Devils with Wings

by Harvey Black

  “Five”

  “Let’s go,” Paul called loudly to his troop. Noise didn’t matter now; the local silence was about to be shattered beyond all recognition.

  “Four.”

  The entire troop, less Weyer, who was still out there somewhere badly wounded, pulled back from the Maastricht One casemate, about fifteen paces before hitting the deck.

  “Three.”

  Just as they had gone to earth, one of the seventy five millimetre guns fired, the shockwave blasting past Paul and his men, they assumed that it had been the hollow charge, and were surprised that it had not been more ferocious.

  But Straube was still counting.

  “Two”

  “Keep your heads down, that wasn’t the charge,” he yelled!

  “One”

  The thunderous explosion immediately followed Straube’s last count as fifty kilograms of destruction ate into the armoured dome, shaking the very foundations of the bunker.

  The blast from the detonation of the hollow charge weapon completely engulfed Paul’s troop in a shock wave. The piercing noise and din numbing their eardrums, which, had they not intentionally kept their mouths open, could have done some long-term damage.

  They kept their faces down. There were still bits of shrapnel shrieking passed them, the clang on Konrad’s helmet indicating that not all were just passing by.

  The eruption above the dome had formed a smoky cloud that now spiralled above it.

  Below, the devastation was even worse, the blast knocking two of the gunners off their feet and the crust that broke off the inside of the dome as a result of the hollow charge effect, shattered into hundreds of deadly splinters, killing two of the Belgian gunners.

  The violent expansion of energy transmitted downwards, followed by globules of molten metal, the main force punching a hole through the armoured plate, ripped through their fragile flesh, leaving exposed bone and mangled tissue.

  There was no one to help the wounded men, not that much could be done for them other than to perhaps comfort them as their lives were slowly extinguished by the extent of their injuries. The rest of the gunners were in shock, concussed by the ferocity of the blast from above them.

  Although slightly deaf from the force of the blast, Paul knew that they still had work to do.

  He shouted to Konrad, whom he knew had a twelve and a half kilogram charge; his voice louder than he intended, due to the cotton wool effect in his ears from the explosion.

  “Konrad, Forster, Straube, with me. The rest of you provide us with cover.”

  Paul jumped up and they followed him back to the bunker.

  They flattened themselves against its side, clouds of dust still dropping down around them. They needed to be quick, while the occupants were still stunned by the blast.

  “Konrad, I want that charge you have put in the nearest embrasure. Stick in there under the barrel,” he said pointing to the nearest seventy-five millimetre gun protruding out of the casemate, the one that had fired earlier.

  Konrad took the charge from around his body and placed it under the barrel as far into the embrasure as he could reach and set the ten-second fuse, while his commander and comrades covered him.

  “It’s done sir, let’s shift!”

  They ran back to the rest of the troop and got their heads down again, waiting for yet another blast.

  The explosion shook the ground; again it was worse for the occupants of the bunker. The gun blown off its mountings struck the gunner who had been leaning up against it as he was recovering from the earlier attack on the dome.

  A second gunner took the blast in his face as he was trying to peer into the darkness outside, seeking out his tormentors, angry and wanting to hit back. It killed him instantly.

  Others in the vicinity, trying to escape from the devastation beneath the dome, and attempting to drag their wounded comrades to safety, were also caught in the blast. But, the two gunners who were killed, their sacrifice was not completely in vain, their deaths had sheltered the others from the worst of the effects.

  As for the gun, it was badly twisted, blown off its mountings and would never be fired again.

  But Paul was far from finished, “Konrad, Forster, Weyer can only be fifty metres from here go and see what you can do for him. If you can get him back here all well and good, if not, then make him comfortable and get back here quickly.”

  “We’re on our way,” responded Konrad, pleased that they could go and help their fallen comrade.

  “No more than five minutes,” hissed Paul after them.

  He couldn’t afford to be without a third of his troop for too long.

  “Right, Hempel, Kempf, cover us again. Kienitz, Straube, with me, and get your grenades ready. We need to keep them off balance.”

  They again ran forward, thumping up against the side of the casemate.

  Paul peered around the corner. Although the furthest two guns could be seen jutting out of their embrasures, the first gun had completely disappeared.

  He crept up to the damaged embrasure, smoke still spewing from its interior. The weapon slit was no longer four right angles but a jagged hole of shattered concrete with spikes of steel reinforcements jutting out like broken teeth.

  “Get ready instructed Paul; one grenade each, on the count of three.”

  They each got a grenade ready, and on Paul’s final count of three, ran round to the front of the damaged embrasure and threw in their grenades, this time throwing themselves flat on the ground in front of the bunker.

  The blast came, most of it projecting inwards, into the confines of the gunroom.

  Having barely recovered from the last two attacks, the senior NCO, who was partially injured himself, was supervising the removal of the many injured, dragging them to the entrance of the steps that led down into the forts interior.

  He was leaving the dead, saving his and his soldiers rapidly depleting energy, to pull the injured to a place of safety.

