by Harvey Black
Paul gripped the plane’s infrastructure with both hands, the static line held between his teeth. The Absetzer tapped Paul on the shoulder, it was time. The signal was given to stand and hook up. Each man stood, clipped their static lines onto the cable that ran centrally down the cabin roof and waited the order.
The door was pulled clear and Paul made his way to the opening, the wind whipping through the open space. He got to the doorway, gripped the handles either side and saw the Junkers opposite and slightly back and lower suddenly judder as it was hit two thirds of the way along the fuselage, just behind the wing and in front of the tail. A bright flash, that diminished almost as quickly as it appeared, and the tail section tore itself away from the main body and plummeted to the ground. The front section of the aircraft lost control, banking to the left, fortunately away from Paul’s plane, and went into a slow spin towards the ground, leaving a trail of paratroopers and their chutes exiting the door. He counted eight before he was distracted by the Jump Master hailing him.
Suddenly rounds from a British anti-aircraft gun punched through the floor, the forty millimetre rounds tearing jagged holes through the delicate fuselage, the Bofors crew below loading as quickly as possible to attain a rate of fire of over one hundred rounds a minute. Scherer, one of the new men who had recently joined as part of the company HQ strength, took a round through the torso, ripping through his smock and tearing a fist sized hole in his chest. He was slammed into the man behind him before slumping to the floor, leaving a trail of blood and fragments of uniform and flesh spattered on the smock of his newly found comrade, he was dead before he hit the deck of the transporter.
The rounds continued to punch into the stricken aircraft. The pilot rocked the plane from side to side in an attempt to shake them off, but to no avail. Two heavy calibre rounds slammed into the starboard engine, the pilot violently banked left, nearly throwing the unprepared Paul through the doorway. The Junkers seesawed, shaking excessively, the now unstable engine and damaged controls, making it impossible for the pilot to keep the craft steady. The starboard engine caught fire, the prop stopped turning as parts melted and seized, fuel and oil suddenly splaying across the cockpit and along the fuselage, the flames from the burning engine igniting it immediately.
“Aus. Aus. Aus. Out. Out. Out,” screamed the Absetzer. “You must get out now. Geh. Geh. Geh.”
Paul looked back along the oscillating aircraft, flames already melting through the fuselage, his men cowering away from the flames licking around their shoulders. All were standing, hooked up and ready, each man willing their commander to jump so they could follow and escape the rapidly increasing heat.
“How far are we from our LZ?” Paul yelled at the slowly panicking Jump Master.
“You’re due to jump in seconds sir, go now for God’s sake. The pilot won’t be able to keep the plane level for much longer.”
Paul nodded, there was no decision that needed to be made. He looked at his men, motioned they were going and leapt forwards.
At this same time, in the succeeding kette, Max was also stood at the doorway of a Tante June, waiting for the order to jump when one of his kette was hit in the main, central engine. The flames blossomed, the engine exploded, flaming oil and aviation gasoline funnelled back through the body of the aircraft, killing the pilot, his co-pilot and many of the paratroopers sat near the cockpit. The plane banked, out of control, the paratrooper at the doorway was thrown back inside against his comrades, trapping them, submitting them to a horrible death as the aircraft went down on its side, spinning out of control, preventing the troopers inside the opportunity to escape death.
Max swallowed, a troop of men that he knew, would never again fight at his side or laugh at his humour or drink with him ever again. He was tapped on the shoulder, bringing him back to his own circumstances and he leapt from the plane.
The shock of the prop blast tore at Paul’s helmet, catching him unawares. Rounds still zipped passed him, the gunners below not satisfied they had decimated their target, they also wanted the deaths of the men falling from the plane above. Paul could see a carpet of chutes below him, drifting south, one of the other companies of his battalion; it crossed his mind that it may be Helmut. If this was bad, he dreaded to think what it would have been like for the units attacking the Maleme airport directly.
As he dropped below the cacophony above and the gunners switched to better targets as more and more Junkers headed their way, it became almost peaceful. Paul looked down and about in attempt to get his bearings. It was light enough now that he could see the mountains to his south, or were they hills. The Gebirgsjager would no doubt class them as mole hills. He couldn’t see the coast to the north, behind him, the rest a pale patchwork of rocky undulating ground, covered with various forms of flora and fauna. It would make for a hard landing and be a test for ankles and knees.
He scanned the ground to the east frantically trying to pick out some sign of Erich and his scouts. He thought he picked out a weak flash of light off to his left, possibly from a torch. He didn’t see it again, but it did home him on to the red and black swastika flag pinned to the ground by small rocks. They were going to miss it by at least half a kilometre, but he had registered the direction and he felt sure Erich would already be making his way to their likely landing spot. They would be a difficult target to miss, over one hundred men, not forgetting the tens of weapons containers following them down.
Before he knew it the ground came rushing towards him. He struck the ground hard, fell forwards, his cricket like knee pads absorbing most of the force, propelling him forwards on to his gauntlet covered hands and then rolling him on to his side. He jumped up, grabbing the lines of his chute, the breeze slightly stronger at this higher level tugging at the canopy in a vain attempt at jerking the interloper across the rough ground. He wrenched the shrouds towards him and quickly ran round to the end of the chute as fast as he could, collapsing the chute and unbuckling his harness. He looked about him seeing more of his men had landed and were getting rid of their chutes as fast as possible.
