by Harvey Black
The enemy had had enough, evacuating through the rear door of the house, leaving the dead and wounded in their haste to escape the onslaught of these devils, particularly the officer at the front, the manic grin on his blackened face, he was the devil incarnate.
“Cease fire, cease fire,” yelled Leeb. “Secure the house, check weapons and ammo, get ready to move forward.”
He waved his arm above his head towards Jordan’s position across the road letting him know the area was secured and they would be moving on again soon.
Paul stood in front of the doorway, bent at the waist, hands on hips, his body heaving with exertion as he struggled to drag air into his depleted lungs. A shadow loomed over him, its size signifying it could only be Max.
“A word sir.”
“In a minute Max, let me catch my breath.”
“Now sir.”
Paul looked up, could see anger in Max’s eyes, his nose, slightly askew caused from a previous injury during one of his many fights on the docks, inches away from his face. He raised himself up to his full height.
“Not now Feldwebel Grun.”
“We can have this out here sir, or we can move over to those trees. Either way, I’ll say my piece.”
A confrontation in front of the men was not good and Paul could already see sideways glances from some of the troopers. He looked at Max’s heavy, square jaw, the suppressed anger still hovering beneath the surface. They moved away to the side of some olive trees, gaining some privacy from the rest of the unit.
“What the fuck was all that about sir?” hissed Max.
“We had to break the deadlock Max, we couldn’t afford to get bogged down.”
“Your suicide charge certainly broke the deadlock sir, but it also nearly got you bloody killed.”
“It had to be done Max,” Paul responded.
“We’re a team sir, we work together. We’ve survived this far by working together.”
“Life just seems so cheap Max.”
“Killing yourself won’t bring her back,” said Max, more softly. “But it could kill these men here, the ones you’re responsible for. They need, we need, you to lead us through this mess and bring us all back in one piece.”
Paul hung his head, his energy sapped, his truculence evaporating away. He looked up, gripped his NCO, his friends shoulder.
“You’re right, as ever. Let’s get this business over with, the Company needs its Commander and senior NCO.”
There was a moment of silence between them, only interrupted by the continuing exploding mortar bombs throwing up sprays of earth and shattered rocks and splintering trees. Leeb ran towards them breaking the moment.
“The house is clear sir, Fessman is sweeping forwards, we’re ready to move out.”
“Let’s go then Ernst.”
***
Nadel sent four men towards the house to check and clear the building, disarm any soldiers that may still be alive and secure it. Two soldiers were found dead and two injured, one mortally, the other a minor leg wound. They signalled to Nadel that the house was in safe hands and then patched up their prisoners as best they could.
***
Richter, continued to adjust the range and fall of his mortars, allowing for the additional distance as he shifted their fire to the right, tracking the fire fight in progress, updated by the troopers in the tree line.
***
Fessman’s troop moved forward again carefully. Although the ground wasn’t completely open, it lacked the depth of cover they had earlier, the number of trees and scrub severely diminished.
“Petzel, Stumme, I want the MG on the left flank. Watch out for a counterattack, they may risk using the mortar fire to cover an assault.”
Crump, crump. Two rounds landed within fifty metres of them, the eruption showering them with debris, a piece of shrapnel glancing off Stumme’s helmet.
“Bloody hell, I hope Richter’s boys don’t get any closer,” commented Stumme, ducking his head low.”
“The rounds are no where near you Friedrich. Anyway, we need them to keep the British away.”
“Just keep a watch for a counter attack along there, mortars or no mortars,” ordered Fessman, concerned that the British troops may brave the mortar fire to slip through and fire and attack their flank, or even worse, from behind.
***
Jordan’s troop, now beneath Straube’s MG position, continued to move south, keeping parallel with their comrades across the road. Still no contact with the enemy.
“Aaagh!” screamed Amsel as a round struck him in the shoulder, spinning him round and forcing to fall sideways to the ground. “I’m hit.”
“Keep low and quiet,” barked Jordan.
More .303 rounds zipped through the undergrowth from the hastily set up Bren Gun, the thirty round magazine emptied in not much more than five seconds, the gunner’s assistant slamming a second curved magazine on top of the weapon. Fessman had been right to expect a counter attack.
Once the British had recovered from their initial shock, they had crossed the road with some fifteen men in order to outflank the Germans, not yet aware of the scale of the force they were up against.
Jordan’s thoughts raced, but his notion to order the MG to put down suppressing fire, his need to get grenades thrown so they could pull back under cover, were never uttered, were never followed through as he was hit twice as the second Bren Gun magazine was put to use. A .303 round striking his chest, his heart ruptured, both lungs perforated, pink froth at his mouth as he tried to rally and command his men, his last thoughts of thirst and the cold beer with his comrades in Corinth as his spirit left him and he lay sleepily on the ground.
Braemer, a veteran of Poland, Eben Emael and Corinth, didn’t need orders to figure out what to do next, it was second nature to him. He plucked three, Model 34, stick grenades from his grenade bag and quickly unscrewed each cap. Keeping his head low, bullets still whistling passed above him. His comrades were now returning fire, the pruurrrrr of the MG versus the heavier, slower sounding thud of the Bren, fighting their own almost intimate clash for supremacy of the battle ground.
