Devils with Wings (39 page)

He suddenly felt tired, had an urge to sleep. He couldn’t sleep now, he had work to do. He put his hand out and rested it on Max’s shoulder.

Why was Max covered in dust? Why was Max holding him? They needed to get the troops organised, just in case there was another counterattack.

“Quick, get him down!” shouted Max, “Kempf get his upper clothes off!”

Paul felt himself being lowered to the ground. He wished he could hear what was being said, but the persistent ringing in his ears was muddying his thoughts.

Why was he lying down? Why were they stripping off his webbing and uniform?

“Where is it?” shouted Max.

“It’s at the back, turn him over.”

Max helped Kempf turn him onto his front.

His face was now resting on its right side and he could see Max was kneeling down, leaning over him.

Max leant back, resting his buttocks on his heels, as he looked at his wounded Leutnant.

Paul could see his lips working again, but like a marionette, there was no sound.

Max leant back over Paul, examining his wounds now his upper uniform had been stripped off.

A large piece of shrapnel, from the exploding shell, had struck him just below his left shoulder blade. There were numerous other small nicks that had peppered his upper shoulders and six small pieces about the size of a small coin, to the right of the larger one.

They were all taken by surprise, but no one else had been hit. It was too far away, and Paul had sheltered them from the extremities of the explosion and this one lethal strike.

Max checked him over; a small chunk of metal had gouged out a groove to the left side of his skull. Starting just above his left ear and finishing above his left eyebrow, it had left a bloody trail. It looked a mess, but Max felt sure it was not a major wound.

He returned to Paul’s back, blood oozing from the smaller wounds, but at a much faster rate from the larger wound.

“Get his field dressing,” instructed Max.

Kempf rifled through Paul’s tunic, looking for the first aid bandage. You always used theirs first, never your own, you never knew when you might need it.

Kempf found it, ripped it open and passed it over to Max, “here.”

“That chunk has to come out,” Max mouthed to himself, “I can’t stop the bleeding with that still in there.”

But how deep was it he thought, has it pierced his lungs from behind? He surmised not too deep, as Paul’s breathing, although shallow, seemed regular. All the same he leant back, grabbed Paul’s chin and checked his mouth for flecks of blood, a possible sign of a damaged or punctured lung.

It looked clear. He looked into Paul’s almost pleading eyes, “It will be alright sir, and we’ll get you sorted.

He lowered Paul’s head back down and re-examined his back, and making the decision at that exact moment, he grasped the piece of warm, jagged metal, and pulled it free, a sucking sound as the flesh suddenly released its hold.

It was about the size of a small baby’s fist, a third of it had been embedded in the Leutnant’s back. He placed the bandage, a thick pad at the centre, and covered the wound, pressing down to stop the flow of blood that had increased now that the object had been removed.

The bandage was absorbing the blood, but was quickly soaked, he needed more.

Leeb crouched down next to them, “what can I do to help?”

“Petzel has some extra dressings, get him, and be quick!”

He pushed himself up off the ground and darted off in search Petzel, and for the extra wound dressings needed, calling out to him as he ran.

He found Petzel, quickly making his request for bandages.

“Who is it,” he asked?

“It’s the Leutnant.”

“Shit, not him surely.” He rummaged around in the bag, passing two dressings to Leeb.

He quickly relieved him of the two dressings, and returned to where the Unterfeldwebel was still pressing down on the wound, the bandage now sodden with blood.

Max pulled his helmet off to better able to see what he was doing, leaving a smear of blood on his blackened face.

Leeb sank down next to them, tore the black wrapping off one of the dressings, and placed this second dressing on top of the one already in place.

Max moved his hand to the top of the new one and continued pressing down. That helped. The absorption by the additional dressing, both Max and Leeb maintaining downwards pressure, seemed to be slowing the flow of blood down.

Kempf had got hold of some rolls of bandage, and he now pushed this under the officer’s body and they slowly strapped the wound tightly, retaining the pads in place and keeping the wound protected.

Max examined the other wounds. The half a dozen fingertip sized wounds were not so deep, and the splinters were quickly removed with his gravity knife.

