by Right
As he turned to face the German soldier, he dodged to his right and ducked down into a crouch. He swung the Mauser round to aim it from the waist – at that range he wouldn’t need to use the sights. Dawson dragged the rifle’s muzzle towards his target, desperately trying to aim the weapon. He fired the Mauser, but as he did so he knew his shot was going to miss the target. He’d pulled the trigger a split-second too soon. He grabbed for the bolt, but he knew he’d never get the chance for a second shot, because he could see the German soldier start to squeeze the trigger of his Schmeisser.
At that instant, a rifle shot rang out from somewhere over to Dawson’s left, very close by, and the tunic of the German soldier’s uniform suddenly flared red as he pitched backwards. The man’s finger briefly squeezed the trigger of the machine-pistol and a short burst erupted from the barrel, but it was already harmlessly pointing up into the sky.
Sykes ran around from the nose of the glider and across to the fallen German soldier. Then he looked back at Dawson.
‘You OK?’ he asked.
Dawson nodded. ‘Yes, thanks. Thought I was a goner then.’
Sykes grinned at him. ‘You should have held your shot until you were sure of your aim. You had time, you know – just about. Now, let’s get out of here before any other inquisitive Jerries come along.’
He and Dawson turned back to look at the grey two-part explosive charge sitting inside the glider.
‘I still don’t know how it works,’ Dawson said. ‘I’ll need to take it apart, and find out what’s in that lower section. That’s the important bit, I think.’
‘We’ll take it with us,’ Sykes said. ‘It’s got carrying handles, so it’s obviously designed to be lifted by a man. We’ll take one half of it each.’
Dawson shouldered his rifle again, bent down and seized the leather handle on the upper section of the weapon. It lifted smoothly off the lower part, which Sykes picked up.
‘I’m guessing it weighs over a hundred pounds in total,’ Dawson said, ‘so it’s a fucking serious weapon.’
‘What’s that rod sticking out of the top?’ Sykes asked, pointing at the section Dawson was carrying.
‘I think that’s the fuse, and it probably runs for about five or ten seconds. You push it in or maybe pull it out, then run like fuck.’
Sykes looked at him. ‘Then make sure you don’t do either,’ he snapped. ‘But if you do, for Christ’s sake tell me, then we’ll both run like fuck. Right, let’s get out of here.’
The two men looked all round them, but saw no enemy troops. There was still the sound of heavy firing from somewhere over to the east, but not very close to where they were standing. Interspersed in the rifle and machine-gun fire were the heavier explosions as one of Fort Eben Emael’s remaining cannon fired at some unknown target.
‘Sounds like there’s still some fight left in the Belgians,’ Sykes remarked, as two shots from a cannon sounded in quick succession. ‘Right, back the way we came. Same routine. I’ll take point and left. You follow me.’
‘Understood.’
The sun was just starting to appear over the horizon, but visibility on the roof of the fort was still somewhat degraded because of the effects of the multiple explosions that had been triggered there. Dust swirled around them as they started walking.
The two components of the German demolition charge were both heavy and cumbersome to carry, and Dawson realized why the two soldiers he’d seen what seemed hours earlier had been carrying the device slung on a pole between them. He and Sykes didn’t have that option – the only thing they could have used as a pole was one of the Mauser rifles, and they needed them to be immediately available. At least by each of them carrying one of the two sections of the weapon, they had the ability to drop them and use their weapons immediately if they encountered any enemy soldiers.
As the visibility started to improve, they could see both Cupola Nord and Cupola Sud. The northerly position was silent, and ominous tendrils of smoke were streaming out of the retractable steel dome and from a massive hole in the steel exit door at the back of the structure. The German troops had destroyed Cupola Nord’s fighting capability.
But Cupola Sud still seemed to be operating. As Dawson watched, the steel dome rose to its maximum height of about four feet from the concrete surround, rotated slightly and then fired two rounds at some target down to the south.
