by Harvey Black
“How long will the battalion exercise be for sir?” questioned Paul
“It will be a full forty eight hours,” intervened Volkman. “So we’ll have an opportunity to insert, consolidate, conduct an attack and receive a resupply.”
“Will we be working with any other units?” asked Hoch.
“The Regimental artillery battalion has assigned a battery to us, to suppress the enemy just before we make our attack. It will also provide us with an opportunity to test our coms and coordination with other assets, particularly artillery,” responded the Adjutant.
“Can we have an update on the Luftwaffe’s battle over England sir?” requested Paul.
Volkman took the question, indicating to Bach to stand aside. “Their current targets are shipping moving through the English Channel, along with attacking some of the RAF’s airfields.”
“How are they standing up to the RAF fighters sir?” asked Bauer, who up until now had been silent.
“They are finding it tougher than expected,” mused the Raven, almost to himself. He walked around to the front of the table and started to pace up and down, slapping his stick against the side of his thigh.
“If it was just a numbers game,” he continued, “we shouldn’t have a problem. But on a one to one?” He paced back the other way, obviously thinking carefully about what he was going to say next. “The Spitfire is proving to be an exceptional fighter aircraft, easily a match for our fighters, but it is the bombers that are taking the brunt of it. The Stuka’s, in particular, are proving to be vulnerable and are being withdrawn from any further action over England.”
The room was silent, and although their battalion commander hadn’t said anything to worry them, the fact that the Luftwaffe weren’t walking all over the RAF was a little disconcerting.
“We’ll succeed in the end, Reichsmarschall Goring has assured the Fuhrer of success. So, let the air force worry about their task, let us worry about being able to fulfil our role once they have completed theirs. Dismissed.”
The room stood to attention and Hauptman Volkman and the Adjutant left the room, slowly followed by the remaining officers, NCOs and support staff.
Paul called out to his platoon commanders and to Max, to remain behind.
“Feldwebel, I want the company assembled within the hour, I want to update the men and prepare them for the training ahead.”
“Jawohl Herr Oberleutnant.”
Max snapped a salute, turned left and marched out of the room. Paul turned to his three Leutnant’s.
“Once the company briefing is over, I want to go over platoon training plans with the three of you. Once we have the battalion training schedule we’ll look at a company training plan, understood?”
“Jawohl Herr Oberleutnant,” they all responded in unison.
“Right, join your companies. Dismissed.”
All three came to attention, saluted and left the briefing room, following the same route of the company sergeant, Max, to join their platoons and prepare for the company assembly that Max was pulling together. Helmut, who was still in the room, having also briefed his three platoon officers, sauntered over to Paul.
The stocky Leutnant was three inches shorter than Paul’s six foot two, but what he didn’t have in height, he made up for in strength and presence. Everyone knew when Helmut was around, whether it was his constant demands as to the location of food, or his general boisterous nature. He slapped Paul on his back, rocking him on his feet, his usual greeting for his fellow officer.
“Well, busy times ahead I guess.”
“It looks like it. Are you briefing your men now?”
“Yes, I thought I would do it straight away, knowing you would be on the ball, and not wanting them to find out second hand,” he said smiling, playfully punching Paul on the shoulder.
“Anyway, if I do it later it’ll get in the way of lunch,” he said laughing.
“We couldn’t possibly do anything that would get in the way of that now could we,” scoffed Paul
“Have you heard from Erich?” asked Helmut, suddenly serious.
“Yes. He’s fine, but still pissed off at getting a Regimental appointment. He wanted to lead his own company, like us.”
After being involved in Belgium, second in command of a unit securing one of the bridges crossing the Albert Canal, at the start of the Blitzkrieg attack on France and the Low Countries, Erich was subsequently posted to Regimental HQ, as aide to the Regimental Commander. A posting like that could go one of two ways. Advance an officer’s career as a result of exposure at a senior level or through learning the intricacies of running a Regiment. Or, it could be detrimental. Seen as lacking the experience of command and missing out on leading men from the front.
“It does mean he’ll get experience at a Regimental level,” Helmut said.
“Admin is not his strong point though,” responded Paul frowning, “and he won’t be commanding a unit.”
“I tell you what, let’s go and see him.”
“On what pretext?”
“Check over the records of the new recruits?”
“You’re on, tomorrow then?”
“Right, tomorrow it is,” agreed Helmut, “now let’s sort our men out so we can get some lunch,” he added, rubbing his stomach.
CHAPTER TWO
The men had been loaded onto the trucks that were to take them to Hildesheim, where they would join the rest of the battalion ahead of a full unit parachute drop as practice for Operation Seelöwe, Sea lion, the invasion of England. Although there was an airport at their Braunschweig camp, the aircraft they needed were at the Hildesheim airfield.
Paul had gathered his three platoon officers and Max together around the cab of the front vehicle. It would be a simple journey, via Salzgitter, taking them no more than two hours to get to the Luftwaffe base. It would bring back memories to some of the Fallschirmjager in Paul’s unit, many of them had spent six months hard physical training at the camp in preparation for the glider assault on Eben Emael.
