by Harvey Black
“I need to use your tunic Max. I’ll cut what I need off you, but I will need to move you. You’ll have to grit your teeth I’m afraid.”
Although the morphine was easing the pain, putting Max into a relaxed state, any sudden movement caused Max to cry out. His side just throbbed at the moment, but Paul felt there was the greater risk of blood loss if the wound opened up again. He sliced the sleeves off Max’s tunic, then cut them down their length, allowing him to remove them with as little discomfort to Max as possible. He would use them later. He also cut into the top of the tunic, freeing his arms completely, nothing holding the tunic to Max’s body other than his weight on top of it. Paul flattened it out completely and placed the two lengths of wood on top of the tunic, either side of Max’s body, wrapping the edges around them. Using strips he had cut from the sleeves and punching holes in the material with his knife, he bound the tunic to the two poles.
Max spoke through gritted teeth. “You’re time... in the RDD... wasn’t entirely wasted... sir.”
Paul looked sideways and smiled. “This is what makes the difference between and officer and an ex-docker Max”
His eyes closed, just that small effort exhausting him. He dozed quietly. Paul checked his pulse, it was slow but regular, and the steady rise and fall of his chest indicating that his breathing wasn’t impaired. He continued binding the poles, the full length of the tunic, a travois slowly forming. He discarded what kit they wouldn’t need, cut a square of material from his own shirt to drape over Max’s exposed head and face, then he strapped Max to the improvised stretcher as best he could, using the leather ‘Y’ straps that Max no longer needed.
He leant over his friend. “Right Max, I’m going to try and get us both to the other side of the road, this stretch of the Wadi could get too busy.”
Max opened his glazed eyes, but said nothing, thirst and delirium making him oblivious to events. Paul stood up, slowly, in the centre of their cover, ducking his head slightly due to the low branches and resting his hand on the trunk to steady him, listening for any sounds of movement about them. Apart from the distant fire fight and Max’s laboured breathing, all was quiet. He wasted no more time, and striding through the cover, he picked up the two extended poles above and either side of Max’s head, grunting at the dead weight as he did so.
The shout was sudden and clear and not a moment too soon, Paul dived back into the undergrowth crashing down by the side of Max as he heard other voices. They were English, not German. He heard the owners of the voices slither down the side of the Wadi, egging each other on to join in the fight, running centimetres away from their hiding place. Paul froze, quickly slipping his hand over Max’s mouth as he moaned. A soldier stopped, stared at the spindly olive tree, but suddenly knocked aside by one of his fellow soldiers as he rushed passed, what had stopped him forgotten as he shot off after them.
Waiting five minutes until all was quiet again, Paul picked up his burden and walking backwards, centimetre by centimetre, Paul heaved Max’s body from the undergrowth, flattening the plants as he did so. Once they were clear of the covered patch, Paul adjusted his position so he was facing forwards, grasped the poles again and step-by-step dragged the travois and ninety kilogram load towards the culvert that supported the road across the Wadi.
He reached it twenty minutes later, his arms aching, almost pulled out of their sockets, tendons stretched and painful, but they had made it. But, it would get harder. The culvert was only just above chest height. He dithered. Should he try and haul his charge up the sides of the Wadi and cross the road, or manoeuvre him under the culvert? He decided on the latter, they would be less exposed.
Paul lowered Max down gently, next to one of the arches of the culvert and lay down under the overhang facing him. Then, bit-by-bit, he steadily dragged the Travois through the opening, shade and coolness beneath a welcome relief after the fiery sun they had left behind. After ten minutes of strenuous exertion, they were through to the other side. After a few more minutes of exploration, Paul had found a shallow depression on the western side of the Wadi, where he could haul Max to the top to continue their journey.
Having arrived at the right place, he ran to the top, checked all was clear, slid back down, hoisted up the two poles and step-by-step, heaved his hefty load to the top, feeling utterly drained when he finally made it.