But he knew the stalemate wouldn’t last for long as a second Bren joined the uproar. He lined his grenades on the dusty ground in front, keeping low behind the scrub in front of him, so far unseen by the enemy, he pulled the cord on the first one. He counted to two, got up on one knee and threw the grenade as far as he could towards the enemy, it landing some thirty metres away. Before it had chance to explode, a second one had been fused and was in the air landing to the right of the first one which suddenly exploded. The third one he threw from a standing position, its flight making some forty metres. The second grenade exploded short of the British lines, but the third landed close to the second Bren Gun team, giving Braemer and his colleagues an opportunity to move to a more advantageous position and extract themselves from the onslaught in front of them. Return fire could now be ramped up in preparation to repulse the attack that was inevitable.
***
Fessman ran at a crouch to Paul and Max’s position.
“Jordan’s in big trouble sir.”
“I know, but we daren’t fire across the road until we know his and his men’s true position.”
The MG34, across the road; finally opened up, giving them some indication of the unit’s position, but not enough to risk enfilade fire support.
“Uffz, stay here with three men, just in case there is a second counter attack along this stretch, the rest with me. Max, you stay... “
“I’m going nowhere but with you sir.”
Paul could see the determination in Max’s face and nodded.
“Assemble the men Max, then with me.”
The selected men quickly gathered around their leader, heeding his warning to watch out for their own men in the heat of the impending firefight, as the demarcation line was uncertain. Paul saw that a couple had attached their bayonets, clearly expecting to
get close in with the enemy.
“Let’s go.”
Paul dashed off, taking long strides across the uneven ground, shortening them as he continued down the slope hitting the edge of the hard packed road with a thump, his machine pistol flicking from side to side, seeking out the hidden enemy.
Petzel tightened his hand around the pistol grip of the MG 34, settling the butt beneath his arm, his left hand gripping the bipod to control its tendency to rear up when being fired. Next to him was his number two, Stumme, two belts of ammunition criss crossed over his shoulders and chest, looking as much like a Mexican comanchero as a paratrooper, his Kar 98K ready should he need it.
A soldier lying on the ground on the other side of the road, close to the edge, suddenly jumped up, surprised by the sudden appearance of a German paratrooper adjacent to his position. He lunged at Rammelt with his bayoneted rifle. Rammelt, equally surprised at the appearance of the Tommy, leant to his right raising his left arm as the bayonet was thrust upwards towards his face. The muzzle and bayonet of the Lee Enfield, now parried, skimmed passed his left shoulder, just scoring the side of his neck, allowing him to counteract with a butt strike to the soldier’s head. His cheek bone smashed, he stumbled and fell at Rammelt’s feet, who quickly drew back his weapon from the swing firing a round into his chest, cocking the rifle and firing a second shot.
Braemer suddenly reared up from the undergrowth in front of them to their right, shouting.
“This is the furthest point of our position.”
That was all they needed to know. Petzel put twenty to thirty rounds into the undergrowth to their left, before hitting the deck and putting up sustained fire. The rest of Paul’s group joined them. Grenades were tossed, the enemy no more than twenty metres opposite them.
Just as the British soldiers thought they had caught the impudent invaders on the hop, the tables had in fact been turned on them and they broke, running back the way they had come, fleeing the grenade shrapnel and heavy gunfire, their only thoughts now, one of escape.
“Cease fire, cease fire,” commanded Paul
“Petzel, Stumme, stay where you are. The rest check for any survivors. Jordan to me,” he shouted, wanting an update from the troop commander.
Braemer sprinted towards his company commander, never more glad to see him and the rest of his comrades who had come to their rescue.
“Where’s Uffz Jordan?”
“Gone sir. He was killed in the first attack and Amsel has a shoulder wound, we need to get to him soon.”
“Shit. Right, take temporary command. Secure the British soldiers still alive, see to the wounded and secure this area.”
“Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant.”
Braemer left to carry out his orders and was replaced by a panting Max.
“There are five enemy dead sir and two injured.”
“Braemer has the troop. They will see to the wounded and secure the area, we need to keep pushing forwards Max. You join Fessman, push forwards again and we will move parallel with you.”
“Consider it done sir.”
Max sped across the road, up the bank and joined Fessman again and they advanced further along the village embankment, Paul and his force doing the same lower down, across the other side of the road, moving passed the groaning enemy troops, many of them wounded by Petzel’s devastating fire and the onslaught of grenades thrown at their flank.
Events then moved quickly, the enemy in a complete rout attempted to extract themselves from the village to regroup and lick their wounds, avoiding the intermittent mortar rounds on their left, constantly stealing a glance over their shoulders for the enemy in hot pursuit behind and looking worriedly at the embankment to their right, they ran into the trap that had been set for them.
