by Harvey Black
He pushed on with his ungainly cat walk towards his target, on reaching it he was directly opposite the fire. He lay down and surveyed the ground in front of him, wishing he had brought his binoculars now. All he had was one grenade, his MP40, fully loaded, two spare magazines and his killing knife. They would have to do him.
He was about thirty metres away from the wall and the fire, but only twenty metres away from Max, the pony just beyond him to the right. A plan was forming in his head, but he would need to get a little closer to implement it.
He started to leopard crawled closer towards Max, his MP40 resting in the crook of his arms. He pushed off with his right leg, his left leg bent forwards and close to his chest. He then repeated the manoeuvre, pushing off with his left leg, his bent right leg moving forwards, his elbows alternating as he slid across the ground, stopping after each movement, scrutinising the group for any signs that he had been discovered.
He edged his way closer, using Max’s form and the pony to hide behind. He daren’t go too far to the right in case the pony caught his scent and reacted, warning his owners that someone or something was close. He was ten metres away from Max. He was loath to move any closer, should the sentry catch his movement out of the corner of his eye. He had considered moving along the back of the wall, approaching them from the building, but he had seen the dog lying there, chewing on a stick or a bone. Not only could the dog have been alerted by the noise of his approach, but the route would have taken him upwind. Although the dog may have been distracted by the smell of roasting meat, he could well have picked up Paul’s human scent.
He waited, watched and waited, watched and waited.
Then the golden opportunity he had been waiting for, as he anticipated it would, arrived. The sizzling feast, slowly turning on the spit, was ready.
The group, along with the woman and the sentry, hungrily gathered round the fire to tuck in to the food that had been tantalising them for the last twenty minutes. A small confrontation ensued between the old man and the boy who had been on sentry duty. The young boy returned to his post, grumbling, the old hunting rifle, perhaps his father’s, barrel down in protest, resting on the toe cap of his shabby boots, which seemed two sizes too big for him. He stared hungrily as the meat was torn off in strips and passed around. The woman, her thick dark hair covering her face and eyes, obviously feeling sorry for him, brought him a bone, slithers of meat still attached. Paul froze, pressing his body in to the ground, wanting it to swallow him up. The boy took it, leaning the butt of the rifle against his chest as he attacked the feast in his hands. The woman, her guilt assuaged, re-joined the others.
This was Paul’s moment, the moment to take the initiative, while they were all distracted. He picked up the stick grenade he had placed in front of him earlier, the end cap already unscrewed and ready. He rose up from the ground, an apparition, a manifestation of death. His MP40 held firmly in his left hand, his right arm twisted back behind his shoulder, he threw the grenade the twenty metres necessary to be on target.
The grenade landed exactly where Paul had aimed for, the junction of the wall and the stone built side of the hut, less than two metres from the group. He threw himself to the ground, the noise of his throwing and the subsequent crashing to the ground alerting both the group and the young boy, whose rifle crashed to the ground alongside his half eaten bone, as he fumbled with the butt attempting to bring it to a position where he could fire at the intruder.
Some of the others realised something was wrong as the grenade bounced off the wall of the hut, landing at the base of the wall, directly in front of the older man. Who, still chewing on a piece of lamb, fat dribbling down his chin, discarded the piece of meat he was holding and grabbed for his Sten Gun, a gift from a British Soldier. He didn’t make it.
The grenade exploded.
Although partially absorbed by the two walls, as intended by Paul, to reduce the likelihood of the blast hitting Max, the eruption hit the group from the side, the explosion bursting the ear drums of the leader, the woman and the second eldest man, lacerating their exposed skin, slithers of shrapnel ripping through their clothing and digging deep into their flesh. The force of the shock wave shoved them aside, the grey haired partisan sprawling across the fire, unconscious as flames licked around him, his beard shrivelling to nothing in a fraction of a second.
Paul leapt up, machine pistol in his hand and opened fire on the group, aiming left at the three young men and teenager, who were recovering from the shock and their minor injuries, since the three elders having taken the bigger percentage of the blast. Grabbing for their weapons, a mixed assortment, one an antique, single barrelled shotgun. But they were too late as Paul’s machine gun’s fire scythed through them, cutting them down before they could aim a shot in return. He continued to fire until his magazine was empty, dropping it to the ground and slamming a fresh one back in.
He heard a shout. The young boy had recovered the sports rifle and aimed it directly at him, jabbering in his foreign tongue. The rifle was shaking as he gestured with it, the gesticulation obvious, he wanted Paul to drop his gun. Paul knew that the explosion and subsequent gunfire would have already alerted the village.
Not only was the boy’s rifle shaking, but the boy was also visibly trembling. Paul heard a groan coming from the direction of the fire. One of the partisans, although badly wounded, was able to move and was shouting something to the boy, the same word, three times. Paul didn’t understand what was being called, but he suspected it was, ‘kill, kill, kill’.
The boy raised the rifle higher, it was now pointing directly at Paul’s chest, his shaking arms been brought under control, everything in his face’s expression told Paul he was getting ready to fire. The boy’s fingers squeezed the trigger of the rifle more tightly. The wounded partisan rose up on his knees, his Lee Enfield also now aiming at Paul, he had left it too late, he had lost.