Max was leant against the mud guard of the three ton, Opel Blitz, one of the workhorses of the Luftwaffe, watching Paul brief his officers.
Leutnant Krause was the youngest, at nineteen, and the least experienced of the companies officers and the one with the least confidence. His head of cropped, brown hair, shaved on the back and the sides above the ears, the preferred military style, one Max didn’t adhere to, was nodding vigorously at Paul’s instructions, trying to absorb every word his company commander was imparting. Max had already sussed the new officer out and was concerned. He thought back to when Leutnant Brand first assumed command of a platoon, Max being the platoon sergeant. Although hesitant at times and occasionally questioning his own abilities as a leader, he took command of the platoon with confidence and quickly got the measure of his sergeant and control of the platoon.
Max smiled at the thought. On their very first meeting, he had tried to put the young officer in his place and ensure that the platoon was run by him, Paul following his lead. But Paul wasn’t having it. A quick reference to a recent incident, where Max had been arrested for fighting whilst on leave, quickly turned it round. Since then a bond had slowly been formed between them, underpinned by the fighting in Poland and the attack on Fort Eben Emael.
On joining the company for the first time, some of the older hands had tried to humorously undermine their new, young company commander. When Max had asked if Paul wanted him to say something to the hard-core group of three that were making the waves, he was reprimanded and told absolutely not. After one week of relentless training, forced marches, physical exercise and weapons training, the three admitted defeat and their respect for their new company commander was assured. The other two Leutnant’s, Nadel and Roth, needed some coaching, but other than that, they were fine. They all had good platoon sergeants, Unterfeldwebel’s Eichel, Fischer and Kienitz, and Max would ensure that he tutored them well.
Out of the
corner of his eye Paul caught sight of Max’s smile. Paul’s immediate thought was, ‘what has that rogue been up to now’. He depended heavily on his company sergeant, on Max, who in Poland, had saved his life and looked after him when he had been injured in Belgium.
“Once we get to Hildesheim,” he continued his briefing, “I want a full kit inspection, everything, understood?” Leutnant’s Nadel and Roth both nodded and responded.
“Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant.”
But Leutnant Krause unintentionally groaned. Suddenly realising what he had just done, he snapped to attention, ensuring his company commander that he understood. Paul looked at him for a few moments, making the officer uncomfortable and fidgety.
Paul was worried about Krause and had asked Max to keep a subtle eye on him, although he suspected that Max was already doing that. Leutnant Nadel, tall, with a pinched, pale face, on the other hand was a strong solid leader. Thought through his actions, explained them to his men, elucidating what he expected of them, rather than forcing his orders through. Leutnant Roth, was completely the opposite. The short, cherubic faced officer, his blonde wiry hair, was impulsive and quick to make decisions. Not a bad thing, but he did need to be reigned in at times, preventing him from making rash decisions.
“Make sure Unterfeldwebel Eichel does the checks with you Leutnant Krause, I don’t want any mistakes. Hauptman Volkman could call for a full battalion Inspection at any time,” Paul added. “Right, let’s go!” Paul indicated to Max that he was ready for the company to move out, rotating his right arm in the air.
“See you in Hildesheim sir,” said Max as he walked by. “Fun and games await us.”
Paul jumped up into the cab and Max continued to walk down the line of eight trucks, banging on the side of the cab doors, giving them a two minute warning. Paul looked in the truck’s wing mirror and seeing Max climb aboard the last vehicle instructed the driver to pull off. The driver crashed the gears in his hurry to get moving, taking a sideways glance at his passenger, waiting for a bollocking. But the Oberleutnant either hadn’t noticed, or had chosen not to.
Paul’s mind was elsewhere, staring out of the window, contemplating the approaching exercise, ticking off the list of things he needed to have done in preparation, necessary for its success. He felt satisfied that he and his company were ready, and any way, Max would have ensured that nothing would have been missed.
The convoy drove through the camp gates and he returned the guard’s salute. They were off and would be in Hildesheim camp before they knew it. This time the weather would be much improved. When he was last there it was extremely cold. Situated in the foothills of the Harz Mountains, the winter weather had been harsh.
They turned right out of the camp and right again onto the autobahn taking them west. Within minutes they were heading south on another autobahn, only possible as a result of The Fuhrer’s road building programme. The driver interrupted his thoughts. “There’s a flask of coffee over there sir, if you’d like a drink,” he said pointing to a flask in a bin to the right of the gear stick. “I’m afraid there’s milk and sugar already in it.”
“I don’t mind if I do,” responded Paul, glad of the distraction from his racing thoughts. “Milk and sugar is fine.” He poured himself and the driver a hot drink, placing the driver’s in a holder, obviously home made, on the dashboard.
The driver was older than most Luftwaffe soldiers, probably in his early forties. He thanked Paul and they continued the journey in silence.
They skirted round the west of the city, Paul looking out of the window as he sipped his hot coffee, watching the built up area slowly diminish as they entered deeper into the rural part of their journey.
