Devils with Wings: Silk Drop

Devils with
Wings

Silk Drop

Harvey Black

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A qualified parachutist, Harvey Black
served with British Army Intelligence for over ten years. His experience ranges from covert surveillance in Northern Ireland to operating in Communist East Berlin during the cold war, where he feared for his life after being dragged from his car by KGB soldiers.

Since then he has lived a more sedate life in the private sector as a Director for an International Company, but now enjoys the pleasures of writing. Harvey is married with four children.

Copyright © 2012 Harvey Black

The moral right of the author has been
asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries

concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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This Novel is a work of fiction. Names and Characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Picture: BArch, Bild 101I-562-1172-23A / Wahner

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador
is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

To my Mum, Sylvia, and Harry

CHAPTER ONE

“Come on Paul, you can finish your letter later. You know we daren’t
keep the Raven waiting,” called Helmut, one of Paul’s fellow Company Commanders.

“Yeah, yeah,” responded Paul, frustrated at trying to correctly word his latest letter to Christa. They had met in a Maastricht hospital where Paul had ended up as a result of the injuries he received during the assault on the Belgium fortress, Fort Eben Emael. Christa, had been one of the nurses who had helped treat him and care for him during his time there. He was trying to get the tone of his letter just right, not wanting it to sound too pressing, but equally not wanting to sound too uninterested. In fact, he was desperate to see her again.

He touched the scar above his left eye, the consequence of a piece of shrapnel gouging a thin furrow from just above his left ear to his eyebrow, missing his eye by a hair’s breadth. They had stitched it well and although not invisible, the scar wasn’t unsightly. The injury to his back, although still slightly sensitive, had also fully healed.

“Oberleutnant Brand, get your arse in gear, we need to get going.”

Helmut’s shout pulled Paul out of his reverie and he jumped up out of his seat.

“Come on then, let’s get going,” said Paul, grabbing Helmut’s arm and dragging him to the exit door of the officer’s canteen.

“Hang on,” replied Helmut, “there are some cakes left over there, do you think they will be missed?”

Before Paul could answer, Helmut had grabbed two of the cakes and stuffed them into his tunic pocket.

“Food will be the death of you,” scolded Paul. “Let’s go, now.”

They left the canteen, walking through the small hallway and stepping out of the door onto the road than ran in front of the brick built barracks. Opposite them sat a further building similar in design and build.

Turning left they headed for the parade ground, where a platoon of Fallschirmjager were being put through their paces, passing two further red bricked buildings either side of them. Keeping the parade ground on their left, they headed for the battalion headquarters opposite, a similar, three storey brick building, where the battalion briefing was to occur. As they walked, they heard the marching platoon being halted and dismissed; the young Leutnant in command was also destined to attend the briefing.

As they stepped through the door of the briefing room, they were met by a wave of heat, the room stuffy and baking in the hot July, summer weather. Its clinical, white walls were unadorned, apart from a portrait of The Fuhrer, which dominated the far left wall. To the right, three tall sashed windows overlooked the parade ground they had just passed.

The small room, that had been set aside for battalion briefings, although ten metres at its widest point, was cosy to say the least, but sufficient to accommodate the Officers and senior NCOs of the Fourth Battalion, the first Fallschirmjager Regiment. The windows had been kept closed, to deter inquisitive ears, which was indicative of the importance of the meeting.

The tall windows furnished shafts of light, and dust particles glinted as they floated in the fetid air, having been disturbed by Paul and Helmut’s entrance, but slowly settling back down on the surfaces of the room. Paul surveyed the briefing area. How times had changed, he thought. A matter of months ago he would have attended a Company level briefing as a mere Platoon Commander, now he was a Company Commander in his own right.

To the left, below the portrait, was the ubiquitous six foot, wooden table, behind it, draped on the wall, a map of Great Britain, the focus of todays briefing. The initial war with England, the fight against the British Expeditionary Force in France was over. But the English were still courageously fighting a battle against the Luftwaffe. The Luftwaffe were currently bombing England, a pre requisite to a full German invasion of the solitary Island, that was now standing alone against the might of the Third Reich. Most thought the invasion would be a simple matter that could start as soon as the Luftwaffe had finished off the Royal Air Force, the RAF. German troops could then land and England would succumb quietly. Paul was not so sure, he thought they would be a tough nut to crack, and in their own country they would fight even more aggressively to maintain their independence. There were also rumours that the Luftwaffe pilots were not getting it all their own way and were sustaining high casualties.

In front of the table were a row of chairs, usually reserved for the Company Commanders and the Adjutant, Oberleutnant Kurt Bach. Two chairs were already occupied by two of their fellow officers, Oberleutnant Bauer, Two Company and Oberleutnant Hoch, Three Company. Behind the first row of hard, wooden seats, were two further tiers, currently occupied by the Platoon Commanders, sat there ahead of schedule, not wanting the be late for the Battalion Commander’s briefing. Not wanting to incur the wrath of their Company Commanders, and definitely not of the Battalion Commander, the Raven.