He rested for a few moments, checked Max’s condition was stable, then turned at an angle, south west, where he was sure the ground dipped down, hiding them, before climbing again back up into the upper foothills. He crouched down, gripped the poles, hoisted them up and heaved the travois forwards. He slowly gained momentum, leaning forwards, with his head and shoulders bent, gradually gaining speed as the lower end of the poles scraped two lines across the uneven ground. He estimated he would be at the dip within the hour, but he was far too optimistic. Snaking around the larger ruts and rocks, passing mini craters, the distance had been doubled. Looking back, he could see the twin lines criss crossing the uneven ground. It had taken him nearly three hours.
He would need an overnight stop for them soon, he concluded. He didn’t want to move at night, the grinding noise of the travois over the rough ground, would travel far during the silence of the night. An unnatural sound that a sentry may want to investigate further. There was also the risk of tripping over unseen objects or holes, any fall exacerbating Max’s injuries.
Paul rubbed his hands together ready to pick up his load again, wincing as his blistered and blooded hands touched. He put on his paratrooper gloves, which, although making his hands hot, would save his palms from being lacerated further. He gave Max a few sips of water, the casualty now delirious and mumbling, the shoulder dressings still dry, but the lower one dark and wet. He would need to change the dressing soon. He continued his journey, a rhythm setting in, forty steps, lower the poles, count to five, raise them, forty steps.
By the time dusk was upon them, Paul had found a small grove, mainly lemon trees, and in the corner a farmer’s weather hut, with a thin thatched roof. Barely big enough for the two of them lying side by side, but it would have to do. Paul couldn’t take another step. Max had started to shiver as the daytime temperature dropped from the high thirties, the darkness replacing it with what felt like a numbing cold. Not like the cold they had experienced in the Harz mountains, but relative to the days temperature, and their lack of food and water, they both felt its effects.
Once safe in the darkness Paul used his torch, his hand covering the lens, a reddish glow providing the light needed to apply a new dressing to Max’s lower injury, the exit wound looking black and ugly. He wrapped his tunic around Max’s body to help keep him warm. He was cold too, but his was the greater need. He gave Max a last sip of water, took some himself, then lay by Max’s side, getting as close as he was able, sharing his warmth and gaining what warmth he could in return. It is going to be a long night and an even longer day tomorrow, were his last thoughts as he fell in to a deep and fatigued sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Paul woke with a start as the first bright rays of the sun beamed through the small opening of the hut. He looked at his watch, it was six forty, and calculated that he had slept for over seven hours. He had succumbed to the exhaustion of three days of marching and fighting, and hauling his weighty companion across the rough ground and through the unforgiving heat. He still felt weary, but refreshed at the same time. His body was fatigued, but his mind felt more alert. He had a terrible thirst, his mouth was dry and his tongue felt large and puffy in his mouth. He found a canteen and took a few sips, far from slaking his thirst, it made him want more, but at least it alleviated the furriness of his mouth and teeth. He listened, the occasional pop of a firearm in the distance, but locally it seemed quiet.
He turned towards Max who had been woken by his rummaging, his eyes fluttering open. He went to speak, his lips moving but no sound coming forth.
“Hang on a sec Max, I’ll get you some water.�
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Max’s cracked lips broke into a pained smile. Paul pushed some kit beneath his head, raising him up slightly, making him more comfortable, before placing the neck of the water bottle against his lips. Max sipped at the contents for some time, his body’s acute need for the lifesaving liquid commanding his brain to take on board as much as possible. Once Paul was satisfied that his immediate need had been satiated, he removed it, replaced the top and attached it back onto his belt. By his reckoning, there was less than a pint left between them, enough to keep an active paratrooper, in this part of the world, going for a couple of hours, but not much more.
Max grimaced with pain and Paul administered another morphine injection, the relief on Max’s face palpable as its effects dulled the pain perception centre in his brain. This left just one for later, but only as a last resort.
“Don’t get used to this Feldwebel Grun, you’re back on beer the minute we get back.”
Max smiled, in between grimaces.
