Read Online Devils with Wings by Harvey Black - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Harvey Black
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Paul, the recent German invasion.
While in Pulawy, the three young men visited some notable buildings, feeling more like tourists than Fallschirmjager officers. The temple of Sibyl and the Marynka’s Palace, once the home of Princess Isabelle Czartoryski, but now the home of one of the German Wehrmacht Division’s Head Quarters. They quickly skirted that tourist spot, not wanting to be seen by any senior officers!
Returning from their excursion, they felt relaxed and rested; ready to face whatever the military would throw at them.
They had been allocated a small cottage to bunk down in until the unit received its next set of orders from the Regimental HQ.
The cottage was typical of many in Poland, being a one storey bungalow, with a small kitchen, a wood burning stove, which also provided the cottage’s heating, a lounge, that also served as their eating and bathing area, and two bedrooms, one of which Paul shared with Erich, much to his demise. Although he could sleep almost anywhere under almost any circumstances, Erich’s snoring well and truly put that to the test.
It also had an outside toilet, which was a luxury under the circumstances.
The Poles clearly resented having to give up their homes to the occupying German soldiers, understandably so, but were careful not to communicate that too forcefully. After all, the war was not going well for Poland and the current occupying troops could well be here on a more permanent basis.
A Military police unit had attached itself to the Battalion headquarters, to ensure the good behaviour of the soldiers in the area. But, it also had a responsibility to monitor and control the activities of the local population. In this particular role, they seemed to take a great delight in making life difficult for the inhabitants of the village.
Paul had already clashed with one of the Military Police, also known as ‘Kettenhunde’ or ‘Chain Dogs’, a name given to the military police as a result of the chain and gorget they wore around their necks. They often worked in close cooperation with the Secret Field Police, Geheime Feldpolizei. Paul felt sure that he had also seen them around the village.
He had been returning from checking on the accommodation for his Platoon, their welfare very much at the forefront of his thoughts, when he walked into an incident between a group of villagers and the Feldgendarmerie, the Military Police.
A Military Police Feldwebel was standing in what appeared to be a milk soaked uniform, while another Military Police NCO was beating a Polish peasant, cringing on the ground beneath him, about the head with the butt of his machine pistol.
Paul intervened directly.
“Cease that immediately!” commanded Paul.
The NCO stood up straight, no longer bending over the Polish victim on the floor.
“Keep out of it soldier, if you know what’s good for you, It’s none of your business,” growled the Chain Dog.
If the Feldgendarmerie thought that his military police uniform and large physique would intimidate this boy of an officer, he was about to find out differently.
Paul stretched to his full height of six feet two inches, a good four inches taller than the thickset policeman and leant in towards him, looking down on him and commanded.
“Front and centre and stand to attention when you address an officer!”
The policeman suddenly noticed the jump smock and boots and the parachutists jump badge. His eyes also flickered to, and settled on Paul’s officer tabs. If he had any doubts, seeing the Fallschirmjager helmet aided his realisation that this was no ordinary officer and no ordinary soldier. He quickly pulled himself to an upright position, brought himself to attention and gave Paul a Nazi salute.
“Jawohl Herr Leutnant, this scum spilt milk all down the front of his uniform,” pointing to the other Feldgendarmerie.
“That’s as well maybe,” responded Paul, “but it doesn’t warrant a beating with the butt of your gun. See I
While in Pulawy, the three young men visited some notable buildings, feeling more like tourists than Fallschirmjager officers. The temple of Sibyl and the Marynka’s Palace, once the home of Princess Isabelle Czartoryski, but now the home of one of the German Wehrmacht Division’s Head Quarters. They quickly skirted that tourist spot, not wanting to be seen by any senior officers!
Returning from their excursion, they felt relaxed and rested; ready to face whatever the military would throw at them.
They had been allocated a small cottage to bunk down in until the unit received its next set of orders from the Regimental HQ.
The cottage was typical of many in Poland, being a one storey bungalow, with a small kitchen, a wood burning stove, which also provided the cottage’s heating, a lounge, that also served as their eating and bathing area, and two bedrooms, one of which Paul shared with Erich, much to his demise. Although he could sleep almost anywhere under almost any circumstances, Erich’s snoring well and truly put that to the test.
It also had an outside toilet, which was a luxury under the circumstances.
The Poles clearly resented having to give up their homes to the occupying German soldiers, understandably so, but were careful not to communicate that too forcefully. After all, the war was not going well for Poland and the current occupying troops could well be here on a more permanent basis.
A Military police unit had attached itself to the Battalion headquarters, to ensure the good behaviour of the soldiers in the area. But, it also had a responsibility to monitor and control the activities of the local population. In this particular role, they seemed to take a great delight in making life difficult for the inhabitants of the village.
Paul had already clashed with one of the Military Police, also known as ‘Kettenhunde’ or ‘Chain Dogs’, a name given to the military police as a result of the chain and gorget they wore around their necks. They often worked in close cooperation with the Secret Field Police, Geheime Feldpolizei. Paul felt sure that he had also seen them around the village.
He had been returning from checking on the accommodation for his Platoon, their welfare very much at the forefront of his thoughts, when he walked into an incident between a group of villagers and the Feldgendarmerie, the Military Police.
A Military Police Feldwebel was standing in what appeared to be a milk soaked uniform, while another Military Police NCO was beating a Polish peasant, cringing on the ground beneath him, about the head with the butt of his machine pistol.
Paul intervened directly.
“Cease that immediately!” commanded Paul.
The NCO stood up straight, no longer bending over the Polish victim on the floor.
“Keep out of it soldier, if you know what’s good for you, It’s none of your business,” growled the Chain Dog.
If the Feldgendarmerie thought that his military police uniform and large physique would intimidate this boy of an officer, he was about to find out differently.
Paul stretched to his full height of six feet two inches, a good four inches taller than the thickset policeman and leant in towards him, looking down on him and commanded.
“Front and centre and stand to attention when you address an officer!”
The policeman suddenly noticed the jump smock and boots and the parachutists jump badge. His eyes also flickered to, and settled on Paul’s officer tabs. If he had any doubts, seeing the Fallschirmjager helmet aided his realisation that this was no ordinary officer and no ordinary soldier. He quickly pulled himself to an upright position, brought himself to attention and gave Paul a Nazi salute.
“Jawohl Herr Leutnant, this scum spilt milk all down the front of his uniform,” pointing to the other Feldgendarmerie.
“That’s as well maybe,” responded Paul, “but it doesn’t warrant a beating with the butt of your gun. See I
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