Paul cried out in pain, but Max held him down, he needed to get them out and clean the area. There were bits of clothing embedded in the wounds, dragged in by the shards as they penetrated his uniform.

Once done, he got some alcohol from the medical kit, which had now appeared, and started to clean around the area of the injuries.

“This is going to sting sir,” he muttered.

He felt Paul pulling away underneath him, but continued.

He bandaged these last wounds; the smaller fragments that peppered his upper shoulders would have to remain for now.

Leeb slipped his hand passed Max and jabbed Paul’s leg with an injection of morphine. “That will help,” he concluded.

Max then checked Paul’s head wound, now a mass of congealed blood. He didn’t want to touch it, not knowing the extent of the injury, so decided to bandage it and leave any examination to an aid station, or a more qualified medic who should be available once they were relieved.

He looked at Paul’s eyes, glazed over, his pupils dilated as a result of the drug just administered. He looked sleepy, and was drifting off to sleep.

Max gently placed a folded tunic under Paul’s head, “we’ve got you sorted now sir, don’t worry,” encouraged Max, “but you have to stay awake, ok?”

The ringing in his ears had settled down to a steady drone, he could now here Max’s voice, muffled though it was.

He was in safe hands, he wanted to sleep; he could sleep.

He felt the water bottle at his lips; although warm the water was refreshing. He wasn’t going to be allowed to sleep.

“We need to get him to the aid station Unterfeldwebel,” suggested Leeb.

If you could call it an aid station, a place where they just congregated the wounded so they could be watched over and administered by as few people as possible, leaving more paratroopers available for defence.

“Yes, find a ladder and we can get him there straight away.”

Leeb disappeared, returning a few moments later with one of their collapsible ladders, placing it down by Paul’s side.

Petzel had now joined them, and with Max, Kempf and Leeb, lifted their Commander onto the temporary stretcher, Paul’s groans eating into Max’s soul as they inflicted pain on his officer, his comrade, and yes, his friend.

They each took a corner, grunting in unison as they lifted up the casualty, Paul’s legs dangling over the one and a half metre section of the foldable aluminium ladder.

Max steadied Paul’s head, as they ran, or more of a hobble, to the aid station.

“We’ll get you to somewhere nice and peaceful sir, just hang on.” In between panting breaths, Max kept talking to him, keeping him informed, keeping him awake.

“I’m sure there will be nurse there to take care of you grunted Kempf,” joining in.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” added Leeb, “Sesson is as ugly as sin!”

Even though in a dream state, being badly shaken on the jolting jury-rigged stretcher, the humour of his men permeated through to his befuddled mind causing a spontaneous smile.

Max noticed the slight smirk on his face, “God Leeb, the Leutnant must be in a bad way, even he found your joke funny.”

They arrived at the aid station, basically a piece of ground sheltered by MiNord.

They lowered their Commander to the floor, lifting him off the ladder onto the ground, alongside the other wounded.

To his left was Halm, his thigh heavily bandaged, smoking a cigarette, to his right was the seriously wounded Weyer, unconscious again. Three bullet wounds and heavy blood loss, he was really in a bad way. There were three others from the other half of group granite, two with minor wounds and one, his face now covered, was dead, a rifle bullet straight through his heart.

“How’s he doing?” asked Halm

“Not good,” responded Max, “but if we get relived soon and get him some decent medical care, he should be ok. What about you?”

“Leg hurts like hell, but the bleeding is under control now.”

“Keep an eye on the Leutnant, yes?”

“Will do Unterfeldwebel, one cripple looking after another,” he said smiling.

Leeb grabbed the Unterfeldebel’s shoulder as explosions could be heard to the north west, and shellfire had re-started again to the south.

“Something is happening near Block two Unterfeldwebel, I think we should investigate.”

“We’ll take your troop and mine, it’s either another counter attack building, or maybe our relief has finally got here.”

“I’ll get the men together,” he said as he ran off to gather the two troops together.

“I’ll be with you in two,” Max called after him.

He knelt down next to Paul, pulling the extra tunic, provided to keep him warm, over the officer’s shoulders.

