by Harvey Black
“Shit, shit, shit,” Erich sounded off, “I can’t march another step, I’m not doing it, sod them!”
Both Paul and Helmut strode up to Erich, looked on by their other two friends, and grabbed him by his shoulders.
Paul shook him, “It doesn’t matter, we march till we drop, and if one of us drops, then we pick him up!”
“None of us are going to fail this now, having got so far,” pleaded Helmut.
Paul looked around at his fellow marchers, including those outside of his circle of friends, “We march till we drop, agreed?”
They all looked at Paul and at each other and nodded, as one, in agreement.
The Felds and the Uffzs drove the recruits back into their ranks and drove them on again. Kilometre after kilometre, it seemed to go on to eternity. The last three kilometres were more of a ragged stagger than a march.
When anyone looked like they were wavering, those of the Company close by rallied around them coaxing them on, sometimes resorting to dragging them by their uniform, even though they were fatigued themselves. This is what a Fallschirmjager would do.
Their previously tight formation was now spread over some four hundred metres. Some were walking through their injuries and were in pure agony, but all sensed that this was truly the last stretch; the camp was in sight again, they were nearly through.
The training staff slowed the front runners down, pulling the platoons and the Company back into formation, encouraging them to look up, straighten up their gear, instilling some pride back into twenty seven training Company, arriving back at the camp as potential paratroopers, not a rabble.
On arriving back at the camp, they were finally dismissed, the majority just collapsing on the spot. Even the mighty Helmut crumpled to the ground. Many were still there some thirty minutes later.
The fifty kilometre march over soft, hard, muddy and hilly ground, in full battle order had burnt them out. But at least they had finally completed the physical element of their training, only the four weeks of parachute training left to get through.
Muscles ached, tendons were stretched to their limits, feet were raw with burst and broken blisters, skin ripped off exposing the soft, tender flesh beneath.
This was all part of testing the recruits to ensure that they were worthy of being paratroopers. Just when you thought you had done enough, you had to dig deep and find those extra reserves that lay unseen deep down inside. They had to draw on that inner, still untapped reserve of energy, find that mental can do attitude, lift their left leg and move forward.
Eventually they all managed to stagger painfully from the drill square to their bunks. The thought of a shower and hot food was not enough of an incentive to drag their tortured bodies to the canteen though.
Helmut did not come under this category, it was somewhere around six pm, and the evening meal was being served. He dragged his body off the bed, muttering as he left, “Food is food, and you never know where the next meal is coming from.”
He looked back at his two friends, Paul lying on his side, on his bunk, resting his face on his hand, looking tired, dirty and his face drawn. Erich looked even worse, lying flat on his back, eyes closed, mouth open, still gasping for oxygen his body desperately needs.
“We’ve done the hard bit, you two,” he said through dry and cracked lips, smiling.
Erich turned his face and opened his eyes, looking at Helmut, some six kilograms lighter than when they started the course, and smiled.
Paul too looked at his now close friend and comrade and smiled.
Their smiles broadened, it was true, and they had broken the back of the course.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
At last the day had arrived. They were to find out what being a parachutist was all about, the four week parachute course.
The week started with ground exercises, consisting of ground rolls forwards and backwards, jumping out of an aircraft hatch onto straw matting with further roll practices, until you became nauseous.
Previously, they had done some initial preparation training during their first four weeks. Jumping onto a small trampoline, then completing yet another forward roll, but this time from a greater height. Somersaulting in the air over a couple of other recruits hunkering down on the ground.
The weeks continued with lectures on parachute packing, aircraft drill, parachute flight control, if that was what you could call it, shaking your legs about to assist in steering.
Practicing the rapid removal of the parachute harness, but under stress conditions. Paul and his comrades found that fun, wearing a parachute on the ground, being blown along by the wind from a powerful aircraft engine, dragged across the rough ground until they were able to untangle themselves from the harness. Much to the instructors’ amusement, Helmut consistently struggled to get through this exercise. He failed to extract himself from his harness so many times, that by the end of the day he was black and blue with bruises. When he finally succeeded he got applause from the instructors and the entire Platoon.
The week prior to the first jump consisted of rain and strong winds, all were in fear of the first training jump being cancelled. Although they were all anxious about their first jump, they were equally keen to see it through, to get past this final hurdle and qualify as a Fallschirmjager, a Green Devil.
The bulk of their training was complete and they had been given the all clear to jump the very next day and were now preparing their parachutes.
Meticulous care and attention was taken whilst carrying out the task of preparing and packing the Ruckenfallschirm mit Zwangsauslosung 1, or RZ 1, silk parachute. They were all taught to pack their own chutes and worked in teams of two, ensuring they could check each other’s work.
They worked in the aircraft hangars, the chutes laid out on very long tables.
“Well, if the chute doesn’t open Paul, then we can always take it back and exchange it for a new one,” joked Helmut.
“That’s what I like about you Helmut, your original jokes,” ribbed Paul
Erich, on another parachute packing line, joined in, “I hope you’ve packed an extra chute Helmut?”
