by Harvey Black
“Understood sir.”
“How are the rest holding up?”
“Oberleutnant Janke has a few badly wounded, but the rest of our boys are holding up.”
“Are they outside?”
“Yes sir.”
“I’ll see them before I go.”
Paul started off, then turned round, “You’re doing a good job for our men Fink, I’ll leave you to it.”
He chatted briefly with the wounded Fallschirmjager from his company and those from Helmut’s, and then made his way back to company HQ. After a brief communication with his battalion commander, the Raven, instructing him to sit tight, hold the flank and await the main advance, he checked the lines and grabbed a few hours of much needed sleep.
***
Over the next two days the battle intensified around Hania, Souda and Rethymnon, the five regimental combat groups hitting the Allied forces hard. The 5th New Zealand and the 19th Australian Brigades counter attacked the lead elements of the 1st battalion of the 141st Gebirgsjager Regiment forcing them to retreat. But, by twenty two hundred hours, on the 27th May, the two Allied brigades started to withdraw. By the 28th May, the defenders were slowly pushed back and during the 29th May, elements of the 141st Gebirgsjager Regiment passed through Paul’s and Helmut’s lines on their way, supported by the 85th Gebirgsjager Regiment, to relieve the beleaguered Fallschirmjager in Rethymnon and Heraklion. Paul, Helmut and their men were stood down and ordered to move to Rethymnon to link up with the rest of the battalion, where they regrouped and the Raven’s unit was stood down.
The rest of the German force pushed the remnants of the allied troops south, towards Sphakion, forcing the evacuation of the town, the Royal Navy using Destroyers to evacuate the troops trapped there. By the evening of the 30th, the German forces were less than three miles from the town, the rest of the Island now in German hands. On the morning of 1 June, 1941, at nine am, Lieutenant Colonel Walker delivered the surrender to the 100th Gebirgsjager Regiment, leaving the Germans in complete control of the island.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Paul stood to attention in front of the Raven as the battalion commander rifled through the papers on his desk in front of him. His dark, deep set eyes scanning the documents searching for the one he needed. He had requisitioned one of the municipality buildings in the town of Rethymnon, a three story structure once used by the local officials. Through the tall window behind the battalion commander, Paul could just make out part of the sweeping bay that bordered the town, the sea calm, the odd palm tree with, their thick, bulbous, spiky trunks, brown tipped green fronds extending upwards, moving slightly in the gentle breeze.
The room wasn’t large, but the Raven had made it his own, choosing a sea front view on the second level, a large balcony behind him, framed by black railings, the open window allowing some fresh air in to the stifling room. No doubt a room next door had been turned into his sleeping quarters by his orderly, Bachmeier. The dominating piece of furniture in the room was the large, ornate desk Volkman was stood behind. Possibly teak, or maybe a local wood unknown to Paul. It had a leather chair with curved arms, the same colour as the desk, supported by four feet on a central pillar. There were two smaller matching chairs in front of the desk, where Paul was now stood in between them and slightly behind.
Sweat was running down his neck and back, his Fallschirm pressing down on his skull making his temples throb and his head ache. The scar above his left eye pulsated in time with the beat of his heart, the desire to touch it growing ever stronger. But he resisted, remaining at attention.
Looking out of the corner of his left eye, Paul could see his reflection in the large mirror, its ornate frame pinned to the wall above an unused open fireplace, there to keep the occupants warm during the bitter cold winter nights. Even though he had been rested for three days and had been given the chance to clean up, shave and eat some decent rations, he was surprised at how his image looked back at him. His face was drawn and pinched, his uniform loose on his wiry frame, eyes sunken.
