Devils with Wings: Silk Drop

by Harvey Black

  Devils with Wings

  Silk Drop

  Harvey Black

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A qualified parachutist, Harvey Black served with British Army Intelligence for over ten years. His experience ranges from covert surveillance in Northern Ireland to operating in Communist East Berlin during the cold war, where he feared for his life after being dragged from his car by KGB soldiers.

  Since then he has lived a more sedate life in the private sector as a Director for an International Company, but now enjoys the pleasures of writing. Harvey is married with four children.

  Copyright © 2012 Harvey Black

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

  or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

  Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

  any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

  publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

  the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries

  concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park

  Kibworth Beauchamp­

  Leicestershire LE8 0RX, UK

  Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299

  Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277

  Email: books@troubador.co.uk

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  This Novel is a work of fiction. Names and Characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Picture: BArch, Bild 101I-562-1172-23A / Wahner

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  To my Mum, Sylvia, and Harry

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Come on Paul, you can finish your letter later. You know we daren’t keep the Raven waiting,” called Helmut, one of Paul’s fellow Company Commanders.

  “Yeah, yeah,” responded Paul, frustrated at trying to correctly word his latest letter to Christa. They had met in a Maastricht hospital where Paul had ended up as a result of the injuries he received during the assault on the Belgium fortress, Fort Eben Emael. Christa, had been one of the nurses who had helped treat him and care for him during his time there. He was trying to get the tone of his letter just right, not wanting it to sound too pressing, but equally not wanting to sound too uninterested. In fact, he was desperate to see her again.

  He touched the scar above his left eye, the consequence of a piece of shrapnel gouging a thin furrow from just above his left ear to his eyebrow, missing his eye by a hair’s breadth. They had stitched it well and although not invisible, the scar wasn’t unsightly. The injury to his back, although still slightly sensitive, had also fully healed.

  “Oberleutnant Brand, get your arse in gear, we need to get going.”

  Helmut’s shout pulled Paul out of his reverie and he jumped up out of his seat.

  “Come on then, let’s get going,” said Paul, grabbing Helmut’s arm and dragging him to the exit door of the officer’s canteen.

  “Hang on,” replied Helmut, “there are some cakes left over there, do you think they will be missed?”

  Before Paul could answer, Helmut had grabbed two of the cakes and stuffed them into his tunic pocket.

  “Food will be the death of you,” scolded Paul. “Let’s go, now.”

  They left the canteen, walking through the small hallway and stepping out of the door onto the road than ran in front of the brick built barracks. Opposite them sat a further building similar in design and build.

  Turning left they headed for the parade ground, where a platoon of Fallschirmjager were being put through their paces, passing two further red bricked buildings either side of them. Keeping the parade ground on their left, they headed for the battalion headquarters opposite, a similar, three storey brick building, where the battalion briefing was to occur. As they walked, they heard the marching platoon being halted and dismissed; the young Leutnant in command was also destined to attend the briefing.

  As they stepped through the door of the briefing room, they were met by a wave of heat, the room stuffy and baking in the hot July, summer weather. Its clinical, white walls were unadorned, apart from a portrait of The Fuhrer, which dominated the far left wall. To the right, three tall sashed windows overlooked the parade ground they had just passed.

  The small room, that had been set aside for battalion briefings, although ten metres at its widest point, was cosy to say the least, but sufficient to accommodate the Officers and senior NCOs of the Fourth Battalion, the first Fallschirmjager Regiment. The windows had been kept closed, to deter inquisitive ears, which was indicative of the importance of the meeting.

  The tall windows furnished shafts of light, and dust particles glinted as they floated in the fetid air, having been disturbed by Paul and Helmut’s entrance, but slowly settling back down on the surfaces of the room. Paul surveyed the briefing area. How times had changed, he thought. A matter of months ago he would have attended a Company level briefing as a mere Platoon Commander, now he was a Company Commander in his own right.

  To the left, below the portrait, was the ubiquitous six foot, wooden table, behind it, draped on the wall, a map of Great Britain, the focus of todays briefing. The initial war with England, the fight against the British Expeditionary Force in France was over. But the English were still courageously fighting a battle against the Luftwaffe. The Luftwaffe were currently bombing England, a pre requisite to a full German invasion of the solitary Island, that was now standing alone against the might of the Third Reich. Most thought the invasion would be a simple matter that could start as soon as the Luftwaffe had finished off the Royal Air Force, the RAF. German troops could then land and England would succumb quietly. Paul was not so sure, he thought they would be a tough nut to crack, and in their own country they would fight even more aggressively to maintain their independence. There were also rumours that the Luftwaffe pilots were not getting it all their own way and were sustaining high casualties.

