Devils with Wings

by Harvey Black

  From then on the soldiers found it difficult to get their heads off the ground to return fire and take on the German shock troops. The paratroopers took advantage of this and within moments three grenades were lobbed in their direction, exploding as one. Forster’s half section ran forward, covered by the remainder of the unit, to take advantage of the fire, smoke and the stunned Belgian troops. His half section’s machine pistols tore into the area in front of them, the shocked, and in some cases wounded, soldiers dropping to the floor as the bullets did their work, scything down all who got in their way.

  The area was quickly secured, eight Belgium soldiers lay dead, some unrecognisable, torn apart by a mixture of grenade shrapnel, small arms fire and the heavier calibre bullets of the fast firing MG 34 machine gun.

  Leeb and his men ran quickly to MiSud, the more they could do to keep the enemy on their toes, keep them trapped below, the greater their chance of survival and to continue to prevent the enemy from interfering with the main invasion.

  Their instruction was to secure some of the tunnels below, preempting any potential counter attack, making the enemy think that the force on top of their fortress was greater than it actually was.

  Leeb had no idea what he and his men should expect, all he knew was that the fortress had four and a half kilometres of stairs, corridors and lifts.

  There were also five hundred men responsible for the gun batteries and five hundred men responsible for the immediate defence of the fort, quite a task for him and his seven men he thought, smiling to himself.

  They skirmished forward to the entrance, finding the blast holes in the bunker that would take them to the steps that would lead them down into the bunker’s depths.

  They didn’t throw any grenades; they didn’t want to alert the enemy if they were nearby.

  Leeb crept through the gap in the bunker wall, catching his hand on a piece of jagged, reinforcing metal, holding back a yelp, placing his hand in his mouth to stem the flow of blood.

  He crouched down, listening for any evidence of the bunker being occupied. There was some daylight filtering through, but coming from outside, his night vision non-existent, he would be blind and vulnerable for a few minutes.

  He didn’t want to use his torch, again not wanting to advertise their presence.

  It seemed to be clear. He stood up and beckoned the next paratrooper to come through. Fessman, Petzel and Stumme, the remainder watching their backs outside, joined him.

  The time had come to use their torches, cupping their hands around the lens, reducing its beam to a mere glow.

  They now carried out what they had planned earlier. Fessman quickly descended the winding steps, returning after his reconnaissance to confirm that no one was there and that the two steel doors were closed.

  Petzel and Stumme now took a turn, as they carried the fifty kilogram hollow charge between them, a half section each, down the steps.

  Their backs being covered by their comrades above, they moved slowly down the steps, approaching the five centimetre thick steel door at the bottom. Petzel took his section of the shaped charge from his pack and placed it on the centre of the steel door, Stumme followed suit with his. Once ignited, the ‘Monroe effect’ of this hollow charge explosive would do its job and blow a hole in the door, hopefully giving them access to the tunnels below.

  This operation saw hollow charge explosives being used for the first time as a weapon, since its discovery during the American civil war. Slabs of explosives, embossed with the initials ‘US’, when detonated the initials left a deep impression on the surface of the target.

  They placed them up against the doors, setting the fuse, then running back up as fast as they could, diving through the breach they had just entered, hot on the heels of Fessman and the Uffz.

  They all threw themselves to the ground, they now knew what to expect from this wonder weapon.

  When the explosion occurred, it shook the ground beneath them and even made their teeth rattle.

  Smoke and debris were hurled up the steps, channelled by the narrow stairs leading up from the steel door.

  They again entered the bunker, this time with the intention of exploring the tunnels below.

  Uffz Leeb, Fessman, Petzel and Stumme cautiously moved down the steps, chunks missing from them as a result of the blast. Choking on the dust and fumes of the explosion, Petzel retching as he ran down the steps.

  On reaching the bottom of the steps, Uffz Leeb could see that not only had a hole the size of a fist been blown in the door, but the door was hanging off its hinges and sagging to the side.

  Smoke and dust was still billowing out of the tunnel, and Leeb could see very little as he stepped through into the tunnel. The dust was grating on their throats, there was another smell that Leeb couldn’t identify, but tasted toxic on his tongue. He ordered gas masks to be worn.

  After pulling his gas mask over his head and replacing his helmet, he continued cautiously down the narrow tunnel.

  Fessman followed him carefully, covering Leeb’s back. His foot caught on something and staring down playing his torch over the floor, he could see the shattered body of a Belgian soldier who had obviously been caught in the blast, blood oozing from his nose and mouth.

  “Uffz, look.”

  Leeb also shone his torch on the unfortunate soldier.

  He was, astoundingly so, still alive, although Leeb doubted it would be for much longer. They would do what they could for him on their return; he was no threat to them in his current state.

  He could see no one else in the murky, dusty interior of the tunnel he was in.

  He had decided to move down to the next junction, where they would leave a couple of small explosives. He doubted they would do much damage, due to their size, but it would hopefully keep the enemy guessing and as Leutnant Brand put it, battened down.

  They got to the junction and if his memory served him right the right hand one led to Block two. Continuing on would take them to Maastricht one and two and the key junction for the forts tunnels, it was there they wanted to cause confusion.