Two weapons canisters caught his eye and he sprinted towards the first until he saw the markings were not correct and switched direction to the second one ten metres further on where he hit gold, the markings indicated it is where he would find his MP40, along with weapons for other members of his stick.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Paul ripped open the canister, unsecured his machine pistol, unbuttoned his smock and extracted a magazine which he slapped into the automatic weapon. He did another quick scan, there were still no signs of any enemy forces. He slipped his smock off his shoulders, moved his equipment on to the outside and then re-buttoned his tunic.
Paul felt ready now for whatever was thrown at him, up until then he and his unit were very exposed and vulnerable, with only their pistols as defence. Against a determined enemy, with heavier firepower, they would be at their mercy. He completed another three hundred and sixty degree scan of the area, looking for signs of enemy troops, orientating himself with his surroundings and thinking through his next moves. He pocketed his gauntlets, crouched down, one hand on the ground, rapidly withdrawn when it came into contact with a green spaghetti like shrub that proved to be spiky and painful. Two figures joined him, his radio operator, Bergmann and the new medic, Fink.
“The radio ok Bergmann?”
“Seems intact sir. I’ll need to do a comms check though.”
“See if you can get Regiment, let them know we are half a klick west of our LZ.”
Paul scanned the immediate area. To his north and west the ground crested before dropping away. To the east, somewhere beyond the line of trees, the village of Pagantha, his first objective. The backdrop to the south, mountains, with their snow capped tops. He was quickly joined by the key elements of his Company. Max first, followed by Roth, Nadel and finally Leeb. Max’s news was not good. He turned towards Nadel.
“Sorry sir, but I think you will be
shy a troop. I saw a Junkers break up and go down, I’m pretty sure no one got out. I certainly didn’t see anyone jump, it happened too fast for anyone to react.”
“What a waste of good men,” exclaimed Nadel. “It must be second troop. I’ve seen most of one and three assembling.”
Paul reflected on what he had heard. They had lost nearly ten percent of their company and the battle hadn’t even started. He kicked into action, there wasn’t time to dwell on it now, that would have to wait until later.
“Leeb, secure the flanks to our west and north. Roth, secure the containers and bring any with supplies or ammo left in them to the northern ridge. Nadel, put out a screen, one hundred metres out, east and south, but watch out for Oberleutnant Fleck and his scouts. We missed the LZ, but he would have seen us and will no doubt be making his way to join us. Unterfeld Richter, assemble your men by the northern edge and check over your equipment. That’s all gentlemen; report back when complete, I’ll be at the northern edge with Leutnant Leeb.”
The officers scattered to carry out their orders and check on the assembly of their platoons.
“Max, I want a full status report on the company. I need to know our current strength and confirmation that the missing troop hasn’t suddenly appeared.”
“On my way sir.”
Max left to gather the information requested and Paul was joined by Bergmann again.
“Any joy?”
“Not yet sir, the radio seems ok, I just can’t make contact. Might be a better signal if I join Leutnant Leeb.”
“Let’s go then.”
Paul shot off the two hundred metres to get to the edge of the flat piece of ground, followed by his HQ element, two Fallschirmjager, Mauer, Ostermann and the medic. Scherer was missing, killed by the anti-aircraft shell on their inbound approach. He threw himself down next to Leeb who had positioned one troop along each drop, the third held back close to him in reserve.
“Look down there sir.”
Paul surveyed the ground in front of him that fell away beyond the crest as an undulating slope. Directly to his front the terrain was a mix of crumbling, light coloured rocks on reddish brown earth, interspersed with green grasses and scrub, splattered with the occasional flower. Low lying herbs filling in some of the gaps. One lone Olive tree acting as sentry. Looking to the far right, at the top of the perpendicular slope was a stepped terrace of what looked like olive trees in symmetrical lines marching down the hillside, directly beneath them a section of gully joining that slope to the one directly beneath Paul.
The gully probably started somewhere beneath the village, a kilometre to their east. A good place to descend, thought Paul. Beyond, towards the coast, he could see the glistening town of Hania, the steadily rising sun reflecting off the numerous windows. Above could be seen flights of Junkers still depositing their loads and Stuka dive bombers hovering like vultures waiting to swoop down and deliver death and destruction on demand.
The air felt fresh and tasted sweet, clearing his throat and lungs of the taste and smell of burning aviation fuel and oil, his face now blackened with more than just burnt cork. He looked at Leeb to his left, his keen eyes scanning the foreground, seeking out any potential threats. Paul pulled out his binoculars and scanned the mid-ground intently, it was quiet, no signs of movement. In the distance he could hear the crack of rifles and the faster chatter of machine guns, anti-aircraft fire adding to the discord as Junkers continued to fly over the island disgorging their loads.
He turned round to look behind him, the flat, level ground, also strewn with various rocks and scrub, slowly rising in the distance, beyond the mountains with their snow capped peaks. West of him was the start of a shallow escarpment, currently protected by Leeb’s men. To the east, the direction of their target, the small village of Pagantha.
