Right and Glory

by Right

  ‘Exactly. And I’ll bet you they probably used the same technique – sending in troops by glider so the defenders couldn’t hear their approach. All those bridges were mined, and if the Belgians knew the Germans were approaching, they’d blow the charges. So the Jerries had to be stealthy about it. And that means this isn’t just an isolated incident, not just the Germans trying to take out this fort to make way for their invasion attempt. This is the invasion of Belgium.’

  ‘Oh, shit,’ Dawson said.

  ‘Beautifully put. Now let’s move.’

  The Maastricht Two casemate was now perhaps only 200 yards away – a half-minute sprint under normal circumstances. But the grassy and slightly undulating surface of the roof of Fort Eben Emael precluded very rapid movement, at least for two men each laden down with part of a heavy and lethal demolition charge. They made steady, but fairly slow, progress.

  The two halves of the explosive charge each weighed about fifty pounds, and the single leather handle attached to each was obviously only intended to allow the weapon to be carried for short distances. Both men found they were having to stop frequently to change hands, to relieve the strain on their arms, and the objects swung awkwardly against their legs when they walked.

  But they were getting closer to their objective, and for the moment, the Stukas seemed to be taking a break, though the aircraft were no doubt being rearmed and refuelled at some airfield on the other side of the German border.

  ‘Nearly there,’ Sykes murmured encouragingly, when they’d covered about half the distance to the casemate.

  Then they heard a sound like an express train rushing through the air above them, and a massive column of earth suddenly erupted from the ground a couple of hundred yards over to their left. Again they both dived for cover.

  ‘What the fuck was that?’ Dawson demanded.

  Before Sykes could reply, they heard another two identical sounds in quick succession – two loud screams – followed by another couple of explosions in the same area as the first.

  ‘That’s artillery fire,’ Sykes said. ‘We’re being shelled.’

  ‘You mean the bloody Germans have landed heavy weapons somewhere here as well?’

  Another salvo of detonations made conversation impossible for a few seconds, then Sykes lifted his head again and glanced around.

  ‘It isn’t the Germans,’ he said.

  ‘But if the Jerries have mounted a full-scale invasion –’

  ‘They have, I’m certain, but why would they fire shells at this fort? No artillery shell could do the slightest bit of damage to it. No, I think it’s the Belgians doing it, trying to shift the Germans from the roof.’

  ‘Then let’s hope they know where the Germans are, and that they’re bloody good shots.’

  ‘From what we’ve seen so far, I wouldn’t put money on it,’ Sykes said.

  Another two shells screamed overhead and slammed into the ground ahead of them.

  ‘Let’s move,’ Sykes said.

  Dawson grabbed the demolition charge, stood up and headed off towards the casemate, Sykes a few feet behind him.

  They’d only covered about ten yards before they heard the ominous noise of incoming rounds again, and threw themselves flat on the ground. As soon as the shells had landed – again some distance away, down in the southern section of the roof, near Cupola Sud – they climbed to their feet and carried on walking.

  The pattern repeated itself, time after time. They’d stagger a few yards – both of them, even Dawson, who was by far the bigger and stronger man, were now feeling the strain of lugging a brutally heavy dead weight – then take cover as more shells screamed over them, the explosions getting ever closer as they approached the Maastricht Two casemate.

  They ducked into cover about twenty yards from their objective as yet another salvo of artillery shells blasted earth and shrapnel in all directions, the impact point of the explosions less than seventy yards away from them, on the south side of the casemate.

  Dawson eased up into a crouch, then tensed as Sykes raised a warning hand to stop him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Voices,’ Sykes hissed urgently. ‘Voices right in front of us. German voices. They’re inside the casemate.’

  Their escape route was blocked.

  Chapter 10

  10 May 1940

  Eben Emael, Belgium

  After a couple of seconds, Dawson heard the voices as well. Guttural accents. There was no doubting their origin. A group of German soldiers had obviously taken refuge in the fortification. Going through the casemate was the only way Sykes and Dawson had of getting off the roof of the fort – and staying on the roof was no longer feasible because of the increasing frequency of the barrage of artillery shells landing all around them.

