Devils with Wings: Silk Drop (34 page)

“Sorry Max, I need to get you sorted so we can get out of here.”

“S’alright sir... have you... any water?”

“Hang fire for a few minutes more, let me get these wounds fixed up first.”

He scrabbled around in Max’s pockets until he found what he was looking for, a couple of first field dressings, wrapped in the distinctive black, rubberised fabric. Each man was supposed to carry a large and small field dressing, but Max insisted that each trooper carried an additional large one on him. Unwrapping it, he eased it under Max’s waist, pushing the dressing as far as he could, reaching around the other side and pulling it through the rest of the way. Once done, he gently manoeuvred the thick pad until it was directly beneath the wound and tied it off.

Tearing open a second bandage he repeated the process, this time packing it with pieces of Max’s shirt he had cut into squares earlier, for extra absorbency, then winding it round Max’s body twice, before finally tying it off. Now some direct pressure had been applied to the wound, Paul hoped it would stop, or at least slow down, the bleeding. He padded and bandaged the front of the wound, wrapping layer after layer of crepe around his body until he was satisfied it was well bound and wouldn’t slip off.

He severed Max’s ‘Y’ straps and cut away part of his upper tunic so he could get at the second wound. The hole, again the size of a man’s thumb, with a slightly raised edge all round, was a black, blue in colour and oozing blood. After exploring further, he failed to find the exit wound at the back of the shoulder blade. Worried that the bullet may still be inside, he cut away more clothing desperate to find an exit wound.

“Got it.”

“Sir... what?”

“It’s ok Max, nearly finished patching you up.”

Just below Max’s pectoral muscle was the exit point he was looking for. It looked similar to the entry wound, only slightly bigger, blood running down his hot, dry, pale skin. The bullet must have struck a bone in his shoulder, thought Paul, and was then deflected, traveling down his chest and exiting out of the front. He felt sure it had missed Max’s left lung, his breathing, although slightly laboured, was steady and there was no coughing or blood and froth coming from his mouth. Paul smiled to himself, thanking someone for small mercies.

This time he used his own large dressing and Max’s small one to bind his shoulder and chest. Max groaned again. Now Paul was satisfied that he had stopped the bleeding, in the short term at least, he could focus on Max’s other needs. He rummaged through his bread bag where he knew Max kept some morphine. Finding it quickly, he administered the injection, pushing into Max’s muscled upper thigh, his eyes widening slightly as it went in, licking his dry lips, beads of sweat starting to form on his brow beneath his Fallschirm.

He gently eased off Max’s helmet, pushing his bread bag beneath his head to act as a pillow as he lowered his head back down. Next he opened his canteen of water, sloshing it around, gauging how much was left. He checked Max’s as well, half a canteen each, about two pints of water between them. He raised the canteen to Max’s lips, tilting it slowly, allowing Max to control how much he drank, even so the flow was faster than Max’s dry, constricted throat could swallow and he coughed and choked, water running down his cheeks and chin.

Paul suddenly removed the canteen, vigilant, listening for any indication that Max’s coughing had alerted anyone close by. It was relatively quiet in the dip of the Wadi, although distant gunfire could be heard along with the occasional louder crash of a tank round being fired, then a lone mortar bomb exploding. Richter, although rationing his ammunition, was still dishing out punishment to the enemy.

He turned back to Max and whispered, “Has the morphine helped Max?”

He glazed eyes wrinkled as he smiled, though slightly sunken in his blackened, but paled face. His voice crackled, “Just the job... sir... you need... to go, come... back later.”

“I’m getting you out of here Feldwebel Grun,” he whispered back with a grin. “Or I’ll put you on a report for being absent without permission.”

He gave Max another sip of water and gulped a mouthful himself, concerned how little they had, wishing he had replenished his bottle from the company stocks earlier. They would have to be careful. He checked the dressings again, the shoulder and upper chest one still dry, but blood was already showing through on the lower wound.

