Sacrifice (The Red Gambit Series. Book 5)

by Colin Gee

  “Yes, Comrade Polkovnik.”

  Fig# 138 - Soviet assault on Majano and Castello di Susans.

  0909 hrs, Saturday, 9th March 1946, Castello di Susans, Majano, Italy.

  Three Shermans were destroyed, including that of the RSM and one of the troop commanders.

  Nine T-34s added their metal to the growing toll of scrap, and one of the IS-IIIs was burning fiercely, victim of an artillery shell.

  The situation had become critical, as Soviet soldiers reached the Rifle Brigade positions in places, and close quarter fighting ensued.

  The Lancers had their own problems, as a second surge of tanks came into view and enemy troops bailed out of their vehicles, having driven straight through the infantry positions and across the engineer bridges.

  One look revealed a terrible new threat.

  “Cassino-six, all Cassino call signs, infantry action front, enemy anti-tank weapons.”

  He had spotted at least four panzerfausts amongst the Soviet soldiers and immediately witnessed the use of one on a Firefly that was relocating to a new firing position.

  The tank’s hatches were thrown open and three surviving crew men flung themselves out, only to be mown down by PPSh’s.

  “Stumpy, move back to our first position, quickly.”

  The Sherman backed and angled before surging forward, moving down and across to their first firing position.

  The hull MG immediately chattered, sending a stream of bullets in the direction of another Sherman that was overrun with enemy infantry.

  There was a deafening clang and the tank filled with the smell of singed electrics and tortured metal, but still it moved forward.

  “Everyone ok?”

  The crew, stunned by the direct hit, eventually shouted back variations on ‘I’m fine’.

  Haines started checking for damage.

  “Intercom’s out.”

  Automatically, Haines checked the main radio.

  It was also dead, and suggested itself as the main source of the electrical burning smell.

  “Main radio is out. Anything else?”

  Cooke shouted.

  “Electric traverse out, Manual ok.”

  Everything else seemed fine and the tank slotted back into its first position.

  “Fuck! Infantry, coax traverse left, quickly!”

  The turret slewed as the handle was spun, bringing the .30cal coax to bear.

  A group of infantry were bearing down on ‘Biffo’s Bus’, intent on getting in panzerfaust range.

  The coax stuttered and immediately died.

  “Jam!”

  Cooke was correct but incorrect, in as much as, the hit on the turret had bent the coax barrel, meaning that the first shots stayed in the barrel, jamming it with metal and rendering it totally useless.

  “Shit! Commander out!”

  Haines grabbed the Thompson sub-machine gun and two extra magazines, and was up and out of the turret before anyone could ask.

  Rolling off the hull, Haines brought the weapon up and dropped the first Russian in his tracks.

  A panzerfaust struck the earth in front of the tank, causing the officer to stagger to his left and drop to the ground.

  Raising himself to his knees, he pulled the trigger again.

  Nothing.

  ‘Fuck’.

  He cocked the weapon and repeated the process, this time cutting down the man who was nearly on top of him. The running man was virtually decapitated by the heavy bullets, and flopped lifelessly to the snow.

  The Thompson stopped firing, only because the magazine was empty, something Haines failed to register.

  A grenade dropped beside him.

  Picking it up, he threw it away and ducked.

  Meanwhile, more Russians were closing on the tank’s right side, unseen, hoping to get close enough to use grenades.

  Another grenade arrived, but too far away to grab, so Haines threw himself towards the safety of the ‘bus’.

  This time he collected a piece of shrapnel, the hot metal slicing across his left elbow, just clipping the bone.

  Ducking behind the back of his tank, Biffo found himself looking straight at the three men moving in on his tank, unseen until now.

  The Thompson stayed silent, empty of bullets.

  Realizing the problem, Haines fumbled for a new magazine. However, fighting with tanks was more his speciality; swapping magazines in the face of imminent enemy contact was not, and he dropped the full magazine into the snow at his feet.

  “URRAH!”

  The first Russian was on top of him, a bayonet thrusting at Biffo’s stomach.

