Devils with Wings: Silk Drop (31 page)

“Recognition flags,” yelled Paul. “Get anything you can out on the ground, we don’t want him turning on us.”

The Hurricane was losing power as the engine spluttered and coughed, flames starting to engulf the cowling, the pilot pulling the aircraft into a climb, desperate to gain some height to enable him to eject and parachute to safety. Just before the merlin engine hacked it’s last breath, he pulled back the oil splattered canopy, flipped the plane over onto its back and fell into the open sky, his aircraft spiralling out of control crashing a mere two hundred metres from Paul and his men.

The Messerschmitt dropped low, the pilot checking out the recognition flags and waggling the plane’s wings to indicate that he’d IDd them as friendlies, giving his comrades below the thumbs up, but unable to hear the cheering through his canopy.

The engine purred, then whined as he pulled it in to a climb, his ammunition low and fuel almost out he needed to get back to base before he joined the British pilot who was floating down to earth. The Fallschirmjager’s attention was now drawn to the white parachute descending to the ground, the RAF pilot dangling below. Apart from a large tear in his uniform, caught on the aircraft as he left the cockpit, a few splashes of oil and feeling the shock, he was unharmed.

Paul dispatched four men to grab the pilot who was about to land, only a hundred metres north of their position. Secured and disarmed, his parachute left behind, he was quickly brought in front of the company commander. The troopers pushed him to the floor. He looked to be about twenty five to thirty years old, his khaki battledress was dishevelled, probably from being on duty almost constantly these last forty eight hours, rather than through lack of care. Although he seemed anxious, he didn’t display any signs of fear. His rank showed him to be a Flight Lieutenant and he was still wearing his brown flying helmet, oxygen mask dangling at the side, goggles pushed back on top of his head. Paul ordered them removed.

Ackerman, from Jordan’s troop, now under the command of Braemer, who could speak almost perfect English, reached down and yanked the helmet off, revealing a brightly coloured mop of red hair. He smiled up at his captors, his eyes bright blue, his wide mouth showing a set of perfect white teeth. His skin was pale, intimating he hadn’t been in this theatre of war for long.

“Ask him what unit he’s from,” demanded Paul.

Ackerman asked the question, but the pilot did not respond, just looked about him at the pairs of staring eyes.

“Ask him his name.”

Ackerman translating on each occasion.

“Flight Lieutenant Brewster,” he offered, still smiling.

“Where’s his base?” continued Paul.

“Brewster, Flight Lieutenant, 615431,” he replied.

“What was your mission today?” The frustration clear in Paul’s voice. Ackerman translated.

“Brewster, Flight Lieutenant, 615431,” he replied again.

“He’s not going to give us anything sir, just his name, rank and number,” suggested Max.

“Why does the British air force bomb civilians?”

Ackerman looked at his company commander, who indicated that he ask the pilot the question.

This time the pilot hesitated, clearly thrown by the question, before repeating his name, rank and number.

“Why do your pilots bomb innocent civilians, women and children?” Paul asked, his voice now raised.

The pilot looked up at the faces that surrounded the officer asking the questions, confused. He tried to make eye contact with them, but all he received back were blank stares.

“I don’t think he was a bomber pilot sir,” suggested Max.”

Paul turned and looked at Max and said, “His plane was carrying bombs, wasn’t it.”

He turned back to the pilot, pulled his Walther P38 from its hard, black holster, pulled back on the slide cocking the weapon and pointed it directly at the head of the pilot, who was now showing signs of fear, franticly looking from one paratrooper to another searching for a friendly face. He started to shake.

“Why do you bomb women and children?” Paul hissed through gritted teeth, stretching out his right arm, his hand visibly shaking, looking down on the prisoner, his pistol less than a third of a metre from the pilot’s face.

The pilot’s panic stricken eyes now darted from face to face, his anguish evident as he scoured each face hoping to discover that it was all some cruel joke.

