Devils with Wings: Silk Drop

by Harvey Black

  It was then that he started to look up from the street ahead and at the apartment buildings on the right and what he saw shocked him. The five storey building that had initially looked normal on the outside, could now be clearly seen to be nothing more than a shell, a skeleton of bricks and glassless window frames, but it had no heart to it, no internal walls or floors, just a barely standing ghostly frame. He recognised Christa’s parent’s apartment, the balcony still in place where they had last sat together over a glass of wine watching the activity below, laughing and joking about the scurrying ants beneath them.

  He looked back down as he neared the tape, and could see more clearly the civilian workers striving to clear some of the rubble to make way for vehicles. He bent down, lifting the tape as he made his way under it to the other side and approached one of the firemen who was picking his way through the remains dispersed across the road.

  To Paul’s right a uniformed man approached him calling, “Sorry sir, but you can’t come over here, its not safe.” Paul remained where he was on the unsafe side of the plastic tape.

  “What happened?” he demanded.

  “It was a bomb sir,” replied the man, his uniform showing him to be in the Sicherheit u.Hilfsdienst, where he had been conscripted into one of the civil defence squads. “It was dropped by the English bombers last week, but the building is still unsafe and we haven’t been unable to clear the road. So you must go back to the other side of the barrier sir.”

  “What happened to the occupants?” urged Paul

  “They were killed sir, unfortunately no one survived.”

  “But the building is still standing,” exclaimed Paul.

  “But the inside of the building is gutted sir. It has completely collapsed, the roof caved in and along with the bomb took all the floors with it,” he replied, wary of the hardened soldier in front of him.

  “Did you know the occupants sir?” The civil defence conscript ran his fingers around his collar, the green insignia with Gothic ‘SHD’ collar patches bordered in green and white.

  “Sir?” the conscript asked again, looking up at the young officer.

  “All were killed you say?”

  “Yes sir, we pulled all the bodies out, I mean... “ His voice tapered off under the intense stare emanating from the troubled officer.

  “Where were they taken?”

  “To a local funeral home, but there will be a record of the deaths held at the Town Hall,” he replied his nervousness dissipating as he observed the obvious pain in the young man’s eyes.

  “Where is the Town Hall please?” asked Paul softly, tears starting to well up in his eyes. He needed to get away, he didn’t want all to see his pain. Deep down there was still hope.

  “It’s in Wilmersdorf.”

  “How far?”

  “About ten minutes walk, or you could get a taxi.”

  “How do I get there?”

  “That way sir,” he said pointing to the north. “It’s off Otto-Suhr-Allee.”

  Paul thanked him and stepped back under the tape and headed in the direction he had been given, but circumventing the blocked road. He walked blindly and apart from occasionally asking for directions he was oblivious to all around him, his tears running freely. His heart aching like nothing he had ever felt before. He got past the blocked street and headed west towards the Charlottenburg Town Hall. The Town Hall was un-mistakable, built in early nineteen hundred, its impressive three storey frontage towered overhead with its majestic central tower dominating the building.

  He entered the Town Hall, seeking out the relevant register of deaths. The short, bespectacled official returned to the counter.

  “I’m sorry Oberleutnant, but we can’t seem to find anything under that name.”

  “Are you sure?” Demanded Paul

  “Well… we’re having one last check.”

  Paul’s hopes soared. Maybe they hadn’t been home at the time, or had been taken to hospital and since recovered.

  A middle aged woman whispered into the officials ear and handed him a slip of paper, casting a look of sadness over Paul as she left. The deaths of Christa and her parents were confirmed. He stumbled out of the door and collapsed onto the edge of the kerb, his legs in the road, his head in his hands on his knees and he sobbed. He didn’t notice the strange looks he was attracting from passers-by, had he seen them he wouldn’t have cared. He didn’t see the policeman who walked over to him but at the last minute veered off, changing his mind about disturbing the clearly upset soldier, deducing that he had discovered an unwelcome death in the family. He was also sure there was very little he could do to alleviate the pain the young man was obviously experiencing.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Paul turned over on his wooden framed camp bed, his hands placed behind his head resting on the makeshift pillow of a rolled up tunic, staring up at the peaked roof of the tepee shaped, two man tent. His position as a Company Commander giving him the privilege of having the luxury abode to himself. At the moment it was more than a luxury, it gave him the solitude he desperately needed to mourn his loss.

  His return home to collect his kitbag, the frantic fussing of his mother as she recognised that there was something seriously amiss with her son, the journey to the airport and the full day’s flight to the airport at Corinth, were just like a dream, intertwined with the nightmare of losing Christa to the English bombers. To twist the knife in further and add to his pain, there had been mail waiting for him on his return, two of them from Christa, reinforcing her feelings for him and telling him of her joy at seeing him very soon. He had taken the letters from Max, who could see that his commanding officer, his friend, was distraught, and fled to his tent racked with grief as he tortured himself by reading the letters over and over again, written by someone who was no longer.