Although the battle for Crete had been over for a few days now, his duties as a company commander were not. Ensuring the wounded were cared for, billets and rations organised, his unit rearmed ready for battle if called upon and taking their turn to guard the many prisoners that had befallen as a result of the Allies surrender. The pilot, who they had captured earlier and who had been released during the battle north of Adele, was amongst them. Paul had spoken to him, and with the assistance of Ackermann, their company interpreter, had asked after his wellbeing and apologised for his earlier behaviour. The pilot had thanked him and offered Paul his condolences at his loss and even intimated that, but for the war, he would have liked to have talked more about their individual backgrounds.
The Raven suddenly grunted, pig like, and picked up three sheets of paper. He peered down his slightly hooked, Roman like nose, the reason for his nick name, his dark hooded eyes scanning Paul’s face.
“Your report Brand,” he said brandishing the document in front of Paul.
He turned away, stepped towards the open French window of the balcony and breathed in the fresh air deeply.
“I’ll not be sorry to see the back of this place Brand,” he said tapping his swagger stick against the side of his left leg, Paul’s report in his right hand thrust behind his back.
“Remove your helmet, you must be sweating like a pig,” he ordered without turning around.
Paul took off his helmet, placing it by his feet and returned to his position of attention.
“The operations conducted by you and your men have been exemplary Brand. The routing of the enemy at the village of Pagantha, the ambush of the British company in the gully, forcing them into another trap. A truly remarkable achievement.”
He walked completely on to the balcony, both hands behind his back as he peered over the black, iron railing. Turning on the spot, he walked back in to the room and looked at Paul.
“Even when you encountered a battalion sized counter attack, supported by tanks, you gave them a bloody nose. I have put Uffz Fessman forward for the Iron Cross first class, as you recommended, and have confirmed his new rank.”
He tapped the report. Paul remained quiet, still stood at attention. He knew it was not the moment to interrupt his commander.
“Leutnant Leeb has also been put forward for an award. From what I can gather, although he was not the senior officer when you were detached from your unit,” Paul swallowed, his adams apple bobbing up and down, “he was the one who got to grips with the enemy, coordinating the actions of not only his platoon, but the others as well. He seems to be a good tactician like yourself.”
He locked eyes with Paul.
“It’s a pity you got separated from your unit at such a crucial time Brand, and if I thought,” the intensity of his voice rising, “for one minute, that you chose to go to the rescue of your Company Feldwebel rather than re-join your unit, I would have you court marshalled.”
He slammed the report down on the desk in front of him and Paul made to speak.
“I suggest you remain quiet for the moment Brand. Your duty is to your company, not an individual soldier. If I thought you a coward or a shirker, I would have you thrown out of the Fallschirmjager.”
There was a moment of silence, before Volkman added, “Stand at ease and be seated.”
Paul sat down on the seat to his left, MP40 across his lap, helmet on the floor between his feet. The Raven sat on his chair, the seat creaking as he swivelled it towards Paul.
“How is Feldwebel Grun?”
Paul’s voice cracked as he tried to speak, his throat dry.
“Wait.” Volkman held up his left hand and with the other pulled two glasses and a bottle from his desk drawer. “We have a victory to celebrate Paul,” he said as he poured them both a drink of schnapps.
“We have secured the island, a successful airborne invasion.”
He clinked his glass with
Paul’s then threw the drink down his throat, immediately pouring another, the bottle hovering, waiting to top Paul’s up when he had finished. The gesture implicit. Paul held back the cough that was welling up in his windpipe as the raw alcohol bit in to his throat. Volkman topped up his glass and asked Paul the question again, “How is Feldwebel Grun?”
“He’s improving sir. Not out of his bed yet, but I’m sure it won’t be long.”
“The doctor tells me his fighting days are over.”
“I’m not sure the Feldwebel would agree with you sir, he’s already making noises about returning to the company.”
“He can’t even stand yet,” said Volkman as he sniffed at his drink, the aroma strong and pervasive, and sipped it more sedately this time. He held up his glass. “Need to go easy on this Brand, supplies are low until I can secure some more. You need to be ready to accept that the Feldwebel will not be returning to his unit, your unit. How is Richter settling in?”
