by Harvey Black
“I understand sir, I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”
“Good. Right, let’s go and see how Roth is doing.”
They approached the final platoon, in full swing, getting ready. They had a spot alongside one of the high walls of the hanger, their kit propped up against it.
“It looks like he’s trying to be first to finish as usual,” whispered Max.
“Well Viktor, your men seem to be ready?”
“Yes sir,” replied Leutnant Roth, standing proud
Unterfeldwebel Kienitz has them well organised, isn’t that so Unterfeld?”
“Ja, Herr Leutnant,” the twenty three year old NCO replied. “We’re ready, just showing the rest how it’s done,” he said grinning.
“How’s that leg of yours?” asked Paul
“Don’t even know it’s there sir.”
“Only a bloody scratch anyway,” interrupted Max. “Just a way to get sympathy from the girls, sir.”
“So your platoon is ready Viktor?”
“Yes sir.”
“So you wouldn’t mind if we do a check ourselves then?” tested Paul.
“Well, we plan on doing one last check, if you’ll excuse us sir.”
“You had best get on with it then, carry on.”
Paul and Max walked away, grinning at each other. They both suspected that in his haste to be the first platoon ready, he might well have missed something. Even the staunch Kienitz would have difficulty in restraining the impetuous officer.
Five minutes later, all three platoons indicated their readiness to move, just as the battalion commander joined them. He was accompanied by the three other company commanders, whose men were also in the hangar getting ready for their turn to load the aircraft.
“Oberleutnant Brand, you’re men ready?”
“Yes, Herr Hauptman.”
“Excellent, I want your men to move out in five minutes. The aircraft are warming up their engines now.”
It was short and sweet, the Raven was quickly on the move again, no doubt checking all aspects of the exercise, wanting nothing to go wrong. He was probably liaising regularly with the regimental commander, who would undoubtedly be watching the exercise closely.
Paul was a little surprised when he felt the thump on his back from the exuberant Helmut, and his good luck wishes.
“Well Paul, first on the ground then. Make sure you get everything set up for us, right?”
“Sure. We’ll suss out a bar and a cafe for you, ok?”
From his tunic he produced a cold bratwurst, wrapped in paper.
“Just in case you let me down, I’ve brought my own snack,” he said smiling broadly.
Feldwebel Jung interrupted. “Excuse me sir, the platoon commanders are ready for you.”
“I’ll be right with you Jung.”
The Feldwebel departed along with the other two Oberleutnant’s, who had also wished Paul and his men luck.
“Well, work calls, so I’d better get going. Give them hell out there,” he said clapping both Paul and Max on their shoulders.
“You too Max.”
“The best are leading the way sir,” responded Max.
“If I wasn’t commanding the best company in the battalion Feldwebel Grun, I might agree with you,” he said tapping Max’s massive shoulder with his gauntlet.
He left them to go and organise his own unit.
Paul was already dressed in his first pattern jump smock and combat trousers and was in the process of pulling on his protective, external pads to cushion his knees on the hard landing he would encounter when he hit the ground. He ran his hand across the front of the almost cricket pad like guards, with their horizontal padded tubes, mentally checking they were fit for the job. He bent down and adjusted the elasticated straps at the back of his knees, settling them until they were comfortable. While he was crouched down he checked that his side-laced, jump boots were tightly secured, not wanting to be tripped up at the wrong moment. Standing back up, he checked that his Zeiss, binoculars, his two canvas magazine pouches, leather map case and water bottle, along with his P38, Walther pistol, were well secured under is jump smock. Once satisfied, he tucked his gauntlets into his belt. Looking around him, he could see that his company was moments away from being ready.
He turned to his Feldwebel, grabbing him by the shoulder. The latent force beneath Max’s powerful shoulders never ceased to amaze him.
“Come on Max, let’s get this show on the road.”
“I’ll round them up then sir,” and off he went.
“Right one company,” he bellowed. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
This kicked the platoon commanders and sergeants into action. Orders were shouted, the disparate paratroopers were formed in files of two, ready to march to the aircraft. The huge, heavy hangar doors were pushed back on their rails, squealing in protest as they slid back. A cool breeze wafted into the now stuffy aircraft hangar, and Paul and Max made their way to the front of the unit.
“Attention, forward march,” shouted Paul, and in a file of two’s, they marched towards their aircraft, now silent as the engines had been shut off for embarkation of the paratroopers.
The company split up into nine man groups, one group per aircraft, and made their way to their specific plane. The weapons canisters had been loaded earlier, carrying the soldier’s weapons, extra ammunition and supplies. The groups of nine boarded the Junkers 52s at their disposal, climbing up the metal steps into the confines of the transport plane. Both Paul and Max indicated for their respective teams to go on ahead, and they met in between two Junkers.
“Well Max, this is it. Nothing more we can do now.”
“There’s nothing to do sir. We’ve done the prep, all we can do now is deliver the goods when we hit the deck.”
“No gliders this time eh?”
“No bullets either sir. Let’s just hope the artillery are on target.”
They clasped hands.
“Right, let’s get going, out taxi’s are waiting,” said Paul. They separated, returning to their exclusive aircraft.
