by Harvey Black
An Artillery officer also turned up, it seemed that the surviving guns left by the Polish Artillery regiment, were also going to find service in the German Army.
The Platoon collected its gear, assembled by the edge of the clearing and headed back the way they had come.
The trek through the wood seemed very different this time and somehow faster. Once they had cleared the outer edge and back out into daylight, they found the Boxers waiting for them. It seemed that Paul’s platoon had been given precedence over all other units.
The paratroopers climbed wearily onboard, the fatigue of the last few hours had clearly taken its toll. The earlier banter and swapping of stories on the way to the woods had gone. Post the battle the journey was completed in silence. All the Fallschirmjager, the Green Devils, wanted now was to get back to their camp and sleep. For some, it would probably be a fitful sleep.
In the cab of the lead vehicle, Max watched as his Platoon Commander’s head slowly slid down the window of the Boxer, sleep overcoming all. The noise of the trucks, the nattering of the driver seeking information about the battle, the insecure thoughts as to whether he had acted correctly throughout the action, drifted away.
You sleep, thought Max. You deserve it. We came through today and survived, we owe that to you.
CHAPTER FIVE
By the twenty seventh of September, the Battalion had set up a new camp just east of Pulawy, Poland. They were on the outskirts of a small village called Zagrody, in the administrative district of Gmina Zyrzyn, situated in Eastern Poland, forty-one kilometres north west of Lublin.
The village was quite small, the population no more than a few hundred. The Battalion had moved there to rest and re-fit after their action in the woods outside of Wola-Gulowska and await further orders.
Earlier that month, on Sunday the seventeenth of September, Lublin had finally surrendered to the German Army; on that same day, as per the Ribbentrop-Molotov pact, the Soviet Union invaded Poland from the East. The Red Army’s invasion had made the Polish defence plan defunct, as they now had to fight on a second front so the overall battle was clearly lost.
The invasion by the Soviets had come as a surprise to Paul and his fellow officers, but they welcomed the possibility that it would bring the war to a close sooner than expected.
Saying that, the invasion of Poland had progressed very quickly and the unit in its entirety believed that the Poles would have succumbed to the superior German forces very quickly.
The company HQ staff, Paul, Erich and Helmut, along with the senior NCOs, moved to a complex close to a working mill which sat next to a small brook running off the Kuraowka river.
Max had made good friends with a pretty young woman who worked at the Mill and just happened to be the Miller’s daughter. Max, with his ludicrous Polish, attempted to speak to her as often as possible much to the disgust of her father.
The daughter, Magdalena, was a tall, dark haired beauty, with high cheekbones and slightly pinched face, typical of Polish women in that area.
One morning, the furious Miller, berating him and waving his arms about with gestures of indignation, approached Paul. Paul, after calling over one of the Battalion clerks, who spoke Polish, to translate for him, was informed that the ‘blond beast’ was bedding his daughter and that he expected Paul to stop it immediately.
He partially placated the angry father by telling him that although it was not his responsibility to manage the love affairs of his daughter, he would investigate the matter. This did not please him entirely but he left with the knowledge that Paul had promised to look into the matter further.
“Max,” called Paul next time he saw the big blond, ex-Hamburg docker.
“I believe you have a sudden passion for freshly baked bread?” he said, grinning.
“I don’t know what you’re on about Sir,” replied the disgruntled Unterfeldwebel. “I’m just making sure the men get their rations of fresh bread, we don’t know when we will have the opportunity again.”
“Are you sure it is not your rations that get priority Max,” continued Paul, baiting him. “Make sure you don’t put any buns in the oven.”
At this point Max, red faced, realised that his platoon Leutnant was making fun of him and a grin slowly spread across his face.
“I will make sure that the oven door is kept firmly shut Sir.”
“See you do Max,” replied Paul patting him on his solid shoulder, “we don’t want any broken hearts and trouble with the natives, do we?”
Magdalena had clearly developed a deep attachment for her ‘olbrzym blondyn’, ‘giant blonde’ man, and was distraught when the unit pulled out later and she was no longer going to see the love of her life.
Later, Paul could be found lying on his bed, still weary after the recent battle in the Wola-Gulowska woods. The entire Battalion was now accommodated in and around the small rural village situated about ten kilometres from Pulawy.
The first company’s officers, Paul, Erich and Helmut, had been given some well-earned days leave. They spent some of that time relaxing by visiting the seventeenth century town of Pulawy. As had the rest of the Battalion’s officers at some point during the last few days.
Situated on the Wisla and Kuraowka rivers, the town had a population of over twenty thousand souls. During the mid eighteen hundreds, it had been known as Nowa Aleksandria, the name changing a few years after the failure of the eighteen thirty-one uprising.
Close by, was a charming medieval village with a small market square where they stopped for a Polish beer on the way to Pulawy.
The weather was still warm and pleasant, but not as dry and dusty as it had been these past few weeks. The three comrades talked about how surreal it was. One day they were fighting and killing the enemy then, a few days later, they were drinking beer in one of their village squares.