  They continued on, Fessman staying by the junction with Block two, ensuring they weren’t taken by surprise from behind.

  They arrived at the junction with Maastricht one.

  Petzel quickly set the charges while they watched over him.

  “I’ve set them for ten seconds, so once I initiate we’ll have to run like bloody hell.”

  Leeb passed the information back to Stumme, nodded to Petzel, who triggered the fuse.

  They ran like a bat out of hell, picking Fessman up on the way, charging through the hanging steel doorway, running up the steps, taking two at a time, until they were through and into the main bunker compartment.

  Not a moment too soon as the charges exploded, a hollow boom, followed by a pall of smoke and dust funnelled up the steps.

  They climbed out side, ripped off their gas masks and sucked in the welcoming fresh air.

  Max was thrown sideways from the shockwave of the one hundred and fifty millimetre shell that exploded fifty metres away, knocking him to the ground, the earth lifting up, earth, rocks and debris pattering on his helmet as it was strewn around him.

  “Where the hell did that come from?!” shouted Geib.

  “They have some bloody big grenades!” retorted Waldau, running over to see that the Unterfeldwebel was ok.

  Max got up, shaking the dust off his huge frame, “I’m ok, start digging in,” he shouted to the section, “that was a one fifty, probably from the Forts Pontise or Barchon and there will probably be more on the way. That was just a ranging shot.”

  The troop took out their small collapsible spade attached to their webbing and started to dig themselves in.

  “I’m a bloody paratrooper,” groaned Rammelt, “we’re supposed plunge from the sky like descending heroes and kick arse, not dig bloody holes like a bloody gardener!”

  Shells were landing on other areas of Fort Eben Emael now, a mixture of on
e hundred and five millimetre from Barchon and a hundred and fifty millimetres from Pontise.

  Another explosion landed close by and Rammelt shut up and redoubled his efforts to dig deep.

  Within ten minutes they all had some sort of shell scrape, enough to give them some protection, but not full protection from the red-hot splinters of shrapnel released by the deadly artillery shells. They were all sweating from the furious energy they had just expended, their full battle gear making them hot, sweaty and uncomfortable.

  The Belgian’s were attempting to dislodge the paratroopers through artillery bombardments and a counter attacks, but so far all had failed.

  Max’s troop improved their shell scrapes, shallow recesses that gave them some protection from explosions close by, but not a direct hit, and small arms fire although it was not sufficient protection for a heavy sustained attack. This was part of Max’s responsibility, to give them a secure area to the north east of the Fort, close to the Albert Canal. Paul and Fischer’s troop were securing the north west, Leeb targeting the tunnels and the rest of Group Granite focusing on the east.

  The shelling eased off and Leutnant Brand and his men, having completed the rout of their enemy, joined them.

  “Well Max that was a bit hairy!”

  “You’re right there sir, for us too,” responded Max.

  “How are the lads holding up do you think?” enquired Paul.

  Max as the senior NCO was the link between the paratroopers and their officer; often he would see what Paul would miss.

  “They’re on top form sir, their confidence hasn’t been dented. In fact they are even cockier now that they’ve seen off some Belgian troops.”

  Paul shifted into a more comfortable, and safer position as the whine of a spent bullet was heard passing close by.

  “They are good soldiers Max, you have taught them well,” said Paul grinning.

  “They were great learner’s sir, and they knew the consequences of getting it wrong.”

  Cruuump, cruuump, cruuump could be heard in the distance indicating a battle was raging to their east; possibly the very troops who were fighting their way to relieve Force Granite.

  In a more serious tone Max asked, “What is next sir?”

  “The Belgian troops could still be trying to regroup somewhere, possibly to for another counter attack. We need to ready for that.”

  Paul’s men were weary from the long fight they had just been through.

  They were joined by a breathless Leeb returning from MiSud.

  “How did it go?” asked Max.

  “All sorted Unterfeldwebel, we set of some explosives between MiSud and here, should make them think twice before they venture out this way.”

  Paul sat with Max and the section Commanders of his platoon, Uffz Leeb, Kienitz and Fischer, they all looked weary, but seemed in good spirits.

  “How is your troop Uffz Fischer?”

  Shattered, but in good spirits sir, but Halm is not so good,” he replied.

  “How bad is it?”

  “He’s certainly got a hole right through his leg. We’ve stopped the bleeding and although there are no bones broken, I hope it doesn’t prevent from staying with the unit.”

  “We all do, he’s a good paratrooper” replied Paul.

  “What about Weyer?” Asked Max

  “We’re doing what we can for him sir, but the prognosis is not good unless we can get help soon.”

  “We expected a lot more casualties sir,” interjected Max, “the boys all did well, casualties seem pretty light across the company.”

  “The Belgian’s have lost a few though sir,” Kienitz joined in.

  “They put up a good fight, but they were outclassed,” contributed Leeb, smiling.

  “Your men did a good job on Cupola Nord,” interjected Paul.

  “Thank you sir, those explosives certainly did the trick, those guns won’t be firing again. I would not have liked to have been on the inside; those screams were enough to give anyone nightmares for life.”