  He knew he had to get up soon, although he felt drained from the long journey and a fitful sleep, probably not dropping of for more than a few minutes at any one time, the memory of what had happened shocking him every time he came around. If he didn’t get up soon, Max would come looking for him as they needed to prepare the company for the upcoming mission, and as usual, Paul’s unit would have a specific task to perform. Before he had left to go on leave, Volkman had informed him of the battalion’s special status and independence from the Regiment going forward.

  He had met with his Battalion Commander, now Major Volkman, having finally attained the rank that usually went with a battalion command, on his return. He remembered little of the conversation, experiencing a numbness that seemed to freeze his mind and fix his thoughts to nothing other than his loss. He knew he needed to shake himself out of this inattentiveness, he had men to command, he had a company to get ready for battle and he had Platoon Commanders looking to him for leadership, but the enthusiasm, the fire that normally lit up inside of him at the prospect of action just wasn’t there.

  He flung back the grey, thin, army blanket that was draped over his still dressed form and threw his legs over the edge, placing his head immediately between his knees as the nausea hit. Partly driven by his grief, but also because he hadn’t eaten since the small meal his mother had pressed him to eat over thirty six hours ago.

  It was now the thirtieth of April, only twenty days until the mammoth assault on Crete. Ten thousand troops, Fallschirmjager and Gebirgsjager mountain troops were destined to attack this long, thin Island, and although Paul’s one hundred men were such a small part of the overall force, they would no doubt have a very important role to play.

  “Coming in sir,” called a voice from outside the tent, a voice Paul instantly recognised as belonging to Max.

  The tent flap was thrust aside and Max’s thickset form promptly filled what little room remained in the tent. A two man tent it may be, but it would be unenviable for anyone sharing such a small space with this huge NCO.

  Paul looked up, his shoulders still slumped forwards and Max could see that he was still wearing
his going out uniform and not his combats.

  “We need to start getting ready for this operation sir, the platoon commanders are outside.”

  “Yes Max, I’ll be there.”

  “Do you want a hand getting ready sir?”

  “If I was a cripple, I might accept your help Feldwebel Grun,” Paul snapped at his NCO. “But as I’m not I am more than capable of getting myself ready.”

  On seeing the hurt in his eyes as a result of the rebuke, he immediately regretted his retort. “Sorry Max, that was undeserved,” he said softly, his voice barely audible. “I’ll be along shortly, please leave me now.”

  “Ok sir.” Max pushed the tent flap aside to leave the tent, but turned at the last second, just before he stepped outside. “I’m sorry for your loss sir, she was a wonderful lady. Whenever you need me sir, I’ll be there for you.” With that he quickly exited the tent.

  Paul dressed clumsily on his own, no pattern to it, not the normal efficiency he applied to everything he did, but eventually managing to don his uniform for the day.

  He pushed his way through the flap, it was seven am and the sun was above the horizon, already giving a taste of what the heat of the day held out for them all.

  His men had remained stationed in Corinth after the battle for the bridge and were billeted at the airfield along with hundreds of other Fallschirmjager, their accommodation again tented and basic. The rest of the battalion were catching up with them, along with badly needed supplies. It would be good to see Helmut again, he thought, but not necessarily his exuberance. He wished he could see Erich, an even closer friend. He could talk to Max a little, Helmut at a push, but Erich, currently attached to the Regimental HQ, his location unknown at the moment, would be the person he could open up to, someone who would listen and understand.

  He looked over to his right where there was a jumble of recently erected tents, the congestion making it difficult for the units to put them into the straight military lines that was their preference. Beyond them he could see his three platoon commanders gathered around Max. He presumed they would bombard him with questions about the operation, he also imagined they would have other questions about him, but knowing they would remain unasked and unanswered.

  He headed over to them, threading his way in between the staggered rows of tents, some clothes draped on the guide ropes to dry in the steadily rising heat. Beyond he could see the busy airfield, a steady build up of Junkers transports.

  It was a small airport, with a few small, scattered hangars, the odd single story terminal building and the two storey whitewashed control tower with a windowed second floor, now manned by Luftwaffe controllers. The rest of the space was swamped by military tents of all shapes and sizes. He needed to get this moment out of the way, but deep down he wanted to run away and hide, internalising his grief, shutting the rest of the world out.

  They all came to attention and saluted as he approached.

  “Good to have you back sir,” said Roth.

  “Thank you, an update please gentlemen.”

  “We’re... sorry about your loss sir,” informed Leeb his confidence as an officer having grown since the last battle.

  “Thank you, Leutnant Leeb, you too,” he said to Roth and Nadel, giving Max a knowing look that said I know you broke the news to them.

  “But back to work, what’s the status of your platoons?”

  Nadel shifted his MP40 to the other shoulder freeing his right arm to point. “My platoon is accommodated just to the left of the temporary canteen sir. All are fit and Unterfeldwebel Fischer is going through a full kit check with them, tomorrow we plan to pack chutes, assuming we’re jumping onto the target sir?”

  “We’ll know after tomorrow Dietrich, but assume we will until then, Ernst?”

  “We’re going through a kit inspection too sir, and parachute packing, but I’m one man down, Oberjager Halm.”

  “Yes, yes of course.” Paul was silent for a moment before saying, “I’ve written to his family, not much of a consolation I know, when you have just lost a son.”