‘The fort’s not quite finished,’ Sykes said, watching the same spectacle, ‘but it’s only a matter of time.’
Dawson didn’t reply. He was staring intently at the retractable dome itself.
‘What is it?’ Sykes asked.
‘Might be good news. There’s a black circle on the top of that dome, so the Jerries used one of their explosive charges on it, but the blast can’t have penetrated the steel.’
Sykes stared across the grassy roof as well. ‘You’re right. Maybe the armour on that one’s a bit thicker, or the charge was weaker. We’ll never know. Now let’s move.’
Dawson reckoned they’d only got about another three hundred yards to cover to get back to the Maastricht Two casemate, so if all went well they could be safely – a relative term in the circumstances – inside the fortress within about fifteen minutes.
But that forecast turned out to be extremely optimistic.
Sykes heard it first. He stopped in his tracks and stared upwards, scanning the sky.
‘Stuka,’ he snapped. ‘Put that charge down and take cover.’
Dawson couldn’t see the aircraft, but needed no encouragement. He’d heard enough about the German dive-bomber to be frankly terrified of it. As he hit the ground, getting as deep into a shallow depression as he could, he heard the unearthly and escalating wail of the siren fitted to the Stuka. This device was specifically intended to terrify anyone unfortunate enough to be a target, as if the prospect of being blown to pieces by the bomb carried by the aircraft wasn’t enough. The troops called the siren the ‘Jericho trumpet’. The howl increased in volume and intensity as the aircraft plummeted towards the ground in about a seventy-five-degree dive, and moments later Dawson saw it.
It was heading straight for the east side of the fort and, as he watched, he saw a bomb detach from the underside of the aircraft and spear straight down. Moments after the Stuka pulled up level at about 3,000 feet and then started to climb, the weapon exploded with a massive bang just to one side of Cupola Sud’s armoured steel dome.
‘That’s a five-hundred pounder,’ Sykes called out. ‘There’s another one coming in. Stay down.’
‘Why the fuck haven’t we got any planes like these?’ Dawson asked, looking up. ‘They fucking terrify me.’
That attack was just the start. As soon as the first Stuka had climbed away from the fort, Dawson heard a second one starting its dive. But this one sounded as if it was further away, and moments later he saw the aircraft aiming for something down to the south of the fort. Its bomb exploded well away from Eben Emael, and for a moment Dawson cheered up.
‘Do you think the Belgians have sent reinforcements, sir?’ he asked. ‘And the Jerries are bombing them?’
Sykes was in a better position to see where the bomb had landed, and as the smoke cleared he stood up and shook his head.
‘You’re half-right, Dawson,’ he said. ‘There are reinforcements on the road. The same soldiers we saw walking here from Wonck. But most of them are unarmed – a rifle would be no use against a dive-bomber anyway – so they’re a nice soft target and the fucking Germans are blowing the hell out of them. There’s virtually no cover down there.’
‘Bastards,’ Dawson muttered. He stood up and grabbed hold of the German explosive charge, being careful not to touch the fuse assembly, and followed the slight figure of Major Sykes as the officer resumed his erratic progress towards the Maastricht Two casemate.
Then all hell seemed to break out. There was a volley of rifle shots from directly ahead of them. And that was followed by a long burst of heavy-machine-gun fire from somew
here behind them, a hail of bullets that chewed up the ground about fifty yards over to their left.
Two separate groups of forces were firing towards them. And Sykes and Dawson were trapped right in the middle.
Chapter 8
10 May 1940
Eben Emael, Belgium
Sykes and Dawson dropped flat to the ground, trying to make themselves as small as they possibly could.
‘What the fuck’s going on?’ Dawson demanded. ‘Have the Jerries spotted us, or what?’
‘I don’t know, but I doubt it. That machine-gun is a long way off – I think it’s right up at the northern end of the fort, and at that distance I doubt if the gunner could tell that we aren’t just a couple of German troops.’
‘So what is it, then?’
