Authors: Harvey Black
Devils with Wings (15 page)
At the end of the session on the ranges, they were tired, had bruised shoulders from a full days firing, the recoil of the weapons unforgiving, but were satisfied. They had an hour practicing throwing hand grenades, and then it was back to barracks for weapons cleaning. Normally an onerous task, but today it was another opportunity to gain some respite and re-energise their depleted reserves.
And for once, Helmut wasn’t down for any punishments, yet.
Today they were all at the end of their reserves, both physically and mentally drained. Erich was all for giving up. Erich, lying face down on his bunk in full kit, moaned.
“I can’t take much more of this Paul; they’re weeding us out every day.” He looked across at Curt’s empty bunk, Curt’s gone, who’s next?”
“Look Erich,” answered Paul, who was also lying face down on his bunk in full kit, “we’ve got this far, we’re not giving up now.”
“But we started with forty in our Platoon and one hundred and sixty in the Company; we’re down to just over half of that!”
“We can make it, we’ve just one more week to go until our parachute training, and we’re nearly there!” Paul looked across to Helmut for support.
“Paul, I can hardly stand, let alone do another forced march.”
“Bugger off Erich, get your arse in gear, let’s get out of here and get the show on the road. The sooner we get through this the sooner you can buy me a pint in Berlin.”
Erich smiled, Helmut certainly had a way with words. He crawled off his bed just as one of the Uffzs came barging into the room.
“Right, you three out,” shouted Uffz Blacher, “you have five minutes to get ready for the night manoeuvres!”
The Uffz moved off to pass on the glad tidings to the other remaining members of the company.
Paul was the first to stir.
“Come on then Erich,” he said grabbing his webbing, pulling him up. “If I’m going out into this pitch darkness, then you’re damn well coming with me.”
Helmut grabbed the other side of Erich and they both yanked him up off his pit.
“If you insist. If we’re going to see this through, then we’d better get on with it, otherwise there will be another empty bunk in this room.”
All three looked across at the empty bunk, only recently occupied by their fellow recruit, Curt. Curt was unfortunate in badly straining a leg muscle, but was told he could try again once he was fit enough. The three friends were not so sure, Curt was at the end of his tether and the injury was perhaps a lucky break for him. They didn’t believe he would be back. Many others, unfortunately, also didn’t make the grade, repeatedly failing on the exercises they were put through.
“I’ll see you two shortly,” informed Helmut as he left the room. He had to leave earlier to be briefed, as he was to be Platoon Commander for this night’s manoeuvres. Paul, Erich and Helmut had to take it in turns to lead the Platoon at the behest of the instructors, testing their leadership further.
Paul and Erich’s determination had got them through so far. When one was in despair of continuing the course, the other found the strength to rally them both and keep them both on track. They had become close friends since meeting at the railway station on their very first day.
Had they known what they were letting themselves in for would they have turned around at the station and headed back home? At this moment in time neither could truthfully answer that question. The prize of the parachutist’s badge was a great incentive and the only thing that was making them drag themselves to the parade ground every time they were called.
It was three in the morning, two days to go before they moved on to their parachute-training phase. Out of the original forty recruits in their platoon at the start, there were only twenty-two left.
Their Platoon, one of three, were to assault the forth Platoon defending a pseudo ammunition dump, protected by trenches, barbed wire and a minefield.
Paul, Erich and Helmut had each been given a troop to lead. They had to force an entry into the complex, as agreed at the planning stage the previous day, allowing second Platoon to pass through them and secure the complex.
The third Platoon would feign an attack on the defenders elsewhere, acting as a diversion, hopefully distracting the defenders from where the real attack was coming from.
Paul and his two friends cleared the wire and the minefield and bridged the trench, after killing two sentries, much to their disgust at having been caught napping.
Second Platoon passed through the secured entry point and by six a.m. it was all over.
They returned to barracks. Although physically and mentally drained, all the energy sapped from their bodies, they couldn’t help but feel euphoric and were grinning like wild men. The instructors still remained stern, but there was a lightening of their attitude towards the recruits.
They knew that the surviving eighty-seven soldiers in front of them had proven their worth. The recruits too knew that they had crossed a line and that they had made the grade, and providing they passed through parachute training they would pass out as Fallschirmjager. Two more days to get through.
This was the last day of the physical element of their Fallschirmjager training. Today Paul and his companions were told they would be completing a thirty kilometre march, with full packs, weighing twenty kilograms, plus their weapons and filled water canteens.
The eighty-seven recruits started their march at six in the morning. Had they rested for a few days prior to the march, they would have found it relatively easy as their fitness had improved considerably since they had started their training.
After one and a half hours and ten kilometres of marching, the company was well into the swing of it.
Paul, Erich, Helmut, Franz and Wilhelm had grouped themselves together, committed to ensuring that they all made it through to the end of the march, giving mutual support throughout.
By ten hundred hours and twenty-three kilometres later, they were starting to feel it. Blisters that had recently healed were becoming raw again. Tendons were swelling and rubbing against their boots, but it was bearable.
Generally they were in good spirits, they knew that this thirty kilometre slog was the last hurdle, the last big push before they finished this stage and moved on to the parachute training.
By midday, and having nearly completed the march, although physically drained their morale was high, the end was in sight. The column was halted and told to take a five-minute break.