  “Any casualties?”

  “None on my team.”

  “Your section did well too Max, I saw the damage those charges caused.”

  “You bet sir, I thought they were going to take out the troop as well as the casemate.”

  They all laughed quietly.

  “How’s Daecher from troop six doing Max?”

  “Just a scratch sir, he’ll be fine. He just wants to get some hospital time so he can court some nurses.”

  “Petzel has a minor wound to his hand sir,” said Leeb, “other than that they are tired but in good spirits. We did beat one and three section in destroying our primary objective though sir, which means we don’t pay for the drinks when we get back.”

  “You had the easy job”, called Fischer in a loud but smiling whisper.

  “You had the easy target,” supported Leeb.

  An outsider might have taken these jibes seriously, but they were men who respected, trusted and depended on each other and had a collective sense of humour that went with it.

  Their short break over, they were back in business with the task of flushing out the enemy.

  “Get the men ready Feldwebel, if the enemy won’t come to us then we are going to have to take the fight to them again. We don’t want them to rally just as we are being relieved or as our troops are passing the fort.

  Max took a quick look around him then set off in a running crouch towards his section who had also been taking a breather waiting for his return.

  Paul too checked around him before setting off, conscious that they had not yet subdued the fort completely and they needed to be on the alert for a potential counter attack.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The greyness of the dawn, that up until now they had been hiding behind, was slowly ebbing away, its shape and colour becoming increasingly distinguishable.

  This was the morning of their second day. During the last twenty-four hours, particularly during the hours of darkness when they were their most vulnerable, they had fought off two further counter attacks and probed more of the tunnels, letting of explosives to keep their enemy on the hop.

  Now they needed to be relived. They were slowly running out of ammunition, rations and water. And to make matters worse, they were again being intermittently hit by artillery fire from an unknown quarter.

  Paul, Max and Kempf were in the process of checking the units’ positions when the artillery barrage suddenly switched to their location.

  Thump!

  Paul bumped into Max.

  “Sorry Max,” he said, but the words didn’t seem to be forming on his lips, there was nothing coming out of his mouth. He tried to turn around, to see who had thumped him on his back, not Helmut surely? It was the sort greeting he usually got from his friend, but he was probably fighting elsewhere, perhaps at one of the Canal bridges. Or even in a dugout somewhere, eating, thought Paul, smiling to himself.

  Max was saying something to him, well at least his lips were moving, but he couldn’t hear anything. Perhaps it was the ringing in his ears.

  He suddenly felt tired, had an urge to sleep. He couldn’t sleep now, he had work to do. He put his hand out and rested it on Max’s shoulder.

  Why was Max covered in dust? Why was Max holding him? They needed to get the troops organised, just in case there was another counterattack.

  “Quick, get him down!” shouted Max, “Kempf get his upper clothes off!”

  Paul felt himself being lowered to the ground. He wished he could hear what was being said, but the persistent ringing in his ears was muddying his thoughts.

  Why was he lying down? Why were they stripping off his webbing and uniform?

  “Where is it?” shouted Max.

  “It’s at the back, turn him over.”

  Max helped Kempf turn him onto his front.

  His face was now resting on its right side and he could see Max was kneeling down, leaning over him.

  Max leant back, resting
his buttocks on his heels, as he looked at his wounded Leutnant.

  Paul could see his lips working again, but like a marionette, there was no sound.

  Max leant back over Paul, examining his wounds now his upper uniform had been stripped off.

  A large piece of shrapnel, from the exploding shell, had struck him just below his left shoulder blade. There were numerous other small nicks that had peppered his upper shoulders and six small pieces about the size of a small coin, to the right of the larger one.

  They were all taken by surprise, but no one else had been hit. It was too far away, and Paul had sheltered them from the extremities of the explosion and this one lethal strike.

  Max checked him over; a small chunk of metal had gouged out a groove to the left side of his skull. Starting just above his left ear and finishing above his left eyebrow, it had left a bloody trail. It looked a mess, but Max felt sure it was not a major wound.

  He returned to Paul’s back, blood oozing from the smaller wounds, but at a much faster rate from the larger wound.

  “Get his field dressing,” instructed Max.

  Kempf rifled through Paul’s tunic, looking for the first aid bandage. You always used theirs first, never your own, you never knew when you might need it.

  Kempf found it, ripped it open and passed it over to Max, “here.”

  “That chunk has to come out,” Max mouthed to himself, “I can’t stop the bleeding with that still in there.”

  But how deep was it he thought, has it pierced his lungs from behind? He surmised not too deep, as Paul’s breathing, although shallow, seemed regular. All the same he leant back, grabbed Paul’s chin and checked his mouth for flecks of blood, a possible sign of a damaged or punctured lung.

  It looked clear. He looked into Paul’s almost pleading eyes, “It will be alright sir, and we’ll get you sorted.

  He lowered Paul’s head back down and re-examined his back, and making the decision at that exact moment, he grasped the piece of warm, jagged metal, and pulled it free, a sucking sound as the flesh suddenly released its hold.