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  Bier continued to move his men forward, mopping up the Polish soldiers.

  The Polish soldiers were completely demoralised, as if being attacked from three sides wasn’t enough, but to then collide with their other platoon, the one assaulting the German machine gun position, matters just got worse for them.

  The distraction the retreating soldiers caused crashing into their ranks, exposing both platoons to Bier’s men on their flank and the crippling fire from the MG 34s, was just too much.

  This was the last straw and the remnants of the two Polish platoons, in complete disarray, retreated down the hill they had earlier advanced up, in confidence, pursued by the firepower of the German MG 34s.

  Bier shouted. “Cease fire! Cease fire!”

  There was too much confusion now and the current victory could quickly turn into a tragedy if a paratrooper was killed by one of his own men.

  The firing ceased; there was a sudden unmistakable silence, apart from a ringing in the ears as a result of the close combat conditions. The smell of cordite was almost tangible; it invaded the nostrils and left a bitter taste in the mouth.

  Bier looked about him, Polish soldiers were lying scattered around him, many dead and even more wounded. What must have been seen as a certain victory to the Polish force was now a defeat of the worst kind.

  Looking up his gaze met with Feldwebel Manke, the shocked look on his face reflecting how Bier himself felt about the carnage that lay before them.

  Bier dreaded to think what the casualty count was and was even more concerned for his own men. Had this attack not been repulsed, had he not acted quickly and counterattacked the Polish unit before they had got a real advantage, then it could have been he and his men retreating, he and his men lying scattered around dead and wounded and he would have failed his comrades below.

  Bier instructed the troop under his command to check the Polish dead and wounded and went immediately to seek out Feldwebel Manke.

  It was over, they had won. They had held their position and were still able to provide cover for the operation being conducted below, but it wasn’t without cost.

  At least three paratroopers were dead and eight wounded, some of the wounded would not make it through the night.

  Had the Polish troops got to the hilltop sooner, prior to the Paratroopers, then the entire operation would have been in jeopardy. It was a close call, but they had triumphed.

  Feldwebel Manke reported to Oberleutnant Bier that the wounded were being treated and the platoon had re-armed and were in position to again provide cover for the units below. Just as he had finished, they both heard gunfire from the East of the woods, the action below them had clearly started.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The German Polish attack plan was ‘Fall Weiss’, where two Army Groups, North and South would conduct a pincer movement, cutting western Poland off at a point east of Warsaw.

  The Treaty of Versailles had created Poland, in order that areas that had once belonged to the losers, specifically Germany, Russia, Austria and Hungary, could be reunited. France and Britain had an expectation to form a strong Allied country on the eastern borders of Germany, in effect exposing Germany to two fronts; previously this had proven to be Germany’s Achilles heel.

  Poland felt herself to be a strong country in her own right. With an army of over a million men, supported by over four hundred aircraft, eight hundred tanks and four thousand artillery pieces, Poland was a force to be reckoned with and with Britain’s and France’s vow to come to her aid in the event of war, Poland even felt unconquerable.

  Hitler though wanted the old Provinces of Silesia and Poznan back, along with the establishment of a corridor to Danzig. Britain and France did nothing to assist the Poles, although they could have attacked Germany from the West while the main German army was tied up fighting the war against Poland, but it failed to do so. Although militarily stronger than the German Army, neither France nor Britain relished an all out war with Germany.

  At precisely four forty five, on the first of September nineteen thirty-nine, German tanks thundered across the Polish border. Less than four hours later, Britain and France presented Hitler with a final demand to withdraw from Poland without delay or they would declare themselves at war with Germany.

  Sixteen days after the initial invasion of Poland by Germany, on the seventeenth of September, the Soviet Union invaded Poland from the East, as per the non-aggression pact between Germany and the Soviet Union and the signing of the Molotov-Ribbentrop agreement. This secret protocol divided Northern and Eastern Europe into German and Soviet Spheres of Influence. Part of that being the division of Poland between Germany and the Soviet Union.

