Devils with Wings: Silk Drop

by Harvey Black

  “Max, Max,” he hissed, touching his good shoulder. “It looks like the enemy is pulling back.”

  Max croaked an unintelligible reply, his condition clearly worsening.

  “Take some water, then I’m going to scout the road and suss out what is happening. Keep an eye open for our boys eh Max? They will be coming for us soon.”

  Although Max didn’t verbally respond, he did instinctively drink from the water bottle that Paul offered to him.

  Leaving Max, he went to the edge of the copse, scanning the road with his binoculars searching for signs of the enemy, or even friendly forces. There was nothing, it seemed still. Paul exited his hiding place and skirmished down to the road, less than half a kilometre away, his Fallschirm heavy on his head again, his MP40 at the ready.

  Paul found a small ditch close to the road and collapsed in to it, exhausted. The half pint of water he had allowed himself had long since evaporated, his body craving for the life sustaining liquid that he had previously taken for granted. He crawled to the edge of the road, his splinter pattern tunic helping him blend in with the undergrowth. He was now too low to see far and could no longer see Rethymnon to the north, but some six hundred metres away a large house stood in isolation and he logged it away in his mind as a possible target for later that night.

  To his immediate front a small hut, but he saw no signs of life. He looked along the road that seemed to skirt the steep gully he would need to avoid on his journey west. It was a dilemma, cross it close to the road and he risked being seen by passing vehicles, move further north and he would be too close to the approaching outskirts of the town.

  He pulled the undergrowth about him, confident that anyone walking passed, unless they deliberately studied his position and looked at him directly, would walk by without seeing him. His camouflage was tested only minutes later as an enemy unit approached from the west, at least a platoon in size. They looked like they were the tail end of the larger unit that had passed throughout the day, constantly looking over their shoulders at the invisible enemy tracking them.

  Paul gripped his MP40 tightly, in case he was discovered, pushing his face into the ground, the earthy smell of the undergrowth filling his nostrils. He need not have worried, the soldiers were too occupied with looking to their rear to worry about looking for a dishevelled Fallschirmjager in the undergrowth. They passed him by, their ammo boots clattering on the road as they shambled passed, the sound diminishing as they faded into the distance, leaving Paul alone again.

  It was four in the afternoon, light would be fading soon and he questioned whether he should stay where he was and wait for friendly forces, or head back to the copse. He was loathed to leave Max alone for long, reminiscing on what had occurred last time he had been away. But his decision was made for him as he saw movement down the road, soldiers in file either side, close to the verge, their weapons sweeping from side to side as they patrolled towards him in good order. The distinctive rimless helmet, the profile of the tunics, their confident bearing, all indicating they were Fallschirmjager.

  Paul waited until they moved closer, not wanting to startle them into thinking it was an ambush. As they got nearer, their studded jump boots scraping across the surface of the road, their eyes flicking left and right, the furthest forward scanning the undergrowth at the roadside, the scouts of the unit, searching for signs of the enemy.

  “Venus,” Paul called out. “Venus.”

  The advance party’s reaction was instantaneous, scattering to each side of the road, throwing themselves to the ground. It was only the voice that had spoken in German that held them back from spraying the ground in front of them with gunfire. One trooper was already clutching a hand grenade, ready to inflict death on any potential attackers.

  “Comet,” called the leading soldier, an Unteroffizier.

  “Show yourself, but keep your bloody arms at your side. If you have a weapon sling it.”

  Paul rose slowly from his hiding place in the undergrowth, his MP40 slung over his shoulder, his hands low and spread wide either side of his body.

  “Unteroffizier Spiegler.”

  “Gott im Himmel, Oberleutnant Brand. Where the bloody hell have you been sir? Sorry Oberleutnant, but we’ve been looking for you.”

  Paul moved closer, he had recognised the Unteroffizier as being a troop commander from Helmut’s unit.

  “Watching your back for you Uffz.”

  The Uffz grinned back. “Pardon me for saying so sir, but you look a bloody mess, are you wounded?”