“A beer would be good... right now,” he replied, his voice husky, dry and pained.
Paul checked over Max’s wounds, a few dabs of dried blood on his chest and shoulder, but his waist dressing was dry at the moment. Although concerned that the minute they moved from here there was a possibility that the wounds would reopen again, he knew that to stay here they would both die. To leave Max here on his own, would leave him to his inevitable death, they had to move.
Paul packed up their gear and grabbing the ends of the two poles, he dragged Max out of the doorway, feet first, far enough so that he could move round to the front and continue their journey west along the dip that he had found.
The shallow dip, although paralleling the roadway, it offered them some protection if any traffic, vehicle or people, moved along it. He estimated it was two kilometres to Wadi Piggi, then a further kilometre to the village, or town, of Adele. Once he got close to the outskirts of the village, he would have to move further south unless he saw any signs of his own men, or any other Fallschirmjager unit. He picked up the poles and trudged forwards, quickly settling in to his accustomed rhythm — forty paces forward, lower, count to five, pick up, forty paces forwards.
At around midday, they had reached the Wadi. Paul lowered Max to the ground and ran along the Wadi and across the road. After a quick exploration, all he could find were empty ammunition boxes, empty cartridge cases, both Allied and German, and a discarded water bottle.
He held up the flask, empty, the bullet holes either side testament to how tough the fight must have been. Soiled and blooded dressings were the only other objects he could find. Blood of his men or the enemy, it did not matter for the moment, nothing could be done, Max was his priority now. There were no signs of life, either Fallschirmjager or enemy soldiers, but he could still hear the odd firefight in the distance. He did one last scan of the area and ran back to Max.
Paul looked about him, searching the distant foothills that stretched away from him to the south. To the west, the direction he needed to head for, he could just make out the occasional building on the outskirts of Adele, he was starting to doubt he could continue. In a state of nervous exhaustion, he collapsed in despair, sliding down the side of the Wadi next to Max, who was sleeping again, the drug giving him some peace from the pain and intolerable thirst. He tentatively stood up again, to get a better view of their route ahead, but swaying uncontrollably, he sat back down, totally devoid of strength.
Sat in the dry earth of the Wadi, just scrub and dust for company, the sun overhead beating down on him, burning in to his already reddened skin, lips cracked and sore, an overpowering thirst that was threatening to drive him to despair. Head in his hands, he couldn’t go on. His despondency was about to overwhelm him, when he heard Max’s cracked voice speak.
“We’ll be ok... sir, the bars... will be... open soon.”
There was almost a hint of feverishness in Max’s voice along with his humour. Paul slid across to him, not sure he was able to stand just yet.
“You’ll get your cold drink Max, but for now you’ll have to settle for this.”
He gave Max a few sips of water, before placing the bottle back on his belt.
Max’s one eye opened slightly, “What about... you... sir?”
“I’ve already had some,” he lied.
Paul sloshed the liquid in the canteen, estimating by the sound that they had less than quarter of a pint left, Max would need all of it if he was to survive the day. He rubbed the hot, dry scar above his left eye, then wiped the back of his hand across his parched, cracked lips.
Whump, an explosion was heard somewhere near the coast, a retort of a rifle closer, but still beyond the village.
Paul pulled two lemons from his bag, he’d picked them up from their overnight stop. Cutting them open with his knife, he squeezed the sharp, acidic juice onto his tongue, his lips smarting, but it refreshed his mouth. He knew the relief would be short lived, but he would savour the moment.
He cut into the second fruit and removing the piece of shirt that covered Max’s head and face, protecting him from the sun, he squeezed the extract into his mouth, his lips smacking as he attempted to capture every last drop of the liquid, his body thankful for any sustenance it could obtain. Max didn’t open his eyes.
Paul shielded his face from the glaring sun, “Are you ok Max?”
His eyelids parted, but he didn’t speak. He replaced the cover over Max’s face, then checked his dressings, all were crusted dry, the bleeding seemingly under control, for the present.
