Wim shoved another en bloc clip of five rounds into the M.95 pushed the bolt forward and brought his right hand down to the trigger guard aimed, resting on the saddle of the ‘borrowed’ bicycle, its basket and pink tassels an adorable distraction he could not afford. He pulled the trigger, leaned into the more than decent recoil pulled the bolt straight back and slammed it forward, found his trigger and fired in quick succession.
The mottled camo blouse of a Fallschirmjaeger soldat fluttered in quick succession, lifting the enemy trooper and spinning him around in a dance only 156 grains compressed into the 53mm shell could. It packed enough punch at 200 meters to do the job. The FJ troopers MP 40 went one way, the body another.
He rapidly shoved the next en-bloc clip of five rounds in, pushed the bolt home and sought another target. He flinched and ducked from kneeling to prone as an MG 34’s rapid flat, clothing ripping sound echoed across the lush meadow land. He heard what sounds like Jan his squad mate cry out in pain. Shit. Then another cry. Our fire was slackening off. Seeking the sound of that machine gun, Wim fired blindly at the source, hoping to reduce the volume of its murderous sawing.
The tearing sound abated. Did he hit them? Or were they adjusting position. Time to move also!
The next ferry across would have our Lewis guns. That would help. Ferried as they were, by bicycle, baskets that once carried fruit, meat and cheese, now had ammo pans and the kit bags of the gunners.
The percussion, and sounds of their own covering arty barrage were getting awful close. The shells screamed in. The ground tore apart, early crops splaying in all directions, the rich loamy soil landing in clumps. Destroying the tidy panels of soggy farmland. German mortars returned fire. The machine guns tore at the men of Wim’s platoon with ist awful rhythm.
The sectioncommandant, roared at the platoon ‘Shoot damn you shoot!’ . Wim loaded his third clip, and fired low, and fast from the prone position. One clip, two. Others joined in. The enemy fire slackened. ‘Move, move.’ Came the cry.
Wim was up fast, bent over double, like they had trained him just weeks ago, weaving, running like it mattered. ‘Where those bullets or bees’ he thought, as the zinging, zipping sounds sought him out, he dove to the ground and fired blindly. Then the sawing shearing MG 34 spun up again. More men from Grouep Spui hit the dirt and began firing in return.
How had they found themselves in this mess?
Just three hours ago Wim was on guard duty at the depot. Then Kaptein J.W.J Moermann turned up in a flustered hurry, packed the men of Grouep Spui off the Gravendeel on requisitioned bicycles from the towns folk. Then they had headed for the river ferry, baskets laden with the tools of warfare, wooden rifle butts clanging and scraping as they pedal. As they boarded the ferry, that was when the arty , the 22e Royal Artillery in fact started to pound the surprised lightly armed German paratroopers. We rushed to the embankment, pushing our laden cycles, seeking cover.
That was how.
The Lewis guns manned by teams of two, opened up on each flank of the line Wim was in. Three squads of 8-10 men, less now after casualties, crept forward using shell holes, low growth crops and any cover they could find. The Lewis’s tattah tattah tattah tat, was heaven to his ears. It was no match in terms of volume of fire of the enemies, but it was more than their single action bolt action rifles.
‘First squad move, move’ Came the order. This was Wim’s. Up they went. Hendrink was next to him, they ran at the same pace, weaving, moving until he pitch face forward, arms splayed, twitched and that was all Wim saw, as he raced by, angling left now. Then to the ground. Squads two and three had been pushing sporadic fire, from the river bank near the road to Moerdijk. Now squad three moved. Lewis guns cycled ammo at a pace. Wim and his squadmates fired also. More clips fly through their hands.
Then a whistle.
Silence.
The sun was setting low. More barges and ferries brought men and equipment across.
The Germans had pulled back?
Could they now mine the road to Moerdijk, slow down the inevitable road reinforcements? Recapture Dordrecht?
They had moved against a tide of fleeing citizens on the roads to the ferry. What was happening elsewhere?
The Lt, came by, crouching low, looking pensively out into the dusk. ‘they will come back. It is their way. We lost too many today. But more are coming to help us. We must spend everything to hold then tonight. This where we stop the German panzers from getting further than here and the Moerdijk bridges. Right here boys.’
