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  “Thank you sir,” responded Paul, staying by his recently vacated seat.

  Volkman called for the orderly again and a chair and a glass of schnapps was quickly brought in for the Oberst, who now sat adjacent to Paul and Volkman, facing the fire.

  Oberst Baum, Paul instantly recognised, was the Commander of the First Fallschirmjager Regiment, FJR1.

  Volkman’s Company, part of the first Battalion, came under the command of Baum along with the second and third Battalions and fourteen Panzerabwehrkompanie.

  Oberst Bruno Baum was a Fallschirmjager from Willmaischorf, Prussian Silesia, and a Prussian like Oberleutnant Volkman.

  He had joined the Army Cadets at the young age of twenty-two, where he started his military career, receiving the Iron Cross First and Second Class while serving in a West Prussian Infantry Regiment, in World War 1.

  On joining the Reichswehr, he took command of the first Battalion, General Goring Regiment, the first German unit to become an operational airborne contingent.

  In nineteen thirty six, at the not so young age of fifty three, he was the first German paratrooper to jump from an airplane. He became Commander of the 1st Fallschirmjager Regiment, FJR1, in nineteen thirty eight.

  Although Paul had seen him before, he had never been this close to his Regimental Commander and was surprised how short he was.

  “Well Oberleutnant, what have you told this young aspiring General so far?” he said smiling, looking at Volkman.

  “I have informed Leutnant Brand of his and his platoon’s awards and that he has been selected to join a trials Battalion, that is being assembled in Hildesheim. He naturally doesn’t want to move out of an operational unit.”

  Baum pulled out a gold cigarette case and took out a cigarette before offering the case and its contents to the two officers, who both refused. Paul didn’t smoke and Volkman only smoked cigars from Cuba.

  He lit a cigarette, taking a deep draw before expelling a blue cloud of smoke, which was drawn upwards by the thermals from the fire. Volkman slid an ashtray across the coffee table for his superior to use.

  “Disgusting habit young Brand, you remain a non smoker. You still smoking those disgusting cigars Gunther?” It was a rhetorical question, which the Oberleutnant knew he need not answer.

  The Oberst brushed cigarette ash off his tunic trousers and drew again on his cigarette, adding to the blue cloud hovering above their heads, and looked at Paul.

  “You are to be congratulated Leutnant Brand, I will get a great deal of pleasure presenting yours, and the other recipients, their awards tomorrow.”

  “When I was charged with creating the first Fallschirmjager Battalion, it was probably one of the most difficult tasks ever given to me, but it was also my proudest moment. At that moment in my life, I had never flown before, never parachute jumped out of an aircraft and wasn’t even sure what the concept of a paratroop unit was.”

  “When we first asked for volunteers, surprisingly there were up to some sixty men who came forward from each company and enrolled. Very soon I had a full Battalion. It has grown since then naturally, to what it is now.”

  He looked straight at Paul as he said, “It is men like you, Leutnant Brand, and your Company Commander, that have helped fulfil the dream of an elite force. A force that operates outside of the normal military boundaries. Anyway, enough of my chatter, let’s get down to business.”

  Oberleutnant Volkman had heard all of this before, but he never tired of hearing it. He too shared the dream of an elite paratroop unit, that he hoped one day would grow in size and be a key tool used by the military to meet its objectives.

  “You too Oberleutnant, the Iron Cross First Class, is a great honour and your promotion is well deserved. I take it that you’ve made Leutnant Brand aware of the change in your circumstances?” Baum looked at Volkman enquiringly.

  “Yes sir, but he will keep it confidential until it is officially announced tomorrow.”

  “Well, Leutnant Brand,” Baum continued. “I have a new assignment for you and your platoon.”

  Before continuing, he stood up and walked around the back of Paul, until he was standing in front of the fire, rubbing his hands together. Turning round, his back now to the fire, his hands clasped behind him absorbing its warmth, he continued. “You are to join Hauptman Kaufmann and Oberleutnant Faust as part of a trials unit to be based in Hildesheim. You will take your platoon with you, to be integrated with Oberleutnant Faust’s engineers.”

