Sacrifice (The Red Gambit Series. Book 5)

by Colin Gee

  The very nature of the attack ensured that there were very few wounded, and those that were injured tended to be severely so.

  Given the likelihood of a further attack, the site was quickly scoured for survivors.

  The plinth had saved them, that and the fact that the tank had come down top first.

  Even though the concrete had split under the blow of forty-five tons of metal, it had still held the crushing weight up above the ground, sufficiently to form a safe pocket in which Stelmakh and Stepanov had survived.

  The unconscious men were pulled out from under the tank and whisked away to the nearby field hospital, which had prepared to receive many casualties, but was presented with only five men on which to work.

  At the same time as the Lavochkin fighters were savaging the Dutch Mitchells, another air combat took place, this time over the icy waters of the Baltic.

  Three Saab-21s of the Swedish Air Force were directed onto a radar contact that had announced itself on screen, seemingly coming from the direction of Latvia.

  Had the Swedes been privy to the goings-on in the Soviet fighter bases in and around Riga, then they would have known that Russian fighter regiments had responded to the intruder, engaged it, but failed to shoot it down.

  The Mosquito Mk XXXIV photo-reconnaissance aircraft was both unusually low and unusually slow and, as it was nowhere near its normal ceiling and speed, the brand new Saab’s intercepted it easily.

  The Mosquito lowered its undercarriage, a sign of surrender and that it would comply with instructions from the covering fighter aircraft.

  The Fighter controller at Visby indicated that the now identified British aircraft should be forced to land at the Bunge Airbase, which was no surprise to the flight-commander, it being the normal choice for intercepted aircraft.

  None the less, he followed his instructions, confirming details to the controller as the Mosquito fell in behind him and his wingmen sat on either quarter, ready to act if any sign of resistance showed in the British plane.

  Beside the controller, an army Major stubbed out his cigarette and lifted the telephone, seeking an immediate connection.

  In seconds, the man heard a familiar voice.

  “Överste, the plane is inbound to you now…wait please.”

  He asked a silent question of the controller.

  “Ten.”

  “Ten minutes, Överste. Yes, sir.”

  The Major replaced the receiver and stood, tugging his uniform into place.

  “Do I need to remind you of your obligations, Löjtnant?”

  They had been made very clear already.

  “No sir. You were never here.”

  “Good day, Löjtnant.”

  “Sir.”

  It paid to do what Military Intelligence ordered, so he elected to forget the whole occurrence as quickly as he could.

  At Bunge airfield, the Överste stared at the silent handset, just for a second, before slotting it back into the holder.

  “Ten minutes.”

  Then Törget and Lingstrom sat in silence, waiting patiently, conscious of the dangers of the path they were following, but ready to play their part.

  2042 hrs, Thursday, 7th March 1946, Den Gyldene Freden, Österlånggatan 51, Stockholm, Sweden.

  ‘The Golden Peace’ restaurant had opened two hundred and thirty-four years previously, and was the oldest establishment of its kind in the Swedish capital. Its cuisine and surroundings were legendary, making it far and away one of the most popular places to eat out, and it was always packed.

  Some regular customers, such as the Swedish Lieutenant Colonel of Military Intelligence, did not need reservations, the staff understanding that it would be in their best interests to be as accommodating as possible.

  It also suited Boris Lingstrom for another purpose, as it was a contact point for passing on information to his Soviet ‘masters’.

  As usual, the members of the Swedish Academy were at dinner, doing whatever they did to decide their Nobel prizes, although Lingstrom couldn’t understand why they were discussing things so far in advance of December’s award ceremonies.

  None the less, it was all good cover for what he needed to do, and the waiter was a true professional.

  Poring over the wine list, Lingstrom sought the man’s advice and, as normal, he allied a suitable wine to the officer’s choice of dinner, using certain key words to indicate that there was nothing to pass over.

