their initial assault. His inspections of the defences had also encouraged him greatly – morale was good, the men looked fit, and adequate ammunition had been dumped and stockpiled.
Freyberg glanced at his watch. Time to head down to the quarry. The German plan, he knew, was to attack in the Maleme-Canea sector first, then at Rethymno and Heraklion. And once the airborne invasion had begun, the seaborne assault would follow.
At Eleusis airfield, near Athens on the Greek mainland, it was another scorcher, but apart from a brief moment at first light, when the sky and air had been beautifully clear, the main feature of the day had been the vast amounts of dust that had been whipped up by the endless stream of transport aircraft that had been leaving since around 6 a.m. This had caused delays, slight at first but which had begun rapidly to escalate and had put the day’s operation significantly behind schedule. For those men in the first wave – the battalion of paratroopers from the 3rd Fallschirmjager Regiment – this had been frustrating enough, but for those in the 1st Regiment scheduled to be part of the second wave, this delay was causing mounting fury. The men had been in a state of fevered expectation as it was, but now the hours were ticking by and still there was no sign of any movement.
At 11 a.m., the 3rd Battalion was stood down again, and this time there was no hour-long delay but the realization that they had absolutely no chance of being airborne before two o’clock that afternoon, some four hours after they had originally been due to set off.
‘I’m sorry, gentlemen,’ Major Schulz told his company commanders, from the battalion headquarters tent. ‘It’s the same elsewhere, though. I’ve just spoken to Oberst Brauer, and the entire regiment has been delayed, so it’s not as though they will be starting without us.’ Around the edge of the tent battalion staff were still manning radios and field telephones, while a clerk tapped away at a typewriter. Only their packs and weapons, neatly stacked beneath the trestle tables, suggested they were, in fact, ready to pack up and go the moment the signal arrived.
‘I’m going to organize some food and drink for the men,’ said Schulz, ‘but in the meantime, go back to your companies and make sure your boys keep themselves busy.’
Oberleutnant Kurt Balthasar wandered back across the dry soil and sparse grass to his 4th Company area, a collection of patrol and bell tents among an aged olive grove. The tents had once been white, but were now a dun colour, thanks to the dust. He’d already been awake for the best part of nine hours, too nervous, too excited to sleep. Just a few snatched moments was all he had managed and then movement outside had woken him – the sound of trucks and buses, ferrying paratroopers to their gliders and transports, shouts of orders, the last-minute work of the mechanics – and from then on he had known he was awake for good. It had been the same last time, before the drop on the Belgian forts a year ago, but at least then they had been first into action. A long night that had been, but not for lack of action: they had loaded up before dawn, and had been dropping from the sky at first light. This time it was different: too much waiting.
And the airfield next to their camp was now maddeningly quiet. Across the sea, the men of the 3rd Regiment would already be fighting, yet here they were kicking their heels. The airfield was only a few hundred yards away and beyond was Athens, now shimmering in the late-morning sun. Balthasar squinted as he looked up into the bright, cloudless sky, then glanced across at the Acropolis, visible through the haze, standing, timeless, on its promontory. To the south lay the sea, where for the past couple of weeks the men had been swimming daily, keeping fit, cool and clean.
He wandered around the tents, stopping first by the men of Leutnant Neumann’s platoon. Some were stretched out in their tents, others outside.
‘Sorry, boys, we’re delayed again,’ he said. ‘Stood down until two.’ Groans of frustration, cards slammed on the table, a kick of the ground. ‘I know, I know,’ said Balthasar. ‘Clean your weapons again, lose some more money on skat, write another letter. I don’t want you sitting on your arses staring into space or at your wrist-watches.’ Mutters of ‘Yes, boss,’ and resigned nods. ‘And Papa Schulz is trying to fix up some lunch so that you can all be sick on each other when we do get in the air.’