  He held up his hand to counter any protests Paul might raise.

  “I understand your concerns about leaving an operational unit Brand,” continued Baum, recognising Paul’s flickering eyelids, which were probably intimating a mild objection.

  He reached down to the coffee table, picking up his glass of schnapps, taking a nip, “Excellent, Oberleutnant, no doubt from your personal cellar?”

  The Raven nodded; again he knew he needn’t respond verbally.

  He continued, “Poland is all but beaten, and it is unlikely that there will be any further major fighting, the Russians have seen to that, and the likelihood of specialist parachute operations is very doubtful. Enjoy the break young Brand, believe me you will have ample opportunity to get into the thick of it in the very near future. The unit you are being attached to will be training in utmost secrecy and once you leave this room you are not to breathe a word to anyone, do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes Herr Oberst,” responded Paul promptly, now all ears and very attentive.

  “Oberleutnant Faust and Hauptman Kaufmann will brief you further I’m sure. But, you will have to deal with the disappointment from your platoon. You will only be at liberty to tell them that they will be partaking in an experimental training school. And absolutely nothing to your cronies, Janke and Fleck, they will be kept equally busy elsewhere.”

  The Oberst was clearly well informed, thought Paul smiling to himself.

  “Right Hauptman Volkman,” the Oberst referring to the Oberleutnant’s new rank, “I shall leave you to your duties and let Leutnant Brand get his Platoon ready for departure, which will be immediately after the presentations are over.”

  He placed his now empty glass on the table, and made his way back round to the other side. How he could stand in front of the heat of the fire for so long, Paul couldn’t imagine.

  “What about lunch?” asked Volkman.

  “I am sorry Gunther, but I have much to do.”

  He was handed his cap by the orderly and his two subordinates quickly stood up, saluting their Regimental Commander. He returned their salutes and left as quickly and as quietly as he had arrived.

  The snap of the sentry coming to attention could be heard clearly outside, probably caught unawares again by his illusive Regimental Commander.

  The Raven remained standing and Paul followed suit, clearly the meeting was over and he was being dismissed.

  “The presentations are tomorrow, and immediately after that, and I mean immediately, your platoon will be transported to Pulawy railway station and trained to Hildesheim.”

  The meeting over, Paul saluted, turned sharply to the right and left the HQ. On his return to the cottage his thoughts were a maelstrom and he was oblivious to all around him. The village, the villagers and the saluting soldiers passing him were not even seen or heard and he was surprised to find himself suddenly outside his billet.

  He was sat on a bench, under an old oak tree, a five-minute walk from the village confines, overlooking a small pasture. He was watching a local Polish farmer tending his cattle and his smallholding.

  Back in Germany, his Uncle would have put his cattle in the barn by now, keeping them under cover during the winter months, feeding them fodder saved during the summer months.

  When he stayed there during holidays, his Uncle used to pay his nephew pocket money for helping him feed them and muck them out. It was likely that this local farmer did not have a barn, but maybe a coral somewhere where he could feed and keep watch over them d
uring the winter solstice.

  Paul wondered if the farmer’s life was simple, without the worries of command, without the many intricacies of military life, not having to comply with the day-to-day demands of the German military machine.

  But, he knew deep down, he would never want to trade places. This farmer’s life was probably spent surviving. Breeding his animals and growing enough food to feed his family, and maybe a little left over to sell for a few luxuries.

  Paul cogitated about his meeting with Erich and Helmut after his audience with his Company and Regimental Commanders. It had not gone well.

  The conversation with his friends had been quite difficult. They both knew that he had been to see the Raven, and it soon became common knowledge that Oberst Baum, the Regimental Commander, had also been in attendance.

  On explaining to them that his platoon would be attached to an experimental training unit in Hildesheim, for them it didn’t quite hang true. Erich in particular was struggling to match Paul’s story with the urgency of the meeting earlier that day.

