Devils with Wings Read online

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A qualified parachutist, Harvey Black served with British Army Intelligence for over ten years. His experience ranges from covert surveillance in Northern Ireland to operating in Communist East Berlin during the cold war, where he feared for his life after being dragged from his car by KGB soldiers.

  Since then he has lived a more sedate life in the private sector as a Director for an International Company, but now enjoys the pleasures of writing. Harvey is married with four children.

  D e v i l s w i t h W i n g s

  The Green Devils assault on Fort Eben Emael

  Harvey Black

  Copyright © 2011 Harvey Black

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This Novel is a work of fiction. Names and Characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Matador

  5 Weir Road

  Kibworth Beauchamp

  Leicester LE8 0LQ, UK

  Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299

  Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  ISBN 978 1848767 072

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Cover Photograph: Bundesarchive -Bild 101I-569-1579-14A

  Photo, DR Stocker, 1 September 1943

  Typeset in 11pt Bembo by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK

  Printed and bound in the UK by TJ International, Padstow, Cornwall

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Table of Condents

  About the Author

  Titlepage

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  To my wife Melanie, for her patience.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Oberleutnant signalled for the two MG 34, general-purpose machine guns to be set up on the right flank on hill 172. The grassy hilltop, four kilometres to the east of the village Wola-Gulowska, north east of the city of Pulawy, in Poland, overlooked the deciduous woods below where the rest of the first Battalion, the first Fallschirmjager Regiment was moving into position. Its task to flush out and assault a Polish Artillery Regiment that was believed to be positioned in and around the woods.

  The hilltop provided an ideal vantage point with good fields of fire. The Oberleutnant, from second company, the first Battalion, had also set up two additional troops of Fallschirmjager on the left flank, to provide supplementary cover for the Companies that would assault the woods below.

  Although he was yet to see combat, his four years serving in the German Army prior to joining the Fallschirmjager, gave him the confidence he needed to complete his task. And more importantly, he had the confidence of his men.

  The twenty five year old officer, tall and dark haired, favouring the Fuhrers hairstyle and moustache that many emulated, appraised the cover available to him and his men.

  There wasn’t a great deal of cover. The short carpet of grass and the few shrubs were not sufficient for Bier and his men to lose themselves in and the few boulders that were scattered along the stretch ahead were too conspicuous, not to mention lethal.

  The third Battalion had recently lost a paratrooper, not from direct fire, but from flying particles of rock fragmented from boulders such as these, executed by an exploding grenade. He lingered on the memory of the injury the soldier had succumbed to, the deep open gash on the neck. He would ensure that the lesson had been learnt and the same fate would not befall his platoon.

  Because of this lack of cover and the additional risk of being silhouetted against the backdrop of the sky behind them, Oberleutnant Bier had ordered the men to dig shell scrapes, those shallow depressions that would provide them with some cover. They couldn’t dig any deeper, as only less than a metre below the surface it was just pure rock.

  Although he had told the paratroopers to dig the shell scrapes, it had not been necessary. These were Fallschirmjager, paratroopers from the elite 7th Flieger Division, ‘The Green Devils’.

  It was ten in the morning, on the twenty fourth of September nineteen thirty nine, and as part of the continuing subjugation of Poland, a Battalion, in the shadow of the overlooking hill, was due to start its assault on the woods below. They would enter the woods from three sides, the Oberleutnant’s platoon providing them cover from the hilltop.

  As the Oberleutnant moved forward to check the positions of his troops, ensuring they had interlocking fields of fire and knew the entry point for each element of the Battalion assaulting the woods, his Feldwebel, who seemed agitated, approached him.

  “Sir, look, over there!”

  Feldwebel Manke was pointing at what appeared to be a polish soldier walking over towards them.

  The Oberleutnant looked up to see what was clearly a Polish soldier, sporting a brown “rogatywka” field cap. With his brown officer’s field jacket, tight breeches and shiny black boots with spurs, everything about his appearance suggested he was a Polish Officer, and a Cavalry officer at that. In addition, he carried a dark brown field bag and leather pistol holster, further supporting the premise that he was an officer.

  His behaviour seemed most odd. He continued to walk up the slope of the hill, but seemed fidgety and kept looking behind him.

  “Feldwebel, bring him over here,” commanded the Oberleutnant.

  Manke grabbed hold of two troopers, ordering them to secure the Polish Officer and bring him to the Oberleutnant at the double.

