Sacrifice (The Red Gambit Series. Book 5)

by Colin Gee

  Opening the door, his nostrils received the first of two indications that he was not alone, that being the sort of smell associated with unwashed men gathered together in a confined space, closely followed by the second, more urgent indication, namely the business end of a pistol stopping a few inches in front of his face.

  His eyes fixed on the deadly black circle, although he was aware of the sounds of silent killing behind him, as the rest of his squad was liquidated.

  All except Pfc Fazzell.

  The Dodge had disgorged its crew, save for Fazzell, who swung his Browning HMG from side to side, horsing around by exaggerating the actions of covering his comrades, and so missing the immediate signs of danger.

  Too late, he saw what the shadows were trying to hide.

  As those around him were swiftly slaughtered, the street-wise kid from New York watched in horror, his capacity to act temporarily removed by the awfulness before his eyes.

  He pulled the trigger and was greeted with the silence normally associated with an uncocked heavy weapon.

  Urusov, having cleared the misfired round that had granted Fazzell a short extension of life, put a shot through the young soldier’s left eye, blowing the back of his head off and sending his helmet flying.

  The MP squad, all save Smith, had been slaughtered.

  “Goddamned mother-fucking sonofabitch! I will personally chew him a new fucking asshole. Fire discipline, my ass! Get him on the horn!”

  The sound of the shot had carried through the quiet and found its way to the ears of First Sergeant James Hanebury, and ‘Lucifer’ was distinctly unhappy.

  Pfc Shufeldt spoke into the radio a number of times, but was unsuccessful.

  “Nothing doing, Top. He’s either not receiving or he’s ignoring me.”

  Hanebury heard but said nothing, not wanting to take his anger out on any of his own boys.

  He turned to the nearest man.

  “Rodger?”

  His 2IC, Staff Sergeant Rodger Stradley thought for a second.

  “Definitely north of us, Top. No doubting that.”

  Hanebury grabbed the map and laid it on the bonnet of his Dodge.

  “The idiot was set up here first time. Reckon he’d three choices on an alternate. Here… here… and here.”

  “That’s the one then, Top.”

  The first two choices were off to the north-west and west.

  “OK. We do this as a drill, and by the numbers. Advance to contact. We’ll treat Smith and his bunch as the enemy, so everything from here on in is Indian country.”

  Arthur Nave, an Oklahoma cowboy and driver of Hanebury’s HQ vehicle, went to do a classic Indian brave war cry.

  “Don’t even think about it, Corporal, or yours’ll be the first scalp taken.”

  Nave grinned and continued checking his weapons.

  “Rodger, I want your element to move out here and gain position on this raised ground. Set up over watch and report in. Leave your .50 to cover from there… base of fire… then, when ordered, come in from the north-west, and fast.”

  Stradley nodded his understanding

  “I’m going to move up the ’46 here, acting as decoy… that should grab Snuffy’s attention… that’ll allow you to get good position, hopefully unseen.”

  He tapped the map on the junction of Route 46 and a small track.

  “I’ll drop off my M-8 here to cover, and also watch out for anyone bugging out to the west. The rest of my unit’ll come in ‘cross country, directly north here, so we can be seen by your fire base.”

  It was a simple plan, as the best often were.

  “For a dollar, I’d chuck a few sixtys on his useless head, but I don’t need the goddamned paperwork.”

  Hanebury referred to the 60mm mortar that his unit also sported, acquired from a Legion unit during a feisty game of vingt-et-un. The twelve rounds of ammo had come as a goodwill gesture.

  “Synchronise… on my mark 1350… three, two, one, mark. Get your boys moving… I shall move off at 1400, so you let me know when you’re in position and ready.”

  1350 hrs, Sunday, 17th March 1946, the copse, nine hundred metres north of Bickenholtz, France.

  “So, what does he say, Comrade Izmaylov.”

  “Comrade Kapitan, I’m not sure of everything he said. Perhaps my English isn’t as good as I thought. However, he’s a policeman… they’re all policemen… and they’re doing training in the area, part of a larger, platoon sized group, spread out around Bickenholtz.”