  In front of the table were a row of chairs, usually reserved for the Company Commanders and the Adjutant, Oberleutnant Kurt Bach. Two chairs were already occupied by two of their fellow officers, Oberleutnant Bauer, Two Company and Oberleutnant Hoch, Three Company. Behind the first row of hard, wooden seats, were two further tiers, currently occupied by the Platoon Commanders, sat there ahead of schedule, not wanting the be late for the Battalion Commander’s briefing. Not wanting to incur the wrath of their Company Commanders, and definitely not of the Battalion Commander, the Raven.

  On the left, sat Leutnant’s Nadel, Krause and Roth, who started to stand in acknowledgment of their Company Commander’s entrance, but a quick nod from Paul allowed them to sit back down. Further to their left, the rest of the Battalion’s Platoon officers were also settling back down in their seats. On the far right of the room, ensconced on the sill of one of the two tall windows, Paul could see Feldwebel Max Grun, his Company Sergeant.

  A nod in his direction was all that Paul needed for a connection to be made between them. Max’s nod said it all. The Company was ready for whatever was required of them. The Platoon Commanders would have thoroughly checked their respective unit’s readiness, on the subtle suggestion from Max. It was not only the imposing size of the stocky, ex-Hamburg Docker, that would have leant
weight to his suggestions, but also his self assured presence, his knowledge and experience, honed by being involved in actions in Czechoslovakia, Poland and Belgium. Not to mention the Iron Cross Second Class ribbon and the Iron Cross First Class medal pinned to his tunic pocket. Sat either side of Max were the other company sergeants, and in front of them the platoon sergeants, it was a full house. To the right, the rest of the headquarters staff, from Clerks and Signals to Engineers and Medics.

  Paul and Helmut made their way forward, taking their places on the reserved seats, acknowledging their fellow officers.

  The Adjutant, who until then had been stood behind the table, walked round the front to join them, perching himself on the edge of the surface, in front of the four officers.

  “The Hauptman will be along shortly, he’s had a last minute communiqué from Regimental HQ,” Bach informed them.

  “Is this a follow up to the Op Sea lion briefing sir?” asked Paul.

  Although they were of the same rank, Bach was the Adjutant, effectively the Battalion second in command. The day Hauptman Volkman was bumped up to Major, the slim, mousey haired officer, would follow suit and be appointed Hauptman.

  “Yes, he wants to ensure we’re ready.”

  “He’s been riding us for weeks sir,” interjected Paul.

  “You know the Raven gentlemen, he’ll not brook any mistakes.” They all grinned.

  “Will we get an update on the wider situation?”

  “Yes Paul, I’m sure he will.”

  “Is my leave still on the cards?”

  “As far as I know, he’s not indicated otherwise.”

  “Where are you off to?” enquired Helmut.

  “I was thinking of spending some time at home.”

  “Ah, going to see that nurse I bet,” grinned Helmut on seeing Paul blush.

  The others joined in laughing at Paul’s embarrassment.

  Max looked up from his conversation with Steffen Fink, the second company Feldwebel, Feld, and looked across towards the source of the laughter. He could see his young company commander blushing, and could hazard a guess he was being ribbed about Nurse Keller. He had invited Max back to Brandenburg, to stay with him and his parents on his next leave, but he had tactfully declined. He knew that Paul would be obliged to entertain him, and he didn’t want anything to distract his commander from a reunion with Nurse Keller.

  Max’s thoughts were interrupted by the crashing of the briefing room door opening and the entrance of Hauptman Volkman, the Battalion Commander, preceded by Oberfeld Schmidt, the battalion senior sergeant.

  “Shun,” called Oberfeld Schmidt.

  The entire room rose up and brought themselves to attention, watching their commander closely as he made his way to the end of the room where the table and map were situated. They were all trying to judge his mood. The tall, immaculately dressed officer, his dark hair and hooded, deep set eyes, his prominent, almost Roman like nose that had quickly given him the nickname, The Raven, stopped in front of the table, turned and surveyed his officers that were stood in front of him. He nodded to his Adjutant and acknowledged his four most senior officers, Oberleutnant’s Brand, Bauer, Hoch and Janke, his Company Commanders. These were the officers that would lead his men into battle.

  “Gentlemen.” His was voice, quite soft, but penetrating, almost school master like. “Please be seated.”

  The assembled men shuffled back into their seats, or the positions they had found to perch on earlier and looked at their commander expectantly, knowing this was an important meeting. Paul and Helmut looked at each other sharing the close bond that had been formed during their Fallschirmjager training in Stendal and later in battle when their unit fought in Poland and later in Belgium.

  The Raven perched on the edge of the table. He looked at each one of his Company Commanders, the intensity of his stare, making them want to look down, but resisting it, knowing he was testing their resolve. They held his gaze and he looked away from them satisfied.

  “Feldwebel Grun,” he called, “have our new recruits been allocated to their respective units?”

  Max jumped down from the windowsill and brought his heels together in an ear splitting crack, arms rigid by his side.

  “Jawohl, Herr Hauptman.”

  Max, his powerfully built frame almost bursting out of his Fallschirmjager tunic, had been tasked, in the absence of the battalion Feld, with settling in the twenty new recruits who had arrived straight from training.