Surrounding the small square, there were a number of ancient houses, shops and churches, and even a synagogue. Paul, and his fellow officers, found it quite relaxing after the pressures of battle. Even the local Polish population was being polite, although perhaps for the wrong reasons.
Little did they know that later, in what was to turn into a world war, three German concentration camps would be built and operated around the town of Pulawy. The town’s Jewish population of over three thousand, initially confined to a ghetto, would later be murdered at Sobibor camp.
Paul also learnt that in the nineteen twenties, Pulawy was the scene of a huge battle between the Polish Army and the Soviet Red Army, when a Polish force, directed from Pulawy, circled and defeated a strong force of some 170,000 men. This drove the Soviets from Poland giving them twenty years of stability until, reflected Paul, the recent German invasion.
While in Pulawy, the three young men visited some notable buildings, feeling more like tourists than Fallschirmjager officers. The temple of Sibyl and the Marynka’s Palace, once the home of Princess Isabelle Czartoryski, but now the home of one of the German Wehrmacht Division’s Head Quarters. They quickly skirted that tourist spot, not wanting to be seen by any senior officers!
Returning from their excursion, they felt relaxed and rested; ready to face whatever the military would throw at them.
They had been allocated a small cottage to bunk down in until the unit received its next set of orders from the Regimental HQ.
The cottage was typical of many in Poland, being a one storey bungalow, with a small kitchen, a wood burning stove, which also provided the cottage’s heating, a lounge, that also served as their eating and bathing area, and two bedrooms, one of which Paul shared with Erich, much to his demise. Although he could sleep almost anywhere under almost any circumstances, Erich’s snoring well and truly put that to the test.
It also had an outside toilet, which was a luxury under the circumstances.
The Poles clearly resented having to give up their homes to the occupying German soldiers, understandably so, but were careful not to communicate that too forcefully. After all, the war was
not going well for Poland and the current occupying troops could well be here on a more permanent basis.
A Military police unit had attached itself to the Battalion headquarters, to ensure the good behaviour of the soldiers in the area. But, it also had a responsibility to monitor and control the activities of the local population. In this particular role, they seemed to take a great delight in making life difficult for the inhabitants of the village.
Paul had already clashed with one of the Military Police, also known as ‘Kettenhunde’ or ‘Chain Dogs’, a name given to the military police as a result of the chain and gorget they wore around their necks. They often worked in close cooperation with the Secret Field Police, Geheime Feldpolizei. Paul felt sure that he had also seen them around the village.
He had been returning from checking on the accommodation for his Platoon, their welfare very much at the forefront of his thoughts, when he walked into an incident between a group of villagers and the Feldgendarmerie, the Military Police.
A Military Police Feldwebel was standing in what appeared to be a milk soaked uniform, while another Military Police NCO was beating a Polish peasant, cringing on the ground beneath him, about the head with the butt of his machine pistol.
Paul intervened directly.
“Cease that immediately!” commanded Paul.
The NCO stood up straight, no longer bending over the Polish victim on the floor.
“Keep out of it soldier, if you know what’s good for you, It’s none of your business,” growled the Chain Dog.
If the Feldgendarmerie thought that his military police uniform and large physique would intimidate this boy of an officer, he was about to find out differently.
Paul stretched to his full height of six feet two inches, a good four inches taller than the thickset policeman and leant in towards him, looking down on him and commanded.
“Front and centre and stand to attention when you address an officer!”
The policeman suddenly noticed the jump smock and boots and the parachutists jump badge. His eyes also flickered to, and settled on Paul’s officer tabs. If he had any doubts, seeing the Fallschirmjager helmet aided his realisation that this was no ordinary officer and no ordinary soldier. He quickly pulled himself to an upright position, brought himself to attention and gave Paul a Nazi salute.
“Jawohl Herr Leutnant, this scum spilt milk all down the front of his uniform,” pointing to the other Feldgendarmerie.
“That’s as well maybe,” responded Paul, “but it doesn’t warrant a beating with the butt of your gun. See I don’t catch you treating the locals like this again, Feldwebel”
“Look at them,” said the Feldgendarmerie, pointing in the direction of the villagers, all frozen to the spot. In fear of staying and getting embroiled in the dispute between the two German soldiers but also in fear of walking away and drawing attention to themselves and bringing down the wrath of the policemen on to them.
“They are just cowardly scum that need a firm hand if they are to be brought under the control of the Third Reich.”
“The ones I fought yesterday were not cowardly, Feldwebel,” threw in Paul, feeling and getting angrier by the second.
“They may have been inexperienced, and not as professional as our soldiers, but they were far from cowardly. But then you wouldn’t know much about that would you, from the safety of your billet in the village?”
The Feldwebel spluttered back, “We still have an important job to do Herr Leutnant.”
But the Feldwebel was clearly embarrassed and his companion chose to look away, not wanting to see the shame being heaped upon his colleague. First, because the officer was right, they had both been in the rear area while the fighting was in progress and secondly, he didn’t want this paratroop officer switching his attention to him and the embarrassment of being berated by him in front of the very peasants he despised.
The first military policeman though, needed to save face here and slowly regaining his composure, replied.
