Devils with Wings: Silk Drop (30 page)

“Down, down, don’t move.”

At the same time he raised his karbine in his right hand signalling the column to halt.

Paul, Max and Leeb quickly made their way to the front of the file.

“What is it Uffz?” asked Leeb crouching down next to him.

“There sir,” he said pointing to the ground about two long strides in front of them, “a trip wire.”

“I can’t see anything.”

“Neither can I,” said Paul. “You’ve got good eyesight Uffz.”

He turned to Max. “I want Leutnant Roth watching our back and Leutnant Nadel to put a troop out either side of our line of march. They would have opened up by now had they seen we’d discovered their trap, but I still want the area secured.”

Max shot off to carry out his orders and after closer scrutiny Paul and Leeb were able to make out the very small stretch of trip wire that was barely visible passing across a bare patch of grass, its green colour blending in well with the surrounding blades.

“How the hell did you pick that out?” exclaimed Leeb, who even now lost sight of it if he turned away for too long.

“The benefits of being an ex-poacher,” informed Max who slid back down beside them. “Troops are moving into position sir.”

“If you were going to put down a trip wire sir, it would be the most obvious place, most of the track has been bare up to this point. There’s also good cover each side.”

“Can you deal with the trip Uffz?”

“I’ll do it sir,” interrupted Max. “It’ll be good to keep my hand in.”

“You sure Feld?” asked Leeb

“Yes sir.”

“Are sure Max,” added Paul

“I’ll sort it.”

“Right we’ll leave you to it. Ernst, move the men back thirty metres.”

Max handed Fessman his MP40, helmet and stripped off his Y straps and any other items he wouldn’t need. He took his P38 from his holster.

“I’ll hang on to this though,” he said, tucking his pistol into his belt.

“Take it easy Max,” warned Paul. “We can always go round.”

“Oberleutnant’s Janke and Fleck wouldn’t thank you if they blundered into it.”

“Good point Max, but be careful.”

“Take it slowly Feld,” advised Fessman

Paul and Fessman pulled back to join the rest of the unit leaving Max to study the ground ahead of him. To the right of the trip wire the grasses were much higher, interspersed with small yellow and purple flowers. To his left, a jumble of rocks and a large purple plant, like nothing he had ever seen before. It was the size of a man’s head, a velvety, purple, lolling tongue with an even darker protuberance coming from the centre, the flower backed by a ring of large green leaves, the trip wire disappearing behind it.

He lowered himself to the ground, creeping forwards until his face was millimetres from the green trip wire. He looked along the wire, tracking it with his eyes until he could see the end where it was tied off to a thick stalk of a shrub. He could see nothing else around it. He moved gently to the left, even more cautiously now he knew where the device was likely to be. He peered around the purple plant, the sun beating down on him, its rays burning into his exposed skin through his short cropped fair hair, now without a helmet to shield it. Sweat was pooling along his back as he reached out with his left hand and gently pulled aside the plant’s leaves, exposing the device.

It was a simple mechanism — a tin can wedged between two rocks, inside a grenade had been lodged. Its pin had been removed, but in the confines of the tin, the lever arm couldn’t be released. Had Fessman’s lead scout kicked the ankle high trip wire, it would have dislodged the British Mills grenade from the can, allowing the spring loaded arming lever to be released, forcing the firing pin to strike the percussion cap and exploding the grenade. Depending on whether it was a four, four and a half or a seven second fuse would have dictated who in his troop would have been injured or killed. With the longer fuse, Fessman and his lead scout would have been a dozen paces away when it exploded, targeting those in the middle of the patrol.

Max saw a glint in the undergrowth, it was the pin that had been discarded after being taken out of the grenade. He picked up the pin, careful not to dislodge the trip wire and grenade, and placed it down in front of him. Gripping the wire with his right hand, his heart thumping in his chest, his left hand hovering above the tin, he gently eased the Mills bomb out grasping it tightly before the lever arm could be released. He held the grenade tightly, his lungs sucking in air as he had been involuntarily holding his breath for the whole time he was making the trap safe. He buried his face in to the ground waiting for his breathing to slow down and his heart beat to settle before he re-inserted the pin and made the Mills bomb safe.

He got up, wiping the sweat pouring off his brow and running into his eyes, placed the grenade in his pocket, thinking it may come in handy, and turned towards his comrades showing a thumbs up. He was joined by his company commander who slapped him on his back.

“Well done Max, what was it?”

He pulled the grenade from his pocket. “An English egg sir, hard boiled and still intact,” he said with a grin.

“Just something left to hold us up, not part of any larger scheme.”

Paul looked at his watch, they had less than an hour to get to the resupply point which was still a Kilometre away. He turned round and signalled the company to continue its advance, the two troops on the flanks collapsing back in on the line of march. Max donned his equipment, congratulations and compliments winging their way in his direction and the unit resumed its fast pace east.

They arrived at the chosen location thirty minutes before the scheduled drop time. Recognition markers were laid out and the company set up in an all-round defence. The site chosen was to the north of the track, a flat piece of ground covered in a short layer of grass and a scattering of shrubs. A pillar of smoke was spewing upwards somewhere between Hania and Rethymnon, the battle for the island continuing. All they had to do now was wait.

Bergmann had been in communication with Regimental Headquarters and they verified the drop was still on, albeit running late by up to ten minutes. After a twenty minute wait, they heard a steady drone to their west, parallel to them, the change in the tone indicating they were swinging east to fly over the drop zone. Shielding their eyes they searched for the first signs of the aircraft, the forty plus degree heat causing the horizon to shimmer, distorting all they could see.

“There,” pointed out Leeb, “three of them, they’re starting to drop down.”