  ‘So what now?’ Dawson’s voice was tinged with fear. It wasn’t the first time he’d faced death since the war had begun, but he really didn’t like the odds they were facing – two of them against an unknown number of highly trained and well-armed German soldiers. And he particularly didn’t like the idea of facing the enemy troops within the confines of the Maastricht Two casemate.

  ‘Wait,’ Sykes said. ‘I’m thinking.’

  The major looked ahead at the looming grey shape of the casemate, the three gun ports facing almost directly towards them, then glanced across at Dawson.

  ‘We can’t tackle those Jerries just with these two Mausers,’ Sykes said. ‘We need better weapons.’

  ‘And grenades,’ Dawson added.

  Sykes nodded and glanced behind him. ‘You wait here,’ he ordered. ‘Keep your eye on the casemate. I’ll go back to the glider. One of the Germans we shot back there was carrying a Schmeisser, and maybe one or two of them had stick grenades as well. That’ll improve the odds a little.’

  ‘You want me to go?’ Dawson asked.

  Sykes shook his head. ‘No. Just watch that casemate. There’s nobody anywhere near the glider. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

  The major slipped away, heading north across the roof of the fort, quickly vanishing from sight.

  Dawson aimed his Mauser towards the casemate and settled down to wait. All he could hope was that Sykes would find some extra weapons, and would get back before any of the German troops decided to leave the casemate and walk in his direction, because he knew he was hopelessly outgunned.

  Then he heard another roar as a further salvo of artillery shells howled overhead and exploded beyond and to the east of the casemate, and again lay flat, shielding his head and covering his ears.

  Another half dozen salvos from one of the other Belgian forts in the area smashed into the roof all around him before Dawson heard a scuffling sound behind and glanced back, swinging the Mauser to cover the ground to the north, then relaxed slightly.

  ‘It’s me.’

  Major Sykes ducked down beside Dawson, a Schmeisser machine-pistol in his hands, and another slung over his shoulder.

  Dawson nodded, relief evident in his face. ‘That’ll even things up a bit, sir. Did you find any grenades?’

  Sykes patted a canvas bag he had slung over his shoulder, next to the second Schmeisser machine-pistol.

  ‘One of the soldiers had two. The others had one each, so we’ve got four of them between us. Here.’ Sykes opened the bag and handed Dawson two of the weapons. The Model 24 Stielhandgranate – commonly known as a stick grenade, or more familiarly to British troops as the ‘potato masher’ – was a canister full of explosive mounted at the end of a wooden handle. The handle allowed it to be thrown up to three times further than the standard British Mills bomb, and relied on sheer blast for its destructive effect. Because of that, it was particularly lethal in confined spaces.

  Like the interior of a reinforced concrete casemate on a Belgian fort, for example.

  Dawson hefted one of the grenades in his hand and glanced thoughtfully across at the concrete casemate in front of them.

  Sykes looked at him, and leaned closer. ‘What we’re go
ing to do may not be very sporting, Dawson, but if we don’t eliminate those German troops, and bloody fast, we’re going to die up here, and that’s the truth.’

  Dawson switched his gaze to the major, and a slow grin started to work its way across his rugged features.

  ‘I know that,’ he muttered. ‘I was just wondering if we could lob these potato mashers from here. No, I’ve got no problem using grenades against these bastards. They just dive-bombed a column of unarmed men. Let’s give them a taste of their own medicine. The quicker we kill them the better, I reckon.’

  ‘Right,’ Sykes said. ‘We’ve got four grenades. There are only the two of us, and we’ll have just one chance to get this right. The first thing we do is throw one into the casemate where the gun’s been blown inside the building – where we climbed out. That will kill any Germans hiding in that section. But there are a lot of rooms down there, so there might be other soldiers inside who’ll only be dazed by the first explosion.