“A spare is always useful,” he replied, bemused by Erich’s statement.
“It isn’t for a spare, it’s to carry your lunch pack,” chortled Erich.
“Give me a table and I can eat on the way down,” joined in Helmut, used to the ribbing he got about his eating habits.
This started off a wave of laughter that quickly spread to the other recruits in the process of packing their parachutes, who learned of the joke just played on Helmut. He was a very popular soldier, and it was well known that Helmut had the appetite of a wolf.
“If you make a mistake packing your chutes,” cautioned the instructor close by, “you will end up looking like Janke’s squashed lunch when you hit the deck.”
The laughter died down and they refocused on their task in hand, but still smiling.
Although the instructors were still very much in charge and often on their case, now that the cadre had completed the physical aspect of their training and they had proven their metal, they had lightened up a little.
The chutes they were packing were an automatically deployable parachute, by means of a static line attached to a wire cable running down the inside centre of the transport aircraft.
The RZ1 had a half globe canopy made from white silk, with twenty-eight sections and some eight and a half metres in diameter.
Paul packed the apex into the deployment bag first, which was then placed into the outer cover with the apex nearest the top. This was where the static line would be attached.
The shroud lines were then packed vertically on top of the deployment bag. The four flaps of the outside cover were then fixed with a securing pin, which was also attached to the static line. There were many checks done during the course of the packing procedure to ensure the safety of the paratroopers.
The day had finally arrived; at last they were going to be truly tested, jumping out
of an aircraft.
Paul had already donned the bulky knee pads designed to prevent knee injury on landing, strapped on his parachute and boarded the aircraft.
Although up until that point they had been chattering like a flock of birds, now that they were all on board the plane, there was nothing but silence. The jokes and banter ceased the minute the aircraft door was shut and the pilot taxied for takeoff.
The Junkers gradually increased speed, leaving the runway behind and the pilot steadily gained height for the drop.
Their thoughts turned inwards now, pondering on the next steps they would have to take, leading eventually to free fall. Questioning whether or not they would have the guts to make the leap, not wanting to be the one person to refuse to go, their stomachs knotting at the thought of climbing out through the door.
Paul clenched the end of the static line between his teeth, this leaving his hands free in case the aircraft ran into turbulence or, should they ever parachute into battle, the aircraft came under anti-aircraft fire.
The dispatcher gave the order to the paratroopers to stand and hook their static lines on to the cable running down the centre of the Junkers’ fuselage.
Erich and Helmut stood behind Paul, and another recruit, Ackerman, stood in front.
Ackerman shuffled towards the open door, the wind blasting through the opening.
Paul looked over his shoulder, “Good luck guys.”
“You too,” they replied, very much focusing on the open door where they would soon have to pass through into an unknown world of height, wind and fear.
Ackerman, the first man in the stick, was at the open door, the wind starting to tear at his clothing. He stood, apprehensively, making eye contact with the dispatcher who nodded encouragingly. The instructors had all been through this first jump during their recruitment days, and knew that the adrenaline would be pumping and that their hearts would be beating twice as fast as normal.
He braced himself in the doorway, as he had been taught, in preparation for launching himself from the aircraft.
The dispatcher yelled, “Gehen sie! Geh! Geh! Go! Go!”
It made Paul jump, even though he had been expecting it.
Ackerman launched himself into the waiting expanse, the static line trailing behind him until the distinctive crack as the chute exited the bag and the gut wrenching jolt as the chute successfully deployed.
Paul shuffled forwards; taking up his position at the door of the aircraft, his first jump and his heart was in his mouth. He could feel the veins in his neck throbbing as his accelerated heart beat pulsed blood around his body.
He looked down, seeing the fields and houses below him through watery eyes, the wind making him blink rapidly to keep them clear.
He grabbed the two handles at either side of the door, and in a crucifix position, launched himself horizontally, spread-eagled out of the aircraft. This reduced the swinging of the canopy, for which the RZ1 was renowned for, particularly in high winds, and helped prevent him from being entangled up in the shroud lines.
He had learnt the correct posture by being suspended from the roof of an aircraft hangar having his position corrected by an experienced instructor.
The nine metre static line, attached to the cable in the aircraft, paid out. Suddenly it became taught pulling the canopy bag from the chute pack. The bag, torn from the folded canopy, remaining behind attached to the aircraft cable, the static line flapping behind the airplane.
Paul was in a state of free-fall as he descended through the open skies. After a forty metre fall the canopy had fully developed and Paul experienced the tremendous jerking effect as he was, as it felt to him, pulled back up towards the aircraft, but with the rest of his body wanting to continue its downward descent.
Paul looked up to check his chute, it looked fine.
The biggest fear of any paratrooper was the Roman candle, the shoot failing to open, fluttering above trapped in the shrouds, the parachutist plummeting to his death.
He then looked around him; he could see the patchwork of fields and villages below.
The view was stunning and Paul felt like he was on top of the world. He was on top of the world. All the time he had spent, dreaming of this day, had not been wasted. All the pain and suffering he experienced during his training had culminated in this first jump, it had been worth it.