  “FUCK OFF!”

  The tank officer swung the Thompson so hard that he broke the wooden stock across the soldier’s forehead, staving the man’s skull in.

  Throwing the pieces of submachine gun at the next man, Haines grabbed for his service revolver, only to find an empty holster.

  The nearest Russian worked the bolt of his rifle and fired on the move, putting a bullet through the fleshy part of Haines’ left arm.

  Turning to escape, Haines found the way barred by more Russians from the original tank hunting party.

  The first man missed his swing, as Haines ducked under the rifle butt. A rock hard fist connected with the soldier, sending him sprawling back into the man behind him.

  Haines screamed as weapons burst into life and bullets spanged off the Sherman’s rear armour.

  A ricochet hit him in the meat of his left buttock with such force as to take his legs out from under him, but that was his only other wound.

  The majority of the bullets struck their intended targets, cutting the two groups of Russians down.

  Haines looked up to see the Artillery Liaison officer and his three men running down, the young Lieutenant pausing only to finish off a screaming enemy soldier with a short burst.

  He flopped in beside Haines.

  “Thanks.”

  That was all the tank officer could manage at the moment.

  “Sorry old chap. Cut that a bit fine but I had to sort the support out before I could help. You’ve picked up a Blighty one, by the look of you.”

  It was an easy mistake to make, the combination of blood from his wounds and that sprayed from others had transformed Biffo into a red blob.

  “I’m fine. Just a couple of nicks. My radio’s out, so what’s occurring, Lieutenant?”

  “Air’s delayed, Major, but we seem to be holding just fine, and, once the Brylcreams get here, we can send Uncle Joe’s boys packing.”

  “Give me a hand, Giles”

  Haines offered up his good arm, and the artillery officer assisted him to his feet.

  “Thanks again, and we’ll talk after this is over. Now, keep at it.”

  Herbert Giles, nineteen today, saluted and bolted back to the OP in the Castello’s North-East tower.

  0910 hrs, Saturday, 9th March 1946, Rivoli, Italy.

  ‘Good, he’s got them up to the tanks.’

  Moving his focus, Kozlov was less satisfied with the progress of the other two battalions.

  Clearly, they had made the enemy trench positions in a few places, but it was plain to see that large numbers of men had gone to ground, neither pushing forward nor engaging, just keen to hug Mother Earth and stay alive.

  “Tell Second and Third to get moving. Get the fucking bridges… now!”

  The radio officer chattered away urgently, relaying the Regimental Commander’s orders.

  “Comrade Polkovnik, no reply from Second Battalion. Third Battalion reports commander killed, his second in Command has taken over and is pushing into the enemy line.”

  Kozlov swivelled to look around him.

  “Where’s the anti-aircraft support. Get them on the radio now!”

  Two ZSU-37s, a precious commodity only recently allocated to the 7th Tank Corps, were actually already closed up in support. Kozlov had missed them in amongst the smoke and explosions.

  The need to contact the flak commande
r disappeared, as the Gaz-mounted quad Maxims came into view, spreading out to cover the battlefield.

  “Comrade Polkovnik, the flak commander reports being in position.”

  Kozlov grumbled to himself.

  ‘Late, and I’ll give you a kick up the fucking ass when this is done.’

  Returning to concentrate on his infantry, he found himself unable to locate any of the First Battalion, but the sight of two of the enemy tanks burning told him that they were still there and fighting.

  His own tank support, now under less fire from the enemy AFVs, had closed up and was working well in support of the infantry.

  He swore he could see small groups of enemy soldiers falling back over the Ledra.

  Before he could radio the question, it was answered, as his eyes confirmed the enemy retreat.

  ‘Perfect’.

  “Order Mayor Golin to attack. Plan A.”

  Plan ‘A’ was simple; straight up Route 463 to the summit, but a Royal Engineers officer had already negated it by dropping the main road bridge with the twist of an electrical exploder.

  Plan ‘B’ came into being immediately; a surge over the eastern engineer bridges and up the nearest track to the castle.