Travelling north of Wolfenbuttel and south of Salzgitter, the autobahn was bracketed by farms and cultivated fields, the last ten kilometres taking them through the rich green forest of Schellerton. The journey lasted exactly one hour and forty minutes and once they had passed the camp guardroom and were inside the camp, they were allocated accommodation, the top floor of one of the large, three-storey barrack blocks. The camp was relatively large, with a canteen, small airfield and even a cinema. Primarily the home of the German Air Force and the Long Range Recce school, it was now the home of the Fallschirmjager. Once settled, they were given some lunch, much to the pleasure of Helmut. Afterwards they were given a final brief on the next day’s events by the battalion commander, and then left to their own devices. Some chose to take advantage of the film being shown in the Cinema, others flaked out on their bunks or joined a card school.
They were sat in the canteen, Paul, Helmut, Manfred and Meinhard, just chatting and relaxing before the next day’s activities. Max and his fellow sergeants were sat round another table putting the world to rights. The ground floor of the two-storey building served as the eating area while the adjoining single level building, the clash of pans and shouted orders emanated from its interior, was the cookhouse.
“It’s going to be a bloody long forty eight hours,” grumbled Helmut
“Have you got a parachute for your donkey?” questioned Paul.
“What bloody donkey, what are you on about?” answered a bewildered Helmut.
“To carry your food supplies of course,” replied Paul keeping a serious look on his face.
The other two burst into laughter. Helmut’s reputation, his constant desire for food was already legendary throughout the battalion. Even the Raven had been known to make a comment.
“Bugger off all of you.”
They continued to prattle about nothing for another hour before calling it a night. A rapport had formed between the four officers and they enjoyed each others company. Although Paul liked them all and was particularly close to Helmut, he missed his friend Erich. Helmut and Paul had gone to see Erich at the Regimental HQ the previous day to speak to him and catch up on events, but he had been away from the unit on some errand for the Regimental commander. He would see him again soon he hoped.
They pushed back their chairs, said their goodnights, checked with their sergeants that last minute preparations were complete and retired to their bunks. It was ten at night, on the twenty seventh July, 1940 they would be up at 3:30 the next day, parachuting onto the target at 5, twilight.
***
Paul’s company were making final preparations in the large aircraft hangar, put aside specifically for the forthcoming exercise, which was close to the apron, and a stones throw from the runway. It was four fifteen am.
After a quick meal, the paratroopers had assembled in the cavernous hangar, checking their equipment one last time before embarking on their transport waiting on the runway. The company was grouped by platoon, the Leutnant’s checking the readiness of their men, assisted by their platoon sergeants. The other three companies were also in the throes of preparations and the hangar was filled with an echoing drone of over four hundred men getting ready, the clinking of equipment and the low chatter of men preparing for battle, albeit a practice.
Paul walked over to second platoon to inspect their progress. Unterfeldwebel Fischer sprang to attention and saluted his company commander.
“All present and correct sir, we’ll be ready in ten,” he informed him. They were joined by Leutnant Nadel, who also saluted his senior officer.
“Unterfeldwebel Fischer informs me all is well Dietrich?”
“Yes sir, we’re at full strength and raring to go, just giving everything a final once over.”
“Good, carry on, and no more saluting, we’re on a combat footing remember.”
He approached the neighbouring platoon where he was joined by Max on route.
“Looking good so far Max.”
“Yes sir, they’re a good bunch.”
“How are Fischer and Kienitz settling in to their new roles?”
“Doing well, their platoon commanders seem to welcome their experience and enthusiasm, Eichel too. Although I suspect Eichel is taking on more than he should.”
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br /> Although all of the officers in the company were naturally senior to Max, as the company sergeant he reported directly to Paul. This gave him the right to raise potential issues regarding the company’s officers and men. Both Fischer and Kienitz had been Unteroffizier’s in Paul’s unit when he was a platoon commander during their tours in Poland and Belgium. Like Paul, Kienitz had been wounded during the attack on Eben Emael, a minor wound to his right leg. He was now fully recovered.
“We need to keep a close eye on first platoon during the exercise then.”
“Will do sir, but I have every faith in Eichel.”
“Let’s go and see how our Leutnant Krause is getting on then.”
They approached the platoon they’d been discussing to see Leutnant Krause adjusting his own equipment, while Eichel was inspecting the platoon.
“All ready Heinrich?”
“Yes sir,” he responded, fumbling a salute.
“No saluting Heinrich, remember? We’re assuming combat conditions.”
“Sorry sir.”
“Have you reviewed your platoon and are they all set?”
“Unterfeldwebel Eichel is doing that now sir.”
“But are they ready to your satisfaction Leutnant Krause?” demanded Paul, his usual patience being severely tested.
“I… I think so sir.”
“Well I suggest Leutnant Krause, you check them now, and report to me when you are satisfied they are ready for battle, do I make myself clear?” Krause quickly came to attention.
“Jawohl Herr Oberleutnant.”
“See that you do.”
With that Paul turned on his heel and left, Max following behind.
‘Let’s check the last platoon Max, before I get really angry. Well, what are your thoughts?”
“Eichel has it under control sir. I think he’s actually enjoying running the platoon.”
“But that’s not the point Max. It’s not his job.”
