Post by Deleted on Aug 27, 2015 23:33:58 GMT
Crete,
27 May 1941
With eyes locked forward, Ernst navigated through the ordered rows of covered dead, his injured elbow stiff and unmoveable. He stepped lightly over an outstretched hand that was, even in death, still squeezing an invisible trigger. On its pinky finger was a ring with an engraving of a diving eagle. Fallschirmjäger.
Ernst and his company had descended on the island in the early hours of May 10th. One-hundred and seventeen men packed into twelve DFS-230 gliders. It had been a perfect descent. Anti-aircraft fire from the airfield was heavy but focused on the approaches of other assault groups. They had touched down without a scratch.
What followed in the next three days wasn't war, it was murder. By the end of the first day, half of Ernst's troops were dead or seriously wounded, and no major objectives had been taken. A cock-up by Allied commanders led to the withdrawal of Commonwealth forces from the airfield that night, allowing the Fallschirmjäger to move in the next day. Realizing their mistake, the Allies spent two days trying to retake the field. Bodies piled up on both sides at an alarming rate.
Arriving at his destination, Ernst made an effort to tidy his bloody uniform before entering. The aid station at Maleme airfield was a miserable place, malodorous and depressing. The stench of death permeated everything and was seasoned with the fragrances of shit and vomit. It wasn't until the fourth day that the battle had diminished enough to permit the lightly wounded to seek treatment. Unfortunately, most were too far from the medical tents by that time and were left with no choice but remain on the line.
Brushing past a preoccupied doctor, Ernst winced as burning pain in his elbow flared up suddenly. He had injured the muscle while hauling a recoilless gun from a creek on his last day in the fight. It had only been sore at first but had gradually hurt more and more until he could barely move it without feeling as if it were on fire.
He should have been thankful that he had survived where many had not. All he could think about was the comrades he would leave buried in Cretan soil. He had lost ninety-four men in five days of combat before being pulled from the line. Only two of the remaining twenty-two men made it through completely unscathed.
Ernst milled around for a few minutes, scanning the station for anyone he knew before dropping into a chair, exhausted and melancholy. He was spattered with blood, some of it his, most belonging to others. He had taken time to shave and bathe, even attempting to wash his uniform before continuing the dusty march to Maleme. He hadn't been able to remove the blood and sweat stains from his uniform, but had somehow managed to scrub some of the dirt and mud out of it. He had been surprised to discover that the dark circles around his eyes remained after cleaning his face.
He sat awkwardly as he waited for available medical personnel. His lower body was a mess. His feet throbbed from a week of marching. He hadn't removed his boots since landing and didn't doubt that his feet were a bloody disaster. His hip was sore from mortar shrapnel that had been removed. He suspected that there were a few small pieces that he had missed, but it didn't pain him much.
Worse was the burning sensation in his right calf. A piece of bone blasted from the body of a runner had cut a good three-inch groove into the flesh, which he had immediately sterilized and dressed. He'd been too preoccupied trying to stay alive to change the bandages, which were now a singed brown. A barely-trained Greek had somehow sent a tracer round through his trouser leg, setting pant fabric and the bandage underneath on fire for a few seconds before Ernst managed to beat the flames out in panic.
Removing a pocket New Testament from his jacket, he flipped to the rear of the book and pencilled a new entry, muttering as he wrote. "The dead are piled high, a Tower of Babylon from the broken bodies of young men." He stared at the words a moment before clenching his eyes shut to keep the tears at bay.
27 May 1941
With eyes locked forward, Ernst navigated through the ordered rows of covered dead, his injured elbow stiff and unmoveable. He stepped lightly over an outstretched hand that was, even in death, still squeezing an invisible trigger. On its pinky finger was a ring with an engraving of a diving eagle. Fallschirmjäger.
Ernst and his company had descended on the island in the early hours of May 10th. One-hundred and seventeen men packed into twelve DFS-230 gliders. It had been a perfect descent. Anti-aircraft fire from the airfield was heavy but focused on the approaches of other assault groups. They had touched down without a scratch.
What followed in the next three days wasn't war, it was murder. By the end of the first day, half of Ernst's troops were dead or seriously wounded, and no major objectives had been taken. A cock-up by Allied commanders led to the withdrawal of Commonwealth forces from the airfield that night, allowing the Fallschirmjäger to move in the next day. Realizing their mistake, the Allies spent two days trying to retake the field. Bodies piled up on both sides at an alarming rate.
Arriving at his destination, Ernst made an effort to tidy his bloody uniform before entering. The aid station at Maleme airfield was a miserable place, malodorous and depressing. The stench of death permeated everything and was seasoned with the fragrances of shit and vomit. It wasn't until the fourth day that the battle had diminished enough to permit the lightly wounded to seek treatment. Unfortunately, most were too far from the medical tents by that time and were left with no choice but remain on the line.
Brushing past a preoccupied doctor, Ernst winced as burning pain in his elbow flared up suddenly. He had injured the muscle while hauling a recoilless gun from a creek on his last day in the fight. It had only been sore at first but had gradually hurt more and more until he could barely move it without feeling as if it were on fire.
He should have been thankful that he had survived where many had not. All he could think about was the comrades he would leave buried in Cretan soil. He had lost ninety-four men in five days of combat before being pulled from the line. Only two of the remaining twenty-two men made it through completely unscathed.
Ernst milled around for a few minutes, scanning the station for anyone he knew before dropping into a chair, exhausted and melancholy. He was spattered with blood, some of it his, most belonging to others. He had taken time to shave and bathe, even attempting to wash his uniform before continuing the dusty march to Maleme. He hadn't been able to remove the blood and sweat stains from his uniform, but had somehow managed to scrub some of the dirt and mud out of it. He had been surprised to discover that the dark circles around his eyes remained after cleaning his face.
He sat awkwardly as he waited for available medical personnel. His lower body was a mess. His feet throbbed from a week of marching. He hadn't removed his boots since landing and didn't doubt that his feet were a bloody disaster. His hip was sore from mortar shrapnel that had been removed. He suspected that there were a few small pieces that he had missed, but it didn't pain him much.
Worse was the burning sensation in his right calf. A piece of bone blasted from the body of a runner had cut a good three-inch groove into the flesh, which he had immediately sterilized and dressed. He'd been too preoccupied trying to stay alive to change the bandages, which were now a singed brown. A barely-trained Greek had somehow sent a tracer round through his trouser leg, setting pant fabric and the bandage underneath on fire for a few seconds before Ernst managed to beat the flames out in panic.
Removing a pocket New Testament from his jacket, he flipped to the rear of the book and pencilled a new entry, muttering as he wrote. "The dead are piled high, a Tower of Babylon from the broken bodies of young men." He stared at the words a moment before clenching his eyes shut to keep the tears at bay.