  “He wasn’t married with children sir, that’s the only consolation I suppose,” interjected Max. “He was a good soldier and a good comrade.”

  They all nodded their assent.

  “Roth?”

  “My platoon have completed their checks sir and are in the process of packing chutes. There was a slot available in the hangars, so we jumped in so to speak.”

  Paul looked at them all, each in turn. “Don’t work your men too hard, they need some time to wind down after the fight. They’ll be going into battle again in just over two weeks. I want them fresh and ready, understood?”

  “Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant,” they all responded.

  “Once we’ve had the briefing tomorrow, I want to pull in the troop Uffz’s and platoon sergeants and go through our objective and run through the tactics.”

  “Do we know anything about the size of the operation or even the target sir?” asked Leeb, impatient as usual.

  “Our Battalion Commander will reveal all tomorrow I’m sure. In the meantime, continue with what you’re doing. Any replacement for Halm?” he asked turning to Leeb.

  “No sir, and I doubt there’ll be one before the big one.”

  Paul was suddenly silent, not thinking about the operation, not thinking of Christa, his mind vacant.

  “Sir?” prompted Max.

  He snapped out of his reverie, looking to see the expression of his officers watching him, concern on their faces.

  “Carry on, we don’t need to meet again until tomorrow’s briefing, dismissed.”

  They saluted and went about their business leaving Paul and Max alone. The hum of vehicles in the distance and the regular drone of Junkers transport aircraft coming in to land filling in the silence.

  “Keep me informed Max, but only if there is something significant, an issue that requires my attention. They’re officers, they need to start thinking for themselves.”

  Max looked on concerned.

  “Where will you be sir?”

  “In my tent Max, I feel tired.”

  He looked at his commander’s face, his usually tanned skin now pale, drawn, his shoulders clearly burdened with the strain of his grief.

  “You had a bit of a journey yesterday, a few more hours kip will do you good sir,” he saluted and marched off to join the rest of one company.

  Paul was just about to head for his bunk, sleep being a luxury that wouldn’t come, but at least he would be alone to mourn his loss, when he felt a hand placed gently on his shoulder.

  “Here you are Paul.”

  He recognised the voice instantly as his comrade, Helmut. He turned to face his stocky friend, another friendly face that helped link him to the real world, the world that still existed outside of his grief. They shook hands, Helmut placing a hand either side of Paul’s.

  “It’s good to see you Helmut, when did you get in?” he asked a smile flickering to his lips.

  “My company flew in last night, the rest of the battalion will be joining us throughout the day. We’re here for the big fight,” he said grinning. But behind the grin there was a sadness. He too had met Christa and had seen the effect she’d had on his friend and the effect her loss was having now.

  “Feldwebel Grun told me what happened, I’m sorry Paul, really, really sorry.” They let go of each other’s grasp and Paul looked down, the slump of his shoulders manifesting his grief. He felt like Atlas, the primordial Titan who supported the world on his shoulders.

  “Thank you, but I’m still in denial Helmut. She can’t be dead, look.” He pulled out the recent letters that he received from her, written while she was still alive. “It’s us who should have been killed, we’re the soldiers, we’re the ones that go into battle, not civilians, not women and children.” The distress in his voice was obvious.

  “I’m going to the canteen, come and have a coffee with me?”

>   “Thanks Helmut, but no. I’d like to be on my own for a while.”

  “Just one,” he pleaded. “It would be good for us to talk and catch up on events. I want a rundown on proceedings here, an insight into the enemy we’ll be up against. You’ve fought with them, it would help me and my men if we had an idea of their strengths and weaknesses. It would be good for you to talk.”

  Helmut clasped his arm, propelling him gently toward the canteen.

  “Ok Helmut, just one, I know how greatly in need of food you are, so I’ll play along with you for now,” he said, a thin smile parting his lips, but the gesture failing to register on the rest of his face. Helmut laughed at the attempt by his friend to rib him over his eating habits and they continued in silence towards the canteen.

  ***

  The hangar was not the usual size the Fallschirmjager were used to. It had not been built to hold military transport or fighter aircraft, but smaller civilian planes. There was a larger hangar elsewhere on the airfield, but that was occupied by other units that were steadily being flown in as part of a big military build-up.

  A third of the hangar was set aside for the packing of parachutes and temporary makeshift tables had been set up for that purpose. Half of what was left was being used to store small arms ammunition and other essential supplies the unit would need if it was going to war yet again, the remaining area was being used for the battalion briefing that was soon to start.

  The battalion staff had prepared the area for the briefing as best they could. They had appropriated the ubiquitous six foot wooden table and maps positioned against the hangar wall as a backdrop. Chairs and stools had been dragged in from various parts of the airfield and looking at some of the chairs, Paul suspected they had been commandeered from local houses. In fact he, along with Helmut, Commander of Fourth Company, Hoch of Third Company and Bauer of Headquarters Company, were sat in various styles of armchair. Alongside these were wooden seats, benches possibly from a church or chapel and behind an assortment of seating arrangements, including wooden pallets, empty ammunition cases and an assortment of other objects that could support a perched paratrooper.