He continued his way around, talking to the other two platoons in turn, using the same jokes – which brought a few wry smiles. He knew the men liked him, yet he was careful not to be a friend to any of them. A bit of distance was needed. So, too, was their respect, but he had earned that with a fighting record in France and the Low Countries and, more recently, in Greece that had brought him an Iron Cross first and second class. He also made sure he set high standards. Those who followed his lead found him approachable, ready with a joke, and willing to indulge a few high jinks. Those who did not meet his expectations soon found their lives a misery, and then they either stepped up or were thrown out, or found themselves on a particularly suicidal mission.
His company now was almost at full strength – 154 men rather than the full complement of 170 – and although there were admittedly a few greenhorns, there were enough combat veterans to ensure the new boys toed the line. In any case, from what he’d seen of them so far, the replacements seemed to be shaping up well. Paratroopers were special – elite troops, as he made sure none of his men ever forgot. And elite troops were just that: the best, particularly in this battalion and especially in this company. In a year and a half of war, the Fallschirmjager had become a force that struck fear into their enemies. This, he told them, was what they had to live up to.
Returning to his tent, he checked his equipment again. Two water bottles rather than one – who knew when they might be able to refill? – canvas gas-mask case stuffed not with a mask but three stick grenades, a gravity knife and a Gebrheller bayonet, two triple-filled MP40 ammunition pouches, a stash of rifle rounds, plus spare socks and as many dressing packs and first-aid items as he could fit into his smock and trousers. In his canvas burlap carry-sack was his parachute, while laid out on his camp bed were his firearms. It was difficult to jump out of a plane with a rifle: it could not be slung across the back because of the parachute pack, or across the front because it would get in the way. Instead, rifles were supposed to be placed in the aluminium canisters that were dropped with them. Over Belgium, though, Balthasar had looped his K.98 over one shoulder and it had not fallen off, and he intended to carry it with him this time, along with his MP40 submachine-gun, and a Sauer semi-automatic pistol. He had suggested the rest of the men do the same. The most dangerous time for the paratrooper was swinging down through the air – when they were sitting ducks – and immediately upon landing when they were scrabbling around trying to shed their parachutes and offering clear targets.
On paper, the MP38 and 40 had ranges of some 200 metres, but in reality it was all but useless over more than forty. With its short barrel, it simply did not have the velocity – and Balthasar rarely opened fire with his at more than twenty-five metres. At close range it was a great weapon. At long range, it was a waste of time. On the other hand, he could drop a man at 400 metres with his rifle. When he landed, he wanted his K.98 with him, not in some canister lying tangled up in an out-of-reach cactus plant.
Balthasar sat down and looked at his watch – exactly what he had told his men not to do – then ran his hands through his hair and lit a cigarette.
Back in Germany, the National Socialists had come to power and Balthasar had seen that the new Germany held opportunities for men like him: men who were big and blond and good-looking, with a half-decent brain between their ears. Men who knew something of the world and how it worked. The Nazis didn’t care if you were born in a back-street. If you had talent and could prove yourself, you could make something of your life. So Balthasar had joined the Party, then the SS and then, when Goring announced to the world that Germany had an air force, he had applied to transfer and was accepted.
Excitement had quickly turned to disappointment. Of course he had intended to become a fighter pilot – didn’t everyone? – but instead of pirouetting through the sky in 450-kilometre-per-hour Messerschmitts, he was sidelined into air-sea rescue, flying biplanes with sea floats. He was an officer in the Luftwaffe but clearly his career would go nowhere if he was spending his time picking up people out of the sea. And so he decided to transfer again, applying to join the newly formed Parachute Regiment General Goring. Accepted, he knew immediately that he had chosen wisely. The training was exhilarating and he discovered he was fitter and stronger than most of his fellows. The danger thrilled him, while the knowledge of being part of a newly formed elite gave him a sense of belonging he had never known before. Three years on, he was still with the 1st Fallschirmjager Regiment, and confident that in the ensuing battle there would be more opportunities to further his career.