  The enemy vehicles had already yielded a number of white MP helmets, so the story held true thus far, although the Soviet troopers were also incredulous at the hardware the vehicles carried.

  “Not combat soldiers then. Good. Anything else?”

  “No other units in the stationed in the area, just the French traffic that’s passing through, heading north in the main.”

  “French? I thought they were Germ… Fuck! We’ve been watching that group of SS bastards moving.”

  Akinfeev grabbed his chin, his eyes suddenly staring and fired up.

  “This we have to make known immediately.”

  He turned to the boyish radio operator.

  “How’s the radio, Comrade Radin?”

  “No good, Comrade Kapitan. Burned out totally.”

  “Go and see what you can scrounge from the enemy vehicles. They must have a radio. We’ll use theirs if you can’t repair ours.”

  Corporal Radin was gone in the blink of an eye. Akinfeev had been hampered by a lack of communications since the radio had developed a terminal fault the previous week. Now that he had something major to report, he decided to return to his own lines if he couldn’t get a message through.

  “Anything else?”

  Izmaylov’s disgust was evident.

  “The man needs new trousers, Comrade Kapitan. I hardly scratched him before he evacuated himself and talked his head off.”

  “Well, we won’t take him with us anyway. Bind him, gag him, give him a tap on the head. We’re going to move away in any case.”

  “Yes, Comrade Kapitan.”

  Vetochkin offered one of the newly looted American cigarettes to his commander and Urusov.

  Lighting up, the Captain shared his thoughts.

  “Those SS bastards’ve been at the centre of things for the Capitalists, and you can bet that wherever they’re going, there’s going to be a problem of our commanders. We have to report this immediately, comrades.”

  “So we’re going home, Comrade Kapitan?”

  “If the radio can’t be repaired then yes, Comrade Serzhant, and as quick as we can, and we should thank our Amerikanski friends, who’ve provided us with the means to do most of it in comfort and style.”

  Radin returned.

  “Comrade Kapitan, there is nothing I can use for repair. Parts are different. Both of their radios are useless too. I can do nothing, Comrade Kapitan.”

  “Both their radios are broken?”

  “Yes, Comrade Kapitan.”

  His opinion of the worth of these ‘policemen’ sunk lower.

  Drawing in the rich tobacco smoke, Akinfeev outlined his plan.

  1401 hrs, Sunday, 17th March 1946, Rue D’Eglise, Bickenholtz, France.

  Hanebury’s jeep led the way, bouncing over the uneven ground, followed by the M-8 Greyhound, then the Dodge 4x4, the final vehicle in line being the Horch 1A that had somehow fallen into their hands in Prague the previous year.

  Meeting up with the Rue Principale, the column turned right and slowly headed north, whilst Stradely’s unit moved around to the east, using the reverse slope of the three hundred metre ridge to hide behind.

  His unit was moving too fast, so Hanebury changed plans, waving the column to come to a halt. He also saw an error on his part and determined to reposition the Greyhound closer to the copse.

  Standing up, he examined the area, fully expecting to see Smith and his squad, or at least part of it.

  Unusually, there was nothing to s
ee, which made him wonder if the position assessment had been correct.

  He quickly examined the other possible positions and was greeted by the same nothingness.

  ‘Shit. Has he actually learned to conceal himself and his boys at last?’

  “OK, Cowboy, move it up nice and slow.”

  Hanebury decided to pull an extra on his men, and was given an opportunity almost immediately.

  “Whoa!”

  The jeep shuddered to an immediate halt.

  “Suspected mined road ahead!”

  He waved and gesticulated, the vehicles behind understanding what was required, as they swiftly responded, moving off to the either side, in case of ambush.

  “Reek, you have the detail.”

  With every weapon manned and ready, the MP group watched as Rickard moved forward to examine the area Hanebury found suspicious.

  He carefully moved up to the area and inspected the body, satisfied that whatever it was, probably a dog, was dead.