Paul was the last on his allocated plane, and would be the first to jump. He sat, squatted on the narrow bench situated down the side of the aircraft, opposite the exit door. To his right, Unteroffizier, Uffz, Forster, commander of one troop, one platoon. Another paratrooper who was with Paul on Eben Emael. In fact, the entire troop, and the majority of one platoon had served with him in Poland and Belgium.
“They could have made these a bit more palatial for their elite soldiers sir.”
“Just think back to those gliders Forster, this is luxury.” The rest of the troop joined in with the ensuing laughter.
The plane was cramped. The men sat on the narrow benches down each side of the cabin, shoulder to shoulder, their knees touching. The space would be tight for anyone, but for the paratroopers, with their parachute packs and personal equipment, it was worse.
The Junkers vibrated as one of the engines turned over, probably the central one. The vibration and shaking got steadily worse as the engine revs were increased. Then, when reaching a steady rhythm the shaking settled down until the other two engines took their turn to go through the start up process. Now with all three engines running, it was almost impossible to continue any conversation, even shouting would be pointless. The Absetzer shut and secured the aircrafts rear door, which excluded some of the noise, but not enough.
Obergefrieter Herzog, diagonally opposite Paul, was checking the straps on his harness, his eyes rolling up into his head when he caught his company commander’s eye, as if to say, ‘here we go again’.
The engines suddenly screamed and the Absetzer’s thumbs up, indicated to Paul that they would be taking off shortly. The engines continued to scream, their combined 2,175 bhp, pulling at the brakes that were still on, holding the throbbing beast back. The aircraft suddenly shot forward, Paul feeling the pressure of Forster against him as the ‘G’ force tried to push h
im and his comrades to the back of the plane.
The Junkers steadily gathered speed, rattling and juddering over the occasionally rutted, runway, jerking upwards as the pilot sensing the plane was ready, rotated the aircraft and it slowly left the runway behind. The engines were still at full throttle as it steadily gained height, banking in a circle to allow the rest of the flight to form up, so they would be over the target in formation.
CHAPTER THREE
The lumbering Junkers JU52, a low winged triplane, the major workhorse of the Luftwaffe transport fleet, rumbled through the dawn sky at six thousand metres, buffeted by slight easterly winds.
They flew north, skirting to the east of Hannover, to end up over the Munster training area, where they would complete their drop. The noise through the thin corrugated alloy skin of the battered well used aircraft sought to drown out the voices of the occupants nervously cracking jokes with each other. The nine paratroopers, ‘Green Devils’, commanded by Oberleutnant Paul Otto Brandt, were sat opposite each other on the benches of this ageing but dependable workhorse. The Junkers, affectionately known as ‘Tante June’, or ‘Auntie June’, transporting the bulk of number one troop, of One Platoon, commanded by Unteroffizier, Uffz, Forster, were to be the first to drop.
Paul was approached by the Absetzer, the dispatcher, the shaking Junkers making his movements unsteady. It was his job to get the men ready in their jump line up, making sure their 9 metre static lines were attached to the wire cable in the ceiling of the aircraft and open the door ready for the exit and give the final signal to jump. He proceeded to shout instructions into Paul’s ear.
“We are about ten minutes away sir, better get the troops ready.”
Paul nodded in agreement and looked round towards his men, indicating to them that they were near their objective. The message was passed along the line to each Fallschirmjager. He could feel the aircraft slowly dropping in height and gradually losing speed. Once they reached a height of about one hundred and fifty metres and a speed of approximately one hundred miles an hour, they would be in position to jump. Five minutes later the light at the door of the aircraft glowed red, indicating they were minutes away from the drop zone. All stood, static lines held between their teeth, leaving their hands free to steady themselves, should the plane be rocked by a gust of wind or indeed enemy flak had they been on operations.
A rush of wind suddenly whistled through the side door as it was opened in readiness to discharge its load out into the dawn sky. The platoon shuffled along the aircraft getting closer to the door, the noise now deafening not only from the engines of the aircraft, but also from the gale force wind that tore through the aircraft attempting to wrench the helmets from the war clad occupants.
“Get ready.” The Absetzer shouted his orders.
All connected their static lines to the wire.
“Get ready to jump.”
The aircraft door was wide open, waiting to receive them through its gaping hole. With the wind from the open doorway tearing at his clothing, Paul waited at the head of the line of expectant paratroopers. The green light came on and a shrill sound filled the air.
“Ab. Ab. Ab. Jump.” The jump master gave the final order.
Paul launched himself from the aircraft in the spread eagled position, as he had been taught back in training. As he was leaving the plane, he recalled that this was only the seventh occasion he had leapt out of an aircraft. In Poland they had been transported by Boxer trucks and in Belgium they had used, the now famous, DFS 230 glider.
As he left the plane others were following close behind him. The rush of air in his face almost took his breath away. He was suddenly tugged back harshly at his shoulders as the chute was dragged from its casing by the static line still connected to the aircraft. Within seconds a string of parachutes blossomed out in the wake of the Junkers, disgorging its load as if in relief to get rid of its burden. Once the pressure on the link between the parachute and the static line reached the right tension point, it snapped, freeing the parachute, allowing it to billow, swinging him from side to side. He could almost sense the other paratrooper, who had exited immediately after him, above and behind.