For a few moments Sykes didn’t reply, just lifted his head and stared in front of him, towards Maastricht Two, then ducked down again as the machine-gun fired again.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘the Germans have spotted a Belgian counter-attack. It looks to me as if there are Belgian soldiers near the western south-facing casemate. I think that’s Visé One. It looks as if they’re firing towards the Germans who’re down to the south, near Cupola Sud.’
‘That’s brilliant,’ Dawson muttered. ‘We could do with some help.’
‘Not necessarily. A Belgian bullet will kill you just as certainly as a German one. Right now I think both sides are probably just shooting at anything that moves, and that would include you and me. The only good thing is the troops on either side aren’t actually shooting at us. We just happen to be caught between them.’
‘What do we do now?’
‘Keep our heads down for the moment. I’m not bothered about the machine-gun: it’s right up at the northern end of the roof. The Belgian troops do worry me. They’ve had a hell of a shock today, put the wind right up them, and they’re probably out looking for blood.’
Dawson eased up slightly from his rudimentary cover and glanced over to the east, and then back over the ground they’d covered from the glider.
‘That’s not our only problem,’ he said. ‘I’ve just seen a couple of Jerries running over towards the glider. They’re going to find the body of that soldier you shot.’
Sykes twisted round to stare in the direction Dawson was pointing. Perhaps 200 yards away, a couple of German soldiers, rifles slung over their shoulders, were running towards the distant grey shape of the Luftwaffe glider.
‘The dead German isn’t the problem,’ Sykes said. ‘They’ve probably been sent over there to pick up that demolition charge – the one we’ve got with us. When they don’t find it, the Jerries will know that somebody else is up here with them. Then we’ll really have problems.’
Dawson glanced at the major. ‘You mean we don’t have enough problems right now?’ he asked.
Sykes grinned at him. ‘More than enough,’ he said, ‘but this one we can do something about.’
He manoeuvred himself round so that he was facing north, but still lying prone on the ground. He brought his Mauser up into the firing position and looked over the sights back towards the glider.
‘If they’re going somewhere else, just let them go, Dawson,’ he ordered. ‘But if they stop beside the glider, we shoot them. We can’t risk them raising the alarm.’
Dawson slid a few feet away from the demolition charge he’d been carrying, found a hummock that would shield him from view to the north, and mirrored Sykes’s actions, aiming his rifle towards the glider.
Then the two men lay in silence, almost side by side, watching the progress of the two distant figures.
The German soldiers slowed down to a trot as they neared the glider, and one of them almost immediately veered off to one side and bent down to examine something on the ground.
‘They’ve seen the dead soldier,’ Sykes muttered. ‘Just wait and see what they do now.’
The second German trotted over to join his companion, and both crouched down. A few seconds later they stood again, and together walked across to the side door of the glider.
‘Wait,’ Sykes ordered. ‘Wait until they step back.’
The two Germans remained beside the glider for what seemed like an age, though it could only have been about ten seconds, then moved away, talking together. One of them pointed back across the roof towards Cupola Sud.
‘Right,’ Sykes said. ‘That’s clear enough. They’ll blow the whistle as soon as they get back. You take the one on the right.’
Dawson settled his breathing, keeping the right-hand target in the Mauser’s iron sights. He took a deep breath, released about half of it and then held his breath, just as he’d been taught on the ranges back in Britain when he’d been training. He checked the sight picture one final time, then slowly squeezed the trigger.
The Mauser kicked back against his shoulder but, at the precise instant he fired, the German soldier turned to his left and started to run. The bullet probably passed within a couple of feet of the man.
Dawson worked the bolt rapidly and brought his rifle back to the aim.
Beside him, Sykes fired his weapon, and the other soldier’s body jerked backwards and he tumbled, apparently lifeless, to the ground.
The remaining German soldier had ducked out of sight as his companion fell, no doubt looking for a target for his own rifle.
‘He moved,’ Dawson said, by way of explanation, and he stared northwards, looking for his target.