  Major Golin’s force was modest in size, but all mobile, with vehicles acquired from anywhere and everywhere. The soldiers were from the tank brigade’s SMG unit and anti-tank riflemen from one of his own AT platoons, and the plan was to deliver them straight into the Castello di Susans, wresting the dominant feature from the Allies and forcing them to withdraw.

  “Your order for Plan ‘B’ has been acknowledged, Comrade Polkovnik.”

  Turning to watch the exploitation unit advance, his view was interrupted by white light, as a newly positioned Bofors gun started chuntering, sending 40mm shells into the sky.

  ‘Govno!’

  The tell-tale sounds of attacking aircraft reached his ears in an instant.

  “Tell all stations, enemy aircraft warning. Quickly man!”

  Perhaps, he mused, it was unnecessary, but some in the vehicles might not hear until too late. And for someone it was already too late, as one of the attacking tanks came apart in a vicious explosion.

  Rocket after rocket came streaking in, as the Allied aircraft conducted a line attack, sweeping across the battlefield, virtually parallel to, but north of, Route 84, starting on the left flank of his assault, discharging their weapons and turning out over the Tagliamento, before coming round again in a seemingly endless wheeling motion.

  His AA weapons filled the sky with tracers, and three of the enemy were cut down in as many minutes as the light weapons had their chances optimized by the low-level attack pattern.

  Not without their own losses, as tanks and infantry paid the price in blood and tears.

  Kozlov now realized that the British withdrawal had been planned, performed to get the infantry south of the Leda, and to put distance between the two forces to avoid friendly casualties.

  The simple radio message reporting the death of his second in command and friend, Koranin, was sidelined for later and quieter moment, and he kept his grief to himself.

  One of Golin’s vehicles jinked to avoid a hail of rockets, successfully avoiding a direct hit. The power of the explosions still claimed it, flipping the light lorry over onto its side and crushing most of the men clinging to the sides of the rear compartment. Only a few emerged, stunned, shocked, into a hail of Bren and Vickers bullets.

  ‘They’re across the river! Yes! We’re going to do it! We’re going to fucking do it!’

  His AA vehicles started taking hits, as the enemy armour switched its focus in an effort to take the heat off the fliers.

  0921 hrs, Saturday, 9th March 1946, Castello di Susans, Majano, Italy.

  No sooner had Haines returned to the tank than he was forced to quit it again. ‘Biffo’s Bus’ was now burning steadily, a Soviet tank round having crossed the battlefield from Haines’ left flank and carved into the engine compartment.

  They had all escaped, only the tank officer carrying any injury, and took refuge in an alternate position belonging to another tank.

  Mortar shells, aimed at the recently displaced Rifle Brigade, started to arrive amongst the Lancers’ tanks, making life uncomfortable for the crew, as lumps of metal and frozen earth flew in all directions.

  “Stumpy, I’m off to find a radio and get this fuck up sorted out. You get the boys up to the castle, ok?”

  Stumpy Clair knew better than to argue, and took the proffered Thompson, his nose turning up at the shattered wood stock.

  Haines took a tight hold on his revolver, judged the fall of mortar shells and, at the right moment, slapped his driver’s shoulder, sending the group on their way.

  Once happy with his crew’s progress, Biffo Haines tensed himself for the rush to the nearest Lancer tank, some two hundred yards to his right, and slightly downhill.

  His attention was consumed by the sound of aero engines, and his aircraft recognition skills were brought into play, as a swarm of Bristol Beaufighters bore down in line formation, discharging rockets along the advancing Soviet forces.

  He watched as tanks were hit and infantrymen were scattered, knocking the momentum out of the Soviet advance in seconds. Although cheered by the timely intervention, his heart also sank as enemy AA weapons knocked two of the leading British aircraft out of the sky.

  604 Squadron RAF had been disbanded in April 1945, but had been brought back into the Allied inventory and sent to Italy, where it was married up with Beaufighters not required by the USAAF.