Tube 3, tipped off by one of Roth’s men, now firing eight rounds in six seconds, helped to decimate the remainder of the platoon, Roth’s thirty men finishing them off. One victim blown into tiny pieces, all Roth could see afterwards was a booted leg, a hand still clasping his Lee Enfield and bits of khaki uniform spread across the white, hard packed road.
Max’s whistle blew an ear-splitting blast, that even managed to pierce the sounds of gunfire still in progress and the firing slowly ceased and the bombs no longer flew overhead. The air was filled with silence other than the cries and whimpers of the wounded. Even the distant battle near the coast failed to intrude. Some of the injured servicemen clasped their wounds, desperately trying to piece their shattered body together. One soldier’s hands skipped over his tortured belly, locating the swelling, lipid mass oozing from his torn abdomen, failing to stop it overwhelming them. His eyes, the wide eyes of an eighteen year old boy, gaping in incredulity at what he was witnessing, knowing deep down that this was the end, but clinging on to life all the same.
Paul approached the scene in front of him and looked about, it was carnage. There was no other way to describe it and he felt sickened by what he had himself instigated. He had wanted this, planned for it. Now it was in front of him he felt nauseous and trembled uncontrollably.
“Max, get Fink up here now. Roth to secure the area, let’s see what we can do for them.”
Max gripped his arm.
“We had to do it sir, this was what we engaged the enemy for, to beat them. Had we not, then this could have been us.”
“I know Max,” Paul said. “I know.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Company had merged together at the northern end of the village, just above the gully they would descend shortly. A patch of green, flush with Olive trees, an unexpected idyll before their descent into the more barren gully. The branches so full and low the soldiers could only sit beneath them.
It was an opportunity to grab something quickly to eat from their bread bags, most opening a can of iron ration, meat, and breaking off a piece of dark bread, now dry from the heat of the baking sun, but welcome all the same. Water was next, initially gulping it down to quench their urgent thirst, then sipping it as if wine. They had found a cistern in the village, the water from a spring in the mountains, sweet and cool, allowing them to satisfy their craving and top up their depleted water bottles for later. They were encouraged to gorge themselves with water, to rehydrate their bodies, knowing it could be a scarce resource during their time on the island.
The British soldiers, detached from one of the Australian battalions on the island to secure the village, had been brought together and put in the Mandarin house, over half were dead or wounded and three were missing from the platoon size force. Fink was doing what he could for them with his limited supplies. He informed Paul that at least three would be dead before nightfall and possibly another two not long after, unless they received medical attention in a well equipped medical centre or hospital. The remainder had been patched up as best as the resources and skills available allowed.
A troop of Roth’s men were guarding the prisoners, passing round cigarettes, sharing chocolate and swapping stories, Pigeon English and sign language having to suffice. Their weapons had been gathered up and destroyed, their ammunition scattered about the countryside. Roth’s men wouldn’t be staying with the prisoners, Paul had made the decision not to leave anyone behind, other than Forster and Amsel. He would need all of his men, the battle for the island was far from over.
He had contacted Major Volkman, a heated argument ensued over the crackling airways. Paul insisting that a German medical team be released as soon as possible to attend to the British prisoners. The Raven’s response had been conclusive, stating that medical units would not be free for some time, such was the level of Fallschirmjager casualties. Eventually he agreed, after Paul’s persistence, that as soon as a unit was available he would have a British medical team escorted to their location. To reinforce that arrangement, Paul would leave his own wounded men to watch over the prisoners, including Uffz Forster with a broken leg, Amsel with a wound to his right shoulder. Jordan, however, his chest torn apart by .303 round
s from a Bren, had been buried at the top of the gully, a helmet hung on top of an upturned rifle, a mound of reddish earth, now the only visible sign he had existed. They had promised to return when this was over, exhume his body and return him to the Fatherland.
Paul had his officers and senior NCO’s gathered around him at the head of the defile. It was one in the afternoon, they had been on the go now for over eight hours. They had taken some shade beneath two fruit trees, laden with oranges, still too bitter to be eaten, much to Max’s displeasure.
On the horizon, in the direction of the coast, the air shimmered, the panorama beyond wavering in the rising heat. Close by his men chatted.
“I thought I was going to get killed today,” one was heard to say.
“I anticipated a quick death or I would come out without a scrape,” said another.
Paul had conversed with his Battalion Commander for as long as the radio signal allowed, talking through what had occurred and what their next movements were to be. He also had an update on the progress of the strategic battle for the occupation of the two hundred and fifty kilometre long island.
At Maleme airfield, second and fourth LLSR had landed west of Tavronitis, with two battalions being sent to secure Hill 107 from the south. Third LLSR, had landed to the south and east of the airfield and suffered considerable casualties.
To the north west of their current position, at Hania, success had also eluded the Fallschirmjager. The Third Fallschirmjager Regiment, 3FJR, supported by an engineer battalion, had landed in Prison Valley, southwest of Hania, again suffering substantial casualties, the third battalion was widely scattered. These isolated units would have to continue hostilities until reinforcements could be flown in. Paul had made sure that the black and yellow recognition strips had been laid out in case a stray Luftwaffe fighter bomber took an interest in them.