  Although his efforts were not in vain, as many of the wounded had been dragged to the steps, the violence of the grenades ripped into him, taking him in the back and throwing him over one of the soldiers he was trying to help, he was dead before he hit the ground.

  Little did Paul know, that had been the last straw for the gunners and they retreated to one of the lower levels to escape the death and destruction that was being meted out to them.

  “They’ll not bother us any more, let’s get a marker panel on top of the bunker,” instructed Paul, “we don’t want those trigger happy Stuka pilots lobbing bombs down on top of us. Check out the dome as well.”

  Kienitz and Straube picked up the ladder that had been blown away by the first blast and skipped up the steps, much quicker this time without the excessive weight of the hollow charges and ran over to the dome.

  There was a hole big enough to put your fist through, but they couldn’t see into the smoke filled room.

  They extracted the panels from the bag that they had with them and made the shape of a swastika. This being the recognition sign for the Luftwaffe, informing them that this target had been secured.

  Job done, they hastened back to the ladder, keen to rejoin their comrades.

  Paul looked at the bunker, the three gun casemate, its weapons that had been aimed north at the bridges of the Albert canal, was in Fallschirmjager hands.

  A shiver ran down his spine. He knew enough about the destructive force of the explosives and grenades they had used to know that had the occupants been anywhere near the points of attack, then inside would be complete mayhem, sustaining injuries he didn’t even want to contemplate.

  He snapped out of his reverie. There was no time to dwell on it and no time to rest, they had another task to fulfil.

  It was four thirty five in the morning; they had been on the ground for no more than fifteen minutes, yet it seemed like hours. They were already exhausted and had an unquenchable thirst that hadn’t been satiated by the water they carried with them, but they
still had work to do.

  They heard a rustling sound to their east. It was either the two paratroopers returning from helping their wounded comrades or the Belgian gunners had got round behind them and were counter attacking.

  Paul and his men were alert, weapons ready.

  They heard the password hissed at them, it sounded like the guttural tones of Forster, his voice normally quite deep and booming. His throat was probably dry, like the rest of them.

  Paul hissed, “show yourself,” he still needed to be wary, just in case the paratrooper had been coerced into getting the troop to expose itself. But, deep down he knew that the tough paratrooper would rather give his life than entrap his fellow soldiers.

  Forster came forwards, bent at the waste carrying one end of a collapsible ladder they had turned into a stretcher.

  At the other end was Konrad, equally bowed by the weight of the hefty Weyer strapped to the centre part of the makeshift stretcher.

  They placed him gently on the ground.

  “He’s unconscious sir,” informed Forster, “but alive.”

  “We’ve strapped up his wounds as best we can, but we need to get him to an aid station whenever possible.”

  Paul looked down at him, his face a sickly white. He had clearly lost a lot of blood and needed treatment soon if he was to live.

  “Ok,” imparted Paul to the group, “we’ll take him as far as the approach to MiSud, dropping him off before we make the attack. Then we can pick him up on our way to the HQ bunker.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Paul sent two men to collect a second fifty-kilogram charge from the glider; they would need it for their next target. They returned five minutes later, breathing heavily, handing the two charges to other colleagues.

  “Ok, let’s get going.”

  They were to join up with the rest of Paul’s assault force at MiNord, designated to be the assault group’s command post. There they would also meet up with their Group Commander Oberleutnant Faust.

  MiNord was a machine gun bunker which could cause considerable risk to the other troops carrying out their specific tasks that morning. All being well, this bunker should have already have been taken out of action.

  But on their way there, they had a second objective to take out, MiSud. Like Fischer’s troop, they also had two targets.

  Paul gathered his assault troop together and they headed northeast to MiSud.

  He hoped they had been successful in capturing MiNord, as those three machine guns covered the flat top of the fortress in a two hundred and ninety degree arc, and if they saw his troop crossing, they would make a perfect target.

  MiSud was about three hundred paces to their northeast, but they knew that MiSud had a machine gun covering the bunkers south west arc. So Paul led his team east to come in around the back of the bunker, even though it took them directly into the firing line of MiNord.

  An explosion lit up the sky in the vicinity of MiNord, easing Paul’s fears slightly. This meant that not only would the occupants of the bunker be distracted due to its focus on its own safety, it would also give the combatants in MiSud something to occupy their minds.

  Paul could hear the two men carrying the wounded Weyer, grunting behind him, Hempel and Kienitz had taken over carrying the make-do stretcher.

  He raised his hand to stop them and crouched down, everyone followed suit.

  They were approaching directly behind the casemate now.

  He turned to the two stretcher-bearers.

  “We’re here. Leave Weyer there and we’ll move forwards another ten metres, let’s go.”

  They advanced closer to the target, and then in a line watched it for a few seconds, confirming that there were no troops waiting for them outside.

  Once he was satisfied that all was quite he gave the order, “Go”.

  Forster ran straight for the bunker, jinking from side to side like a hare being chased by a fox, finally turning right to run up the path at the side taking him to the top.

  As he got to the top he could see the bunker had a periscope hole. He quickly pulled a one-kilogram charge from his pack, hastily igniting the fuse, and after a two second count threw it into the periscope hole.