Paul and his group immediately held a conference.
“We must have finished the march by now, surely,” Helmut kicked off, “but where are we?”
“I don’t recognise this place,” added Erich.
“It sort of looks familiar,” concluded Paul, “but if I’m right, then the camp is a good ten clicks from here!”
“Don’t be stupid, the march is only for thirty Ks and we’ve done that,” uttered Franz.
“Perhaps we are being trucked back,” suggested Wilhelm, hopefully.
“Something isn’t quite right,” thought Paul out loud.
His foresight, unfortunately, was proven to be correct, as the instructors roused the group, informing them that they still had another ten clicks to go.
This time, their positivity left them and their aches and pains, that had earlier been subdued by their euphoria of the march being nearly over, all returned. The blisters that were sore, but could be shut from their minds earlier, were back with a vengeance and any pain they had felt before paled into insignificance, compared to the agony they were experiencing now.
Their heavy packs were biting into their shoulders, chafing their backs and seemed to have suddenly increased in weight.
Just when they were brooding on the prospect of not being able to take any more, they caught site of the barracks. Smiles started to return to some faces and even conversations were struck up between some of the soldiers. This was it, a kilometre to go, it was all but over.
They marched up to the camp gates; relief clearly on their faces as it was now all over. That last hill climb had been unendurable and had nearly done them all in. Even the tough Helmut was looking extremely wasted.
They formed up as if on parade and were then stood at ease, only to be told that once they had finished a five minute break, refilled their water bottles, they had another ten kilometres to go.
The gasp from the Company was audible and the look on their faces was one of disbelief. One recruit was heard to say, “I can’t go on, I can’t do this anymore,” and to that end he sat down and did not move from the spot. He had got this far, but the course was incomplete, he would be failed.
The instructors had thrown down the Fallschirmjager gauntlet and he had not picked it up.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Erich sounded off, “I can’t march another step, I’m not doing it, sod them!”
Both Paul and Helmut strode up to Erich, looked on by their other two friends, and grabbed him by his shoulders.
Paul shook him, “It doesn’t matter, we march till we drop, and if one of us drops, then we pick him up!”
“None of us are going to fail this now, having got so far,” pleaded Helmut.
Paul looked around at his fellow marchers, including those outside of his circle of friends, “We march till we drop, agreed?”
They all looked at Paul and at each other and nodded, as one, in agreement.
The Felds and the Uffzs drove the recruits back into their ranks and drove them on again. Kilometre after kilometre, it seemed to go on to eternity. The last three kilometres were more of a ragged stagger than a march.
When anyone looked like they were wavering, those of the Company close by rallied around them coaxing them on, sometimes resorting to dragging them by their uniform, even though they were fatigued themselves. This is what a Fallschirmjager would do.
Their previously tight formation was now spread over some four hundred metres. Some were walking through their injuries and were in pure agony, but all sensed that this was truly the last stretch; the camp was in sight again, they were nearly through.
The training staff slowed the front runners down, pulling the platoons and the Company back into formation, encouraging them to look up, straighten up their gear, instilling some pride back into twenty seven training Company, arriving back at the camp as potential paratroopers, not a rabble.
On arriving back at the camp, they were finally dismissed, the majority just collapsing on the spot. Even the mighty Helmut crumpled to the ground. Many were still there some thirty minutes later.
The fifty kilometre march over soft, hard, muddy and hilly ground, in full battle order had burnt them out. But at least they had finally completed the physical element of their training, only the four weeks of parachute training left to get through.
Muscles ached, tendons were stretched to their limits, feet were raw with burst and broken blisters, skin ripped off exposing the soft, tender flesh beneath.
This was all part of testing the recruits to ensure that they were worthy of being paratroopers. Just when you thought you had done enough, you had to dig deep and find those extra reserves that lay unseen deep down inside. They had to draw on that inner, still untapped reserve of energy, find that mental can do attitude, lift their left leg and move forward.
Eventually they all managed to stagger painfully from the drill square to their bunks. The thought of a shower and hot food was not enough of an incentive to drag their tortured bodies to the canteen though.
Helmut did not come under this category, it was somewhere around six pm, and the evening meal was being served. He dragged his body off the bed, muttering as he left, “Food is food, and you never know where the next meal is coming from.”
He looked back at his two friends, Paul lying on his side, on his bunk, resting his face on his hand, looking tired, dirty and his face drawn. Erich looked even worse, lying flat on his back, eyes closed, mouth open, still gasping for oxygen his body desperately needs.
“We’ve done the hard bit, you two,” he said through dry and cracked lips, smiling.
Erich turned his face and opened his eyes, looking at Helmut, some six kilograms lighter than when they started the course, and smiled.
Paul too looked at his now close friend and comrade and smiled.
Their smiles broadened, it was true, and they had broken the back of the course.
At last the day had arrived. They were to find out what being a parachutist was all about, the four week parachute course.
The week started with ground exercises, consisting of ground rolls forwards and backwards, jumping out of an aircraft hatch onto straw matting with further roll practices, until you became nauseous.
Previously, they had done some initial preparation training during their first four weeks. Jumping onto a small trampoline, then completing yet another forward roll, but this time from a greater height. Somersaulting in the air over a couple of other recruits hunkering down on the ground.