  The two soldiers picked up their weapons and ran towards the approaching Polish soldier. He continued to walk towards the German position, paying little attention to the two approaching German paratroopers.

  Just before they were able to get a hold of him, the Polish officer suddenly started punching his right arm up and down in the air, looking over his shoulder behind him.

  Feldwebel Manke looked at his officer, “I don’t like the look of this sir, what’s he up to?” he que
ried.

  Before Oberleutnant Bier could respond the first rounds came in from the north east, one hitting one of the troopers who had gone to secure the Polish officer, in the shoulder.

  The second trooper was hit twice in the leg, the shock clearly on his face as he went down, his legs lifeless and un-responding. He wasn’t even able to feel the blood that was radiating out from the entry point of the bullet, blooming like a darkened rose, soaking his combat trousers. His last thoughts were of his Fiancée as the light seemed to fade and all that was left was darkness.

  The Polish soldiers had been lying in a dip, unseen, about two hundred metres below the crest and had been well hidden. They must have been on their way up to secure the hill top, to cover their assembling troops below, when the German paratroopers had beaten them to it coming up the other side.

  “Gun group give covering fire,” shouted Oberleutnant Bier.

  “Where is the enemy?” screamed Feldwebel Manke.

  The Troop Commander on the far right called out, “two hundred metres, lone boulder, LMG!”

  “Number one and two gun group, target that LMG!” ordered Bier, “get their bloody heads down!”

  The MG 34s opened up immediately, a swathe of shot finding its way to the advancing polish soldiers.

  Both Bier and Manke threw themselves to the ground, before they too became a target for the Polish gunners.

  The Polish Officer could no longer be seen; he had obviously retired quickly once the firing had started. His role as a distraction for the German soldiers had been successful. While they had been focusing their attention on this single Polish soldier, the Polish unit had been getting into position to assault the hilltop.

  The two gun groups were now returning heavy fire on the enemy soldiers. Both rifle troops, although being on the left flank, where it was difficult for them to clearly see a target or the enemy, also returned fire. Although the rifle troops’ fire may have been ineffective, it added to the clamour of sound, hopefully disrupting the Polish advance.

  But, the Polish troops had the upper hand, as their patrol had ambushed the paratroopers and taken them completely by surprise, they were now the hunters.

  The paratroopers had been caught on the hop. The majority of the Fallschirmjager division had not yet seen any action and their inexperience had been shown up today.

  Two more troopers went down from the hail of bullets that the polish attack force was still able to dispense, despite the suppression fire from the Germans.

  These elite soldiers had been bounced, by the supposed less experienced and less professional Polish Army.

  Fire now started to come in from both flanks. It appeared there was more than one point of assault and the initial unit in front of the gun groups was not alone.

  “Feldwebel, we need to pull back and try and counter attack their flank,” Bier shouted above the surging sound, “if we stay here we’ll be overrun. Stay with the gun groups and I’ll pull one of the rifle troops out of line.”

  “Get going sir, we’ll hold here,” yelled Manke above the tumultuous sound of the gunfire coming towards them and the additional noise of the paratroopers returning fire.

  The Polish force, numbering some one hundred men, had split into two assault teams, outnumbering Biers men by some three to one. They were currently skirmishing up the north face of the hill.

  One polish platoon, currently pinned down by the quick reaction of the two German gun groups, throwing out twelve hundred rounds per minute between them, could not make any headway.

  But the second Polish platoon, numbering over sixty men, was trying to outflank the paratroopers’ position by attacking the left flank where the two rifle troops were situated.

  Bier had no option, if he was to recover the situation, but to counter the Polish attack by getting around their flanks and attacking them from the side and from behind.

  If his men were forced to retreat, it would not only put them at a disadvantage, particularly as they would have to pull back down the reverse slope, but more importantly they would be failing their comrades currently moving into assault positions down below.

  If the Polish soldiers were able to secure the hilltop, they would then be able to pour a devastating fusillade of fire down on the Fallschirmjager preparing to assault their Polish comrades and also act as spotters to bring down a barrage of artillery fire.

  Once Manke’s two gun groups were returning effective fire and giving covering fire to Biers’ men, Bier ordered one of the two remaining rifle troops to pull back.

  “Feinberg, pull your troop back!” bellowed Bier.

  “Get them below the crest of the hill quickly!”

  Biers eyes were darting left and right, trying to absorb all that was happening and counter with an expedient response.

  The troop pulled back in good order, but the men were nervously looking over their shoulders checking that the enemy was not in hot pursuit behind them. The remaining troop was holding its own, but for how long, thought Bier? Would he have time to out flank the enemy?

