The Fall of Fort Eben-Emael: Or, How to Inconvenience an Entire Army with a Handful of Germans and a Few Door Charges

 

Introduction: A Fortress So Secure, It Almost Worked

It is one of the more enduring habits of military planners—particularly those blessed with hindsight and committee seating allowances—to build fortifications that are, on paper, utterly impregnable. After the hideous trauma of the First World War, Belgium, sensibly enough, resolved never to host that sort of unpleasantness again. So they built forts. Big ones. With thick walls, thick ceilings, and—one imagines—thick confidence. Of these fortresses, none was so stoutly defended, so devilishly armed, and so brimming with beton brut as Fort Eben-Emael.

On May 10, 1940, Fort Eben-Emael achieved historical notoriety when 85 German paratroopers, who landed in gliders, succeeded in disabling the powerful fortress and its approximately 1,000-strong garrison within just under two days. The decisive weapon was the 50-kg shaped charge, used here for the first time.

Now, Fort Eben-Emael wasn’t merely a pile of concrete with an attitude. It was a colossus perched above the Albert Canal, tasked with protecting three vital bridges leading into Belgium. Built into the landscape like some particularly militaristic hillock, it bristled with artillery turrets, machine guns, and the resolute intention of denying the German advance. It was manned by over a thousand Belgian troops, trained, ready, and no doubt rather satisfied with their subterranean accommodations. With its vast subterranean galleries and a construction budget rivalled only by national opera houses, it was considered a jewel in Belgium’s defensive crown.

The logic behind it was sound enough. Belgium had chosen neutrality, as one does when sandwiched between France and Germany like a particularly anxious bit of ham at a big cats jamboree. A solid defensive network of forts along the Meuse was supposed to deter any bright ideas from the east—or at least slow them down until France and Britain finished their tea and came to help. The Maginot Line ended at the Franco-Belgian border, you see, like an enthusiastic shrug. The Belgians would hold. The French would flank. Everyone would be home by July. Lovely.

But war, as it turns out, is frightfully inconsiderate. The Germans had no intention of being slowed down by anything so traditional as a fortress. Nor, as it turned out, would they approach it in the conventional manner. Instead, they brought something new to the table: glider-borne assault engineers, armed with shaped charges, boundless audacity, and the sort of confidence usually reserved for Bond villains and overly ambitious wedding DJs. What happened next was one of the most daring and frankly embarrassing reversals of fortune in military engineering history.

Prelude: So What's This All About Then?

Eben-Emael was built between 1932 and 1935 in the style of the Maginot Line fortifications. Its construction was based on the Albert Canal's cut through a 1,300-meter-wide hill, located 6 km south of Maastricht. The fortress was blasted into the natural rock of the western bank of the canal, which reaches its highest point about 65 meters above the water level. The bank slope, which slopes steeply down to the cut, became the eastern front of the fortress. The fortress's layout followed the irregular contours of the hill, whose natural form was not altered by the construction. Eben-Emael was therefore a fortification of its own kind, featuring neither large concrete structures nor special walls. Its underground area covered almost 65 hectares.

To the east, the fortress was protected by the Albert Canal; to the north was a moat that could be flooded by the Geer River flowing further north. To the west and south were dry anti-tank ditches, reinforced by armoured walls and infantry obstacles. From the top of the hill, the entire forward area could be overlooked, stretching far beyond the Meuse. All underground facilities: gun rooms, crew quarters, ammunition and store rooms, engine rooms, etc., were connected by galleries designed to allow the fort to maintain its own existence, independent of the outside world. It was believed that Eben-Emael was capable of offering long-term resistance.

The fortress's armament was primarily artillery, in keeping with its purpose. The largest armoured turret contained two 120 mm cannons (16 km range); two further turrets were each equipped with two 75 mm cannons (11 km range). Four casemates housed three 75 mm cannons each, two facing north and two facing south. To the north and south of the fortress stood a bunker, each with three twin-gun turrets; in addition, there were six anti-aircraft machine guns mounted in field positions on the surface of the fortress. Three false gun turrets on the surface of the fort were intended to deceive the enemy into believing the presence of additional guns. Apart from two light machine guns, there were no infantry weapons on the surface of the fort. A standalone bunker in the south of the fortress, connected underground to the fort, was equipped with a 60 mm anti-tank gun.