Crack!
The boy jerked as the bullet smacked into his side, the ensuing crack from the P38 pistol slamming a second round in to the boy’s chest. He toppled backwards, sprawled on the ground, blood trickling from his mouth. Paul reacted immediately, shooting the other partisan before turning to identify the location from where the shot had originated. He saw nothing. He made sure the young boy’s rifle was clear. But he was slowly dying, unable to take advantage even had the weapon been close. He would never fire a rifle again, or savour his favourite food, roast lamb, his spirit left him, his heart punctured and failing.
Paul ran across to where the rest of the group was situated, the old man now a blackened corpse, the smell of burning flesh making him gag. Some were dead, all were injured in some way, most would die soon without immediate medical aid. He ensured they were all disarmed, smashing any weapons he found to destruction against the wall.
He ran back across to check on Max, his next worry, knowing they needed to move quickly, the noise of the action was bound to have got the attention of the village. He crouched down by the still form, the pony nickering and whinnying close by. His eyes were closed, but a P 38 loose in his hand, Max had been his saviour.
“Max.”
His eyes fluttered open. He croaked an unintelligible response. Water, thought Paul, he must be in desperate need of water. He sprinted back to the wall, scouting along it until he found the items he had left there, including the water bottles. He hurried back to Max and quickly pressed the bottle to his dry, cracked lips, the water still cool as it slopped across his face, some of it making its way into his mouth. The effect was immediate. Like a wilting flower, perking up after receiving a sudden down pour of rain.
The dehydrated sergeant opened his eyes, as he attempted to guzzle the water, but choking on the attempt.
“Steady Max, there’s plenty, there’s no rush.” As he said it, he knew they would have to go soon, but Max’s need was great. He managed a quarter of a pint before Paul stopped him.
“Enough for now, eh Max? We don’t want
to overdo it. We need to move now, ok?”
Max’s pained face cracked into a flimsy grin, “Sir.”
Paul trotted over to the pony, who was shuffling nervously on his fetlocks, tugging at the reigns secured to a rock close by. Paul stroked and patted the pony’s neck and flanks, talking to it, soothing him as best he could. Although the pony’s eyes remained wild and staring, he seemed to react to Paul’s foreign voice and settled, although still a little skitty. He turned the travois round, dragged it across to the rear of the pony, and hoisted it up on to the rope loops either side, placed there by the partisans to bring Max to this place. He tied it off, checked it was secure, then made sure Max was still on-board and hadn’t slid off. He was ok, the ‘Y’ straps Paul had used to bind Max to the stretcher were holding out and his construction was keeping its integrity.
Paul took one last look around him, before hoisting his MP40 onto his shoulder. Some of the bodies near the fire were moving, the fire eerily flickering around them, beyond its radius of light, just darkness and shadows. He loosened the reigns of the pony, encouraging him forwards, pulling Max behind them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
They kept to the wall for some time; it then disappeared off to the south continuing to box in the large vineyard, now just the dark shape of the foothills his constant shadow. With the wall gone, Paul felt exposed and hurried the pony along, but slowing down again after realising that Max was getting a rough ride. The pony picked its way across the broken ground, the travois jumping as it caught on a rock or a hardy shrub. Paul looked back over his shoulder, the fire was no longer visible, and the lights of the village had long gone. He had no idea how far he was from the road or what lay in front of him, but decided that if he kept the foothills in sight it would keep him from straying too far north.
Although concerned about the effects of the journey on Max’s condition, Paul pressed on. He was torn between stopping and checking Max’s dressings and even putting on a fresh one, the last one, on the wound to his abdomen, or putting as much distance as possible between them and the village. Paul was certain that if he kept moving west, kept out of sight, he could avoid the enemy and hopefully bump into his comrades, perhaps even his own company.
A few hours on, dawn now getting to grips with the nights shadows, he scanned the area in front and around him. Not only keeping a watchful eye for enemy forces, but somewhere to stop and rest, he was desperate to close his eyes, if only for a short time. His legs were ponderous, his eyes heavy, head bowed. Paul gripped on to the mane of the pony who at times was pulling them both along.
An hour later and he spied the ideal place, a small copse above them and to their left. Perfect for hiding not only him and Max, but also the pony who had served them well. As a result of his new found, four legged friend, they had made good progress, far more than if Paul was to haul the stretcher himself.
He steered the pony towards the copse of olive and lemon trees and others he didn’t recognise, dispersed amongst a thicket, which provided ideal cover. The pony changed direction, dragging its load now up the gentle slope. Paul tethered the pony, unhooked the travois and dragged it into the centre of the cluster of trees and bushes. He then moved the pony to the northern edge, further out of sight, leaving it to pick at what little grass there was about him.
The copse was composed of a dozen trees clustered tightly together, their branches low and sweeping close to the ground, touching the dusty soil where it sloped upwards away from them towards the hills, Paul having to duck constantly. The sun was now peeking above the horizon, giving him some light to check over his charge, before the blistering heat of the day made any form of movement unbearable.
“Are you with us Max?”