There was complete silence. Sweat running in rivulets down Paul’s features, matched by those running down the face of his prisoner, the connection only between them, all others on the periphery, were excluded. His finger, squeezing the trigger of his pistol, a hair’s breadth away from firing a round.

“Sir,” said Max gently, placing a hand on Paul’s right arm, slowly easing the gun down.

“He wasn’t responsible, he was just doing his job like the rest of us.”

Paul’s gun arm was now parallel with his leg, the pistol pointing to the ground.

“Our Stuka boys have been meeting out just as much punishment around Maleme and Hania.”

He eased the pistol from his commander’s hand, took out the magazine and ejected the chambered round, reloaded it, replaced the magazine and return the pistol to its holster.

Paul turned to Max. “Thank you Max,” then turned on his heel and walked away.

Max turned to Ackerman. “Explain to him about the Oberleutnant’s loss and assure him he will not be harmed.”

He then shouted, so all could hear, “Let’s get this bloody show on the road. I want the company ready to move out in ten minutes, and God help anybody who isn’t ready.”

The group that had congregated around the prisoner quickly dispersed, even the platoon commanders not wanting to challenge the tough Feldwebel’s authority. Max looked about him, saw Paul collecting his gear, the pain of the memory of her plainly etched on his face.

The company got in to formation and continued their march east, pushed on relentlessly by Max, extolling them to move quickly before Oberleutnant Janke’s company caught up and overtook them. The company maintained a steady five kilometres an hour, climbing higher occasionally before dropping back down to lower ground. They soon found themselves south of Rethymnon, the men fatigued by the incessant heat, where they took a break.

The men were even too exhausted to eat, all they wanted was water, their bottles only half full, the supplies dropped to them earlier nearly all gone. The RAF pilot was secreted amongst one of the troops towards the rear of the column, Paul ensuring he had the water he needed.

The battle for Crete continued around them, as they settled down to catch their breath and rehydrate their hot, dry bodies. Two companies of Fallschirmjager had dropped just west of Maleme airfield and although the 100
th
Gebirgsjager Regiment had started to land by transport plane at the airfield, the area was far from secure. In Paul’s area of operation, Rethymnon, the Fallschirmjager were having less success, being slowly pushed north towards the coast. Further east an additional force of paratroopers were being dropped close to Heraklion, his companies eventual destination. 1
st
and 2
nd
battalion of FJR1, had linked up east of the runway and a further drop of one hundred and fifty men was expected.

The company picked themselves up again and continued their march, the pressure to be in position to support their beleaguered comrades preying on their minds. As they tramped along the never-ending track, dust coating their hot, dry bodies, adding to their misery, they caught the occasional glimpse of civilisation as the approached the vicinity of Rethymnon. Stopping a few hours later, next to a Church on the outskirts of a small village called Skullfera, an opportunity to rest up and prepare for their descent towards the town the next morning.

A quick recce of the village showed it to be clear of enemy soldiers, the locals choosing to stay hidden, perhaps not even in the village, but hiding out in the hills above them. Tomorrow they would pass through the village, dropping down again until they were just southeast of the town, where they would conduct patrols further into the suburbs, seeking out the enemy, distracting them while their comrades withdrew to better cover or pursued the objectives they had been given.

They mounted security for their stopover, LPs positioned fifty metres out at all points of the compass. The ground around them was fairly open and flat, climbing slightly towards the village, above the village the ground rose steadily towards the upper foothills. Across from them, towards the northeast, Rethymnon. Earlier they could just make out the sea, but now they were not high enough to see the coast or the town, now it was too dark to see either. Only the odd red tracer shooting skywards to then tail down to ground level as it got close to its target, indicated the likely position of the town. The occasional flare, perhaps launched by a nervous soldier certain that an enemy trooper was creeping up on his position.