Eben-Emael's outer defences, which mostly served as flanking defences, consisted of six smaller bunkers and two dugouts (north and south) with a total of eleven 60 mm anti-tank guns, 16 twin machine guns, and four light machine guns. Additional light machine guns were positioned inside the fortress. In total, Fort Eben-Emael's armament consisted of two 120 mm guns, sixteen 75 mm guns, twelve 60 mm guns, 25 twin machine guns, six anti-aircraft machine guns, and approximately 12 light machine guns.

Act I: A Bit of German Thinking (Or, How to Break a Fort Without Knocking)

By 1940, Adolf Hitler—who was not, history reminds us, short of opinions—had grown weary of traditional war-making. Marching up to a fort, shouting "Open in the name of the Reich!", and being promptly turned into high-velocity pâté was, in his estimation, rather 1916. What Germany needed was a show of speed, shock, and spectacular innovation. Thus was born Fall Gelb, or Case Yellow—a plan to bypass the strongest French defences and push through the Low Countries like a boot through a damp thatch roof.

But before they could reach the pastries of Paris, the Germans had to deal with Belgium’s fortifications. And Fort Eben-Emael was the biggest, boldest, and most inconvenient of these. Positioned directly beside the canal and overlooking three key bridges at Veldwezelt, Vroenhoven, and Kanne, it was a keystone in the Belgian defensive line. Knocking it out—or, better still, rendering it impotent without a full-on siege—would open the floodgates for the German 18th Army.

Enter Oberleutnant Rudolf Witzig, an officer in the newly formed Luftlande-Sturmabteilung Koch, a mouthful of a unit whose job was to pioneer airborne assault tactics. Their orders: land on the roof of Fort Eben-Emael using gliders, sabotage its armament with specially designed charges, and generally sow such havoc that the Belgians would be left blinking into the smoke like confused beetles.

This was not a job for your average boot-polisher with a rifle. The attacking force would consist of just 85 men, divided into four assault groups, all handpicked and exhaustively trained in secret, using mock-ups of the fortress in German forests. They rehearsed every step, every charge placement, every movement with almost theatrical precision. They practised blowing up turret domes with Hohlladung (shaped charges), disabling cupolas, and dealing with defenders underground—all while keeping things as quiet as possible.

The plan was brutally elegant. The gliders, towed behind Junkers Ju 52 transport planes, would detach in the predawn gloom of 10 May 1940, silently descend upon the roof of the fortress, and unleash hell before the Belgians could even mutter an “Oh dear.”

Act II: Silence in the Heavens, Thunder on the Roofs

As the first faint glimmer of dawn reached across the low hills of eastern Belgium on 10 May 1940, the garrison of Fort Eben-Emael remained blissfully unaware that history was about to hammer on their roof like an uninvited piano tuner.

From the east, nine silent DFS 230 gliders sliced through the morning mist. With engines long gone and canvas wings stretched taut, they glided like vengeful ghosts. In each craft, a half-dozen or so elite German assault pioneers—some barely older than schoolboys—gripped their equipment in tense silence: hollow charges, grenades, submachine guns, and demolition gear rattled in their kits.

On board the lead glider, Oberleutnant Rudolf Witzig, commander of Sturmgruppe Granit, peered grimly at the horizon—only for the tow cable to snap mid-flight, sending his glider into an emergency landing miles from the target. For any ordinary unit, this might have spelled disaster. For the men of Granit, it meant only one thing: carry on without him. Command devolved to Feldwebel Helmut Wenzel, who calmly adjusted his helmet, turned to his men, and prepared to take Fort Eben-Emael apart one bunker at a time.

Cupolas and Gun Turrets – The Thunder That Never Came

As the gliders skidded to a halt on the roof of the fortress, the men burst from the fuselage like jackals onto a feast. Their first priority: neutralise the main artillery batteries—the three 120mm retractable turrets (Turm 120 A, B, and C), and the imposing Cupola 120, a rotating dome that could have reduced entire German battalions to confetti each time it fired.

Leading the charge on these positions were Unteroffizier Otto Steiner and Gefreiter Alois Schmid, hauling cumbersome shaped charges the size of small barrels. The approach was fraught with peril: the roof, though flat, was studded with concrete outcroppings, machine gun cupolas, and trip hazards aplenty. Belgian defenders were beginning to stir—shots cracked out from slit-like windows.

But the Germans moved with surgical precision. Steiner's team reached the first turret—120 A—and slapped a Hohlladung against its steel skin, the charge designed to focus explosive force into a narrow jet capable of melting through armour. A muffled thunderclap followed, and smoke poured from the shattered dome. One gun down.