  The wine came and a modicum was poured, Lingstrom using the opportunity to comment on its wonderful flavour, repeating himself as he waxed lyrical, clandestinely informing his contact that he had vital information to pass on.

  Dinner was excellent, as usual, and the wine complimented it perfectly, as expected.

  As was Lingstrom’s habit, he handed the waiter a healthy five krona tip, folded, but easy discernible as currency.

  It contained information that would cause a storm in Mother Russia.

  Friday, 8th March 1946, 1843 hrs, GRU Commander’s office, Western Europe Headquarters, the Mühlberg, Germany.

  Poboshkin knocked on the door of his commander’s office and, when he heard the invitation, quickly stuck his head round, his face openly painted with question after question regarding the events of the last half-hour.

  Nazarbayeva beckoned him in, her own face clearly showing puzzlement.

  “So, Comrade General, is everything alright?”

  “Do you know, Andrey… for once in my life, I don’t know.”

  That, of itself, was enough to cause Poboshkin some concern.

  “Shall I order some more tea, Comrade General.”

  Nazarbayeva thought for a briefest of moments.

  “Perhaps you might ask Mayor Rufin for the loan of the contents of his bottom drawer.”

  It was one of the office’s worst kept secrets that Rufin, a competent man whose only vice was a liking for alcohol in large quantities, had a stash of bottles in his desk drawers.

  In seconds, Poboshkin returned with a bottle and two glasses.

  Pouring good sized measures, he waited for his commander to speak.

  She lifted the clear liquid to eye level, raising an eyebrow at the amount her aide had poured.

  He shrugged.

  “I thought you might need it, Comrade. Your health.”

  They both sunk the raspberry schnapps in one, gasping as the fire of it assaulted mouth and throat alike.

  Nazarbayeva held her glass out, smiling and trying not to choke at the same time.

  The refilled glass sat in front of her as she started to openly analyse what had just happened.

  “So… the deputy of the NKVD, no less, flies all the way to Germany, ostensibly to protest at my interference in an NKVD investigation into the murder of an Army nurse, which protest takes less than two minutes and was… or at least, I think it was… just going through the motions… like he wanted no part in it.”

  Poboshkin sipped his schnapps in silence.

  “Then I am thanked… no, personally thanked for propelling him into a favourable position during Makarenko’s failed attempt on the life of the General Secretary… which has apparently hugely increased his standing in Moscow.”

  The glass in Poboshkin’s hand would remain empty until Nazarbayeva finished her own, something she seemed disinclined to do as she continued.

  “And to finish up, we indulge in small talk about family, our own personal views on the war and certain members of the hierarchy.”

  She sensed rather than heard Poboshkin’s sharp intake of breath.

  “Calm yourself, calm yourself. I’m hardly likely to be indiscreet in front of a senior member of the NKVD, Andrey, so why was he so… open… err… so indiscreet in front of me?”

  To his great relief, Nazarbayeva emptied her glass in one, giving him an opportunity to refill both.

  “So, what is your first feeling, Comrade General? Was does your instinct say?”

  She laughed softly.

  “My instinct
s tell me never to trust a Chekist bastard with anything.”

  He shared her amusement.

  “But… for some reason… I don’t know what or why… I think we have gained a useful friend in circles that normally don’t have our best interests at heart.”

  The glasses clinked together, but before the contents could be downed, a shrilling telephone brought them back to the mundane realities of intelligence matters.

  0840 hrs, Saturday, 9th March 1946, Castello di Susans, Majano, Italy.

  The Soviet artillery had been pounding the whole front line for nearly an hour, and Haines was mighty sick of it.

  Over four kilometres off to his right, a battle royal already raged for control of the important Height 352, Monte Buia.

  All the bridges on the River Ledra were down, which meant that the fights for Heights 352 and 265 would be independent battles, the Ledra isolating each from the other.