  ‘After that we climb into the casemate immediately. With three grenades left, and these two machine-pistols, we should be able to kill any others before they regain their senses.’

  It wasn’t much of a plan, and both of them knew it. But Dawson hadn’t any better ideas so he nodded agreement.

  ‘You go left, and I’ll go right,’ Sykes said. ‘We’ll meet at the casemate itself, beside the blown-out cannon. OK?’

  Dawson nodded again, left the Mauser rifle on the ground – he wouldn’t need it any more – and checked the Schmeisser was cocked and loaded. He had handled the weapon before and was quite familiar with it. He picked up both grenades and stuck them in his belt, and then grabbed the demolition charge. He glanced across at Sykes, to make sure he was ready, and then both men started towards the casemate, their paths separating immediately.

  They were reasonably certain they wouldn’t be heard as they made their stealthy approach – the continuing artillery barrage would ensure that – but they were concerned they might be seen as they approached their objective. So they moved as slowly and as carefully as they could, keeping low and taking advantage of every scrap of cover they could find.

  They reached the massive wall of the casemate without apparently being seen. Or, at least, nobody had fired at them. The outer two seventy-five-millimetre guns were still intact. Presumably the German troops hadn’t yet got around to destroying them, or maybe they were even planning to use the weapons themselves, to support their invasion of Belgium, once they’d captured the entire fort. Only the centre cannon had been blown off its mountings during the initial attack, and that was the route they had used to get out of the fort, and it was also the only way back inside.

  Dawson and Sykes crouched down directly below the opening and carefully lowered the two halves of the explosive charge to the ground.

  ‘Leave the demolition charge out here,’ Sykes whispered. ‘You go in first when the grenade’s exploded, and I’ll follow you in immediately. We’ll clear the casemate, then come back out here and get the charge.’

  Dawson took one of the stick grenades from his belt, checked that Sykes was ready, then unscrewed the cap at the base of the wooden handle and pulled the ceramic ball, which started the detonation sequence. The grenade had a five-second fuse. The last thing he and Sykes needed was some quick-witted German grabbing the weapon and throwing it back out at them, so he counted a slow ‘one, two, three’. Then he stood up and lobbed the grenade through the opening in the front wall of the casemate.

  He heard a sudden yell from inside as he flattened himself against the ground, and almost immediately the stick grenade exploded inside the structure, the sound massively amplified by the enclosed space.

  Dawson immediately stood up, took a quick glance inside the casemate, then levered himself up and wriggled through the opening. It was a tight fit, but eventually he managed to wriggle through. The moment the corporal’s boots vanished from sight, Sykes followed him.

  Dust hung everywhere, which made the place look as if it was full of fog, fog that was slowly clearing. Dawson stood up and looked around. He was staring at a scene that was straight from hell.

  The bodies of the two Belgian soldiers, the men who’d been killed by the blast that had wrecked the cannon, were still lying on the floor, their limbs contorted by the new blast. Beyond them lay the bodies of four German soldiers, who had obviously taken shelter in the casemate against the artillery barrage. One of them must have been right next to the grenade when it exploded, because his torso was shredded, ribs and intestines blown out by the blast, a spreading pool of blood discolouring the floor around him. The three others had been a little further away from the epicentre, but were just as dead, the skin of their faces and hands ripped and torn, and no doubt with massive internal injuries. It would have been a quick death.

  For a few seconds, Dawson just stared at the carnage, then a shout from the doorway snapped him out of it.

  ‘Dawson!’ Sykes yelled, the Schmeisser in one hand and a stick grenade clutched in the other. ‘Check the space to your right, then follow me,’ he ordered.

  Dawson peered around the dividing wall, but there was no sign of life on the other side of it, just the intact but unmanned seventy-five-millimetre cannon on its mounting.

  Sykes moved ahead, peering through the clouds of dust, Dawson right behind him. The major kicked open a door to his left, to check the room. As he did so, a figure lurched into view down the passage, a German soldier who’d survived the blast, his rifle hanging loosely over his shoulder, clearly dazed and confused.