They repeated the act at 120 B, but this turret’s crew, warned by the first blast, opened fire from within. A hatch flew open, a pistol barked, and one of Steiner’s men went down. In response, Schmid calmly primed a second charge, slid it down the turret’s maintenance hatch like a malevolent postman, and turned away. Another roar, another plume of smoke. The turret sagged like a dead animal.

Meanwhile, Cupola 120 resisted two charges, its reinforced dome scorched but intact. Undeterred, the team clambered atop it again, this time with a modified charge—larger, stickier, and altogether more persuasive. With a final boom, the cupola’s gunner crew were silenced for good. By now, black smoke curled above the fort like a funeral wreath.

Eyes Blinded – The Fall of the Cupolas

With the heavy artillery disarmed or smouldering, Obergefreiter Herbert Wenzel and Gefreiter Fritz Prager moved swiftly toward the GFM cupolas—small, steel-plated bunkers armed with machine guns and optical sights. These were the fortress’s eyes and claws, offering observation and suppressive fire for the Belgian defenders.

Wenzel's team approached GFM B, which opened up on them the moment they were spotted. The Germans dropped flat and returned fire, bullets pinging off the domed cupola like rain on a kettle. Creeping forward under cover, Wenzel hurled a grenade, forcing the crew to button up. In those crucial seconds, his assistant slapped a shaped charge directly onto the viewing slit. The blast severed vision, vent, and morale in one go.

At GFM A, Prager faced a more stubborn foe. The Belgians inside fired their FM30 machine gun with frenzied defiance. One German was wounded in the approach. Undeterred, Prager inched up the rear slope of the dome, stuck a charge between the cupola’s base and the concrete, and dived away. The explosion cracked the dome open like an egg. Silence followed.

One by one, the Germans disabled observation cupolas and flak emplacements. In some cases, they wedged grenades into periscopes; in others, they smashed delicate optics and machine gun barrels with rifle butts and sheer malice. Within half an hour, the fort’s most vital senses—its eyes, ears, and claws—were blinded or broken.

Smother the Breath – Ventilation Strangled

While the gun and observation crews worked their deadly art, another team led by Gefreiter Kurt Krüger and Obergefreiter Karl-Heinz Koch tackled the less glamorous but crucial job of destroying ventilation shafts and air intakes. These were the lungs of the fortress, feeding oxygen to the underground galleries and battery rooms.

The shafts were unguarded but heavily reinforced. The team moved cautiously, wary of sniper fire from nearby positions. Under the cover of smoke grenades—thrown to obscure their movements—they reached the largest intake structure and dropped in two demolition charges. A dull thump followed, and the shaft’s fan grille twisted shut like a stomped accordion.

They repeated the process on three other vents. With each detonation, the air inside Eben-Emael grew hotter, fouler, more difficult to breathe. The defenders below, unaware of what was happening above, began to feel the suffocating effect of these surgical strikes.

Counterattack and Control – Holding the Rooftop

By now, the Belgians were fully awake—and thoroughly rattled. Inside the fortress, alarm klaxons wailed as officers tried to rally defenders to the stairwells and interior galleries leading to the roof. Small counterattacks emerged from bunkers and emergency exits. But the Germans, forewarned and well-armed, repelled each sortie.

One counterattack at emergency exit 16 briefly pushed a German squad back—but a quick grenade toss and a burst from an MP38 silenced the resistance. Another Belgian attempt to man Cupola GFM D ended with a well-placed charge that shattered the dome just as its crew attempted to return fire.

All the while, the Germans used the debris of the gliders themselves as makeshift cover. Ammunition was distributed, captured Belgian weapons were employed, and defensive perimeters were improvised using stone and scrap. Despite heavy Belgian small arms fire from nearby casemates, no German soldier was dislodged from his position on the roof.

By the time Oberleutnant Witzig finally rejoined his men—parachuting in after catching a second tow plane—the fort was already, for all intents and purposes, militarily paralysed.

Interlude: Bridges, Bangs, and Blitzkrieg – The Simultaneous Seizure of the Albert Canal Crossings

While the brave lads of Sturmgruppe Granit were performing their rooftop ballet atop Eben-Emael, a trio of equally daring German airborne detachments—Sturmgruppen Stahl, Beton, and Eisen (Steel, Concrete, and Iron, because of course they were)—were dropping onto the nearby Albert Canal bridges at Veldwezelt, Vroenhoven, and Kanne, just a few kilometres south of the fortress. These bridges were no mere footpaths across puddles. They were vital arteries leading into the Belgian interior, and their loss would scuttle the entire German plan like a tea trolley down a flight of stairs. The Belgians, quite sensibly, had wired them with enough explosives to send each span flying into orbit.