  Paul looked puzzled, then looking down at his tunic and trousers realised he was not only covered in dust and grime, but Max’s blood as well.

  “No, but Feldwebel Grun is, he’s back up at that copse.”

  Spiegler turned to the paratrooper behind him. “Get Oberleutnant Janke now and Keufer.”

  He turned back to Paul. “We’ll get him out of there sir, I’ll have a medic up there sharpish.”

  His friend came striding in to view, the stocky Oberleutnant, although grimy like the rest, his square jaw was clean shaven and his arched eyebrows rose and his brown eyes twinkled as he caught sight of Paul. He clasped Paul’s shoulders with his shovel sized hands, rocking his taller comrade on his feet.

  “You look like hell Oberleutnant Brand, but it’s bloody good to see you. Don’t they have razors where you’ve been swanning? Are you hurt?”

  Paul placed his hands on Helmut’s shoulders, almost leaning on them for support. The relief of not being on his own, of Max being safe, being amongst his own again, sapped what little strength he had left.

  His friend gripped him firmer, holding him up, knowing that he may even collapse in front of them.

  “Max is wounded Helmut.”

  “How bad, where is he?”

  “Quite bad I think.”

  “Keufer is already on his way with some of the boys to fetch him down sir,” informed Spiegler.

  “Thank you Uffz. Find Feldwebel Jung and have the company in a defensive position here, I’ll talk to the platoon commanders in a minute.”

  The Uffz sped off to carry out his commander’s orders.

  “What happened Paul?

  “What about my company? Are they safe? How many got away?”

  Helmut stepped back, his friend having clearly regained some of his strength.

  “They’re in good shape. A bit shot up, like us all, but they’ve reformed.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Following behind us,” Helmut said, pointing back down the road towards the west. “About a kilometre away. They should be here within the hour. Erich’s somewhere behind them.”

  “Practically the entire battalion.”

  “Yes, apart from HQ company and the Raven, they’re still in the middle of the fighting around Hania.”

  “How’s the battle going, I’ve sort of been out of touch?” announced Paul with a smile, his whole persona relaxing in the company of his fellow soldiers and friend.

  “Got off to a sticky start, but we’ve got five Regimental Groups pushing them back. More of that later, let’s get you sorted out, you look like shit. Have you eaten recently?”

  “Some water would be good.”

  “Let’s go and get you some, we have some fresh from a cistern, should still be cool.”

  They moved deeper into the company’s position, a platoon had been positioned either side of the road, some crouching down behind the bank either side, the rest spreading out to cover their flanks, the third watching their rear. The platoon Leutnant’s acknowledged Paul with a nod. He was already a legend within the battalion having seen more action than most, but the fact he had made it back through enemy lines, carrying the company sergeant, was already adding to it, giving him the mystique of the archetypal Fallschirmjager officer.

  “I want to see my men again Helmut.”

  “I know, I understand. I’ve already sent a runner back to let them know you are
alive, that should quicken their pace.”

  Just then a panting pony trotted along the roadway, its hooves clip clopping, the paratroopers accompanying it pulling it to the side where Helmut had set up a temporary company HQ for himself.

  Keufer acted immediately, instructing the troopers close by to lift the unconscious sergeant off the travois and on to the hard packed ground on the side of the road. The soldiers worked quickly, but carefully, not wanting to jolt their wounded comrade.

  Under instruction from Keufer, the soldiers got busy. Some went to fetch water, others erected a make shift shelter, made of branches and ground sheets, to protect him from the rays of the sun, which although slowly descending into dusk, still had enough glare and heat to make the patient uncomfortable.

  Keufer hacked away at Max’s tattered and blooded clothing exposing the badly stained dressings. He stabbed him with a syringe and started to pat his face gently.

  “Feldwebel, Feldwebel.”

  Max’s eyes cracked open slightly and Paul made to go over and talk to him, but was held back by his friend.

  “Leave Keufer to work on him, Max is in good hands.”