Five more jumps and he would be a fully qualified Fallschirmjager, a Green Devil.
His chute swung him around and he could see Ackerman on the ground below him. He suddenly snapped out of his dream state, realising that he was about to land.
Terra Firma getting increasingly closer and a feeling of panic set in. As the ground rushed towards him, he heard his parachute instructor shouting orders to him through a megaphone.
Abruptly it dawned on him that he should be bringing his feet together and bracing his legs for when he hit the ground.
Suddenly, the ground was there! He hit it hard, attempting to bend his knees and roll to one side to cushion and dissipate the blow of the impact. But, he failed and he landed awkwardly, landed on his coccyx, the pain shooting up his back as he then fell backwards striking his head, his Para helmet saving him from any serious injury. His back hurt and he struggled to get up.
“You stupid bastard Brand,” shouted the trainer. “You’re supposed to bend your bloody knees and roll like I have been bloody teaching you all week. Get your chute gathered and get back to the hut, you will be going back up within the hour.”
Paul would have to complete a total of six drops before he was entitled to wear the coveted Fallschirmschutzenabzeichen, parachutist badge. The first two jumps were individual jumps from a height of two hundred and fifty metres. The third, he would jump with a full stick of ten to twelve men, from a height of one hundred and twenty metres. Considering the static line was nine metres long, it did not leave much room for error.
The fourth was a full-stick jump at dawn or dusk, the fifth another stick jump at a similar time of the day. The final jump was a tactical jump by the full Company, now barely two platoons. Once that jump had been completed successfully, Paul, Erich and Helmut, would finally gain their coveted parachutist badge.
All drops completed successfully, Paul and Erich were awarded the silver and gilt qualifying badge. Instructors, who recently berated, taunted and pushed these recruits hard, now shook their hands. They were recruits no longer; they were now part of a single, elite club, the Fallschirmjager.
Once the passing out parade, through the streets of Stendal, was complete, basic training was finally over. They would next head off to a Fallschirm Ersatz und Ausbildungs Regiment, FEAR 1, for further training before joining their units.
Their training would continue there. They would learn how to handle all types of small arms, learn how to drive a car, a motorcycle, a truck, half-track, tank and even a steam locomotive.
They needed to be able to fight in any conditions or any type of terrain, in whatever surroundings they found themselves in, use any available weapon and drive any vehicle they came across.
They were encouraged to ask frank questions of their officers and expect to get frank answers back.
It was an institution, with a sense of kinship that was driven by a common set of ideals. This was the hidden ingredient behind the extraordinary fighting zeal of the Fallschirmjager.
They were Paul’s family now.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Kurt Student, Generalleutnant, Commanding General of the 7 Flieger Division, was sat at his desk completing some routine administration prior to leaving his office for a meeting with his senior staff.
Although they had seen some action in Poland, he was disappointed that they hadn’t played a key role in the invasion.
Even though they had prepared to parachute in to assault some key locations, such as airfields, the invasion moved so quickly that events overtook the planning, and Wehrmacht units secured the targets before the Fallschirmjager even boarded their aircraft.
It was midday, on the twenty seventh of October, when his Chief of Operations, for the 7th Flieger division, Major Heinrich ‘Heinz’ Trettner, disturbed him.
“What is it Heinz?” he said impatiently, irritated at being disturbed, “You know I have a meeting I must go to now.”
“I know sir, but this has greater importance, Field Marshall Goring is on the phone and wants to speak to you quite urgently.”
“Ok Heinz, I suppose this is one call I must take, you’d better put the call through.”
Trettner picked up the phone situated on the corner of Student’s meticulously organised desk and informed the operator to put the call through, before handing the telephone to his Commander.
“Herr Field Marshall, what can I do for you?”
“Kurt,” replied the tinny voice at the other end of the line, “I need you to come to a meeting at the Reichskanzlei (Reich Chancellery), at once.”
“The purpose of the meeting sir?” questioned Student.
“I can’t discuss that with you now Kurt,” replied the metallic voice, “just get yourself over here as quickly as possible and all will be revealed. I don’t even know what it’s about myself. When can you be here for?”
“I can get to Tempelhof by about one sir, can someone collect me from there?”
“I’ll organise it, see you this afternoon.”
Goring put the phone down and General Student immediately ordered a Feisler Storch, a small reconnaissance aircraft, to be warmed up. He would fly himself to the meeting in Berlin, ensuring he was there by the early afternoon.
He cleared his desk, picked up his leather briefcase, and grabbing his hat and coat as he left, headed down to the vehicle he knew would be expecting to take him to his waiting aircraft.
The plane was ready, engine warm, and strapping himself in he turned the plane towards the runway, his mind contemplating the purpose for his summons, and flew to Berlin.
He landed at Berlin’s airport, Tempelhof, just after one thirty and was collected by limousine and taken directly to the Chancellery, where the Commander of the Luftwaffe welcomed him, Field Marshall Herman Goring.