But the Germans had no intention of letting that happen. Each of the three assault teams arrived by glider, aiming for surgical strikes so precise they made Swiss watches look slapdash. At Veldwezelt, Sturmgruppe Stahl landed a few hundred yards from the bridge, then stormed the Belgian defences with alarming élan. They reached the detonator bunker just as the defenders were about to blow the charge—and shot the operator before he could flip the fatal switch. The bridge was seized, intact and trembling, but still standing.

Meanwhile, Sturmgruppe Beton took Vroenhoven Bridge, despite stiff resistance from Belgian infantry and machine-gun posts dug into the canal embankment. The gliders landed almost absurdly close to the target, catching the defenders mid-cocoa, one assumes. After a frenetic firefight in the open, the Germans managed to overrun the demolition point and defuse the explosives, securing the second crossing. It wasn’t bloodless, but it was decisive.

Kanne, however, was another matter. Sturmgruppe Eisen met with disaster—fierce Belgian resistance, strong fortifications, and a missed opportunity led to the blowing of the bridge before the Germans could intervene. Undeterred, German engineers and bridging units would later erect replacements, but the loss slowed the advance. Even so, with two out of three canal bridges intact and Eben-Emael quickly going up in flames, the Belgian first defence line was compromised beyond salvation. The vaunted K-W line was now hopelessly exposed, and the Germans had the corridor they needed to pour armour into Belgium. The assault on the fort may have grabbed the headlines, but the bridge seizures were the spinal cord of the Blitzkrieg—swift, brutal, and utterly effective.

OK, back to the point.

Act III: Into the Belly of the Beast – Smoke, Sabotage, and Surrender

With the roof of Eben-Emael now under firm German control by mid-morning on 10 May 1940, the battle shifted from bold glider assault to a grinding contest of endurance and confusion within the fortress’s dimly lit bowels. Beneath the shattered domes and scorched gun turrets sprawled an enormous network of concrete galleries, living quarters, ammunition magazines, command posts, and machine rooms. The entire fortress had been designed to be fought from within, and in theory, the defenders—numbering around 1,200 Belgian troops—still had the numbers and firepower to mount a determined defence.

But theory is a fine thing on a chalkboard. In practice, the men inside found themselves in a nightmarish labyrinth of smoke, darkness, flickering power, and a complete lack of information. Communications were in disarray. Observation posts were destroyed, telephone lines severed, and ventilation systems disabled by the German demolition teams earlier that morning. To make matters worse, the fortress’s commander, Major Jean Jottrand, was caught flat-footed by the very concept of an aerial assault and initially believed the attack on the roof to be merely a nuisance raid. This misjudgment squandered precious hours, during which panic began to ferment below decks like bad ale in a summer cellar.

The German plan had never involved storming the fort’s interior directly. After all, most of the assault pioneers were armed with only light weapons—MP38 submachine guns, grenades, and shaped charges—not remotely suited for close-quarter tunnel fighting. Instead, they relied on psychological pressure, continued demolition, and the threat of further attacks to wear down Belgian morale. At key emergency exits—such as Exit 16 and Post Nord, through which defenders might have mounted counterattacks—German teams laid additional explosives, collapsed entrances, and in some cases, waited patiently for groups of Belgians to emerge before lobbing grenades into the stairwells.

A few skirmishes did take place. Belgian troops made several tentative efforts to retake surface positions, only to be repelled with ferocious bursts of German fire and more explosions. One notable incident occurred when a Belgian squad tried to reach the Cupola GFM D, only to be wiped out by a well-placed demolition charge as they climbed the internal access shaft. A handful of isolated Belgian defenders barricaded themselves in storage rooms or tried to reposition heavy machine guns in blind corridors, but their efforts were uncoordinated. With no clear view of the battlefield and no reliable communication, each section of the fort might as well have been on a separate planet.

By the morning of 11 May, the fortress was a ghost of its former self. Acrid smoke hung in every corridor. Lights flickered or went out altogether. Food and water supplies were inaccessible, and fresh air was a fond memory. The sound of German engineers and demolition teams on the roof—methodically smashing or booby-trapping everything they hadn’t already obliterated—echoed through the fort’s halls like a death knell. Finally, recognising the futility of the situation, Major Jottrand requested terms of surrender. At approximately 12:30 PM, Belgian officers emerged from a sealed postern gate under a white flag and officially handed over the fort.