Paul felt a little refreshed and he finished off his lemon, stripping the moist flesh from the peel. He hoisted the poles one more time and continued to haul his friend, to what he hoped was safety, water and better medical treatment than he was capable of providing. They followed the Wadi south, so he could skirt the village.
Forty paces forward, lower, count to five, pick up, forty paces forward.
Paul switched off. He knew he was leaving them exposed to discovery, but the lack of water, the intense heat, the strain on his arms and legs tottering beneath him, he needed to turn his mind off. He drifted, on autopilot, and had the notion he was looking down upon himself, watching a stranger trudging across this hostile land, the pain his and not Paul’s.
After about five hundred metres and forty five minutes of hauling, he turned west, heaving the travois up the sides of the Wadi, grunting with effort, his legs staggering beneath him as he manhandled Max’s weight up the crumbling sides of the channel. Although the sides were not much higher than the average man, to Paul they seemed a mountain that needed to be climbed. Once at the top, he lowered the handles with a jolt and collapsed to the ground, Max groaned at the stabbing pain as he was jarred by the rapidly lowered Travois.
“Sorry... Max,” was all Paul could muster.
Paul lay down on his back, his right arm raised over his eyes, shielding them and his face from the sun beating down on him, his skin already red and burnt in places, his helmet hanging from his belt, too hot and heavy to wear. He felt tired, needed just a little sleep and he would be ok. If only he could sleep, a nice long, cool drink and then sleep. He thought of the cool waters of the River Havel back home, where he and his school friends used to go skinny dipping.
He awoke with a start, quickly sat up and looked about him, then checked his watch. He had slept for nearly an hour. Although he chastised himself, and felt foolish to allow it to happen, he was mildly reinvigorated, thirsty still, but was ready to pick up his burden again and keep moving.
Paul checked Max over, he was hot and dry. Paul was more and more anxious each time he checked his charge. The wounds seemed to be holding up, but he hadn’t been able to check them properly, he wasn’t a doctor. He wished Fink was with them, he would know more about what to do. But what he could do, was get Max food and water, primarily water. He made a decision. He would take them west now, skirting the village until directly south and close enough that he could do a recce
and scavenge for food and water. With an almost demonic like release of energy, he elevated his charge, forty paces forward, lower, count to five, lift, forty paces forward.
He talked to Max as he walked, not sure if he heard him, he doubted it. The ground swam in front of him and when he lowered the travois as part of his routine, he brushed insects or perhaps just shadows from in front of his eyes.
“We’ll make it Max, I’ll get us out of this mess. I should have listened to Ernst, maybe he was right, maybe we should have put out a screen well before we were hit.”
Lower, count to five, lift, forty paces forward.
“We had to move quickly Max, it was our task to get to Rethymnon as fast as possible. We had no option. But a screen would have picked up the enemy moving along the gully, wouldn’t it? But they could have come up behind us way back, even before Adele. We weren’t to know.”
Lower, count to five, pick up, forty paces forward.
“I’ll never forgive myself if I’ve lost my company through my incompetence. Maybe I’m not cut out to be an officer, eh Max? After this is over, if we get through this alive, I’m going to ask for a transfer, I’m not fit to lead men.”
Max remained silent.
Lower, count to five, pick up, forty paces forward.
After three hours, with the light starting to fade, he found himself and Max south of a village, opposite a small rocky outcrop, beneath an overhang overgrown with shrubs of all kinds. But it was somewhere they could both shelter for the night.
He gave Max a small piece of very dry German sausage, getting a mumbled response as Max automatically chewed on the dry meat. Once finished, he gave him the last of the water, using the wet shirt method again, but it didn’t seem to bring him round. Although Max was extremely hot, his skin seeming to be on fire, he wrapped his tunic around him knowing the temperature would drop in a matter of hours. He stripped off Max’s equipment, just keeping his MP40, two spare magazines and his killing knife. Secreting Max and the remains of his kit in the undergrowth beneath the overhang, he headed north towards the village, less than a kilometre away.