  Max groaned and the medic beckoned one of the soldiers forward with water, who proceeded to administer sips whilst the medic tended to his wounds. The medic cut away the dressings with a pair of scissors, exposing their blue-black hue, the lower one at the back looking angry and inflamed, puss oozing from it.

  Keufer produced some clean rags from his bag, soaked them in a bowl of water containing an antiseptic solution and proceeded to wash the wounds. His approached seemed rough after Paul’s more gentle approach, but Keufer obviously felt it necessary to clean the wounds well, even if it meant rubbing hard. He seemed confident in what he was doing and worked fast. He picked out bits of debris and lint’s of uniform from the depths of the wounds, cutting away any flesh he was sure was now dead, then wiping the wounds again thoroughly. Max groaned, but a smile filtered across his face in his delirium.

  Having cleaned the wounds meticulously, and with the help of the soldiers nearby, the medic rolled him on to his side and put a few stitches in the larger wound. After smearing it with an anti-inflammatory and antiseptic ointment, he bandaged him carefully, packing the wounds tightly and binding them with layers of gauze, particularly the wound to his side, wrapping it round and round his stomach. Once finished, he did the same with the upper wounds and rubbed his hands in satisfaction at his work. Paul walked over now Keufer had clearly finished.

  “Well, how is he?”

  “His shoulder and chest should be ok sir, providing he isn’t moved too much, and will heal eventually and apart from a few scars will be ok,” he answered washing his hands in the small bowl of water. “But the lower wound is a bit of a mess, it looks like the bullet may have shattered on entry and has torn a hole in his side. I don’t know if there is any more debris left inside, he needs to be in a hospital for anything else to be done. I’ve put some stitches in, but too much movement and they could tear.”

  “I’m ok... sir... feeling better... already.”

  Paul crouched down.

  “You’re in good hands Feldwebel Grun, Max, so no lip to the staff right?”

  Max’s right arm rose steadily and he gripped Paul’s arm with it. Even in his dehydrated, weakened state, he could still feel the power in Max’s grip.

  “Thank you... sir. Without you... I would have been... in dockyard heaven.”

  “It’s no more than you would have done for me my friend. I’ll leave you in Keufer’s capable hands, the company is on its way in and I dread to think what state they’ll be in without the company sergeant keeping them in line.”

  Max made to lift his head, Paul gently held him down.

  “I’ll sort them Max, you rest for now. You can make sure they’re all ship shape when you return, ok.”

  Paul stood up and turned to Keufer. “What now?”

  “We’ll keep him as comfortable as we can sir, and pump him full of fluids and wait.”

  “Wait for what?” asked Paul impatiently, not happy with Keufer’s laid back response.

  “Until Rethymnon is taken and we can get them all in to a hospital there.”

  Helmut pulled Paul back, recognising the signs of his impatience getting the better of him.

  “We’re going to set up a joint base camp here, if you’re in agreement, collect all our wounded together centrally and wait for further orders.”

  “What are your orders so far?”

  Soldiers milled around them, setting up defence positions. A troop had dug shell scrapes either side of the road, their arcs of fire to the east, the other two troops from each platoon had spread out across the flat ground for at least two hundred metres either side. MG34s were being set up on the extreme flanks, their muzzles sniffing out for any sign of the enemy, ready to meet them with a hail of fire. Helmut’s third platoon were covering the rear, with one troop scouting further east looking for signs of the enemy returning, in the centre his mortar troop, ready to fire in a three hundred and sixty degree arc if necessary. Away to their north the eastern outskirts of Rethymnon, to their south the copse Paul and Max had used to hide in overlooked them.

  The walking wounded were being led to the new casualty collecting station a hundred metres off the road and positioning recognition flags about the area and on the building’s roof, warning the Luftwaffe of their presence.

  “Our orders, yours included, are to sit tight and wait for the big push to come to us. We’re pretty low on ammunition and other supplies. In fact, we only have enough ammunition to put up a token defence.