The Germans accepted the surrender with a mixture of professional pride and sheer disbelief. After all, just 85 airborne troops had managed to bring low one of Europe’s most fortified positions in just over 36 hours, with a mere six German fatalities. The Belgians, many of whom had trained for years to serve within the concrete confines of Eben-Emael, were stunned into silence. Some broke down in tears. Others simply marched out with heads bowed, past the wreckage of cupolas that, only days before, had seemed invulnerable. In the history of modern warfare, few battles had so swiftly rewritten the rules of fortress defence. Eben-Emael had fallen—not by siege, nor starvation, nor artillery, but by the audacity of men who arrived not by land or sea, but on wings of cloth and plywood.

Curtain Call: A Fortress Falls, and the World Takes Note

The fall of Fort Eben-Emael did not merely represent the destruction of a Belgian strongpoint—it marked the abrupt and humiliating collapse of nineteenth-century military thinking under the weight of twentieth-century innovation. Designed in the interwar period with all the concrete, steel, and Napoleonic confidence Belgium could muster, the fort had been imagined as an immovable chess piece on the board of European defence. It was meant to hold for weeks—if not months—against any assault, buying time for Allied intervention. That it instead crumbled in 36 hours to fewer than a hundred German paratroopers wielding gliders, glue, and explosives the size of cake tins was as shocking to military planners as it was exhilarating to German high command.

More than anything, Eben-Emael was a revelation of method. The Germans had succeeded not through brute force, but through a deadly cocktail of surprise, precision, and psychological dominance. The operation was the first real demonstration of how vertical envelopment—attacking from above, rather than from the front—could unravel even the most carefully planned defence. In truth, the Belgians were not incompetent; they were simply unprepared for a form of warfare that had never existed before. As one British general remarked with a sort of horrified admiration, “We had no idea that was possible. None at all.”

For the Allies, the fall of Eben-Emael served as a thunderous wake-up call—one that, tragically, would not be fully heeded until much later in the war. It showcased the terrifying efficiency of German combined-arms doctrine, particularly the use of airborne forces to prepare the path for tanks and infantry. The successful seizure of the Albert Canal bridges, in tandem with the neutralisation of the fortress, allowed German panzers to pour across eastern Belgium within hours, bypassing other strongpoints and racing west. In this light, Eben-Emael was not a sideshow but a keystone—one whose removal caused the whole Belgian defensive line to sag and break.

Today, Fort Eben-Emael stands partially restored, visited by history buffs, military scholars, and the occasional curious Belgian schoolchild. But its legacy goes far beyond crumbling casemates and charred cupolas. It remains a textbook case of how imagination can defeat fortification, how speed can beat steel, and how an army that dares to try the unthinkable may, just occasionally, get away with it. In a war destined to become one of attrition, annihilation, and horror, Eben-Emael remains one of the few battles that unfolded like a surgical strike—terrifying in its efficiency, and almost artistic in its execution.

Miniatures of Mayhem: The Bayonets and Brushes Eben-Emael Strongpoints Collection

Let it never be said that history is best left on the page. Some stories simply demand to be held in the hand, scrutinised under a hobby lamp, and dry-brushed within an inch of their concrete-clad lives. And so it was with Fort Eben-Emael—that monstrous Belgian behemoth of reinforced ambition and steel-eyed engineering. At Bayonets and Brushes, we felt, quite frankly, that to not produce a complete and painstakingly researched range of its principal combat strongpoints would have been a dereliction of duty bordering on treason. After all, if a fortress can fall in 36 hours, the least we can do is preserve its memory in resin and righteous detail.

These models aren’t mere scenery. They are monuments—to ingenuity, hubris, heroism, and high explosives. Each turret, cupola, and vent has been recreated with absurd historical accuracy and a touch of artistic licence (we resisted the urge to model the gliders with tiny, terrified pilots, but only just). Why was this necessary? Because every wall, every embrasure, tells a part of the Eben-Emael story. And for wargamers, diorama-builders, or educators alike, these aren’t just models—they’re tactile lessons in the shocking fragility of “impregnable” things. Also, they look absolutely smashing next to a platoon of Fallschirmjäger doing unreasonably athletic things with satchel charges.

So, lets take a look at each of the elements that makes up our Eben Emael...

