by Harvey Black
Paul instructed Roth to follow on behind Leeb, his orders to cover Leeb’s right flank and the road. Roth’s men clattered about him.
“Viktor, leave a troop to cover you, then run like hell for the Wadi. Go, now.”
He looked across to his left, the smoke screen was already dissipating, prompting the enemy to take some action, knowing the smoke probably meant a German withdrawal.
Two of Roth’s troops picked themselves up off the ground and headed west, covering ground they had transited across earlier.
“Get some fire down,” Paul called over to Unterfeld Kienitz, the platoon NCO who had remained behind with the troop who would provide covering fire for the withdrawing forces.
“Any targets sir?”
“Anywhere in front,” responded Paul, frustrated that he was losing control of the battle. “Just let them know were still here, give the others a chance to get away.”
The troop opened up, MG34 rounds spat towards the enemy positions, covering an arc east to west, knowing their comrades would be well clear of the local area by now. After a couple of minutes, and just before he was about to order the final evacuation, the clanking of a Matilda tank could be heard approaching their position. Max crashed down beside his company commander, his chest heaving from the exertion of the sprint getting here, the midday sun already starting to sap a man’s energy and strength.
“We’ve got a big problem sir, we have to pull back now, there’s no time to wait.”
“What is it Max?”
“You were right, they were making their way up Bardia, at least a company, if not more.”
“Who’s holding them, Leeb?”
“Yes sir, along with Leutnant Nadel. Both have lost two men.”
“Has Leeb got any men back to Piggi?”
“Yes sir, but he left a troop to back up Leutnant Nadel.”
“If we don’t go now we’re going to be trapped between two large forces,” said Paul to himself, but loud enough that Nadel heard him.
“Sir?”
“Viktor, pull back now, and fast. Head for the house, skirt along the road and come in behind Nadel and he can then pull back through you.”
Roth quickly issued commands to his men. No panic, although with a sense of urgency, just firm instructions and a controlled withdrawal. The MG fired off one last burst, the platoon then skirmishing backwards, ensuring an intermittent stream of fire found its way towards the enemy, holding off an enemy attack for as long as possible.
They reached the house, now punched full of holes by the armoured piercing rounds from the Matilda’s gun, the terracotta tiled roof smashed and all but collapsed. Roth checked off his men, Abt with a shattered arm but able to continue with the aid of his comrades, the alternative of being left behind was not even contemplated.
“Go, go,” urged Paul. He needed to get his men on to the road and then race for Bardia, then on to Piggi. Then at least he would have his command in one place and potentially hold their ground until he could plan his next move.
“Max, with me, we’ll head straight for the Wadi.”
They both slotted fresh magazines into their machine pistols, and then shot off at a fast pace where they would find Nadel’s covering force. The dip loomed up in front of them and they could see Nadel’s men, along with a troop from Leeb’s platoon, withdrawing under heavy fire, swarms of Australian soldiers pouring through the Wadi from the north, forcing their way over the top to pursue the German soldiers they had on the run. The determination was evident on their faces. Gritted teeth, shouts of encouragement to each other, calls of ridicule following the fleeing enemy, pay back for the pounding they had received from the Luftwaffe Stukas and the repeated attacks by the Green Devils.
“We need to run like hell sir,” yelled Max.
As he turned to check his company commander was behind him, two rounds from the turret mounted, besa machine gun, slammed into him. The first striking his shoulder, spinning him around clockwise, the second tore into his abdomen, the impact lifting him off his feet and over the edge of the Wadi. His limp body slid down its shallow walls, dust and rocks cascading after him.
“Max,” screamed Paul as he ran to the edge, charging down after him, looking down to see his friend lying on his back where he had finished up, next to a small, low, anaemic looking olive tree ringed by waist high shrubs. He quickly examined Max, nothing could be seen on his upper body, but a dark patch was already starting to proliferate along his side.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Although all the options careered through Paul’s mind, there was only one he could truly consider, treating his friends injuries and getting him to safety. During his first action in Poland, Max had saved his life. He would not be here now had Max not interceded, taking the life of a Polish artilleryman who was about to snuff out his commander’s life. But, it meant that he had failed as a commander, he had failed his men when they needed him most.