On the left, sat Leutnant’s Nadel, Krause and Roth, who started to stand in acknowledgment of their Company Commander’s entrance, but a quick nod from Paul allowed them to sit back down. Further to their left, the rest of the Battalion’s Platoon officers were also settling back down in their seats. On the far right of the room, ensconced on the sill of one of the two tall windows, Paul could see Feldwebel Max Grun, his Company Sergeant.

A nod in his direction was all that Paul needed for a connection to be made between them. Max’s nod said it all. The Company was ready for whatever was required of them. The Platoon Commanders would have thoroughly checked their respective unit’s readiness, on the subtle suggestion from Max. It was not only the imposing size of the stocky, ex-Hamburg Docker, that would have leant weight to his suggestions, but also his self assured presence, his knowledge and experience, honed by being involved in actions in Czechoslovakia, Poland and Belgium. Not to mention the Iron Cross Second Class ribbon and the Iron Cross First Class medal pinned to his tunic pocket. Sat either side of Max were the other company sergeants, and in front of them the platoon sergeants, it was a full house. To the right, the rest of the headquarters staff, from Clerks and Signals to Engineers and Medics.

Paul and Helmut made their way forward, taking their places on the reserved seats, acknowledging their fellow officers.

The Adjutant, who until then had been stood behind the table, walked round the front to join them, perching himself on the edge of the surface, in front of the four officers.

“The Hauptman will be along shortly, he’s had a last minute communiqué from Regimental HQ,” Bach informed them.

“Is this a follow up to the Op Sea lion briefing sir?” asked Paul.

Although they were of the same rank, Bach was the Adjutant, effectively the Battalion second in command. The day Hauptman Volkman was bumped up to Major, the slim, mousey haired officer, would follow suit and be appointed Hauptman.

“Yes, he wants to ensure we’re ready.”

“He’s been riding us for weeks sir,” interjected Paul.

“You know the Raven gentlemen, he’ll not brook any mistakes.” They all grinned.

“Will we get an update on the wider situation?”

“Yes Paul, I’m sure he will.”

“Is my leave still on the cards?”

“As far as I know, he’s not indicated otherwise.”

“Where are you off to?” enquired Helmut.

“I was thinking of spending some time at home.”

“Ah, going to see that nurse I bet,” grinned Helmut on seeing Paul blush.

The others joined in laughing at Paul’s embarrassment.

Max looked up from his conversation with Steffen Fink, the second company Feldwebel, Feld, and looked across towards the source of the laughter. He could see his young company commander blushing, and could hazard a guess he was being ribbed about Nurse Keller. He had invited Max back to Brandenburg, to stay with him and his parents on his next leave, but he had tactfully declined. He knew that Paul would be obliged to entertain him, and he didn’t want anything to distract his commander from a reunion with Nurse Keller.

Max’s thoughts were interrupted by the crashing of the briefing room door opening and the entrance of Hauptman Volkman, the Battalion Commander, preceded by Oberfeld Schmidt, the battalion senior sergeant.

“Shun,” called Oberfeld Schmidt.

The entire room rose up and brought themselves to attention, watching their commander closely as he made his way to the end of the room where the table and map were situated. They were all trying to judge his mood. The tall, immaculately dressed officer, his dark hair and hooded, deep set eyes, his prominent, almost Roman like nose that had quickly given him the nickname, The Raven, stopped in front of the table, turned and surveyed his officers that were stood in front of him. He nodded to his Adjutant and acknowledged his four most senior officers, Oberleutnant’s Brand, Bauer, Hoch and Janke, his Company Commanders. These were the officers that would lead his men into battle.

“Gentlemen.” His was voice, quite soft, but penetrating, almost school master like. “Please be seated.”

The assembled men shuffled back into their seats, or the positions they had found to perch on earlier and looked at their commander expectantly, knowing this was an important meeting. Paul and Helmut looked at each other sharing the close bond that had been formed during their Fallschirmjager training in Stendal and later in battle when their unit fought in Poland and later in Belgium.

The Raven perched on the edge of the table. He looked at each one of his Company Commanders, the intensity of his stare, making them want to look down, but resisting it, knowing he was testing their resolve. They held his gaze and he looked away from them satisfied.

“Feldwebel Grun,” he called, “have our new recruits been allocated to their respective units?”

Max jumped down from the windowsill and brought his heels together in an ear splitting crack, arms rigid by his side.

“Jawohl, Herr Hauptman.”

Max, his powerfully built frame almost bursting out of his Fallschirmjager tunic, had been tasked, in the absence of the battalion Feld, with settling in the twenty new recruits who had arrived straight from training.