“He is a good replacement sir, proven himself in battle, a good organiser and respected by the men. He has proven to be a good leader.”
“Yes, his mortar troop did some damage I believe. Sorry I couldn’t get you any more ammunition for his tubes, but all supplies were being diverted for the big push.”
“How is your injury sir?”
The Raven touched the taped dressing above his right eye. “A piece of shrapnel Brand, lucky it wasn’t lower. Only a small scar they tell me,” he said smiling for the first time.
“Richter’s rank of Feldwebel has been confirmed and I suggest you accept that his role is permanent.”
Paul contemplated the enormity of what he was being told, of what he had already accepted in his own mind. Max would not be at his side for his next fight.
“What plans for the battalion now sir?” asked Paul, changing the subject.
“We need to refit as quickly as possible, then we’re being shipped back home.”
“Have they something planned for us?”
The Raven stood up and beckoned Paul to follow him out on to the balcony, the sea stretched out in front of them, blue and welcoming in the heat of the day, the heat omnipresent as soon as they stepped out of the room. The Raven, swagger stick tucked under his left arm, rested both hands on the black, ornate rail.
“They always have plans for us. Something is brewing Brand, I can feel it.”
“Surely we need time to recuperate sir, rest, reinforcements.”
“Reinforcements will be waiting for us on our return, the Stendal machine hasn’t been idle in our absence.”
He pushed himself up off the railings and turned to face Paul.
“Our battalion, my battalion has excelled during the invasion. We have caused mayhem for the enemy. A battalion sized force has effectively kept Brigade sized units on their toes, causing them to shift reserves away from the main points of contact and from where they would have been most useful. We have been recognised by our masters for our efforts, be assured they will want us ready for action again as soon as possible. Are you up to it Oberleutnant Brand?”
Paul clicked his heels together and thrust his arms down by his sides. “I am a Fallschirmjager Herr Major, I will do my duty.”
There was a moment of silence as the Major searched the young man’s face, looking for weakness or doubt. But, all he saw was strength and an officer who was resolute.
“You are my best officer Brand. The most skilled, the most imaginative, my strongest leader. Your men seem to hero worship you. But, you are also the one I worry about the most. Prepare your men, kit sorted, weapons canisters ready. We move out within the week, dismissed.”
Paul saluted, picked up his helmet on the way out and headed out of the door, down the stairs and out of the central doorway at the bottom.
He walked forward until he was stood next to the wall overlooking the sea and the rocks below, exposed now the tide was out. The sea was already on its way back in to reclaim its territory and they would again soon be hidden from view. To his right his eye line was dominated by the fortress on the edge of the town, positioned strategically on the peninsula, overlooking the coast, its sturdy walls with its earthworks sloping down towards the coastal road. The Fortezza of Rethymnon, dominated the tip of the peninsular. Although various stages of the fortification began as far back as the third Century, the current structure had been completed between 1573 and 1580.
Looking to his left, Paul could see a peninsula of lesser importance, which jutted out on the other side of the sweeping coastline. He moved up to the wall, resting his knees against it, he breathed in the salty, sea air, listening to the gentle lapping of the water against the rocks below as it moved slowly in. He cocked his ear and listened. Apart from the odd engine revving in the distance, the gentle lapping of the waves and the odd rustle from the fronds of the Palm tree, it was quiet. Suddenly dawning on him, there was no gunfire, no screaming aircraft, no explosions, it was peaceful. It was time to go and see Max.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The main medical centre in the town had been swamped with casualties, whether Fallschirmjager, Gebirgsjager, Allied troops and even some civilians, so an administrative building had been converted in to a temporary hospital.
The double wooden doors of the four story building were open, a stream of soldiers, medical staff and civilians moved in and out of the hospital. It’s plastered facade a mottled, dull grey, pink and orange, flaking in places, the odd scoring from a ricocheting bullet. There were four tall, narrow windows at ground level, two either side of the entrance, boarded up with shutters, steps leading up to its entrance.