He looked down. He could see the landmark of the church tower two kilometres north of his position, west of the hill in front, a railway line running west to east to his south. The fields they were to land in, bordered by low hedges, were getting closer by the second. Paul sensed, rather than saw the ground rushing towards him, at some five metres per second, striking the ground hard and rolling as taught deflecting the force of his landing throughout his body and not feet, backside and head as he had done countless times in training.
Once on the ground, he scrambled around as fast as he could. Although the wind was fairly mild, it was still enough to fill the canopy, which he needed to quickly get under control. He grabbed the risers, quickly picked himself up off the ground, and ran towards the chute, pulling in the risers as he went, quickly collapsing the canopy. He speedily released the buckles on his harness. They were trialling the new RZ20 parachute, similar to the RZ16, but with quick release buckles.
He rapidly looked about, at the same time instinctively checking that his pistol was accessible. In the distance he could see the hill the battalion was to assault, and to its left, the forest and road his company was to secure. He could see other paratroopers on the ground, but some were still landing. The drop from Paul’s plane was spread across less than a two hundred metre stretch, meaning they must have left the plane at an acceptable rate of less than a second per soldier. The faster they exited the Junkers, the closer they would be when they hit the ground. To his south he could see second platoon, which had jumped from the plane that had been flying parallel to his aircraft, gathering up their chutes and releasing themselves from the restrictive harnesses.
He scanned the area for the weapons canister that would have been ejected after the last man had left the plane, spotting it over his shoulder, about a hundred paces away. He sprang up from the dew-covered grass and sprinted towards it, taking in the remaining Junkers above disgorging the last of their human cargo.
A few paces later he slid down by the canister, its inflated canopy still billowing and tugging at the weapons container. He released the straps and hit the clips to release the lid, exposing its contents. Hurriedly grabbing his MP40, he took a magazine and loaded the weapon, with his loaded pouches, he was fully armed.
Paul scanned the horizon again, searching for any enemy response to their landing, before pulling his smock off his shoulders and relocating his webbing and personal equipment on the outside. Herzog and Forster threw themselves down beside him, and before he knew it, the entire force of one troop was acquiring their weapons from the numerous canisters scattered about the field and sorting out their kit as Paul had done. Just as they had finished getting themselves organised, Nadel, the commander of first platoon, joined them.
“Dietrich, I want you to take your platoon,” he said pointing to the north, “and secure that hedge line there. Look out for any enemy activity on the hill and send a runner if you see them making any moves, ok?”
“Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant.”
Nadel gathered his platoon together. The remaining two troops had landed, recovered their weapons from the containers and were ready to move out. The rest of the company was slowly converging on Paul’s position. Where he was situated immediately became the temporary company command post. Max’s huge form plonked itself down next to him.
“That was bloody good, not done that for a while,” he said grinning like a Cheshire cat.
“You’re not on holiday Max,” admonished Paul.
“Sorry sir, what have you got for me?” he replied, the grin still firmly fixed.
“I’m going to join Nadel along the northern hedge line, I want you to wait here and group the remaining two platoons. I want first platoon to the west and third platoon to the east. But keep a troop from the third here with you, to w
atch our back and liaise with the battalion when they get here. They can also consolidate our weapons canisters”
“Will do sir, I’ll get going.”
Paul was also up and off, running swiftly to join first platoon, his mind racing as he ran through all the actions he needed to take, his breathing rapid, partly adrenaline driven.
Once there, hidden by the hedge line, he looked over the disposition of Nadel’s men. His MG 34 section was on the left flank and the Leutnant was observing the hilltop through his binoculars. It was grass covered and fairly bare, the odd tree and shrub spoiling its relatively smooth outline. The odd dark smudge at the top, indicative of freshly dug positions.
He turned to face his company commander, “all quiet sir.”
“I doubt we’ll see anyone until after our artillery have had their go,” suggested Paul. Two Army infantry platoons had been allocated to act as the enemy and defend the hill. A full company was believed to be billeted in the village, to provide immediate support to the troops on the hill if attacked.
“But keep watching, we need to keep our eyes peeled for any Landser tricks,” he said smiling.
Paul’s company had three tasks to perform. First it was necessary to secure the landing zone, enabling the rest of the battalion to land safely, he then needed to allocate a platoon to secure the road that meandered from the village to their northwest, cutting around behind the hill and continuing east. His final task was to put in place a blocking force west and south, where he was now, of the hill to prevent the enemy from edging down the hill and outflanking the battalion. The remaining companies when they arrived, would attack the hill from the north and east. He was sending Leutnant Krause’s platoon to secure the road, it was an opportunity to see what he was made of. He and his platoon were already setting up along the northern hedge line, west of Nadel’s position and south of the hill.
“Right Dietrich, I’ll leave you to it.”
He jumped up and crouching low as he ran, Paul sped along the hedgerow until he met up with Krause’s platoon.