  He dropped flat onto the roof, covering his ears as two seconds later the conventional charge exploded.

  Feet could be heard running away from the charge when it was thrown but after the explosion and its sound effects had died down, there was silence.

  Forster then stayed where he was providing cover for the rest of the troop.

  This distraction gave Paul the opportunity to carry out his next attack on this perceived indestructible target.

  Once the explosion, initiated by Forster had occurred, Kempf and Konrad ran forward to the southern facing embrasure, containing one of the machine guns.

  Kempf quickly and quietly placed a six-kilogram pole charge into the stepped gun slit and set the fuses.

  He shouted, “fire,” and whizzed round to the rear of the casemate joining Konrad and they both flattened themselves against the wall.

  Above them, hearing the words “fire”, Forster prostrated himself on the roof.

  No sooner had the words left Kempf ’s mouth than the explosive located in the gun slit exploded.

  They returned to the troop’s positions, passed on their way by Straube and Kienitz, carrying the last fifty-kilogram hollow charge between them.

  Placing the lower half against the wall quickly followed by Straube’s contribution, the apparatus was assembled.

  This time no one was hanging around, they had already seen its power on top of Maastricht One; they wanted to get as far away as possible.

  Even Forster wasn’t chancing it and joined them as they sped east to join the other paratroopers.

  They slid to a halt in between Paul and Hempel, wriggling down into the slight hollow they had discovered earlier.

  “It’s done sir, pray to God it does the trick.”

  They all buried themselves as deep into the trough as was humanly possible, hugging the ground as if it were a lover.

  The air was wrenched from their lungs and the force of the discharge tried to tear their hands away from their ears, hands quickly placed there to deaden the sound of the detonation.

  A hot blast passed over the tops of their heads and they would have surely burnt but for the protection of their Para helmets. Black turned to white as the multiple flashes of the detonation lit up the area. Kienitz’s arm seemed to jerk in a strobe like effect, as if in a black and white film.

  He moved his arm to his side, to touch the place where he had felt something glance against his leg, pulling his arm back, his hand was wet and he could smell the warm scent of blood on it.

  “I think I’ve been hit sir,” he said calmly.

  Inside the complex, soldiers were blown back against the walls of the bunker; some of them were terribly burnt but still alive, running, screaming through the corridors past their comrades, trying to seek relief from the terrible, searing pain.

  Now the sound of the explosion had subsided, Paul and his men could hear the screaming agony of the wounded soldiers deep down in the bunker, recently their home, but now for some, it would prove to be their coffin and final resting place.

  Although he and his men felt for them, as they were soldiers too, it was brief, as they still had a task to complete and now was not the time for self-indulgence.

  The troopers were alert now, as the area suddenly became quiet, apart from the occasional staccato of machine gun fire in the distance.

  Movement could be heard to their left, German voices shouted recognition codes, identifying them as Max’s troop returning to the fold after effectively destroying their target, Maastricht two, the bunker complex with three seventy-five millimetre guns.

  Max’s bulk suddenly appeared at his platoon commander’s side as he was examining Kienitz’s injury. He was lucky, it was minor, caused by a piece metal or concrete from the last explosion slicing throu
gh his combat trousers and taking a two centimetre chunk of flesh with it.

  Paul tore at the trouser leg, while Max placed a field dressing over it.

  “I guessed it was you sir causing all of this racket. And what do you call this Kienitz, it’s just a bloody scratch,” he said smiling, “and you’ve the platoon commander acting as your bloody nurse.”

  “It’s good to see you too Unterfeldwebel,” responded Kienitz, returning the smile, but with a short wince in between as the bandage was pressed down on his wound.

  “I’m glad to see that your concern over your men’s well being is at the forefront as usual.”

  Max picked up Kienitz’s hand and placed it on the bandage, telling him to press down on it and hold it there while he bound it to his leg.

  “You’ll be up and about in a few minutes,” he scoffed.

  “It’s good to see you Max, I take it all went well, asked Paul?”

  “A piece of cake sir, I see you have things sewn up here.”

  “Unfortunately Weyer has been badly hit and we’ve still to check out this bunker. Could you get your guys to set up an all round defence and see to Weyer while we finish this his off?”

  “Consider it done sir,” and he started to get up to carry out his orders.

  “And Max,” the Unterfeldwebel stopped and turned around to face Paul, “it’s good to see you.”

  “You too sir, I told you we’d get this done,” with that he got up and left to organise his men.

  The next step was to check out the damage done so far.

  Now that Paul’s troop had some local cover from Max’s men, they all moved forward to look at the extent of the damage.

  A hole had been burnt right through the concrete. The shockwave propagated, followed by the hot, explosive gases mixed with vaporised steel and concrete, which had tore into the men stationed inside, turning some into blackened and blistered corpses in front of the eyes of their fellow soldiers who were not close enough, so survived the initial impact and the subsequent effects of the explosion.

  It had done its job and the hole was large enough for the paratroopers to get through.

  The troop could climb through the sixty-centimetre gap, so they did.