In the centre, the rest of his company were going about their business, checking drop canisters for weapons, ammunition or supplies, stragglers joining their platoons, Nadel still wishing hopefully for the arrival of his missing men. Once the contents were either consolidated or dispersed amongst the company, the wheels and handles would be attached and those would be used as transports and dragged to Paul’s current location. He could see Unterfeld Richter loading some of his mortar bombs on to his men, the rest would remain in the containers and dragged wherever they went.
He saw a bulky figure running towards him in a low crouch, who he immediately recognised as Max returning to report to him on the status of the company. Max lay prone, next to Paul, peering over the crest, JU 87s in the distance, their inverted, gull shaped wings distinctive. The pilots locating their targets through the bomb sight windows in the floor of the cockpit. Three in a line, they rolled one hundred and eighty degrees, one after the other, the aircraft nosing into a dive.
Paul turned to see what had transfixed Max’s attention. The three Stuka’s nose dived, close to sixty degrees, hitting a speed of over five hundred kilometres an hour, the Jericho Trumpet, the wailing siren, heard even this far away from the scene of its target somewhere between Hania and Rethymnon. At fifteen hundred metres the bombs were released, the four, fifty kilogram bombs under the wings and the two hundred and fifty kilogram bomb held centrally, hurtled towards the target, engulfing it in a hot blast of shrapnel as the pilot pulled up from the dive, fighting the effects of nearly five g’s of force, his vision fogging as he finally levelled the plane and headed for home, a base on the mainland of Greece.
“Christ I’m glad I’m not on the receiving end of that lot,” exclaimed Max
“If we don’t get our marker flags out we may well be,” said Paul turning to Leeb giving him instructions to do just that.
“Well Max?”
Max pulled a small pocket book from his tunic and read the scribbled lines on it.
“It looks like we’ve lost two troop from Leutnant Nadel’s platoon sir.”
“Damn, what a waste,” cursed Paul. “I knew them all. They fought well in Corinth. To be killed before you have even left the plane.”
“The company newsletter says that you and your stick were also lucky to get out sir,” said Max looking at his commander’s blackened face.
“Very lucky Max. The rest of the company?”
“The rest of the company are present, except for Scherer, who was killed on your flight sir and Forster, who has broken his leg on this God forsaken surface.”
“Yes, Scherer was his by an AA round, straight through the chest. I don’t think he even knew he’d been hit. Who to replace Forster?” mused Paul. He turned to Leeb.
“Fessman?”
“That would be my choice sir.”
“Max?”
“He’s more than ready for the opportunity sir.”
“Do you want to give him the news Ernst?”
“It would be better coming from you.”
“Ok, send him over will you Max?”
Max got up from the ground, reddish soil clinging to his smock, and went in search of Fessman who was on the western edge of the piece of ground they currently held.
Paul heard rustling behind him and turned to see five figures running towards him. The first he recognised as Leutnant Roth, the second, his six foot athletic frame and short blonde hair, helmet strapped to his belt, could only be his friend Erich, his close friend, followed by his three scouts.
Paul stood up and they came to a halt in front of him.
“Sir, this is... “ Roth started to say, but Erich strode passed him and gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder.
“I lay marker flags out for you and you still can’t bloody well hit the target,” he said laughing.
They forgot all those around them as they wrapped their arms around each other, slapping each other’s back, like two long lost brothers who had found each other again through such adversity. Realising they had an audience, they parted, but were still laughing, their joy at seeing each other again was clear for all to see.
&nb
sp; “God it’s good to see you Erich. We thought we’d lost you to the high and mighty life of Regimental HQ.”
“I needed to be where the real work’s done,” he responded.
At that moment Max joined the group, bringing Fessman with him.
“Feldwebel Grun, you don’t look any different from when I last saw you, apart from the makeup.”
“You seem to have put on a bit of weight since you’ve been with the hierarchy sir.”
They both looked at each other, not a flicker on their faces, Erich’s scouts looked on in amazement. Then Erich thrust out his hand, shaking Max’s, their grip firm, their faces breaking out into a grin.
“You’ve not tamed our ex-Hamburg Docker yet then Paul?”
“Did you ever think I could? Erich, I need a couple of minutes, then we can get an update from you, ok?”
“Sure, Feldwebel Grun can update me.”
Paul turned towards Fessman, his brown, hawk like eyes looking out from his slightly pinched face, the arched eyebrows questioning his sudden appearance in front of his Company Commander.
“You’ve heard about Unteroffizier Forster I assume?”
“Yes sir, an unlucky break, if you pardon the pun.” Fessman, ever the company comedian.
“Could you caretake the troop in his absence?”
“What, you mean run the troop sir?”
“That’s exactly what I mean, command it.”
“But... “
“There are no buts Fessman, can you do it or not?”
“Yes sir,” he responded bringing his feet together sharply and his arms straight by his sides.”
“Good. Well then Uffz Fessman, you had better get your troop sorted, we’ll be moving out soon. And your first challenge is to rig a stretcher for Uffz Forster.”