He flinched as a mortar round exploded on the sides and centre of the Wadi, showering the Allied soldiers in shrapnel and dust. Richter had been ready, his action covering the withdrawal of his company, giving them a short respite from the enemy assault, allowing them to dash to safety. Although Leeb was the most junior of the three platoon commanders, Paul was in no doubt that he was the most capable tactician. He would already be planning his next move and making the appropriate suggestions to Roth, the most senior, that they withdraw the full company to the Wadi Piggi.
He snapped out of his reverie, hearing Max groan below him.
“Go sir,” croaked Max. “You have a company to look after, not just one man.”
Paul’s thoughts raced, the enemy would be on top of them soon. He could already hear the Matilda’s engine growling as it spun to the left towards the road, in an effort to bypass the German forces. The driver crashing through the gears, knowing speed was of the essence, sideways on for too long and they would make the perfect target for an anti-tank gun. Paul knew the infantry would be on top of them soon.
“Go sir, bloody go.”
Paul ignored his plea, moving round to the top of Max’s upper body, blood now clearly oozing from his left shoulder, the lower part of his tunic sodden. He needed to get them both under cover first, then see to Max’s wounds.
He grabbed the heavy sergeant by his ‘Y’ straps and dragged him centimetre by centimetre towards the shrubs that would give them the cover they needed. Max groaned, the pain starting to set in as Paul dragged him to cover.
“Sorry Max, I have to get you out of sight.”
“Just leave me sir,” Max’s voice pleaded.
“Quiet, you dumb Hamburger.”
He manoeuvred his heavy weight companion in to the protective shrubs, as close to the trunk of the shrivelled tree as he could. The patch they were hiding in was only a few metres across, if they stayed lying down and quiet they could remain undetected. He placed his hand over Max’s mouth.
“Shush,” he whispered in his ear, as boots thudded across the eastern side of the Wadi, bodies could be clearly heard sliding down the sloping sides. They thudded across the bottom, then clambered up the other side, the pounding of the boots continuing until at least a platoon had passed by them.
To the south he could now hear the tank clattering along the metalled road, the engine powering the tank close to its top speed of twenty four kilometres an hour, the tank commander only slowing to allow his infantry escort to catch him up. It may be a mobile, steel bunker, but without infantry support an enemy could quickly get close to it, disable the tank and the crew would then face capture or death.
Paul peeked out of his cover and could distinctly see the silhouette of the Matilda, its pointed nose on the end of an oblong main body, turret situated well to the front. The clanking of the tracks slowly receded as the ‘Queen of the Desert’, as it was known, crept along the road towards the next Wadi, Wadi Piggi. Paul’s mind wandered to where Helmut might be, how far away is he l
ikely to be from the Wadi where his men were now forming up for another attempt at consolidating and holding off the superior forces heading towards them. Helmut’s one hundred plus men wouldn’t help to outnumber the enemy, but it might tip the balance.
Crump, crump, crump.
At least Richter was making his presence felt, probably disrupting the Australian advance as they probed further forwards, taking advantage of the mayhem they had caused by pushing troops up the Wadi and hitting the German invaders hard in the side.
Apart from gunfire in the distance, it was now quiet in the immediate vicinity. He turned to Max, now his priority. Max’s lower tunic was soaked, the blood still wet even though the temperature was in the high thirties, indicating to Paul that blood was still flowing freely. He pulled his gravity knife from his trouser pocket and cut away the lower part of the blood soaked uniform, Max’s kit getting in the way. He unbuckled the belt, unhooked his MP40 magazine pouches, unbuttoned the tunic and pulled it aside, slicing more away with his knife.