  On the outside he appeared calm and composed to his men, but on the inside his stomach churned and his mind raced with inner doubt.

  “Feinberg,” called Bier to the Unteroffizier in charge of the rifle troop pulling back. He continued to rapidly make his way around the hill, talking to the Unteroffizier as they ran.

  “Once we can see the enemy,” he said breathlessly, “I want you to take four men forward about five metres, hit the deck and keep the Poles busy, keep their heads down! I will take the remaining men around and behind them. Keep your eyes peeled for us though,” shouted Bier, ensuring all heard what he had just said. The last thing he wanted was his own men firing on him.

  His heart was pounding, throbbing in his ears, his mind racing, constantly questioning his actions. But he kept any doubts under control, he needed to keep it together, keep his troop together and get his platoon out of this with minimum casualties.

  They continued to skirt round the hill. The firing from their comrades rattling on the hilltop, although still incessant, was diminishing in sound and the resonance of the firing from the Polish soldiers assaulting the hill was increasing. The gun groups could hold their own for a while, but ammunition was not limitless and barrel changes would be needed soon.

  But the rifle troop of twelve men would be under considerable pressure and if the Poles were able to bring a light machine gun to bear down on them they may well buckle. If the rifle troop gave way to their Polish attackers, the enemy would be able to roll up the rest of the platoon’s flanks with relative ease.

  “Sir,” hissed a paratrooper directly at Biers side.

  “There they are,” said the paratrooper pointing to Polish soldiers advancing on their comrades they had left behind on top of the hill.

  “Right, Feinberg,” he instructed, “take your men forward and give them hell. The rest of you with me.”

  “Right sir, and good luck.”

  Feinberg took his men forward onto the right flank of the attacking Polish platoon and Bier took the remaining eight paratroopers with him, moving slightly lower down the hill to continue around and come up behind the enemy.

  He heard Feinberg and his men open fire, and smiling, thought of the horror on the faces of the Polish platoon to suddenly find paratroopers firing at their flank.

  In a few seconds they would get a second surprise as he and his men came at them from the rear.

  Suddenly they were there, the Polish troops right in front of them.

  “Spread out in a line,” called Bier to his men.

  He prayed to god that Feinberg would see his comrades approaching the enemy’s tail end, otherwise it could all rebound back on them and the advantage gained could very well turn into a catastrophe.

  Suddenly there was a Polish korporal in front of him. The look of astonishment on the soldier’s face, as he twisted to look at his attacker and the look of shock in his eyes said it all for Bier, they had caught the Polish c
ompletely by surprise.

  They had believed themselves close to taking out the impudent paratroopers on the hill and the last thing they expected were more paratroopers coming at them from the side and from behind.

  Their Commander could not have been in combat before, or was not well trained; otherwise he would have sent part of his force to do exactly what Bier was doing now.

  When the Erma machine pistol reverberated in Bier’s hands, and as the rounds exited the short, blue, gunmetal barrel, the surprise on the soldier’s face turned to complete terror as the bullets took the korporal in the side knocking him down.

  Bier stepped over the stricken soldier, he didn’t stop to check whether or not he was dead, he didn’t have time. He was now in the thick of it and had to concentrate on the other enemy soldiers appearing in front of him, track the position of his soldiers around him and keep alert for his men still firing down from the hill top.

  The paratroopers had the advantage and the Polish platoon was in chaos. Out of the eight paratroopers with Bier, two had machine pistols. Although the rifles were effective at long range, the machine pistols came into their own in close combat. They were proving to be murderous at this close range, scything through the polish ranks less than ten paces away from them. They panicked, falling back, confused at the events that were unfolding, trying to escape the onslaught that was being unleashed upon them.

  “Keep pushing them back,” screamed Bier to his men. “We mustn’t lose the momentum.”

  Bier held back, letting his men continue to route the Polish troops. He sought out Feinberg, seeing him further up the hill to his right. He saw him stand up, look straight at him, then turn and call down to his men to cease-fire.

  If Feinberg’s men continued to fire at the retreating Polish troops they would soon be in danger of hitting their own men. If they fired even further to the right, there was the prospect of them hitting the paratroopers manning the MG 34s.

  Feinberg yelled to his men to remain in position, while he ran to warn the rest of the platoon what was happening.

  Bier saw Feinberg running east and guessed he was going to warn the gun groups and the rifle troops of the current position of Bier’s troop.