Blok B.I Entrance Block

The Blok B.I Entrance Block was the primary gateway into the subterranean maze of Fort Eben-Emael, a heavily fortified concrete colossus sunk deep into the hillside. This block was more than just a door—it was a bastion unto itself, designed to withstand artillery shelling, aerial bombardment, and infantry assaults with thick reinforced walls, steel blast doors, and overlapping fields of fire from adjacent bunkers. It housed essential facilities such as the main entrance hall, troop access points, and communication nodes, making it vital for resupply and reinforcement within the fortress’s depths.

During the battle, Blok B.I found itself in a precarious position. With the fortress’s roof under sudden German control, communication lines leading through the entrance block became erratic, isolating much of the garrison. Belgian troops attempted to use the block to dispatch patrols and coordinate defensive manoeuvres, but the confusion and intermittent shelling rendered the area hazardous. German assault teams focused their efforts primarily on the rooftop and artillery positions, so Blok B.I did not become a direct target initially, but it suffered indirect damage from collapsing infrastructure and sporadic fighting as German forces secured the surface.

The block’s ultimate fate was tied to the fortress’s overall collapse rather than a dramatic one-on-one confrontation. As German demolition charges and infantry swept through Eben-Emael, Blok B.I became a sealed tomb of sorts, a reminder of the defenders’ dwindling options. With escape routes cut off and the fort’s ventilation compromised, the soldiers inside faced choking smoke and dwindling supplies. By the time surrender came, Blok B.I was a symbol of stubborn endurance rather than a locus of resistance.

Cupola 120 with Twin 120mm F.R.C. Modèle 1931 Cannons

The Cupola 120 was arguably the crown jewel of Fort Eben-Emael’s firepower, housing a pair of twin 120mm guns under a heavily armoured, rotating dome designed to deliver devastating artillery support across the battlefield. These guns had the range to strike German forces from miles away, capable of demolishing bridges, disrupting infantry formations, and halting tanks before they reached Belgian soil. Their emplacement atop the fortress made them both a vital asset and a highly visible target.

When the German glider assault commenced in the early hours of 10 May 1940, one of their primary objectives was to neutralise Cupola 120 quickly. German demolition teams, using a combination of explosive charges and surprise, infiltrated the roof and placed shaped charges directly on the cupola’s mechanisms. This swiftly incapacitated the twin 120mm guns, silencing what should have been a thunderous retaliatory barrage against the invading airborne troops and approaching armoured columns. The loss of Cupola 120 was a crushing blow to Belgian morale and battlefield control.

Without the heavy firepower of the twin 120mm guns, the fortress lost much of its ability to control the surrounding terrain and support nearby defensive positions. German troops could then advance with less fear of long-range artillery. The rapid disabling of this cupola exemplified the meticulous planning and daring execution of the German assault, proving that even the mightiest weapons could be rendered useless by a small, well-trained team with the right tools.

This is also used for the two dummy cupolas that the Germans targetted as well.

Cupola Nord & Sud with Twin 75mm F.R.C. Modèle 1935 Cannons

Flanking the fortress’s roof were the Cupola Nord and Cupola Sud, each armed with twin 75mm guns, somewhat lighter than their 120mm cousin but no less important for the close and medium-range defensive umbrella they provided. These turrets were designed to rapidly engage enemy infantry, soft vehicles, and light armour, providing overlapping fields of fire that created deadly crossfires across the approaches and the fort’s surface.

During the German assault, both cupolas quickly became focal points of fierce combat. German glider troops landed in precariously close proximity, catching crews off-guard and deploying shaped charges to sabotage the turrets’ rotating mechanisms and firing ports. Although Belgian crews fought hard to maintain their posts and fire back, the speed and surprise of the German operation, combined with well-placed explosives, rendered the cupolas inoperable in short order. Their fall contributed significantly to the loss of control over the fortress roof and reduced the defenders’ ability to suppress airborne landings and surface movements.

The silencing of Cupola Nord and Cupola Sud removed critical layers of defence that could have slowed or prevented German troops from moving freely across the roof and down into the fort’s entrances. With these key strongpoints neutralised, the German assault groups could focus on consolidating control over the fort’s surface and preparing the way for engineers to breach internal compartments. The swift loss of these turrets demonstrated how vital surprise and rapid action were in this unique airborne operation.

Kasematte Maastricht 1

The Kasematte Maastricht 1 was a formidable concrete bunker armed with three 75mm artillery pieces, strategically positioned to cover the Albert Canal and its vital bridges. It formed part of the fortress’s extended defensive network, tasked with preventing enemy forces from securing river crossings that could serve as invasion routes. Its thick walls and firing slits allowed defenders to deliver punishing fire on any approaching infantry or light vehicles attempting to advance along the canal banks.