  Army Group South, led by Generaloberst Gerd Von Rundstedt attacked from Silesia and Monrovia and quickly swept all Polish opposition aside. On the sixth of September they took Krakow and were closing in on Warsaw. By the ninth, elements of Army Group South had reached the River Vistula, near the City of Pulawy.

  The Germans were making rapid progress and three weeks later the first Battalion, of the first Fallschirmjager Regiment, was about to cut its teeth on the Polish Army.

  Paul, Erich and Helmut, three officers with the Fallschirmjager, were delighted at the news that they were at war with Britain. Hot-headed young men that they were now, they would soon come to realise the full consequences of what Hitler had started.

  On the twenty first, during another unexpected dry, autumn day, their Battalion was dispatched to secure Ulez airfield, where a large Polish force was said to be heading. The three Platoon Commanders of the first Company, commanded by Oberleutnant Volkman, were stood around a Steiner jeep contemplating what this latest deployment had in store for them.

  “Another bloody hot, dry day,” moaned Helmut to his fellow officers.

  “I thought it was meant to be the wet season,” added Erich.

  “Stop complaining the both of you,” interrupted Paul,

  “If it was pissing down with rain and we were up to our backsides in mud, you would be the first to wish for the heat again!”

  “You’re right as always,” laughed Erich

  “And what is the forecast for next week then mister weatherman,” added Helmut, punching him playfully on his arm.

  Paul recognised that they were ganging up on him, as they often did, and turning it back on them.

  “For you Erich,” he said pointing at his friend, “just more dust, come on let’s go.”

  They dug in around the airfield only to move again two days later, northeast of the airfield along the railway line, then east to the village of Urszulin. They were getting impatient for action and weary of the trudging around, trying to get to grips with the illusive enemy.

  On the afternoon of the twenty third, a German, living in the local area presented himself to a German sentry, claiming he had important information on the whereabouts of the Polish Army.

  Although the sentry had his doubts that this little man knew anything, he thought it best to take him to HQ just in case.

  He was escorted to the Battalion Command Post and put in front of the Battalion Commander, Major Gruber, who, irritated by the continuing failure to get to grips with the enemy was not best pleased to be interrupted by a local civilian.

  The sentry escorting the civilian came stiffly to attention.

  “I beg to report sir, this civilian claims to be German and that he has information as to the whereabouts of the enemy.”

  Before the Major could respond the civilian blurted out, “There are Polish soldiers in the woods Herr Major, I’ve seen them!” The man was a small, balding individual with a nervous twitch. His naturally nervous disposition exacerbated by the staring eyes of the Battalion Commander and his adjutant, Hauptman Niemeyer.

  “Where did you see them and how do you know they were Polish soldiers?” asked Gruber in a clipped voice, showing his obvious annoyance at being disturbed.

  “I saw them in the woods next to the village of Wola-Gulowska,” the
civilian responded quickly, eager to please and change the oppressive atmosphere that he sensed in the tent.

  Gruber turned to Niemeyer and pointing at the map said, “This would place them about eight kilometres from here, north east of Wola-Gulowska.”

  He turned sharply towards the civilian, “What business had you in those woods Herr?”

  “Onken sir, my name is Onken. I live in the village of Wola-Gulowska and was out walking my dogs in the wood, when I heard horses,” volunteered Onken, wringing his hands constantly as if he was trying to wash something away.

  “Horses you say?” asked Gruber leaning forward, starting to take some interest in what this irritating little man was telling them.

  “Yes sir, and guns, big guns, artillery pieces,” replied Onken, keen to maintain the positive two-way conversation.

  “How many men and guns?” Gruber questioned him urgently now; recognising that perhaps the wait to get to grips with the enemy could be over?

  “I only saw half a dozen guns, I didn’t want to hang around; I wanted to get away as quickly as possible before I was seen.”

  His eyes flickered from Gruber to Niemeyer and back, beads of sweat trickling down his face, looking for any doubts they may have in his story.