  “Excellent, you haven’t corrupted their minds yet I hope, Feldwebel Grun?” The entire room laughed, one of the few times the Raven cracked a joke with his troops.

  “Their first task was to write home to their Mothers, sir,” responded Max, still stood ramrod straight.

  Volkman smiled, even he struggled to get the better of this tough, fair haired sergeant. In the Raven’s mind, he had already identified Max as a potential battalion Oberfeld. Max was not only respected by his men, but also by the officers and his fellow NCOs.

  “Thank you Feldwebel, I’m sure their mothers would thank you, stand at ease.”

  Max relaxed and resumed his seat on the window sill, noticing Paul’s raised eyebrows, a slight reprimand, as if saying, ‘you’ll say too much one day Feldwebel Grun’. The frown didn’t last for long, and a smile soon slipped from his mouth.

  The Raven got up from the table and made his way behind it, the map of Britain behind him and to his left. He took off his cap and placed it on the table, shortly followed by the swagger stick, a fall back to his Prussian, aristocratic roots. In less than a minute it was back in his hand, tapping the side of his leg.

  “Oberleutnant Bach, the map if you please.”

  The Adjutant unrolled a map that had been held in his hand and proceeded to pin it up on the board alongside its smaller scaled partner. While he was doing this the Hauptman continued. He turned to the map behind him and tapped the southern part of the country.

  “Operation Sea lion, gentlemen. We’ve had our warning order for this operation, the invasion of England. Well, it has now been confirmed, the invasion is to go ahead and we will play a full role in it.”

  Bach had finished pinning the second map to the board. It was a map of England, but a much larger scale than its cousin, showing just the Southeastern corner of the country.

  “Continue with the briefing if you please Oberleutnant.”

  Bach faced the first battalion officers and NCOs and picked up from where Volkman had left off.

  “The focus for the impending invasion is to be this stretch of the country along the southeast coast,” he said turning to the map and pointing to a sixty kilometre stretch of the English coast.

  “A force of one hundred and sixty thousand men will conduct the initial assault, and as inferred by the battalion commander, the Fallschirmjager Division has a key role to play.”

  Volkman interrupted. “Now we have a full Divisional establishment, being assigned a Machine Gun, Flak and Sapper battalion, we’ll be in a much better position to create even more mayhem behind enemy lines.”

  “The Luftlandesturmregiment will land here,” continued Bach, pointing to Dover, “where they will secure and hold the Military Canal; and the heights of Paddlesworth.” There was a chuckle around the room as the Adjutant struggled to get his tongue around the English words. “They are to hold those positions until the 17th Infantry Division hit the beeches at Folkestone and relieve them.”

  Volkman raised his hand to Bach and continued the brief.

  “Our Regiment will parachute drop an hour later, here,” he said pointing to an area called Postling. “It will be up to us to move towards the Luftlandesturmregiment, reinforcing them until we are all relieved. I’m afraid Brand, Janke, you won’t have gliders as taxi’s this time round, you’ll have to put your trust back in old Tante June.”

  Everyone laughed. Both Paul and Helmut had been involved in the invasion of Belgium. Helmut helping to secur
e one of the bridges across the Albert Canal, Paul landing on top of the supposedly impregnable Fortress Eben Emael, by glider. Less than eighty men had taken on the Fort’s defenders of over five hundred, defeating them and securing the fort.

  “We understand sir,” they both replied in unison, smiling.

  “The Raven is in good humour today,” whispered Helmut.

  “Quiet,” hissed Paul, “listen.”

  “Our battalion will be dropped in two waves,” added Volkman.

  The three Fallschirmjager Regiments, FFR1, FFR2 and FFR3, were made up of three battalions, but Volkman’s battalion was an independent unit, supported and sponsored by the First Regiment, FFR1.

  “Do we know which companies will be dropped first sir?” piped up Paul.

  “We’re still working through the details Oberleutnant Brand, but I will take that as you volunteering your company to be the first down?” He didn’t give Paul an opportunity to answer. “I want the battalion, your companies, to be ready to do what is asked of them. That’s why we’re going to train for it gentlemen, and train hard. I want you to give your units a good shake up, get them ready, and work them hard. Start with platoon exercises, working up to company size actions, and then we’ll test the entire battalion, moving towards a full battalion size jump. So, work your men hard. Believe me, I will work you hard.” He remained silent, scanning the room, allowing the message time to sink in. They all knew that he wouldn’t accept any mistakes; failure just wasn’t in his vocabulary.

  The Adjutant broke the silence. “There will be a full training schedule posted by tomorrow morning, make sure you read it and digest it. Make your units fully aware of what is planned and what is expected of them. Any questions?”

  “Do we know how many aircraft will be allocated to us for the drop sir?” asked Helmut

  “We are expecting at least thirty Junkers, so that gives us a drop size of a third of a battalion, so three drops will have us all down.”