  But he was a threat, and Dawson reacted immediately, lifting the muzzle of his Schmeisser and firing three bullets straight into the German’s chest. The man tumbled backwards and crashed to the ground, killed instantly.

  Sykes spun round from his inspection of the side-room – which was stacked with equipment but empty of people. He brought his own weapon to bear, took in the scene in a moment, then nodded to Dawson.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  For a few moments Dawson didn’t move, just stared down at the body of the dead German soldier. Another man dead at his hands. He’d almost lost count of the number of men he’d killed since he’d been dragged into this conflict.

  ‘Wake up, Dawson,’ Sykes said sharply, pointing at the metal staircase ahead of them. ‘The upper level’s clear. Now we need to check down below.’

  At the end of the short passageway was a railing and a metal staircase that linked the two levels inside the casemate.

  The two men moved quickly towards the staircase, checking both sides of the passageway as they did so. They stopped at the railing and peered down into the darkness that cloaked the lower level. They saw no signs of any German soldiers, but there were faint noises, perhaps the sounds of people moving across the floor.

  ‘Another grenade, I think,’ Sykes said, pulling one out of his belt. ‘Just in case.’

  Dawson nodded, but before either of them could move there was a faint whistling sound, and a stick grenade suddenly flew up out of the darkness and landed on the ground a few feet behind them.

  Chapter 11

  10 May 1940

  Eben Emael, Belgium

  Dawson reacted instantly.

  He turned round, took two paces forward and kicked the canister end of the grenade as hard as he could. The weapon lifted into the air, spinning end over end, and clattered away down the passageway the two men had just walked along.

  Then he dropped flat to the floor, his head and steel helmet pointing in the direction that he’d kicked the grenade, and rammed his hands over his ears. Beside him, Sykes did exactly the same thing.

  Under a second later, the grenade exploded at the far end of the passageway with a blast that seemed to shake the very foundations of the casemate. A massive pressure wave slammed into the two soldiers, and dust and small bits of debris flew in all directions. The stick grenade wasn’t a fragmentation weapon, relying solely on the blast effect. Fortunately, Dawson’s massive ki
ck had ensured they were outside the lethal radius of the weapon – just.

  ‘Good job, Dawson,’ Sykes muttered. ‘You OK?’

  ‘I think so, yeah.’ Dawson shook himself like a dog, then climbed shakily to his feet.

  ‘Right. Now we finish this.’

  Sykes eased himself up into a crouch, armed the grenade he’d previously been preparing to throw, and dropped it over the edge of the steel railing.

  When the explosion came, it sounded almost muted, but that was probably because their ears were still ringing from the blast of the grenade thrown at them.

  ‘Come on.’

  Sykes gripped his Schmeisser and led the way down the metal staircase, making no attempt to be silent, because speed was more important. They needed to get down to the base of the casemate before any other surviving German soldiers recovered their senses.

  Their boots clattered on the pierced-steel treads as they ran down the staircase, their weapons held ready, both men trying to spot any threat before they were themselves attacked.

  Nearing the lower level, Dawson spotted a shape off to one side and immediately stopped dead. He aimed the Schmeisser over the banister rail and fired a short burst, the sound of the sub-machine-gun echoing throughout the space. The first couple of rounds missed, smashing into the concrete floor and ricocheting away into the darkness, but the next one thudded into its target.

  Quickly, Sykes and Dawson ran down the last few steps. While Dawson stood guard, his Schmeisser ready, the major bent to examine the body lying on the floor.

  ‘He was dead already, Dawson. That grenade exploded quite close to him. But good shooting anyway.’

  Quickly, they checked everywhere on the lower level, but there was no sign of any other enemy soldiers.

  ‘Nothing?’ Sykes asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Dawson confirmed. ‘Let me just check the door.’

  He walked across to the pair of massive steel doors they’d originally used to get into the casemate. Both were firmly closed, but when he pulled the side of the one they’d come through, it opened slightly. Their escape route was still open.