Devils with Wings by Harvey Black Read Free Book Online Page A

sentry, now fifteen metres away. The sweat was starting to soak his uniform making him shiver as it cooled on his body. Ten metres, he could now see the distinctive features of the sentry’s face. He looked young, no older than eighteen or nineteen, probably a conscript soldier. He remembered his Platoon Commander’s comment, they may not be infantry soldiers, but they can still shoot and kill. Five metres. He was directly behind the sentry now. The sentry was short in height, five foot eight inches, no more than that, not a problem for Fessman’s five, eleven.
    He leopard crawled the last stretch without making a sound. The scrape of his boot against a fallen branch or the snap of a twig on the ground would alert the sentry. Then he would have no option but to get up quickly and run at the sentry, killing him before he had time to sound the alarm; that would be a tall order.
    These last few moments were crucial. He made it without disturbing the sentry’s attention, which was still firmly transfixed by the firefight in the West.
    He could almost reach out and touch him. He could hear him clearing his throat, fumbling in his pocket, for what turned out to be a packet of cigarettes. He would wait until he had lit it and taken his first drag, he didn’t want the sentry’s arms in the way.
    Rising up behind the sentry, a strong smell of body odour emanating from him, quickly placing his hand around the sentry’s mouth, the knife placed beneath his chin. In one swift movement Fessman clamped the sentry’s mouth tightly shut to smother any sound, thrust the blade up and into the underside of the lower jaw, through the upper oesophagus and into the brain.
    At the same time he pulled them both to the ground with the Polish soldier’s body on top of him, wrapping his legs round the Polish soldier’s legs, clamping them, preventing him from thrashing around. The hand remained clamped around his mouth pulling his head back, scrambling the blade around inside his skull until all that was left was a minor tremble as the force of life was extinguished from the unknown soldier.
    Fessman felt the trickle of urine being absorbed into his own uniform as the sentry evacuated his bowels during those moments of death.
    Over to the right, a second sentry met the same fate at the hands of the equally proficient Stumme.
    Fessman stood up, holding his bayonet up in the air thrusting it up and down twice signalling success to the platoon.
    Paul gave the signal and the platoon of paratroopers moved forward.
    Fischer’s troop on the left flank moved up to the clearing, now reinforced by a gun group from first and second troop, they were to give covering fire. His troop also assigned its rifle squad to support first troop in the assault.
    That meant that Paul would have twenty men to conduct the assault on the enemy unit.
    All three troops were on the tree line, unseen by the unwary Polish soldiers. Thirty two men now overlooked the unsuspecting Polish artillery battery, going about their business, oblivious to the incubus that lay biding their time, waiting for the right moment.
    Max was amazed that the enemy had allowed them to get this close and the consequences for the artillerymen would be plain for all to see once the firing started.
    “Well done Fessman, Stumme, good job carried out on those sentries.” Paul patted them both on the back, “remind me to never meet you two on a dark night!”
    “You sounded like a herd of elephants,” retorted Max, not wanting the trooper’s success to go completely to their heads. But they all knew that the Unterfeldwebel was pleased with their work. Had they messed it up and given the game away, the platoon would be in a very different situation now.
    “If the rest are as incompetent as those sentries sir, then we don’t have a lot to fear from them,” implied Max.
    Paul turned towards him, “We still have sixty rifles pointing our way though Max, don’t forget that.”
    Max nodded, bowing to