Devils with Wings: Silk Drop (37 page)

He felt the gentle breeze again against his cheek and could see the dog sniffing the air. He felt sure the dog’s nose would be overpowered by the scent of the roasting goat or lamb, which was slowly being turned on a makeshift wooden skewer above the red flames of the fire. He was down wind, and so long as the orientation of the air currents did not shift, he felt safe from the dog’s innate sense of smell.

He studied the band in front of him, flames from the fire flickering eerily over their faces and clothing. From what he could see, there seemed to be eight of them. A young boy, aged anywhere between the age of fourteen and seventeen, was turning the skewer, hot fat dripping onto the flames, causing the fire to flare and the boy to flick his head back in case he got splattered by the hot oil. He was deep in concentration on this clearly important task. The rest, bar one, who was acting as sentry, were sat with their backs to the wall, talking and sharing a bottle of wine that was passed up and down the line. There was another young boy, nearest him, three men in their twenties, an older man, heavily bearded, wearing a sleeveless sheep or goatskin jacket to keep out the cold. He wasn’t sure about the sixth, but was certain it was a woman, perhaps the instigator of the high pitched laugh he’d heard earlier. She was the furthest away, close to the wall of the hut. Standing opposite, but apart from them, stood a man in his forties, a Lee Enfield Rifle resting in the crook of his two arms.

He heard a groan coming from the other side of the sentry, it was then Paul could make out a small pony, next to a bundle on the ground. The sentry strolled over to the pony, stroked its flanks, then strode over to the bundle on the ground and kicked it, cursing something in his native tongue, something Paul didn’t understand. Paul cursed beneath his breath, it had to be Max. For a fraction of a second, he considered jumping up, opening fire and killing them all. But came to his senses and sidled along the wall until he was certain they wouldn’t be able to see him, and considered what his next action would be.

Max’s rescue was imperative, Paul had no idea what state he was in, or what they may have done to him. Max would be dangerously dehydrated by now, his wounds making matters worse, his lack of water complicating matters still further, a vicious cycle. He thought back to the three Fallschirmjager bodies he had seen in the grove, in the village. Suppressing his anger, he thought through his options. He needed a clear head, needed to think rationally, his and Max’s life depended on it.

He edged back along the wall. If he stood up, the top of the wall would be level with his upper arms, so it provided him with good cover. He checked nothing had changed and apart from the sentry now sitting with the main group, replaced by the young boy, someone else, the woman, now tending to the sizzling meat, all was the same. They seemed completely relaxed and the bottle was still being passed from one to another, so he returned to his original position. Paul shook his weary head, desperate to clear it of any clutter.

He tried to make out Max’s form again, if it was him, but it was too dark to see anything other than the outline of the pony. Then moving east along the wall, built up of randomly shaped rocks and stones, layered to form a barrier that protected the vineyard, he got to a position that was suitable for what he had in mind. He was now well away from the group and more importantly, out of earshot. As a result of the fire being directly in front of them, the glimmering flames would not only inhibit their night vision, but its reddish glow would prevent them seeing much beyond the position of the pony.

He discarded his water bottles and any other unnecessary items. They wouldn’t be needed and would potentially restrict his movement, or make a noise catching against something. He lowered himself onto his hands and knees and slowly moved in an arc across the rough ground, gritting his teeth as he jarred his knee on a sharp rock, the pain lancing up his thigh. He waited until the pain rescinded to a mere throb and continued forwards, constantly glancing left, tracking his position and progress against the light of the fire and keeping a watchful eye out for movement amongst the group.

Paul stopped to catch his breath, water still sloshing around inside his stomach from when he had gorged himself. Now he had been partially rehydrated, sweat poured down his face and back. He didn’t stop for long, the chilled air quickly gripping his body in its embrace, cooling his wiry frame rapidly now he was stationary.

He pushed on with his ungainly cat walk towards his target, on reaching it he was directly opposite the fire. He lay down and surveyed the ground in front of him, wishing he had brought his binoculars now. All he had was one grenade, his MP40, fully loaded, two spare magazines and his killing knife. They would have to do him.