The three Junkers were in an arrow formation, slowly descending to the correct height for dropping their loads, on a heading that would take them on a route directly in front of Paul’s unit, on target for a perfect drop. The droning grew more forceful the nearer the planes got, eventually thundering by Paul’s small force, two Mischlast Abwurfbehälter, wooden drop containers, with seven hundred kilogram payloads, dropped from the two outer aircraft and four steel drop canisters fell from the lead plane.

The aircraft flew so low, the paratroopers could see the pilot’s heads silhouetted against their cockpits and waved to them, a link with other German combatants, a much needed reminder that they were not on their own. The chutes deployed and the containers swayed as they were gently lowered towards the ground to land a few hundred metres away from the paratroopers waiting expectantly.

Even before the Junkers had started their climb in preparation to bank towards the north and return back to base, the designated Fallschirmjager were up on their feet, racing across the open ground to recover the containers and their contents. Although fairly confident that the enemy were not in the immediate vicinity, they still didn’t want to take any chances. The low flying aircraft may have attracted unwanted attention. With wheels attached to the canisters and the wooden containers unloaded, the supplies were dragged quickly back to the track and the contents checked. Ammunition belts for the MG34s, rounds for the MP 40s and Kar 98Ks were found, along with rations and supplies of water. No mortar bombs had been dropped, they would have to suffice with the ten rounds per tube left.

They distributed the ammunition and rations between the troops, any residual items were left in the wheeled canisters and taken along with them. There was surplus machine gun ammunition and water, although the water wouldn’t last long, each man was consuming at least four litres of water a day.

Paul looked around his command. Max directing the men, allocating the supplies fairly across the unit, ensuring all had an equal amount of ammunition to carry, cracking jokes with the troopers.

“How long do you need Max?”

“Ten minutes tops sir. I’ve dished out the water but it isn’t going to last us long.”

“We’ll keep our eyes peeled for a suitable village or water source on route.”

“Right sir, heat exhaustion won’t take long to appear in this heat if we don’t.”

Max then drove the company even harder to ensure they met the target time, he knew his commander was anxious to move on.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The unit reassembled in line of march and continued along the snaking track, picking up speed as they settled back in to a rhythm. After two hours they came to a small village and took a break, taking the opportunity to scout for water. The occupants appeared to have evacuated the village. There were no
enemy soldiers to be seen, but evidence left, like empty ration tins, the odd .303 cartridge, showed they had been there at some point during the last couple of days. A check was made for booby traps, the memory of the one they had nearly stumbled into earlier still fresh in their minds.

Paul allowed his men a fifteen minute break, the company straddling the track that continued east, staking its claim across the base of the low foothills. His men were clustered together in small groups, seeking what shade they could from the burning sun, the temperature soaring well above forty degrees, the soldiers baking in their European theatre uniforms, soaked from the forced march they had just completed. Helmets had been removed, relieving them of their weight for a few precious minutes, but many replacing them as the searing heat burnt into their exposed skin. Some of the olive skinned members of the unit were so dark now, they could have easily passed for one of the locals. Until they spoke that is.

The pale faced Roth on the other hand, had suffered badly, the top of his nose refused to go brown, but stayed bright red as it burnt that little bit more each day. Once he and Max had overheard some of the troopers humming ‘Rudolf mit der roten nase’. Roth had turned round sharply, but the troopers quickly stopped and the Leutnant scanned the assembled men trying to establish the culprit or culprits. Both of them had turned away, desperately trying to hide their grins at the discomfort of the red nosed officer. It was not meant maliciously, he was a popular officer with the men and the fact that they had gone out of their way to bait him, was proof of that. He was probably the only paratrooper to have kept his tunic sleeves rolled down, to protect the delicate skin of his very white arms. Max on the other hand, olive skinned, looked like a piece of burnished oak.

The first round struck the trunk of the spindly olive tree that Max and the three platoon NCOs were sheltering under, shattering the silence and splintering the wood causing a sliver of trunk to peel away engulfing the men in its foliage. The rest of the bullets stitched eight rows across the open ground as the browning machine guns hammered the rounds out, ripping furrows into the earth, smashing any rocks they encountered, ripping into a paratrooper, killing him instantly.

The Hurricane roared as it shot passed them at a little above tree top height, shaking the ground beneath them, filling their senses with a its thundering roar. The shadow swept over them and the pilot, who had overshot his target, pulled back on his stick, throttle fully forward, his aircraft oscillating as it screamed in to a climb, its Merlin engine at full power.

“Take cover,” screamed Max, not that anyone needed any encouragement to get out of sight of the fighter plane that was already banking round for a second go at the Fallschirmjager scattering below it, two ominous bombs slung beneath its wings.

The pilot finished his turn and pushed the aircraft into a dive again, the wooden, two bladed, fixed pitch propeller, spun by the one thousand horsepower merlin engine, quickly brought the Hawker Hurricane to a speed of over two hundred miles an hour.

The paratroopers scurried around below, seeking what cover they could, some hiding behind trees with more robust trunks, others finding dips in the ground. The sound of an MG34 could be heard, the barrel resting on a low hanging branch as the gunner pumped as many rounds as he could in the direction of the enemy aircraft.

The pilot peered down, searching for targets before he hit the firing button on his control stick, knowing his two and a half thousand rounds of ammunition, with a rate of fire of over a thousand rounds a minute, gave him a little over two seconds of continuous fire. Keeping his bursts short and on target was essential. But, it was all incidental. His concentration was such that the first he knew of the Messerschmitt bf 109, were the 7.92mm rounds from the German’s wing guns and engine mounted cannon, ripping through his fabric covered wings and finding their way to his engine. Oil splayed across his canopy blinding him as he frantically threw the plane from side-to-side to escape the murderous fire. The German fighter peeled off to escape the spray of oil that was threatening to also smother his canopy, banking round to get into position for a second attack.