Devils with Wings: Silk Drop (15 page)

He conversed with the Platoon Commander.

“There may be the odd enemy soldier about sir,” informed the Leutnant, “but they’ll either be lost or wounded.”

“The rest?”

“It’s likely they’ve moved west sir, but we’ve still captured over a thousand prisoners.”

“The bridge?”

“We took it ok sir, but it was later destroyed. We’re not sure how. Could have been explosives missed by the engineers or a stray shell, we just don’t know.”

“So, were stranded for the moment?”

“The engineers are already on it sir, they’ll have a bridge across in no time. Most of the infrastructure was intact.”

“What’s your role now?”

“We’re just protecting this sector and were told to watch out for your men. I’ve already sent a runner to tell HQ that you are on your way in.”

“Well, good luck Leutnant, we’ll move back to the bridge then. I have a half section back there,” said Paul pointing back the way they had just come, “waiting for my last platoon to come in, they should be with you in about an hour.”

“We’ll keep watch sir, and send them on their way.”

Paul signalled for his men to move out and they continued northwest along the road, turning north and heading directly for the bridge.

They arrived some thirty minutes later. They found more Fallschirmjager and were directed to a makeshift regimental HQ, where they found Oberst Egger.

“Job well done Brand,” he said shaking Paul’s hand.

“What now sir?”

“You and your men take a breather, find a tavern somewhere and requisition some ice cold beers. Once the bridge is complete I’ll have you moved out.”

Paul thanked him, reassembled his company, or at least the two platoons with him, and moved towards Corinth, seeking a tavern as instructed. Not a difficult order to follow, thought Paul. They discovered the perfect location situated in a small square where they could easily be seen by his third platoon. The company was sprawled around the small tavern they had commandeered being served by a short, fat Greek waiter who was fussing around them as if they were long lost relatives, when Max’s booming voice announced the missing platoon’s arrival.

“If I remember rightly sir, you promised me a beer with an ouzo chaser,” Max reminded him.

“Pull up a seat Feldwebel Grun and you will be served.”

“Does that go for me too sir?” asked Roth.

“Of course Viktor, and I’m paying.”

Both Roth and Max pulled up a seat and three beers were placed on the bistro table in front of the three grimy paratroopers, sweat marks streaking their blackened faces, hair dirty and wild now they had removed their helmets, and caked boots up on the table. They clinked glasses, took a gulp of the frothy beer and looked at each other and burst into laughter. They all had the same thought, surreal.

CHAPTER TEN

“Is there a problem with the mail Paul?”

“No Mama, the mail is fine.”

“Then why haven’t we heard from you?” said his mother rubbing his shoulder gently as he sat at the large kitchen breakfast table.

He had arrived late the previous evening. Once Corinth and the surrounding areas had been secured, his men were given an opportunity to rest, they were exhausted and welcomed the respite. Hauptman Volkman, his Battalion Commander, had joined the unit in Corinth and met with Paul and his officers to congratulate them on a successful mission. He also informed them of another much larger impending operation, Operation Merkur (Mercury) which would be the largest airborne operation ever conducted to date. They would be joined by the rest of the battalion shortly. He also informed them that the battalion was officially being given a special status and would be classed as a Divisional asset.

The one excellent piece of news though, was that Paul and his men had been allowed four
days leave. Initially reluctant, Volkman had granted Paul leave to go to his home town, Brandenburg. He had managed to stow away on one of the regular flights to and from Germany, including Berlin. Although two days would be taken up in travel time at least he would have a day in which to go to Charlottenburg and see Christa. Usually your leave didn’t start until you got to your home town, or leave destination, but with the upcoming operation it would not be possible.

“Paul?”

“Sorry Mama, what were you saying?”

“We’ve had no letters from you.”

“I have been moving around Mama. I’ve written to you, but you probably won’t get them until I’ve gone.”

“That’s not fair on the people left behind at home Paul.”

“We’re are at war, leave the boy alone,” interjected his father, “it’s not his fault. Anyway everything is in a state of change at the moment.”

“What’s changing Papa?”

“Rationing is getting worse Paul,” interrupted his mother. “I’ve had real difficulty in getting your favourite ham.”

“It tastes great Mama,” responded Paul as he took a bite from a slice of the dark, rye bread inlaid with sunflower seeds, covered in a layer of Westphalian ham.

“We have ration cards now son,” added his father. “I told you we’re taking on too much, trying to fight with everybody.”

“What’s rationed Papa?”

“Foodstuffs mainly, but also clothing, leather goods, like shoes. Oh and soap would you believe?”

“It won’t last,” defended Paul.

“We’re only allowed about two kilograms of flour and bread per person per week,” his mother said placing a red ration coupon on the table for Paul to see.

“But we still have coffee thank god,” exclaimed Paul, as he lifted his cup to take a sip of his morning coffee.

“But not for long, coffee is becoming increasingly difficult to get and we only get fifty grams of substitute coffee a week.”

“Look at these,” said his father as he threw some coins onto the wooden table.

Paul picked up one of the still spinning coins, tossing it gently in his open hand. “It’s light, what is it made of?”

“Zinc, all coins are now made of Zinc.”

“Why?”

“You missed the campaign while you were away, there has been a big drive to collect all scrap metal. We’ve even had to give them our iron railings.”

“You’re kidding papa, couldn’t you have at least kept those back?” responded Paul, taking another bite into his now cheese covered rye bread. “Mmmm, this is good Mama.”

His father leant towards him and almost whispered, “The penalty for holding anything back is death son, they announced it at the beginning of March when the campaign kicked off.”

“I didn’t realise we were so short of metals.”