He was about thirty metres away from the wall and the fire, but only twenty metres away from Max, the pony just beyond him to the right. A plan was forming in his head, but he would need to get a little closer to implement it.

He started to leopard crawled closer towards Max, his MP40 resting in the crook of his arms. He pushed off with his right leg, his left leg bent forwards and close to his chest. He then repeated the manoeuvre, pushing off with his left leg, his bent right leg moving forwards, his elbows alternating as he slid across the ground, stopping after each movement, scrutinising the group for any signs that he had been discovered.

He edged his way closer, using Max’s form and the pony to hide behind. He daren’t go too far to the right in case the pony caught his scent and reacted, warning his owners that someone or something was close. He was ten metres away from Max. He was loath to move any closer, should the sentry catch his movement out of the corner of his eye. He had considered moving along the back of the wall, approaching them from the building, but he had seen the dog lying there, chewing on a stick or a bone. Not only could the dog have been alerted by the noise of his approach, but the route would have taken him upwind. Although the dog may have been distracted by the smell of roasting meat, he could well have picked up Paul’s human scent.

He waited, watched and waited, watched and waited.

Then the golden opportunity he had been waiting for, as he anticipated it would, arrived. The sizzling feast, slowly turning on the spit, was ready.

The group, along with the woman and the sentry, hungrily gathered round the fire to tuck in to the food that had been tantalising them for the last twenty minutes. A small confrontation ensued between the old man and the boy who had been on sentry duty. The young boy returned to his post, grumbling, the old hunting rifle, perhaps his father’s, barrel down in protest, resting on the toe cap of his shabby boots, which seemed two sizes too big for him. He stared hungrily as the meat was torn off in strips and passed around. The woman, her thick dark hair covering her face and eyes, obviously feeling sorry for him, brought him a bone, slithers of meat still attached. Paul froze, pressing his body in to the ground, wanting it to swallow him up. The boy took it, leaning the butt of the rifle against his chest as he attacked the feast in his hands. The woman, her guilt assuaged, re-joined the others.

This was Paul’s moment, the moment to take the initiative, while they were all distracted. He picked up the stick grenade he had placed in front of him earlier, the end cap already unscrewed and ready. He rose up from the ground, an apparition, a manifestation of death. His MP40 held firmly in his left hand, his right arm twisted back behind his shoulder, he threw the grenade the twenty metres necessary to be on target.

The grenade landed exactly where Paul had aimed for, the junction of the wall and the stone built side of the hut, less than two metres from the group. He threw himself to the ground, the noise of his throwing and the subsequent crashing to the ground alerting both the group and the young boy, whose rifle crashed to the ground alongside his half eaten bone, as he fumbled with the butt attempting to bring it to a position where he could fire at the intruder.

Some of the others realised something was wrong as the grenade bounced off the wall of the hut, landing at the base of the wall, directly in front of the older man. Who, still chewing on a piece of lamb, fat dribbling down his chin, discarded the piece of meat he was holding and grabbed for his Sten Gun, a gift from a British Soldier. He didn’t make it.

The grenade exploded.

Although partially absorbed by the two walls, as intended by Paul, to reduce the likelihood of the blast hitting Max, the eruption hit the group from the side, the explosion bursting the ear drums of the leader, the woman and the second eldest man, lacerating their exposed skin, slithers of shrapnel ripping through their clothing and digging deep into their flesh. The force of the shock wave shoved them aside, the grey haired partisan sprawling across the fire, unconscious as flames licked around him, his beard shrivelling to nothing in a fraction of a second.

Paul leapt up, machine pistol in his hand and opened fire on the group, aiming left at the three young men and teenager, who were recovering from the shock and their minor injuries, since the three elders having taken the bigger percentage of the blast. Grabbing for their weapons, a mixed assortment, one an antique, single barrelled shotgun. But they were too late as Paul’s machine gun’s fire scythed through them, cutting them down before they could aim a shot in return. He continued to fire until his magazine was empty, dropping it to the ground and slamming a fresh one back in.