During the German assault, Kasematte Maastricht 1 became one of the stubborn nodes of Belgian resistance. Though the fortress roof was quickly compromised, this bunker’s crew remained steadfast, pouring a hailstorm of shells and bullets into the advancing German glider troops and their support forces. The confined angles of fire and reinforced concrete offered the defenders a degree of protection, but the lack of supporting fire from disabled cupolas and isolated communication made sustained defence difficult.

German assault teams were aware that to fully control Eben-Emael, these kasemattes had to be silenced. Using a combination of grenades, demolition charges, and focused infantry assaults, they gradually overcame the defenders in Kasematte Maastricht 1. Its fall signified a growing loss of Belgian control over key external approaches, allowing German forces to secure the canal area and press deeper into the fortress’s interior with increasing confidence.

Kasematte Maastricht 2

Situated near its sister kasematte, Kasematte Maastricht 2 played a similar role in guarding the crucial approaches along the Albert Canal, providing interlocking fields of artillery fire. This casemate was designed to cover sectors less visible from the fortress roof, creating a layered defence meant to frustrate any enemy attempting to flank or bypass the main strongpoints.

When the assault began, Kasematte Maastricht 2’s crew responded with determination, engaging German infantry who had landed nearby and attempted to advance along the canal’s edge. Despite the protective concrete walls and its well-placed firing apertures, the defenders faced increasing difficulties as communication with the main fortress broke down and ammunition supplies dwindled. The sound of distant explosions from the roof’s destruction added to the chaos within.

Eventually, German assault engineers breached Kasematte Maastricht 2 through a combination of close-quarters combat and well-placed demolition charges. Its fall opened another critical gap in the fortress’s defensive perimeter, allowing German forces to tighten their grip around the canal crossings and reduce the fortress’s ability to control movement in the area. First to fall, the loss of this kasematte hastened the Belgian defenders’ sense that their fortress was slowly being unmade, piece by piece.

Kasematte Visé 1

The Kasematte Visé 1 was part of the fortress’s eastern defensive arc, focusing on protecting the approaches from the direction of the town of Visé. It was equipped with heavy machine guns designed for rapid-fire, intended to suppress enemy infantry and vehicles attempting to infiltrate the fortress’s perimeter. This kasematte formed a vital link in the chain of overlapping defences guarding the fort’s flanks.

At the onset of the battle, the gunners of Visé 1 manned their posts under heavy fire, delivering bursts of artillery and machine-gun rounds against German paratroopers who had landed unexpectedly close. The defenders’ knowledge of their sector allowed them to target glider landing zones and staging points, inflicting casualties and disrupting the initial assault. However, the relentless German pressure and the surprise element gradually wore down the defenders’ ability to hold.

German demolition teams focused on neutralising Visé 1 with a combination of grenades and shaped charges, exploiting their knowledge of the fort’s layout gained from meticulous reconnaissance. The destruction of this kasematte removed a crucial piece of the defensive puzzle, allowing German forces to push forward and secure key entrances into the fortress’s interior. Its fall was emblematic of the systematic dismantling of Eben-Emael’s once-formidable defences.

Kasematte Visé 2

The Kasematte Visé 2 stood as the steadfast sibling to Visé 1, positioned to cover additional sectors around the fortress’s eastern flank. Its purpose was much the same: to provide rapid, precise fire against any forces daring to approach from the Visé direction. Reinforced with thick concrete and steel, it was engineered to be both a shield and a spear, holding back attackers and protecting the vital supply lines and entrances hidden within the fort’s shadowy depths.

When the German assault unfolded, the crew of Visé 2 found themselves completely ignored as the one thing this kasematte didnt do was cover zones that were of hot interest to the Fallschirmjager.

Maschinengewehrbunker Mi-Nord

The Maschinengewehrbunker Mi-Nord was a compact yet deadly bunker armed with three 75mm cannon, a ssearchlight and an LMG as well as an Artillery Observation dome, all designed to cover a critical sector of the fortress’s surface with sustained automatic fire. With its thick walls and narrow firing slits, it was ideally placed to unleash suppressive fire on enemy infantry, protecting gaps between larger gun blocks and complicating any assault attempt. In essence, it was the fortress’s stubborn little sentry, designed to make every inch of ground costly to the attacker.