The woollen shirt beneath was also soaked, Paul cut into it swiftly, exposing Max’s flesh. The blue, black hole, the size of a man’s thumb, stared up at him, seeping a steady flow of blood. He attempted to roll Max over to look at the other side, but the Beefy Feldwebel was too heavy to move easily on his own. He pulled the shirt up higher and ran his hand round to the side of Max’s back, it didn’t take him long to discover the jagged hole of the exit wound. Max groaned as Paul’s fingers explored the wound. He was able to push at least two fingers into it. He withdrew his hand, sticky, covered in blood and particles of tattered flesh.
“Sorry Max, I need to get you sorted so we can get out of here.”
“S’alright sir... have you... any water?”
“Hang fire for a few minutes more, let me get these wounds fixed up first.”
He scrabbled around in Max’s pockets until he found what he was looking for, a couple of first field dressings, wrapped in the distinctive black, rubberised fabric. Each man was supposed to carry a large and small field dressing, but Max insisted that each trooper carried an additional large one on him. Unwrapping it, he eased it under Max’s waist, pushing the dressing as far as he could, reaching around the other side and pulling it through the rest of the way. Once done, he gently manoeuvred the thick pad until it was directly beneath the wound and tied it off.
Tearing open a second bandage he repeated the process, this time packing it with pieces of Max’s shirt he had cut into squares earlier, for extra absorbency, then winding it round Max’s body twice, before finally tying it off. Now some direct pressure had been applied to the wound, Paul hoped it would stop, or at least slow down, the bleeding. He padded and bandaged the front of the wound, wrapping layer after layer of crepe around his body until he was satisfied it was well bound and wouldn’t slip off.
He severed Max’s ‘Y’ straps and cut away part of his upper tunic so he could get at the second wound. The hole, again the size of a man’s thumb, with a slightly raised edge all round, was a black, blue in colour and oozing blood. After exploring further, he failed to find the exit wound at the back of the shoulder blade. Worried that the bullet may still be inside, he cut away more clothing desperate to find an exit wound.
“Got it.”
“Sir... what?”
“It’s ok Max, nearly finished patching you up.”
Just below Max’s pectoral muscle was the exit point he was looking for. It looked similar to the entry wound, only slightly bigger, blood running down his hot, dry, pale skin. The bullet must have struck a bone in his shoulder, thought Paul, and was then deflected, traveling down his chest and exiting out of the front. He felt sure it had missed Max’s left lung, his breathing, although slightly laboured, was steady and there was no coughing or blood and froth coming from his mouth. Paul smiled to himself, thanking someone for small mercies.
This time he used his own large dressing and Max’s small one to bind his shoulder and chest. Max groaned again. Now Paul was satisfied that he had stopped the bleeding, in the short term at least, he could focus on Max’s other needs. He rummaged through his bread bag where he knew Max kept some morphine. Finding it quickly, he administered the injection, pushing into Max’s muscled upper thigh, his eyes widening slightly as it went in, licking his dry lips, beads of sweat starting to form on his brow beneath his Fallschirm.
He gently eased off Max’s helmet, pushing his bread bag beneath his head to act as a pillow as he lowered his head back down. Next he opened his canteen of water, sloshing it around, gauging how much was left. He checked Max’s as well, half a canteen each, about two pints of water between them. He raised the canteen to Max’s lips, tilting it slowly, allowing Max to control how much he drank, even so the flow was faster than Max’s dry, constricted throat could swallow and he coughed and choked, water running down his cheeks and chin.
Paul suddenly removed the canteen, vigilant, listening for any indication that Max’s coughing had alerted anyone close by. It was relatively quiet in the dip of the Wadi, although distant gunfire could be heard along with the occasional louder crash of a tank round being fired, then a lone mortar bomb exploding. Richter, although rationing his ammunition, was still dishing out punishment to the enemy.
He turned back to Max and whispered, “Has the morphine helped Max?”