“We have some more business to see to sir, you’re in good hands here, Halm will keep an eye on you.”

He placed his hand on Paul’s shoulder, “you just sit tight, everything is under control and our relief must be here soon.”

Paul’s eyes flickered open and he managed a grimace.

“I’ll come with you,” he said, as he struggled in vain to get up. “God Max,” he cried out, “my back is on fire.”

“You’re not going anywhere sir, you just hang on here and we’ll get some proper medical attention as soon as we can.”

Max couldn’t wait any more, he had work to do.

It was a wrench, but he pulled himself away and ran after Leeb, seeking out the two troops who were going to investigate the sound of battle to the north.

He met up with Leeb and the other thirteen paratroopers; Halm, not with them due to his injury, who were lying in the short grass waiting his arrival.

“Right Leeb lets go.”

They skirmished forward and reaching the outskirts of Block two after only a few minutes.

There was clearly a battle raging, and the sound and smell of a flamethrower was distinctive.

Max pulled Leeb to him, “That can only be the pioneer’s.”

“I agree, we could end up in a cross fire if we’re not careful.”

“We’ve got quite a big perimeter to secure,” pondered Max.

“We’ll pull back to our perimeter and await our relief, let’s move.”

The unit pulled back to their original position and patiently waited for the pioneer’s to finish their fight and come to them.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

It was now relatively quiet, the artillery barrage had finished and the explosions around them had stopped. The Belgian troops, although still in shock, must surely be gathering themselves together to counter attack yet again and clear these paratroopers away from their fort.

Their attacks so far had failed and their casualty count had been high, for minimal loss to the paratroopers.

But, they would be determined to kill Paul and his men, along with the rest of the company. But they didn’t come. Tired, demoralised, frightened and beaten, they stayed within their fortress.

The quiet now was almost eerie, the previous hour had been filled with deafening explosions, smoke, a debris of earth, stones and shrapnel flying all around them as the Belgium soldiers desperately tried to dislodge the infiltrators who had the audacity to attack the strongest fortress in the world.

They were fairly sure that the pioneer battalion that was fighting its way to relieve them was close by.

Now, all they could do was wait. Keep alert, stay alive, but wait.

Jordan broke off a piece of dark German bread, the bread made in Leipzig, Northern Germany, and the home of Obergefrieter Whilhelm Jordan. The liverwurst was spread thickly on the bread and a slice was passed around.

Leeb asked, “Is this the liverwurst that’s sent by your Mother?”

“Yes Uffz.”

“You know its fame has spread throughout the company?”

“I don’t know about famous,” replied Jordan, “but there’s always a demand for it,” he said grinning; his white teeth showing through the dark camouflage and his dirty face.

Leeb bit into the bread and liverwurst, the aroma as well as the taste making his mouth water and his stomach groan in anticipation.

Jordan, born in Leipzig, was popular with the men and was always seen to be sharing the contents of the food parcels he received from his doting Mother, with the men of his unit. At thirty-two, he was the eldest in the platoon and apart from a few of the NCOs’ was the oldest in the company.

Max too bit in to a slice and grunted, “God this is good, fighting always makes me hungry.”

He pulled out his water bottle and took a strong gulp of water, washing down the thick, black bread and liverwurst pate and then the gently put the bottle to Leutnant Brand lips.

“Drink sir?”

“Thank you Max,” responded Paul lifting his head up slightly, supported by Max’s arm, taking an equally large drink of the now warm but refreshing water. But trying to drink too quickly, choking on the water, coughing it up, pain racking through his body as he did so. They were all dry and thirsty after over twenty-four hours of combat.

They had fortunately been re-supplied from the air, dropped additional ammunition; they were particularly short of MG34 belts, and water. The water had provided the biggest relief; all were suffering badly from a seemingly unquenchable thirst.

Max took the bottle away from Paul’s mouth and passed in on to the rest of the assembled men.

Forster piped up, “What happens now Unterfeldwebel?”

“We just wait, keep our eyes peeled. We mustn’t lose focus, although the Belgian’s seem to be defeated, it doesn’t mean they won’t make one last ditch effort to get rid of us.”