The building was in the centre of a terrace, at one end the start of another terrace, the other end dominated by an orthodox church, its clean white front supporting a single bell tower on top, had survived the battle that had ended only a few days earlier. Many other buildings were not so lucky, having succumbed to bomb damage, or at least splattered with shrapnel scars or bullet impacts.
Paul stepped up into the building, his breath quickening as he was hit by the distinctive smell that seemed to emanate from all hospitals. It wasn’t the smell of sickness or disease, but the smell of disinfectant used to clean the walls and floors and antiseptic used to treat wounds. Images flashed through his mind. Lying on a stretcher, carried in to a Maastricht hospital, doctors and nurses cutting away his uniform, exposing the gaping wounds and the clinical smell that seemed to have imprinted itself on to his senses. Then later, a nurse caring for him and his shattered body, Christa, her auburn hair tucked beneath her white cap. His thoughts were interrupted abruptly.
“Yes Oberleutnant, what can we do for you?”
Sat behind a small wooden table, her uniform crisp and fresh, sat a senior nurse from the German Red Cross, the gate keeper of the premises. Paul snapped out of his reverie and turned to her, a small oil lamp providing some light in the narrow, darkened corridor. She cocked her head at him, the pips on her blue and white striped tunic showing her to be a Vorhilferin. A white cap, with a red cross on the front, tied at the rear, held back her shoulder length, brown hair. An enamelled brooch pinned at the centre of her white collar showing her to be a fully qualified nurse.
“Herr Oberleutnant?”
“Sorry Vorhelferin, I am looking for a Feldwebel Grun, he is badly wounded.”
Her serious expression eased in to a gentle smile, the stern look she normally kept for visitors melting away as she saw the strain and weariness on the young officer’s face.
“They are all badly wounded here Oberleutnant.”
She pulled a leather bound book towards her and scanned through the lines of entries, tapping the one that she had been looking for.
She looked up. “Feldwebel Grun, Fallschirmjager. He is on the second floor. When are you relieving us of him Oberleutnant?”
“Is he causing problems?” replied Paul, his face concerned.
Her smile widened. “Only to the nurses Oberleutna
nt. His wounds are serious and will take some time to heal, but his flirtatious nature has been far from suppressed. You will find him on the next floor, ward 2/1.”
Paul thanked her and walked to the end of the corridor that got darker the further away he was from the entrance. He climbed the steps to the next level and scanned the doors as he walked along the first floor corridor. He found the door he was looking for at the opposite end, the last on the left. He opened the door and entered the room.
The ward was very compact. Two tall windows overlooked the town. Four beds lined each side, the one on the far right surrounded by Fallschirmjager.
“Who have you come to see Oberleutnant? It is not convenient to have so many visitors at one time,” said a short, stern faced Sister, hands on hips, round faced jutted towards the top of Paul’s chest.
“I’ve come to see Feldwebel Grun.”
“That’s impossible Oberleutnant, he is already mobbed with visitors, can’t you see?” she complained, her grey haired head bobbing up and down as she pointed to the group of paratroopers congregated around the end bed.
One of them turned to see what the commotion was, it was Leutnant Leeb. When the other two turned round he could see they were his other two platoon commanders, Roth and Nadel, all three made their way over to him. They saluted Paul, then Leeb, his angular features breaking in to a smile, placed his arm around the Sister’s shoulder.
“There, there Sister, we’re going now so there will be plenty of space.”
She allowed Ernst’s arm to remain where it was.
“We’ve been here half an hour now sir, so we were about to go,” informed Roth, his skin still peeling from the effects of the burning sun on his pale skin.
“The Feld’s looking well sir,” added Nadel, his normally pale complexion unusually brown, “but you’ll be able to see for yourself.”
The Sister extracted herself from Leeb’s embrace and patted Paul on the arm.