest. Shooting a soldier shooting back at you is one thing, shooting a defenceless animal is another matter.”

  “It is strange Max, I almost feel more for the horses than I do for the soldiers we’ve killed,” reflected Paul.

  “I understand where you’re coming from sir,” empathised Max, “they have been bought here at man’s bidding, not of their own choosing.”

  “It was a good idea to let the Poles look after the remaining horses, I’m not sure what we would have done with them otherwise”

  “Again, they requested to be allowed to take care of them. The ones still alive are even now traumatised by today’s events, much like their keepers.”

  “Just as
well, our troopers may be good at soothing a good woman, but a horse? Never!” said Max grinning.

  “Thank you Max. Have the platoon assemble, gather the prisoners together we’ll be returning to our transport.”

  “What about the Polish wounded?”

  “Leave them, another company is on its way to take control of the local area, they can take care of them.”

  “What about the rest of the Battalion?” asked Max.

  Small arms fire could now be heard in the wood to the north.

  “I’ve just been informed by Oberleutnant Volkman, that the remnants of the artillery regiment have surrendered and some three hundred prisoners have been taken. Over fifty Polish dead counted so far, and god knows how many wounded.”

  “What about our casualties sir?”

  We have got off fairly lightly Max, the Battalion has only eight killed and thirteen wounded. The Oberleutnant was particularly pleased with the platoon, it has put the company in good standing as a whole and the Battalion Commander is well pleased. If he is pleased then our lord and master is also pleased it seems.”

  “They performed well sir, for their first action and so did you. The platoon was well trained, well led and the action well executed and our casualties low as a result of that.”

  “Thank you Max,” responded Paul, slightly embarrassed by the sudden tribute from his senior NCO, who he himself looked up to. “The success of their training lies very much in your court.”

  Looking around the battlefield he reflected on the differing fortunes of the enemy, glad that it was not he and his platoon suffering defeat and all that went with it.

  “Not so good for the Polish eh Max, they’ll not be heading back to barracks for a celebrity drink today. Gather the men Max, let’s get out of here.”

  Max came to attention. “Jawohl Herr Leutnant.”

  The Infantry company turned up, along with some Farriers from the supply regiment, to take control of the prisoners, the Polish wounded, and of course the horses.

  The Farriers actually looked quite pleased, it seemed, to quote, “they were good horse flesh”, and would quickly be integrated into the supply unit pulling the wagons that kept the German Army fed and watered.