“Max, I’m going to have a scout around, so stay quiet and I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

Paul crawled backwards out of the undergrowth, quickly turning round on himself and scanning the base of the Wadi, it was clear. The wadi was only some twenty metres across at its widest point and the sides quite shallow, just above head height. He scooted across the floor of the Wadi and scrambled up the western side, MP40 at the ready, and peered over the top, rivulets of red soil and stones filtering passed him, back into the Wadi.

Pulling his binoculars from their case, shielding the lenses, preventing any reflections giving his position away, he studied the horizon in front of him. He could see a group of Allied troops about three to four hundred meters away, at least a company in size advancing towards Wadi Piggi, where he hoped his men were holding up. He felt a pang in his chest, wishing to be with them now, leading them in the battle and to eventual safety. For a split second he had the ridiculous thought of attacking the enemy from behind, distracting them from their task, but knowing how absurd the idea was, leaving himself dead and Max to die out here alone.

He viewed their hideaway. It was good cover, but wouldn’t stand up to close scrutiny. He couldn’t see Max, his splinter pattern tunic, Paul had pulled back over him before he left, camouflaged him well, but he did see a glint of metal. It could be Max’s MP40, magazines or water bottle. He would hide them on his return, but he had already decided they needed to move from this location if they were to avoid capture. He looked east, but no sign of anyone or thing.

He returned to the bottom of the dry channel and scurried south until he arrived at the metalled road, some two hundred metres away from their hideout. It was a single lane road, wide enough for one vehicle to transit. If it met another vehicle coming the other way, one of them would have to pull on to the roadside to let the other pass. A concrete culvert supported the road across the Wadi, a possible hiding place he considered, but it was too obvious.

He heard a crunching sound on the road to his left and observed a least a dozen soldiers making their way towards him, their tanned legs showing they’d been in this theatre for a while. Their slouch hats and confident stance as Australians marched towards the culvert, more reinforcements to take on his beleaguered troops. He ducked down as they got closer, the hobnailed boots tramping over the culvert, a hollow thump beneath where Paul was hidden, pointing out their progress as they crossed over. Once the sound faded, he peered over the top of the culvert again, watching the sway of their backs as they doubled away to support their fellow soldiers.

Half crouching, he ran back down the Wadi, searching for the props he would need to get Max back to friendly territory and safety. By the time he returned to their temporary camp he had acquired two lengths of wood, one a branch lying on the ground from a broken tree and a second he had torn down himself.

Arriving back, he crawled through the undergrowth and immediately checked on Max, whose skin was hot, his body not having enough liquid to give up as sweat to cool him down. His eyes fluttered open and Paul prised is mouth open gently, squeezing a piece of water soaked shirt above him, the drops of water moistening his lips, most of it making its way into his mouth. Max licked his lips, glad of the refreshing, if not cool, water on his mouth and tongue, that until then had felt furry and too large for his mouth.

“You ok to take a few sips from the bottle Max?”

“Yes... I’ll... give it a try.”

He placed his hand behind Max’s head, lifting it slightly, a white line across his forehead where his helmet had protected him from the burning sun, and placed the neck of the bottle to his lips, the metal top clinking against his teeth. He reached up to take a drink, crying out in pain as he disturbed his wounded shoulder.

“Stay still Max, I’ll tip the bottle, you just sip it slowly.”

After a few drops, Paul lowered his head back down and made him as comfortable as he could.

“I need to use your tunic Max. I’ll cut what I need off you, but I will need to move you. You’ll have to grit your teeth I’m afraid.”

Although the morphine was easing the pain, putting Max into a relaxed state, any sudden movement caused Max to cry out. His side just throbbed at the moment, but Paul felt there was the greater risk of blood loss if the wound opened up again. He sliced the sleeves off Max’s tunic, then cut them down their length, allowing him to remove them with as little discomfort to Max as possible. He would use them later. He also cut into the top of the tunic, freeing his arms completely, nothing holding the tunic to Max’s body other than his weight on top of it. Paul flattened it out completely and placed the two lengths of wood on top of the tunic, either side of Max’s body, wrapping the edges around them. Using strips he had cut from the sleeves and punching holes in the material with his knife, he bound the tunic to the two poles.