He glazed eyes wrinkled as he smiled, though slightly sunken in his blackened, but paled face. His voice crackled, “Just the job... sir... you need... to go, come... back later.”
“I’m getting you out of here Feldwebel Grun,” he whispered back with a grin. “Or I’ll put you on a report for being absent without permission.”
He gave Max another sip of water and gulped a mouthful himself, concerned how little they had, wishing he had replenished his bottle from the company stocks earlier. They would have to be careful. He checked the dressings again, the shoulder and upper chest one still dry, but blood was already showing through on the lower wound.
“Max, I’m going to have a scout around, so stay quiet and I’ll be back as quick as I can.”
Paul crawled backwards out of the undergrowth, quickly turning round on himself and scanning the base of the Wadi, it was clear. The wadi was only some twenty metres across at its widest point and the sides quite shallow, just above head height. He scooted across the floor of the Wadi and scrambled up the western side, MP40 at the ready, and peered over the top, rivulets of red soil and stones filtering passed him, back into the Wadi.
Pulling his binoculars from their case, shielding the lenses, preventing any reflections giving his position away, he studied the horizon in front of him. He could see a group of Allied troops about three to four hundred meters away, at least a company in size advancing towards Wadi Piggi, where he hoped his men were holding up. He felt a pang in his chest, wishing to be with them now, leading them in the battle and to eventual safety. For a split second he had the ridiculous thought of attacking the enemy from behind, distracting them from their task, but knowing how absurd the idea was, leaving himself dead and Max to die out here alone.
He viewed their hideaway. It was good cover, but wouldn’t stand up to close scrutiny. He couldn’t see Max, his splinter pattern tunic, Paul had pulled back over him before he left, camouflaged him well, but he did see a glint of metal. It could be Max’s MP40, magazines or water bottle. He would hide them on his return, but he had already decided they needed to move from this location if they were to avoid capture. He looked east, but no sign of anyone or thing.
He returned to the bottom of the dry channel and scurried south until he arrived at the metalled road, some two hundred metres away from their hideout. It was a single lane road, wide enough for one vehicle to transit. If it met another vehicle coming the other way, one of them would have to pull on to the roadside to let the other pass. A concrete culvert supported the road across the Wadi, a possible hiding place he considered, but it was too obvious.
He heard a crunchin
g sound on the road to his left and observed a least a dozen soldiers making their way towards him, their tanned legs showing they’d been in this theatre for a while. Their slouch hats and confident stance as Australians marched towards the culvert, more reinforcements to take on his beleaguered troops. He ducked down as they got closer, the hobnailed boots tramping over the culvert, a hollow thump beneath where Paul was hidden, pointing out their progress as they crossed over. Once the sound faded, he peered over the top of the culvert again, watching the sway of their backs as they doubled away to support their fellow soldiers.
Half crouching, he ran back down the Wadi, searching for the props he would need to get Max back to friendly territory and safety. By the time he returned to their temporary camp he had acquired two lengths of wood, one a branch lying on the ground from a broken tree and a second he had torn down himself.
Arriving back, he crawled through the undergrowth and immediately checked on Max, whose skin was hot, his body not having enough liquid to give up as sweat to cool him down. His eyes fluttered open and Paul prised is mouth open gently, squeezing a piece of water soaked shirt above him, the drops of water moistening his lips, most of it making its way into his mouth. Max licked his lips, glad of the refreshing, if not cool, water on his mouth and tongue, that until then had felt furry and too large for his mouth.
“You ok to take a few sips from the bottle Max?”
“Yes... I’ll... give it a try.”
He placed his hand behind Max’s head, lifting it slightly, a white line across his forehead where his helmet had protected him from the burning sun, and placed the neck of the bottle to his lips, the metal top clinking against his teeth. He reached up to take a drink, crying out in pain as he disturbed his wounded shoulder.
“Stay still Max, I’ll tip the bottle, you just sip it slowly.”
After a few drops, Paul lowered his head back down and made him as comfortable as he could.