  B Squadron’s tanks were arranged defensively on the slopes surrounding Castello di Susans, a thirteenth century bastion set on Height 265, the mix of 17pdr and 76mm tanks there to provide cover for the infantry to their front, in the absence of defensive anti-tank guns.

  More to the point, behind the frontline enemy infantry positions, air reconnaissance had spotted numerous Soviet armoured vehicles, suggesting that a large tank force was in the area.

  The Ledra ran across the British position, its waters still obscured by a covering of ice. None the less, British engineers had placed a number of bridges across the river, and the preservation of these was a priority, the Rifle Brigade’s forward positions being on the far bank.

  The new ‘Biffo’s Bus’ was an M4A2[76]W, all but still in its wrappers, so new was it.

  Trooper Clair had spent the previous day tinkering with the General Motors’ diesels, teasing them into top performance.

  Everything had been checked and double checked, fuel and ammunition topped of, and ‘The Bus’ had been moved up to the dominating heights that surrounded the Castello.

  Fig# 135 - Overview of Majano, Susans and Rivoli, Italy.

  Patterson had been particularly delighted by the availability of HVAP rounds, and secured a dozen of the high penetration rounds.

  Haines, now Acting Major in command of ‘B’ Squadron, 16th/5th Lancers, was fed up with being bounced around in his tank by near misses.

  “If those bastards don’t stop soon, I’m off down there to bash a few fucking heads together.”

  The comment was aimed at no-one in particular, except possibly the commander of the Soviet artillery lashing the hill and infantry positions.

  16th/5th had received reinforcements after being hammered at Arnoldstein the previous November, and had just returned to the front as the start of a thaw seemed to be starting interest in fighting again. The presence of Soviet armour in Osoppo had meant that his Squadron was advanced to the front line positions in case Chuikov launched an attack, using the wide Tagliamento River as a secure right flank.

  The thaw, combined with deliberately applied high-explosive, had reduced the integrity of the ice that had covered the wide river since the freeze began.

  Even with the Soviet practice of artillery relocation, a total change thrust upon them by both the success of enemy counter-battery fire and the sovereignty of the air held by the Allied Air Forces, the barrage seemed to grow in intensity.

  Fig# 136 – Allied Forces at Majano.

  As if to reinforce Haines’ suspicions, the first rockets arrived, a Guards Mortar Regiment depositing hundreds of 132mm Katyusha rounds all over the area.

  “That settles it. They ain’t doing this for fun. Look sharp. They’ll be coming directly.”

  He keyed his mike, broadcasting on the squadron net.

  “Cassino-six to all Cassino call signs. Eyes open and keep it tight. Expect to see them any time now. Call it in when you see them. Fire on my order and make every shot count. Out.”

  The artillery officer from the supporting 152nd RA spotted something from his higher position in one of the square towers of Castello di Susans, and 25pdr shells screamed overhead on their way towards the Soviet positions, in response to his calls for support.

  “Cassino-two, Cassino-six, contacts, two thousand five hundred yards, coming down Route 463 like a bat out of hell, over.”

  “Cassino-six. Roger.”

  Haines lifted himself out of the warm turret and brought his binoculars to bear. The lead Soviet element was easy to find.

  ‘Struth! He ain’t kidding!’

  “Cassino-six, all Cassino call signs. Enemy attack in progress. Tanks and infantry on Route 463, coming in fast. Watch your front. Stand by to engage. Out.”

  Fig# 137 – Soviet Forces at Majano.

  Through the binoculars, Haines witnessed the assault formations deploy, the tanks forming line and the infantry vehicles surging ahead, closing down on the foremost British positions.

  He quickly debated his next order.

  “Cassino-six, all Cassino call signs. Engage the transports first, repeat, engage the transports first. Stand by…”

  Most of the Soviet vehicles were American in origin, either lend-lease or captured since the new war started, carrying a dozen or so soldiers in each.

  On the slope, a Soviet artillery shell found a target, and pieces of Sherman cartwheeled in all directions.