  They were, in the main, experienced men, but the presence of numerous AA weapons took them by surprise, and a third Beau was clawed from the air, flipping over and ploughing into the ground in a cartwheeling ball of fire.

  Pulling himself up on the tank, he rapped his revolver on the metal three times.

  “It’s Biffo. Don’t shit yourselves. Need the radio and quick.”

  The tank commander’s head emerged, one eye closed by swelling from an impact with something unforgiving inside the tank.

  “Sir, warm day. Squadron net I assume?”

  Haines, struggling with the leads, just grunted.

  Sergeant Brian Timms was a veteran, recently returned to the Lancers. Handing his radio headset to Haines, he ducked down into the tank and changed channels.

  Biffo stuck his head inside before sending any messages.

  “Hit the AA stuff. They’re murdering the Brylcreams!”

  The turret shifted slightly in response, and Haines ducked down to avoid the blast as the 76mm sent a Quad AA lorry to Valhalla.

  “Cassino-six, all Cassino call-signs. First and second sections, concentrate on the flak, repeat, concentrate on the flak. Cassino-Six out.”

  Taking a moment to assess the battlefield, Haines saw a problem.

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’

  “Sergeant Timms, switch to the arty channel now!”

  A grimy hand sprung from the hatch, the thumbs up clear in its meaning.

  “Calliope-Two-Six, Cassino-Six, over.”

  “Go ahead Cassino-Six, Calliope-Two-Six, over.”

  “Calliope-Two-Six, enemy mobile force is over the river, cutting round to our right. Stop the…”

  A force not unlike a speeding train threw Haines from the tank, as a mortar shell landed mere feet away, tossing him nearly twenty yards and into a shallow depression, occupied only by several dead Soviet soldiers.

  He still retained part of the headset into which, in his confused state, he continued to speak.

  The destruction of Timms’ tank brought him back to reality, as virtually simultaneous strikes penetrated the Easy Eight.

  The gunner and loader emerged, blackened and raw. The driver’s hatch popped up and hands, surrounded by flame, tried to lever the screaming man of the inferno.

  The gunner, eyes wide and staring, jumped from the tank and ran screaming, his nerve gone, broken by the destruction and horrors created inside
the tank.

  Although wounded and in great pain, Reed, the loader, reached down into the commander’s hatch and pulled on something barely recognizable as a man.

  Haines shook himself back into reality and moved forward, and was immediately forced back onto the cold ground as more mortar shells arrived.

  As he rose again, Reed had got the hideously wounded Timms half out of the hatch, a task made easier by the Sergeant’s lack of arms, removed by the second shell, but made more difficult by the flames that licked around the NCO and ate away at clothing and flesh in equal measure.

  The screams were awful, every movement an agony for both men.

  Timms’ screams were silenced in a brilliant flash of orange, as the tank brewed, incinerating the Sergeant in an instant, and converting Reed into a fireball whose agony was manifested in the most awful, most ear-piercing squeals imaginable.

  A horrified Haines reached for his revolver but found nothing. He was unarmed again.

  Reed’s screams burned into his very soul, and the tank officer could do nothing to put the poor man out of his misery.

  He remembered the dead Russians, and flung himself back, seeking a weapon.

  A Soviet mortar shell dropped next to Reed and obliterated the awful sight before Haines’ hand closed around a DP-28.

  Flopping back into the depression, Haines gathered himself, becoming aware of the British artillery landing nearby, clearly now redirected, which then reminded him of the change in direction made by the enemy mobile force.

  He moved up to the edge and saw hell coming straight at him.

  The British artillery had claimed some of the enemy vehicles, but the rest had changed direction again, seemingly intent on running over his position on the way to the Castello.

  Retaining enough presence of mind to grab the metal box which clearly held spare ammo for the weapon, and then fumbling with its unfamiliar grip, Haines took aim and pulled the trigger, the light machine-gun answering his command by spitting bullets at the lead vehicle.

  Considering it was his first effort with the DP, he was surprised to see his bullets strike home, the men in the lorry cab disappearing behind splintered glass that went red in places.