  “How do you know that they were Polish Soldiers?” challenged Niemeyer.

  The civilian straightened up to his full five feet, three inches and puffed out his chest replying proudly, “I was in the Army during the first world war.” He hesitated before adding, “I was a cook;” he then snapped the heels of his tattered work boots together.

  “How many did you see?”

  “Hundreds, yes hundreds,” he spoke nervously, knowing that he’d left the woods so fast that he didn’t really see how many there were.

  “Jager, take our guest to the Feldgendarmerie and I will send someone to question him further.”

  “Yes sir,” responded the sentry, thinking about how he was going to retell the story when he came off duty.

  He grabbed the civilian and pulled him to the opening of the tent, leading him out.

  The civilian spluttered, “Where are you taking me, I’ve been very helpful to you, I’m a loyal German?”

  There was obvious fear in his eyes. He had expected to pass on his information, be thanked, and even given a small reward for his services to the German Army. Not be arrested.

  The last the Battalion Commander and the Adjutant heard, as he was escorted, forcefully, out of the HQ, was his mutterings that he was a loyal German and a request for some sort of reward for his services.

  Gruber moved to the six-foot table, the centrepiece of the Battalion Command tent. Sitting on its edge, he studied the map spread across the table. The numerous crease marks from this well used map, sometimes making it difficult to read detail.

  He beckoned Niemeyer over and pointing to the map, his finger circling the woods by Wola-Gulowska, “It will be a full Battalion effort, two companies acting as blocking forces and one company flushing them out.”

  “Volkman’s our man for that sir.”

  “The Commander looked up, a slight twinkle in his eyes,” he sometimes scares me more than the enemy,” they both laughed.

  The sentry outside was nonplussed by his senior officers behaviour; he would never understand what made them tick.

  Gruber turned to Niemeyer, “get the Company Commanders together, if he is right we could see some action for the Battalion at last.”

  They both grinned conspiratorially. Although mature Luftwaffe officers, the excitement they felt at finally tracking down the enemy was palpable. Finally the Battalion was to get to see some action.

  Erich ran up behind Paul, calling to him.

  “Paul, Paul, the alarm’s gone off! We’re to report to Volkman for a briefing at Company HQ.”

  “Any idea what it’s about?” responded Paul as Erich came alongside him.

  “I don’t know what the flap is, but we’ve got to get our platoons ready to move out at one hour’s notice.”

  “Packed rucksacks and make ready the weapons containers,” said Paul, quoting the Fallschirmjager mantra.

  “Something at last eh Erich, let’s go and get the teams ready then,” responded Paul gleefully.

  “I saw Unterfeldwebel Grun and forewarned him; I told him I would get hold of you while he gets our platoons together. We’ll meet him back at the lines.”

  “Well, what are we waiting for then, let’s go.”

  Leutnant Paul Otto Brand was a tall, twenty one year old, athletic Fallschirmjager officer, Commander of the first Platoon of first Company, the first Battalion the first Fallschirmjager Regiment, and proud of it.

  Paul was born in Brandenburg an der Havel, a town in the state of Brandenburg, west of Berlin. It is located on the banks of the Havel, with a population of some eighty thousand people.

  After leaving school his first job was working in an aircraft manufacturing company, Arado Flugzeugwerke, where as an apprentice he learnt the trade of aircraft building.

  In nineteen thirty seven, he volunteered for service with the R A D, the Reichsarbeitsdienst; the Reich Labour Service and spent nine months with an Arbeitsgruppen, where he was encouraged to join the Army. It was while serving in the Army that his desire was born to serve in the Fallschirmtruppe, and was subsequently sent to Fallschirmjager Regiment 1, in Stendal.

  He had only been serving with the paratroopers for twelve months, but felt at home with this unit and the thought of finally experiencing action with this elite Regiment was the last tick in the box. This was his first command and he was keen to do right by his country, right by his unit and right by his men.