  “What happened to my company after we’d been hit?”

  “They were pulling back in good order. You chose the right moment to get them out of there. You were in the middle of a full scale British counter attack.”

  “Go on, go on.”

  “Well, they were rattling through the ammunition. Even using it sparingly, they gave a good account of themselves.”

  “Where did you catch up with them?”

  “We heard the fire fight first and were pretty sure it was you, so headed east as fast as we could to come and assist. They had pulled back as far as the north of Adele, in good order, a platoon at a time. They had practically a full battalion on their heels.”

  “Excuse me sir, we’ve got a platoon covering the road and one protecting the casualty station, where do you want mine?” asked the handsome, oval faced young Leutnant, helmet off showing his, short, dark stubbly hair. A deep brown like Helmut’s, so dark it could be mistaken for black. He looked at his commander and Paul with unhidden admiration.

  “I also want your men close to the medical centre Aldrec, but put one of your troops back along the road, say about one hundred metres and one at the other end. Make sure they keep a look out for Oberleutnant Brand’s men, they’ll be along within the hour. Understood?”

  “Yes sir,” and turning to Paul said, “and glad to see you and the Feld back with us sir.” With that he left to carry out his duties.

  “You and Max are getting quite a reputation for yourselves Paul.”

  “I’d prefer to get that reputation some other way, things could have gone smoother,” he responded with a wry grin.

  “What are you on about? As far as HQ are concerned, particularly after they interrogated some prisoners, you guys have caused the enemy mayhem. The Allied command thought there was a full battalion poking around in the foothills and diverted troops to dig you out.”

  “What happened to the unit we ambushed on... not sure when now. When was it? What day is it today?”

  “It’s the 24th today,” chided Helmut slapping his friend on the back. “You mean the one you caught napping on top of the gully?”

  “Yes, they headed north.”

  “We got there just as they did, so we didn’t have time to set up an ambush, but we still hit them hard and they headed north east as fast as they could
.”

  “What about my company, you hadn’t finished?”

  “Yes, as I was saying. They pulled back north of Adele holding off the Allied attack and one from the Greeks that had poured out of the town, so we hit the Greek Army and both company’s pulled back in good order.”

  “I saw some of our men in the town.”

  “Your men? Who?”

  “I meant Fallschirmjager, I couldn’t see who they were, it was too dark. But it looked like they had been stabbed repeatedly.”

  “Scheisse,” exclaimed Helmut. “We have three men missing. Bastards, wait till I get my hands on those Greek scum. There have been a few reported instances of soldiers being mutilated by civilians, or partisans as they like to call themselves. What were you doing in the town anyway?”

  “Getting some water, we were craving for water, so I had no choice. How many losses in my company?”

  Helmut turned round, hearing the stomp of boots behind him.

  “They’ll be able to tell you themselves, here they are.”

  Paul turned and followed his gaze and could see Leeb’s troop out in front, Fessman, his wiry frame, leading the way. Compared to the rest he looked fresh and fit, he had a knack for always being clean shaven, his uniform always well turned out, even in battle. The others looked hot, dusty and sweat stained. Fessman walked up to him, his normally laid back, seemingly unemotional approach pushed to one side as his face beamed at seeing his company commander. His hawk like eyes examined Paul, his face seeming even more pinched through days of combat and restricted rations and water.

  “Wondered when you would turn up sir,” he said shaking Paul’s hand, “but it’s bloody good to see you.”

  He turned to his grinning troop who had gathered round them, Helmut slipping back from the group, leaving Paul alone to reunite with his men, who were unquestionably pleased to see him. He ordered one of his men to run and fetch the platoon commanders and within a matter of minutes, Paul had his three platoon commanders stood in front of him along with the rest of the company, all patting his back, cracking jokes about he and the Feldwebel being on Urlaub, holiday, nipping down to the coast for a bit of swimming. It slowly dawned on the group that the giant Feldwebel was not there and the joy turned to questions regarding the whereabouts of their company sergeant.