His eyes fluttered open, his grimy, bristled face eased into a smile and he croaked back, “Where are... we?”
“Were back south of Rethymnon. We’ll stay here for a bit. Give me a chance to get some sleep and then scout around later.”
Max winced.
“Are you in much pain Max? I have one syringe left if you want it now.”
“Save it... maybe later.”
“Not addicted to it yet then eh? More than we can say for German beer.”
“Water?”
“Hang on Max, I’ll grab some.”
Paul rummaged around his bread bag, secured to his belt at the back, and produced a water bottle.
“Here you go. Take your time.”
Max sipped the water, slowly, still cool and refreshing.
“I owe you my life Max, again. If you hadn’t shot that boy... “
He pulled the water bottle away from Max.
“You owe me... a beer... not getting away... without paying your debts.”
“I need to look at your dressings, ok?” Max nodded his head slightly.
Paul pulled back Max’s shirt. The shoulder and chest dressing were encrusted in blood, but were both dry. He decided to leave them for now. The abdomen dressing was black with blood, although not soaking, just damp. Max had noticed Paul’s pained expression.
“I’ll be ok... sir.”
“I’m not going to move you unnecessarily Max, I’ll just lift the bottom bandage and pack a fresh one underneath.”
Max smiled. “Just... do it.”
He packed bits of kit beneath Max’s buttocks and torso, raising his body on the one side, pulling the older bandage, which had loosened these past couple of days, away from the wound. He sniffed the wound for any signs of infection, and finding none, he placed the fresh one underneath, binding the old one on top of it. Paul felt sure the rear part of the wound was the worst, but at least there was a clean bandage against it now and the old bandages would act as packing to control any bleeding. Once completed, he gave Max some more water and left him to recover from the treatment he had just doled out.
Moving to the northern edge of the copse, he looked out and scanned the terrain. They had dropped much lower than he had anticipated and he could see the coast and the sea clearly, already heavy with its blue tint as the sun’s power increased. Although he had heard the occasional gunshot during the night, there seemed to be a steady build up in the last hour or so, a fire fight was in progress somewhere to his west, not that far from here he surmised. Paul moved back slightly, positioning his back against a tree and dozed for a few hours until the intense heat of midday woke him up.
Paul was groggy with sleep and licked his dry lips, but resisted the temptation to partake in a drink of water, instead he split open a lemon he had picked earlier, sucking its bitter juice and eating the pulp, temporarily slaking his raging thirst. He felt hot, dry and drained.
Paul went back into the cover of the thicket to check on Max’s health. He looked ghastly pale, his skin almost translucent beneath the veneer of his tanned face. Rather than disturb him to give him water, he let him sleep, where at least the discomfort and pain of his wounds were put aside for the moment. Shaking the water bottles, he estimated they had two pints left between them, Max needing all of it if he was to survive the day. He would have to go out and scavenge again.
He made his way back to the edge of the copse and studied the ground in front of him. Gently sloping down, an undulating mish mash of scrub, rocks and trees and reddish earth spread out until it hit the southern outskirts of the eastern part of Rethymnon, some four kilometres away. There were a number of houses dotted about between his position and the town. Paul imprinted their positions on his internal map.
He reflected on the fact that he hadn’t take any of the roasted lamb, but the smell of burning flesh had been too much, the thought of it even now making him gag. He slumped against a tree trunk. Nervous anxiety, a constant state of alertness, lack of food and water along with the ceaseless heat was taking its toll, both on his body and his mind. He constantly worried about his men, angry with himself for deserting them, but equally glad that he was able to aid his sergeant, and friend, who would have died long ago had he not done s
o.
Looking west, he was sure he could see another gully and studying it with his binoculars he could make out the steepness of its sides. He would never get the pony and travois across that, and made the decision to move lower, further north, although this would take him dangerously close to civilisation, before picking up the trail west again. It was risky, but he had no choice.
He closed his eyes, feeling sleepy and dozed, the sun’s rays quite pleasant at the moment, its full force filtered by the canopies of the trees. He must have cat napped for half an hour before being woken with a jolt as a military vehicle screamed by on the road below. Only the top half of the truck was visible, canvas covered so he couldn’t see inside, but got a view of the khaki clad soldiers over spilling the tailgate, the inside packed to capacity, as it sped away. The truck disappeared leaving a trail of dust and blue smoke, the engine rattling, struggling with the full load and on its last legs.
Paul slipped further back into the copse ensuring he wouldn’t be seen. He saw something move. There it was again, a flash of khaki passed between the gaps in the trees that lined the road. He pulled out his binoculars and looked more closely. Allied soldiers. Bedraggled, heads bowed, weapons slung, an army in retreat. He couldn’t help the smile that cracked the firm lines of his dust encrusted face. Behind those soldiers, he knew, would be his army, the Fallschirmjager, his unit.
He watched them pass for the best part of the day, at least five hundred men, including a mixture of Greek soldiers and the occasional armed civilian. At one point they scattered into the undergrowth as a gaggle of German planes flew high overhead, bypassing the tasty target below. Paul looked up, surmising that they had already hit their target and were returning to base, or were on route to a second objective. He moved back in to the centre of the copse.