Paul had set up his company HQ in the church, a whitewashed building, with four, terracotta topped, arched extensions leading away from the central, two storey, octagonal dome. It made an ideal spot to gather his platoon commanders and NCO’s together for a briefing. If he was still troubled by the earlier incident with the RAF pilot, he gave no indication of it. Above, in the dome, a terracotta window at each face, now punched out, were three troopers. Although they could only see a few metres beyond the realms of the Church, as dawn approached they would have the best view of any approaching enemy, an MG34 close by ensuring they would give a good account of themselves should they be attacked.

Paul’s command group had pulled the benches into a semi-circle, Bergmann and Fink making the assembled men a hot drink. Even though only a dozen men were in attendance, with all of their equipment, the church seemed crowded, but it was cooler inside than out.

“We’re going to rest up here until four,” said Paul. “So make sure the men get some food eaten, have full water bottles and get a couple of hours sleep. It will be an even longer day tomorrow.”

“Uffz Fessman’s boys have been into the village sir, and brought back plenty of water. I’ve got a shuttle system on the go to make sure everyone gets a good drenching before topping up,” informed Max.

“Good, ammo status?”

“We used up a few rounds firing at the British fighter plane,” responded Leeb, “but my platoon has about five thousand rounds for the MGs and each man in the region of one hundred and forty rounds for their personal weapons.”

The remaining two platoon commanders reported roughly the same, they would be able to give a good account of themselves in battle.

“I’ve got ten rounds per tube sir,” added Richter. “So we can still put some fire down if needed. We also have about one hundred and forty rounds per man.”

“Food?”

Max adjusted his position on the hard wooden bench, the seat too narrow for him to get his large frame on it comfortably.

“Two days rations, all have been dispensed throughout the company so we can leave the drop canisters here.”

“LPs?”

“All out sir,” answered Roth. “My platoon is doing the first stag.”

“Right gentlemen, I suggest you get your heads down, we’ll be moving out first thing. Nadel to lead, followed by Roth, Richter and Leeb.”

The group dispersed and the company HQ moved the benches back, scraping the tiles as they did, making room to bed down for the night on the cool tiled floor.

“Lift the bloody things up,” bellowed Max, “it’s doing my ears in.”

They picked the benches up, not wanting to incur the wrath of the Company Feldwebel and found a suitable space. Some were asleep before they even gave any thought to food.

Max sat on the bench alongside Paul, handing him a now lukewarm mug of coffee. He sipped it, the taste bitter and even though only lukewarm it brought out beads of sweat onto his brow.

“How’s the pilot Max?”

“He’s fine sir, Ackerman told him that he was safe.”

“I’m not sure what happened Max,” he said, his head drooping with both shame and weariness.

“Something gets to us all at some point in our lives sir, I wouldn’t worry about it. The lads respect you no less, why don’t you get your head down, things will look totally different in the morning.”

“I need to check the lines first.”

“With respect sir, you have three Leutnants and a Company Feld to do that, are you trying to put me out of a job?” he said smiling.

Paul’s head was nodding, his chin dropping down to his chest, his eyes closed, oblivion close. Max helped him slide on to the floor of the Church, the benches too short for his six foot two frame, and he was asleep before his face had touched the cold tiles. He left him to carry out his inspection of the lines, leaving the young officer to recuperate, they would need him tomorrow.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The paratroopers were roused at four in the morning, the skies still dark, the coolness pleasant after the blazing heat of the previous day. Most had managed to bag three or four hours sleep, even though they had LP and sentry duty during the night. But once released from duty, sleep overwhelmed them. However, faces were drawn with exhaustion, limbs strained and aching, blisters punctured and taped, ready for another days
marching or fighting. Some had even attempted to scrape off their two days of stubble, wash some of the grime off their faces, to then re-apply their camouflage. During the six hour break, weapons had been cleaned, dust and grit not only invaded the working parts of their weapons, potentially causing a stoppage, but their eyes, nose and ears, a constant layer of dust grinding its way into their uniforms, rasping their skin raw.