He heard a shout. The young boy had recovered the sports rifle and aimed it directly at him, jabbering in his foreign tongue. The rifle was shaking as he gestured with it, the gesticulation obvious, he wanted Paul to drop his gun. Paul knew that the explosion and subsequent gunfire would have already alerted the village.

Not only was the boy’s rifle shaking, but the boy was also visibly trembling. Paul heard a groan coming from the direction of the fire. One of the partisans, although badly wounded, was able to move and was shouting something to the boy, the same word, three times. Paul didn’t understand what was being called, but he suspected it was, ‘kill, kill, kill’.

The boy raised the rifle higher, it was now pointing directly at Paul’s chest, his shaking arms been brought under control, everything in his face’s expression told Paul he was getting ready to fire. The boy’s fingers squeezed the trigger of the rifle more tightly. The wounded partisan rose up on his knees, his Lee Enfield also now aiming at Paul, he had left it too late, he had lost.

Crack!

The boy jerked as the bullet smacked into his side, the ensuing crack from the P38 pistol slamming a second round in to the boy’s chest. He toppled backwards, sprawled on the ground, blood trickling from his mouth. Paul reacted immediately, shooting the other partisan before turning to identify the location from where the shot had originated. He saw nothing. He made sure the young boy’s rifle was clear. But he was slowly dying, unable to take advantage even had the weapon been close. He would never fire a rifle again, or savour his favourite food, roast lamb, his spirit left him, his heart punctured and failing.

Paul ran across to where the rest of the group was situated, the old man now a blackened corpse, the smell of burning flesh making him gag. Some were dead, all were injured in some way, most would die soon without immediate medical aid. He ensured they were all disarmed, smashing any weapons he found to destruction against the wall.

He ran back across to check on Max, his next worry, knowing they needed to move quickly, the noise of the action was bound to have got the attention of the village. He crouched down by the still form, the pony nickering and whinnying close by. His eyes were closed, but a P 38 loose in his hand, Max had been his saviour.

“Max.”

His eyes fluttered open. He croaked an unintelligible response. Water, thought Paul, he must be in desperate need of water. He sprinted back to the wall, scouting along it until he found the items he had left there, including the water bottles. He hurried back to Max and quickly pressed the bottle to his dry, cracked lips, the water still cool as it slopped across his face, some of it making its way into his mouth. The effect was immediate. Like a wilting flower, perking up after receiving a sudden down pour of rain.

The dehydrated sergeant opened his eyes, as he attempted to guzzle the water, but choking on the attempt.

“Steady Max, there’s plenty, there’s no rush.” As he said it, he knew they would have to go soon, but Max’s need was great. He managed a quarter of a pint before Paul stopped him.

“Enough for now, eh Max? We don’t want to overdo it. We need to move now, ok?”

Max’s pained face cracked into a flimsy grin, “Sir.”

Paul trotted over to the pony, who was shuffling nervously on his fetlocks, tugging at the reigns secured to a rock close by. Paul stroked and patted the pony’s neck and flanks, talking to it, soothing him as best he could. Although the pony’s eyes remained wild and staring, he seemed to react to Paul’s foreign voice and settled, although still a little skitty. He turned the travois round, dragged it across to the rear of the pony, and hoisted it up on to the rope loops either side, placed there by the partisans to bring Max to this place. He tied it off, checked it was secure, then made sure Max was still on-board and hadn’t slid off. He was ok, the ‘Y’ straps Paul had used to bind Max to the stretcher were holding out and his construction was keeping its integrity.

Paul took one last look around him, before hoisting his MP40 onto his shoulder. Some of the bodies near the fire were moving, the fire eerily flickering around them, beyond its radius of light, just darkness and shadows. He loosened the reigns of the pony, encouraging him forwards, pulling Max behind them.