During the German glider assault, Mi-Nord became a locus of fierce fighting. The crew manning the bunker valiantly poured out machine-gun fire, targeting any glider troops who landed nearby or tried to advance across the rooftop terrain. Its fire slowed German movements and inflicted casualties, buying precious minutes for the defenders elsewhere. However, its isolated position and the loss of supporting artillery fire meant the defenders inside were gradually encircled and outgunned.

Eventually, German engineers approached under fire, deploying grenades and demolition charges to silence the bunker. The fall of Mi-Nord was emblematic of the larger battle’s rhythm: no matter how stubborn the defence, the Germans’ combination of speed, surprise, and tactical innovation prevailed. The bunker’s destruction opened another avenue for German troops to press into the fortress’s interior and hasten the overall surrender.

Retractable Observation Cupola

One of the more ingenious features of Eben-Emael was its Retractable Observation Cupolas—a low-profile, armoured turret that could be raised to provide observers with a panoramic view of the battlefield and then retracted to avoid enemy fire. It was the fortress’s eye, essential for directing artillery fire accurately and for early warning of approaching enemy forces. Its design reflected a careful balance between visibility and protection, allowing commanders to monitor the battle without undue risk.

In the opening moments of the German assault, neutralising this observation post was a high priority. German assault teams swiftly moved to the cupola’s position, knowing that blinding the fortress’s “eye” would sow confusion and reduce the defenders’ ability to coordinate. A combination of precise grenade throws and shaped explosive charges forced the cupola to retract and ultimately rendered it inoperable, effectively shutting down the fortress’s surveillance capabilities.

With the observation cupola silenced, the Belgian defenders lost a critical command and control asset. Their ability to direct artillery and adjust fire in response to German movements was severely impaired, compounding the chaos already sown by the airborne invasion. This loss contributed significantly to the fortress’s rapid unraveling, underscoring how even the cleverest engineering could be undone by a small, determined force.

Anti-Tank Wall (spanning the gap between Blok B.I & Blok VI)

Spanning between Blok B.I and Blok VI, the Anti-Tank Wall was a fearsome concrete barrier several metres thick and high, designed to stop tanks and armoured vehicles dead in their tracks. This defensive bulwark was part of Eben-Emael’s layered approach to thwarting a direct assault, channeling enemy armour into kill zones where Belgian artillery and infantry could inflict maximum damage. The wall was more than a barrier—it was a psychological statement: “Thou shalt not pass.”

Despite its imposing presence, the anti-tank wall saw little direct action during the German assault, largely because the enemy circumvented the need for tanks by launching an airborne operation that landed troops directly on the fortress’s rooftop. This innovative tactic sidestepped the wall entirely, rendering its defensive potential moot for this battle. However, the wall still played a strategic role, forcing the Germans to rethink their approach and invest in a risky glider assault instead of a traditional ground attack.

In the aftermath, the anti-tank wall stands as a testament to pre-war defensive thinking—one designed to repel mechanised armies in the style of the First World War. Its presence highlights the contrast between static defences and the rapidly evolving nature of modern warfare, where speed, surprise, and airborne ingenuity outflanked even the most daunting concrete fortifications.

... and so we finally come to the time to wave goodbye to Fortress Eben Emael

Fort Eben-Emael stands as a striking symbol of interwar military ingenuity and the dramatic shifts in warfare that unfolded at the dawn of World War II. Once hailed as an impregnable fortress, its rapid fall to a daring and innovative German airborne assault exposed the vulnerabilities of static defence systems in the face of modern tactics. Despite its defeat, Eben-Emael’s story remains a testament to the courage and resilience of its defenders and serves as a fascinating case study in the evolution of fortification design and military doctrine.

The Bayonets and Brushes models of Eben-Emael capture this remarkable history with meticulous detail and craftsmanship, providing enthusiasts, historians, and modellers alike with a tangible link to this pivotal moment in military history. By recreating the fortress’s distinctive strongpoints—from its towering artillery cupolas to its labyrinthine interior passages—these models honour both the technical brilliance of the original structure and the human stories embedded within its concrete walls. They enable a deeper appreciation of the battle’s complexity and the incredible stakes faced by those on both sides.

In preserving Eben-Emael through these detailed models, Bayonets and Brushes ensure that this unique chapter of military history is not forgotten or oversimplified. Their work invites reflection on the rapid pace of change in warfare and the enduring lessons of courage, innovation, and adaptation. As such, these models are not merely scale replicas—they are miniature monuments to a fortress that changed the way the world thought about defence, assault, and the unforgiving realities of war.