  For the first time since they had known each other, since meeting up at the Stendal training camp, they felt uncomfortable in each other’s presence. Erich because of Paul’s evasiveness, and Paul because he was not being open and truthful with his friend.

  There wasn’t a rift between them, but there was certainly an estrangement.

  He heard the rustle of grass behind him and turned to see Max approaching, powerfully striding through the field, his gait obvious at any distance. His brooding time was over, it was time to leave the farmer and return to his military existence.

  “Leutnant, the Platoon will be assembled in the hour as you requested sir,” reported Max, saluting as he did so.

  “Thank you Max, come and sit down. Rest your weary limbs for a few minutes.”

  Max joined his Platoon Commander on the bench. “Is all well with you sir?” enquired Max, clearly concerned as to what he perceived was a mood of despondency.

  “Would you be a farmer Max?” he said pointing to the farmer toiling in the field.

  “Not a chance sir, plodding around in all weathers, mucking out cattle. I haven’t seen a single milk maid since we’ve been in this god forsaken country.”

  He laughed, Max’s outlook on life, never failed to raise his spirits.

  “I have some good news for you,” interrupted Paul, still keen to avoid Max’s original question. “You are to be awarded the ‘Iron Cross Second Class’, along with Fessman and Stumme. I too will receive an award.”

  “Well deserved too sir,” beamed Max, jumping up and grabbing his hand to shake it, “but why me?” asked an astonished Max.

  Paul flexed his hand, trying to get some feeling back into it, and pulled Max back down onto the bench.

  “Because Unterfeldwebel Grun, the success we had the other day was due to you, and soldiers like Fessman and Stumme. In fact, I’d like to give the entire platoon a medal, they fought well. You also saved my life Max, that cannot be forgotten.”

  “Hmm,” said Max

  Paul looked at Max’s serious face, “what is it?”

  “The girls in Hamburg would be quite taken by a returning hero bearing medals,” said Max grinning.

  “You are a rogue Unterfeldwebel!” Paul’s mood was lifted.

  “We have a new posting, the platoon is being sent to an experimental training unit in Hildesheim.”

  Max stood up suddenly, disappointment clearly on his face, “But sir, why are they sending us back to a training unit? We’re needed here at the front surely! How are the rest of the Company, and the Battalion for that matter, meant to manage without us?”

  “I understand your disappointment Max, but bear with it. The platoon has been highly commended; they won’t waste our expertise for nothing.”

  “But what sort of training?”

  “That is all I can say for now Max.”

  “But sir.”

  Paul interposed, “I’m ordering you not to question it further Max, understood?”

  Max looked down at his Commander, his confusion obvious. They had just proven their worth; surely their place was at the front, and not training spotty faced recruits. But, his trust in Paul was implicit.

  “Jawohl, Herr Leutnant.”

  “Good. Let’s go and talk to the platoon.”

  “One other thing I need to discuss before we go sir.”

  “Yes?”

  “The mail has finally caught up with the Company.”

  It was one of the Reich’s true achievements that the mail could get through to the troops under any circumstances.

  “Is all well Max?”

  “Unfortunately Jager Roon has been notified that all is not well with his mother. His last letter informed him that her doctor could no longer treat her illness and she has had to go into hospital.”

  “How is he?”

  “He’s naturally upset sir, unfortunately a later letter from his father told him that his fifty eight year old mother, has died. Due to the late arrival of the letter he’s been unable to attend his mother’s funeral. I’ve said that I’ll speak to you about getting him home on leave.”

  “Of course Max, he must go. I will clear it with the Oberleutnant.”

  “I told him I thought you’d try sir, but he insists on staying with the unit. He thinks his father will be fine. He’s written to him. With the unit being operational he is insisting on staying with comrades.”

  “I understand that Max, but I will speak to him anyway.”

  Paul got up off the bench and rested his hand on Max’s rock hard shoulder.

  “Let’s go and brief the platoon, eh Max, we have a parade to prepare for!”