  Leutnant Erich Fleck, also twenty one years old, but two inches shorter than Paul’s six foot two, commanded the second platoon of one company. He and Paul had gone through the intense paratrooper training together at Stendal-Borstal.

  They came across the two paraded platoons, and Paul left Erich to go and join number one Platoon and his Senior Non Commissioned Officer, Unterfeldwebel Max Grun.

  Unterfeldwebel Max Grun, Platoon Sergeant for first platoon, quickly came to attention on seeing his Platoon Commander approaching and saluted.

  “Platoon paraded and ready for inspection sir.”

  Paul returned the Feldwebel’s parade ground salute.

  “Thank you Max, stand them at ease and call the Troop Commanders over.”

  “Leeb, Kienitz and Fischer, front and centre now!” bellowed Max.

  Max was the senior Non Commissioned Officer for the platoon. He was the disciplinarian, the enforcer of military discipline for the unit. Although still a key position in the paratroopers, the role differed slightly in that in the Fallschirmjager, self-discipline was paramount. These were elite soldiers, proud of their regiment, proud that they were paratroopers, ‘The Green Devils’.

  Max, born on the sixteenth of May, nineteen eleven, a couple of years before the Great War, was the son of a docker in Hamburg. He himself had followed in his father’s footsteps straight from leaving school at sixteen, where he too became a docker on the famous Hamburg docks.

  Midway through his twenty-second year, he lost interest in his father’s profession, but he also had a hankering for something different, something more exciting, so he joined the German Army. It was also said, although no one would actually say it straight to the tough docker’s face, that there was a possible paternity suit in the offing, hence the desire for the army and foreign shores.

  He excelled in his new chosen profession and quickly moved up through the ranks to become the Unterfeldwebel he was now. He had earned the respect of not only his subordinates, but also his superiors.

  Always looking for a challenge, wanting to take ever-greater risks, at the age of twenty six, he volunteered for the newly formed Fallschirmjager. He successfully completed his training at Stendal, and was now happily the platoon Feldwebel for First Platoon.

  If this was Paul’s first command, then the heavily built, ex Hamb
urg docker, with over five years’ army service behind him, did not take advantage of it. In fact they had a rapport from their very first meeting. When, at their first encounter, Max had pointed out that the Leutnant should take his lead and allow Max to run the platoon, Paul’s response had been simple.

  “But who will lead you Unterfeldwebel Grun, and keep you out of the Hamburg bars and brothels and out of trouble?”

  The Leutnant had clearly read Max’s personnel file and was aware of his escapade when last on leave.

  Members of the Heer, the Wehrmacht, had been taking the piss out of the Luftwaffe soldiers, not realising they were Fallschirmjager, and after Max’s response, clearly wished they had left the Luftwaffe soldiers alone. Subsequently though, Max was arrested by the Hamburg police.

  Fortunately for Max, one of the police officers knew him and knew he was a Fallschirmjager and so he got off lightly. Max couldn’t suppress a smile at the Leutnant’s response. Leadership was established, a rapport had been fostered and the relationship between the stocky ex-docker and the tall athletic officer was sound.

  To Max, Paul was not like many of the other officers, there was strength but without arrogance, there was knowledge, but he was not afraid to ask his NCO’s advice if he was unsure of something and he was loyal to his men.

  The three Troop Commanders’, Unteroffiziers, gathered around their officer and senior NCO, pulling up canvas chairs, at Paul’s direction.

  “Gentlemen,” said Paul, “the Oberleutnant has called all senior officers for a briefing. I don’t know what it concerns as yet, but we’ve been ordered to prepare our equipment for an operation. So, just go through the basics, make sure all of the men’s equipment is present and functional.”

  “And check with the quartermaster,” interjected Max, “see if they’ve been given any indications of ammunition and food requirements, it might give us advance warning of how long we’ll be away.”

  “Are all the men fit and well?” questioned Paul.

  They all nodded in the affirmative.