“The control of the rear area is our affair Herr Leutnant, and we come under the control of the District Commander, not the Fallschirmjager. I will report this incident, of your interference in rear area military police affairs, to my Commander.”
“As you please Feldwebel, but if I see you beating the locals again, I may well show you a taste of it. You are dismissed.”
The two Feldgendarmerie saluted and, disgruntled, left the area.
Paul noticed that the Polish victim had scampered away as had the rest of the villagers that were here only a few moments ago. He thought nothing more of the incident and headed back to the cottage where he was billeted.
Again lying on his bed, he was reflecting on his performance, at the recent battle, and that of his men. He had been told that the mission overall had been a success and that his platoon, and as a result of that, his Company, was held in high regard.
The downside was the dead and injured. His platoon got off lightly with only two injured. Jager Kempf from second troop with an injured right arm and Jager Geyer with a shrapnel wound to the buttocks. A painful, non-life threatening injury, but providing great amusement for the platoon.
No doubt this event would be replayed over and over again in the future. The most popular joke being, that at least Geyer had got rid of his constipation problem.
Both would be back with the unit within the next four weeks.
The rest of the Battalion was not so lucky, losing eight killed and thirteen wounded, fortunately all of the wounded paratroopers would recover.
For the Polish unit, things had been very different. Fifty Polish artillerymen had lost their lives, leaving behind mothers, fathers, sons, daughters and wives. Many more had been wounded. Although they fought bravely, they were no match for the Fallschirmjager. Their training and military skills were no match for the aggressive, tough, professional paratroopers that made up the 1st Fallschirmjager Battalion.
Paul was staring up at the low, wood beamed ceiling when he was disturbed by the sound of clattering boots and Erich bursting into the bedroom.
“Paul, you are wanted at HQ, the Raven is screaming for you!” exclaimed Erich excitedly.
“What’s it about?” asked Paul as he quickly scrambled off his bed, frantically searching for his jump boots, which he found kicked under the bed. They badly needed a polish, but they would have to do for now, it would not do to keep Oberleutnant ‘The Raven’ Volkman waiting.
“He’s probably got some extra duties lined up for you,” responded Erich.
I wonder thought Paul. Were they going to get orders for another mission? But, if that were the case then all of the officers of the Company would be called for, including Erich. Oberleutnant Volkman was asking for Paul specifically.
He quickly pulled on his side laced FJ jump boots with their cleated soles, only worn by paratroopers. Erich helped Paul get ready as best he could; passing him items that he would need to wear or take with him, in particular his pistol holster and Walther P38. Although Paul carried a P38, many preferred the Sig Sauer.
“Right,” said Paul, I’ll have to do.” It was a dilemma, spend more time getting ready and face the wrath of the Raven for being late, or hurry to his appointment and risk being rebuked for his turnout.
As they were still operational, Paul would have to wear his combat uniform, which included his M1938 paratroop helmet. The cut down appearance of the standard coalscuttle helmet was safer for paratroopers when landing.
Erich handed Paul his MP40 machine pistol and said, “You’d better jump off now Paul, the Raven looked really agitated when I saw him.”
“I’ll be off then,” said Paul. “If I don’t come back, send out a search party for my body?” He was smiling as he said it, but it was an uneasy smile. Meeting Oberleutnant Volkman was not always pleasurable, in fact was it ever pleasurable, Paul asked himself. Maybe he was being unfair and it was just a simple administrative matter.
He left the cottage through the only door and t
urned right down the track that went through the middle of the village to the Head Quarters.
“Good luck Paul,” Erich shouted after him, but Paul didn’t hear him, his mind was too occupied running through likely reasons for this sudden demand to see the Company Commander.
I hope nothing has happened to the platoon’s wounded, or maybe something has happened to my parents, thought Paul. He was racking his brains mercilessly for a potential reason. At least then he could have some answers ready to potential questions in the hope of satisfying the Oberleutnant.
As he marched quickly down the track, the villagers cleared out of his way, and when he looked in their direction, they averted their eyes.
After ten minutes on the track that led him through the centre of the village, a small community of no more than thirty cottages, similar to the one Paul was billeted in, he arrived at the HQ.
The HQ was a two-storey affair. Still a wooden building but it was more like a palace compared to the other village dwellings around it. He was not surprised by the Raven’s choice. Volkman never seemed to be uncomfortable, no matter where they were. Even on exercise or out in the field, he seemed to ensure that he had his creature comforts. This though did not detract from him being a good soldier and well respected by his officers and men.
As he approached the door a Fallschirmjager came to attention and saluted the young officer. He was obviously on sentry duty and Paul recognised him as an Obergefrieter in Helmut’s troop.
Paul returned the salute and the sentry informed him, “The Oberleutnant is waiting for you sir and said you were to go straight in.”
“Thank you Keller,” said Paul suddenly remembering the paratrooper’s name. The soldier was impressed that Paul knew his name, but it did not surprise him, Leutnant Brand had a good reputation amongst the Paratroopers as being a fine officer.
The soldier obviously suspected that all was not well and that Leutnant Brand was probably in for a hard time from their Company Commander, but the thought was without malice, Paul was a popular officer within the Company. They also knew that he was not to be trifled with or taken advantage of.