  The two comrades, the officer and the NCO, walked back to the village. The solid stalwart, loyalty to his Commander unspoken, and the tall, rangy leader, as dependent on Max as Max was on him.

  The railway station was busy. Surprisingly so, due to Poland still being in a state of war and now an occupied country. Though some residents were still travelling on the Polish railways, Paul was bemused as to what pursuits could possibly entice them to use the trains during a time of war. The majority of the trains though, stopping over and passing through Pulawy, were troop trains.

  The steam trains passed through the station at high speed, engulfing the platform and its occupants in a billowing cloud of oily smoke and steam. People disappeared in its swirling mass, appearing later as if wraiths suddenly returning from the dead.

  The platoon had been secured a carriage to take them directly to Warsaw, changing trains there for their onward journey.

  In Warsaw they were again promised a priority carriage that would transport them west to Berlin, via a stopover at Poznan.

  Finally back in their home Country, they would be transferred to Braunschweig and finally shuttled to Hildesheim by military transport. The priority given to Paul’s unit intrigued him, as it did the rest of the Platoon. Clearly they were heading for an important task and the reservations of leaving the front and their Battalion were slowly dissipating, replaced by a soldier’s natural curiosity.

  The Platoon were drinking coffee from a field kitchen, set up on the station to service the passing German soldiers and airmen.

  Watched over by the inevitable Chain Dogs, willing the boisterous paratroopers to step out of line. But the medals that some of the troopers sported, making them a little wary, so for the moment they would let them be.

  The Platoon did what soldiers do well, eying up the local talent. They all had a particular eye for one of the German female volunteers serving them. Max was worried that if they continued to drink coffee at the current high rate they would explode.

  Two hours later they boarded their train, the carriage being surprisingly comfortable and very soon the majority of the Platoon were asleep.

  Paul joined them, slowly slipping into a deep sleep, his last thoughts being about the experimental training unit, but he also turned over in his mind his training days a
t Stendal.

  The mesmeric click, click, click of the carriage’s wheels over the track, soon having their effect, closing Paul’s eyes and shutting down his spinning thoughts.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Paul arrived at Stendal station; the home of General Kurt Student’s slowly growing 7 Flieger Division. At this time the Division was only two Battalions strong. Paul got off the Deutches Reichsbahn train with his single kit bag, holding his personal effects and other elements of his Luftwaffe uniform, and looked for the assembly point.

  The local band were happily playing the Kadetten Marsch, the Cadets March, obviously welcoming them to their temporary new home.

  There was doubtless more than a hundred young men milling around the station, wearing a variety of uniforms, mostly air force, but also including a sprinkling of uniforms from the Army and some even in civilian clothes. Many looking as equally lost as he felt. Some looked even younger than Paul’s twenty years of age.

  It was obvious they were all heading for the same place as him, Stendal-Borstal, the home of the Parachute training depot, the home of the Fallschirmjager, and home of the ‘Green Devils’.

  He had seen a pamphlet, the air force wanted volunteers for parachute training. It sounded like a good idea at the time, but perhaps also a good way to commit suicide. The Luftwaffe eagle on the cover of the brochure struck an immediate chord with Paul. The more he thought about it the more it whetted his appetite. Although the thought of flying into battle rather than slogging through the countryside on foot allured him, there was a twinge of doubt at the thought of jumping out of an aircraft, his life depending on a circular piece of silk!

  At eighteen years old, Paul joined the Reichswehr, where, as a Junior Leutnant, he spent nine months with a Wehrmacht Infantry Regiment. Within a week of approaching his Company Commander for a transfer, Paul found himself on the train to Stendal, ninety kilometres west of Berlin. And here he was.

  There were various signs indicating where they should form up and group prior to the arrival of their reception committee. Paul walked over to the appointed collection point, joining the rest of the milling throng, all waiting expectantly, all with some trace of anxiety on their faces as to what the future held for them. As he got closer to the collection point he found he was walking alongside a youth of a similar age to himself, not so tall, probably two inches shorter than Paul’s six foot two, but slightly bigger built than Paul. They looked at each other.