A shot rang out from in front of them, but the bullet came nowhere near Sykes or Dawson.
‘He’s shooting at the Belgians, I think,’ Sykes said, glancing down to the south again.
An answering ragged volley of shots rang out from the Belgian soldiers clustered near Maastricht Two, and another one from the German soldier who’d taken cover near the glider.
‘I still don’t see him,’ Dawson said.
‘I do,’ Sykes muttered. ‘Or I think I do.’
The German soldier fired another round.
‘Got him,’ Sykes murmured. ‘I just saw him fire.’
He concentrated on the spot where he’d seen the movement, and then fired his own weapon.
Dawson heard a yell of pain from the German, and then the soldier staggered to his feet, clutching his right arm and howling in agony.
Dawson slightly adjusted his aim, settled his breathing and squeezed the trigger.
This time the German lurched backwards a couple of steps, then collapsed and lay still.
‘Teamwork,’ Sykes said. ‘Now let’s see if we can get out of here.’
The Belgian troops were still firing over towards Cupola Sud, and the German soldiers there were shooting back at them. Then the man behind the machine-gun near the northern end of the fort roof opened up again, and Dawson saw two of the Belgian soldiers fall to the ground. That seemed to precipitate a retreat, and in a couple of minutes they’d all vanished from sight, presumably into the nearby casemate.
‘Right,’ Sykes said, easing up into a crouch, ‘now they’ve buggered off, maybe we can make some progress.’
But before they could move, they heard the ominous howl of another Stuka dive-bomber somewhere above them, and both men dived into cover. Seconds later, the aircraft’s bomb exploded somewhere near Cupola Sud, but without scoring a direct hit. Another Stuka followed it down. The second aircraft’s target wasn’t the pathetic stream of reinforcement troops heading towards Eben Emael, but a much closer target.
‘Now they’re hitting Block One,’ Sykes said, as he saw an explosion right beside the fort’s main entrance.
‘So getting out of here is going to be fucking interesting,’ Dawson said. ‘Assuming we ever get back inside the bloody fort.’
‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Come on, let’s move.’
Picking up the two sections of the demolition charge, Dawson and Sykes started heading south again, making their way slowly towards the Maastricht Two casemate.
Chapter 9
10 May 1
940
Eben Emael, Belgium
They’d covered barely seventy yards when another Stuka attack began, the atonal wail of the aircraft’s siren sending shivers through Dawson’s spine.
Yet again, they dived into cover, wrapping their arms around their heads as a feeble protection against both the metal fragments from the bomb and the terrific noise of the explosion. This attack, too, was directed against the Block One entrance to the fort, and Dawson saw the weapon score a direct hit, impacting against the massive reinforced concrete structure. When the smoke cleared, both men could clearly see that the upper surface of Block One was pitted and discoloured, but the fortification was still intact – the designers of Eben Emael had certainly got some things right.
‘It’ll take a lot more than a few bombs that size to blow a hole in this place,’ Dawson said.
‘You’re right. But I think the Germans must realize that. They’ve probably just sent in the Stukas to make sure the Belgians keep their heads down.’
Before they moved again, Sykes stood up and scanned the whole area, trying to see where the German troops were operating. Most of the activity he could see seemed to be concentrated around Cupola Sud, which was still firing rounds from its twin seventy-five-millimetre cannon at targets down to the south of Eben Emael, presumably at other advancing German units.
‘I think I can see their plan,’ Sykes said, crouching down again. ‘The first three targets the Germans hit were the Maastricht One and Two casemates and Cupola One Twenty. They held the main weapons the fort had that could fire at targets to the north. Once they knocked those out, they concentrated all their efforts on the other two weapon positions that can fire in any direction – Cupolas Nord and Sud. Cupola Sud is the only one left operating, and they’re determined to silence it.’
Dawson nodded. ‘So this is only a part of their plan,’ he said. ‘They must have troops heading for those three bridges over the Albert Canal, up to the north of here.’