“That’s why they’re introducing these new coins, they’re withdrawing all copper and aluminium coins from circulation.”

“Your factory must use a lot of aluminium.”

“It does and it’s getting increasingly difficult to get hold of. At least the Fuhrer is bringing us out of the economic crisis we were in, I suppose, let’s hope these wars don’t push us back in to it.”

“Enough of this despondency,” chided his mother. “Leave the boy to eat, he’s supposed to be on leave, resting. You’ve lost weight Paul, are they not feeding you in the Luftwaffe?”

“Of course they are Mama, but I don’t get your cooking while I’m away.”

She beamed at the compliment. “Well I shall feed you up while your here. Why can’t you stay longer?”

“They have work for me, I must go back.”

“When do you have to leave son?”

“Tomorrow night Papa. There is a Junkers going back to Greece and I have to be on it.”

“It’s not fair,” said his mother, fussing around the table placing two boiled eggs in front of him. He cracked open the top of one, the white hard and the yolk soft, just how he liked them.

“So what are your plans son?”

“I’m going to try and see Christa today.”

“A lift to the station then?”

“Please, that would be great. What’s the city like?”

“Pretty much running along as normal, but the bombing raids have damaged parts of it.”

“Have you had any attacks here?”

“No, but there is a public blackout in force and we have to have light proof curtains over the windows and door frames,” he said pointing to the additional black curtain pulled back to the side.

“I noticed your car headlights were covered up.”

“Yes, they have to be hooded and taped over. We’re allowed a small strip of light, but you can’t see anything with it.”

“It’s dangerous Paul,” added his mother. “There are no street lights either.”

“Your mother’s right, you have to drive extremely careful out there. It’s not easy for pedestrians either and there have been a few fatalities.”

“What else do you want to eat?” asked his mother clearing away the now empty egg shells.

“I’m full Mama,” he said rubbing his bloated stomach. “I can’t eat another thing honestly.”

“We need to go anyway,” said his father, pushing his chair back and standing up.

Paul took the last bite of the open sandwich on his plate, not wanting to disappoint his mother, then he to stood up, hugging his mother and thanking her for breakfast. His father would drop him off at the station on his way to the factory where he worked.

After a brief journey, sharing a smoke filled coach with other soldiers and workers on their way into the city, Paul stepped off the train at Bahnhof Zoo, the main railway station in Berlin. On approaching the barrier a conductress, her black, uniform tunic, over a pale sweater, and her black trousers and side hat making her look almost military, checked his ticket, giving him a flirting smile as he passed. He walked out into the cool morning air, the temperature much lower than what he become accustomed to in Greece. He turned right onto the main thoroughfare, but quickly took another left down one of the smaller, less busy streets. People seemed to be going about their business as usual, but his uniform attracted regular glances.

He walked passed an anti-aircraft gun emplacement, seeming alien and out of place in a city such as Berlin. The coal scuttle helmeted soldiers practicing loading the 8.8cm gun, laughing and joking as they did, seeming not to have a care in the world. The NCO in charge brought them to attention and saluted Paul in deference to his rank, his medals also showing that he was very much a real soldier. Here he was teaching children, the Feldwebel thought as he looked at the young soldiers in his flock.

Next to the anti-aircraft gun was a Hitler Youth fire fighting squad, their child like faces donned with police helmets. They were dressed in Khaki uniforms, their triangular district badge showing they belong to the Charlottenburg district. One of the young fire-fighters sported the diamond shaped HJ-Feuerwehrabzeichen, showing he had qualified for the fire service.

The more Paul looked around him, the more he noticed how different things were from the norm. The kerbstones painted white, bands of white around the lampposts at the base and at head height, to guide both pedestrians and cars he surmised. He continued down Goethestrasse, turning right on Leibnizstrasse and left on to Schillerstrasse, his pace quickening as he got closer to his destination. He saw a street sign on the side wall of a building opposite, Krumme strasse, the street Christa lived in with her parents in a top floor apartment. Turning right, he headed for Bismarck strasse where he would cross over continuing on to the next section of Krumme strasse before arriving at Christa’s home. Bismarck strasse was busy and while waiting to cross he looked over to his left and could see the Stadtische Oper, the Municipal Opera. The block shaped building with its pillared frontage, tall windows and pyramid shaped roof was impressive to look at and he noticed Elizabeth Grummer, a Soprano, was appearing there.

Paul crossed over, keeping to the left hand side, to the central reservation, a taxi tooting his horn, not in annoyance but in recognition of one of the Fatherland’s soldiers. He took his eyes off the Opera house and crossed over to the far side turning right and heading for the crossroads where he would take a left into Krumme strasse again.

He sensed something was wrong almost immediately. The apartments and office buildings on either side seemed customary, but further down the street towards Christa’s apartment it looked to have been taped off. He quickened his pace as he saw all was not well, mild panic setting in and a lump rising to his throat. The road ahead seemed blocked by debris and a number of uniformed personnel seemed to be milling around, sifting through the rubble strewn across the road.

It was then that he started to look up from the street ahead and at the apartment buildings on the right and what he saw shocked him. The five storey building that had initially looked normal on the outside, could now be clearly seen to be nothing more than a shell, a skeleton of bricks and glassless window frames, but it had no heart to it, no internal walls or floors, just a barely standing ghostly frame. He recognised Christa’s parent’s apartment, the balcony still in place where they had last sat together over a glass of wine watching the activity below, laughing and joking about the scurrying ants beneath them.

He looked back down as he neared the tape, and could see more clearly the civilian workers striving to clear some of the rubble to make way for vehicles. He bent down, lifting the tape as he made his way under it to the other side and approached one of the firemen who was picking his way through the remains dispersed across the road.