Max spoke through gritted teeth. “You’re time... in the RDD... wasn’t entirely wasted... sir.”

Paul looked sideways and smiled. “This is what makes the difference between and officer and an ex-docker Max”

His eyes closed, just that small effort exhausting him. He dozed quietly. Paul checked his pulse, it was slow but regular, and the steady rise and fall of his chest indicating that his breathing wasn’t impaired. He continued binding the poles, the full length of the tunic, a travois slowly forming. He discarded what kit they wouldn’t need, cut a square of material from his own shirt to drape over Max’s exposed head and face, then he strapped Max to the improvised stretcher as best he could, using the leather ‘Y’ straps that Max no longer needed.

He leant over his friend. “Right Max, I’m going to try and get us both to the other side of the road, this stretch of the Wadi could get too busy.”

Max opened his glazed eyes, but said nothing, thirst and delirium making him oblivious to events. Paul stood up, slowly, in the centre of their cover, ducking his head slightly due to the low branches and resting his hand on the trunk to steady him, listening for any sounds of movement about them. Apart from the distant fire fight and Max’s laboured breathing, all was quiet. He wasted no more time, and striding through the cover, he picked up the two extended poles above and either side of Max’s head, grunting at the dead weight as he did so.

The shout was sudden and clear and not a moment too soon, Paul dived back into the undergrowth crashing down by the side of Max as he heard other voices. They were English, not German. He heard the owners of the voices slither down the side of the Wadi, egging each other on to join in the fight, running centimetres away from their hiding place. Paul froze, quickly slipping his hand over Max’s mouth as he moaned. A soldier stopped, stared at the spindly olive tree, but suddenly knocked aside by one of his fellow soldiers as he rushed passed, what had stopped him forgotten as he shot off after them.

Waiting five minutes until all was quiet again, Paul picked up his burden and walking backwards, centimetre by centimetre, Paul heaved Max’s body from the undergrowth, flattening the plants as he did so. Once they were clear of the covered patch, Paul adjusted his position so he was facing forwards, grasped the poles again and step-by-step dragged the travois and ninety kilogram load towards the culvert that supported the road across the Wadi.

He reached it twenty minutes later, his arms aching, almost pulled out of their sockets, tendons stretched and painful, but they had made it. But, it would get harder. The culvert was only just above chest height. He dithered. Should he try and haul his charge up the sides of the Wadi and cross the road, or manoeuvre him under the culvert? He decided on the latter, they would be less exposed.

Paul lowered Max down gently, next to one of the arches of the culvert and lay down under the overhang facing him. Then, bit-by-bit, he steadily dragged the Travois through the opening, shade and coolness beneath a welcome relief after the fiery sun they had left behind. After ten minutes of strenuous exertion, they were through to the other side. After a few more minutes of exploration, Paul had found a shallow depression on the western side of the Wadi, where he could haul Max to the top to continue their journey.

Having arrived at the right place, he ran to the top, checked all was clear, slid back down, hoisted up the two poles and step-by-step, heaved his hefty load to the top, feeling utterly drained when he finally made it.

He rested for a few moments, checked Max’s condition was stable, then turned at an angle, south west, where he was sure the ground dipped down, hiding them, before climbing again back up into the upper foothills. He crouched down, gripped the poles, hoisted them up and heaved the travois forwards. He slowly gained momentum, leaning forwards, with his head and shoulders bent, gradually gaining speed as the lower end of the poles scraped two lines across the uneven ground. He estimated he would be at the dip within the hour, but he was far too optimistic. Snaking around the larger ruts and rocks, passing mini craters, the distance had been doubled. Looking back, he could see the twin lines criss crossing the uneven ground. It had taken him nearly three hours.