  Haines grimaced, wondering who it was, but without the luxury of time to find out.

  Familiar with the distances involved, he waited patiently, ignoring the final flurry of Soviet artillery.

  The lead vehicles surged through the remains of the village of Rivoli, where a week of fighting had reduced its buildings to nothing but piles of rubble.

  Focusing on the few tree stumps that marked the start of his fire zone, Haines patiently waited, controlling his breathing, judging the moment.

  “FIRE!”

  16th/5th had been brought up to full strength and now, including the four HQ vehicles, consisted of twenty vehicles in four troops, each of four tanks.

  Even the two close support howitzer tanks joined in the first volley, and hi-speed metal flew from the hillside.

  Thirteen of the shells fired found a target, although three struck the same vehicle, clearly selected because of its proliferation of aerials.

  The M3A1 scout car, lagging behind the first wave, disintegrated in an instant, removing the lead infantry battalion’s commander and his staff from the equation in a permanent fashion.

  Two of the vehicles burst into flames, incinerating both the already dead and severely wounded who could not escape the ruined tracks.

  The others disgorged some of their contents, disoriented and wounded men desperately seeking cover from the machine-guns that chattered as the infantrymen of 2nd Btn, The Rifle Brigade, joined the fight.

  A second volley took out another three of the jinking vehicles, all of them turning to funeral pyres in the blink of an eye.

  Soviet infantry on foot flooded out from Rivoli, a tidal wave of men desperate to get close to the British positions.

  ‘Fucking hell, but there’s a lot of the bastards!’

  Haines dropped back inside the tank and spoke rapidly to the air-liaison officer. Satisfied that the man, an unknown quantity recently allocated to the Rifle Brigade unit, was on the job, he turned to fighting his tank.

  “Gunner?”

  “Target command tank, range fifteen hundred, on.”

  “FIRE!”

  The AP shell missed by a whisker and the enemy command tank, whatever it was, moved in behind some vegetation, disappearing from sight.

  Most of the tanks now closing rapidly on the infantry positions were T-34s, and the Lancers had started to take them on, trying to keep the tanks away from the infantry.

  A large squat tank with a rounded frying pan-like turret emerged from the British artillery zone.

  “Fucking hell! Target, tank, left four, range sixteen hundred, aitch-vap.”

  The turret traverse hummed briefly as
Trooper Cooke, the new gunner, found the IS-III.

  “On!”

  “FIRE!”

  It was a superb shot but totally wasted, as the Stalin tank’s armour deflected the shell without any noticeable damage.

  “Again!”

  0905 hrs, Saturday, 9th March 1946, Rivoli, Italy.

  “Try again.”

  Even as Kozlov gave the order, he knew that the man commanding his motorised battalion would not answer, and that his was one of the vehicles burning on the battlefield in front of him.

  24th Rifle Regiment had been handed a double edged sword, firstly being chosen for full reinforcement, following its excellent performance in the Italian campaign, which then meant that it was selected personally by Marshal Chuikov to lead this attack, intended to flank Allied forces in Udine.

  The normal exhortations, even promising Guards’ status with the inevitable success, made little impression on Colonel Kozlov, newly-fledged hero of the Soviet Union.

  “No reply, Comrade Polkovnik.”

  Acting quickly, Kozlov waved to his second in command, bringing the man sprinting forward.

  “Comrade Polkovnik?”

  “Ivan, first battalion is leaderless. You need to get up there and push them forward,” both men dropped lower automatically as two British shells bracketed Kozlov’s position, “Stay with the plan and get them through to the heights. Clear?”

  “As you order, Comrade.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Koranin was not a man for small talk, so was swiftly on his feet, calling his own group around him.

  His GAZ jeep soon sped forward.

  Kozlov watched the man surge forward into the frenzy of activity to his front before slapping the radio officer on the shoulder.

  “Contact Second and Third… tell then to push on faster. I want those bridges intact.”