  Removing his bayonet, he gently probed the surrounding area until he satisfied himself that there was nothing more destructive present. Dragging the bloody corpse to one side, he trotted back to the waiting jeep.

  “Fresh kill that, Top. Crushed under the wheels of something heavy I reckon.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Such a response was unusual, and they all looked at Hanebury, who was clearly riveted by the view through his binoculars.

  “What the fuck?”

  Their attention turned to the copse that was consuming their leader.

  The rear of a US Army Dodge was now apparent.

  “Reek, use your sight. Check out that vehicle.”

  Rickard grabbed his Springfield rifle and brought it up, using the sights to examine the Dodge.

  “What the fuck?”

  He thought quickly.

  “From the dog, Top?”

  “I thought that too, but that’s on the back of the vehicle.”

  Minds worked in silence, until Rickard noted something else.

  “Top, look off to the left, next to that little bush. See it?”

  “Nope, nothi… shit.”

  A US helmet lay upright, motionless, but full of warning.

  Hanebury stretched carelessly and turned to Rickard.

  “Laugh it off, Reek, just for the benefit of the audience, ok?”

  Rickard relaxed too.

  Hanebury flopped back into his seat.

  “Radio.”

  He held out his hand and the handset was pressed into it immediately.

  “Pennsylvania-Six to Pennsylvania-Six-Two over.”

  “Six, receiving loud and clear, over.”

  “Six-two, remember the last item we discussed with the Captain before we took up this assignment, over.”

  “Six, I do, over.”

  “Six-two, execute immediately, over.”

  “Six, roger, executing. Out.”

  Hanebury, keeping his eyes firmly on the copse, gave the radio operator an instruction and the set was retuned to the required frequency.

  “Pennsylvania-Six to Pennsylvania-six-two, receiving, over.”

  “Six, receiving you loud and clear. What gives, over?”

  With a sense of the dramatic, Hanebury could not resist the opportunity to repeat history.

  “Six-two, this is no drill, I repeat, this is no drill. I believe we may have enemy in the position, that’s why I changed frequency. It’s possible that Six-four was been taken out. Change of plan follows, over.”

  The smoothness of the frequency change and the adaptability of the soldiers were testimony to the leadership and training of the unit.

  Grabbing his map, Hanebury made his adjustments whilst Rickard attracted the attention of the other vehicle commanders, pulling them all in towards the command vehicle.

  “They’ve stopped to examine that dog. They seem terrified that it’s a mine or something.”

  Akinfeev’s opinion of these toy soldiers could sink no lower.

  Another of the cigarettes was lubricating his throat with sweet smoke as he watched the useless Amerikanski go about their business.

  “Seems they’ve decided that the dog is no threat, Comrades.”

  His men laughed dutifully.

  His smile turned to a stoney face as he watched further.

  “Comrade Serzhant, what do you see?”

  Urusov, stretched out on the rickety floor above his Captain’s head, whispered back.

  “I think they’ve seen the vehicle, Comrade Kapitan. One of them has a sniper scope; he’s looking now, as well as the officer.”

  Both men saw the Americans laugh and relax.

  “If the Amerikanski were all like these, we’d be in Paris by now!”

  His amusement was short-lived, as something changed in the group he was observing, men from each vehicle who had casually assembled, clearly now less than comfortable with what their officer was telling them.

  However, he already considered these men to have demonstrated themselves as worthless, and his pride in his own unit did the rest.

  The group broke up, moving urgently to their various stations, another warning sign that Akinfeev chose to ignore.

  And then things changed very quickly.

  The Greyhound moved in behind a low wall further up the Rue Principale, clearly taking up a position of overwatch, backed up by the Horch and its crew. Parking their vehicle in a small depression, the four men set up two .30cals, one on either side of the armoured car, and piled some other useful kit close at hand, just in case.

  Hanebury and the Dodge crashed off to the east and dropped down into the depression, masking themselves from anyone in the copse.

  To the east, Stradley’s firebase was established and the rest of his squad was moving as fast as they could to get north of the copse unseen.

  “Trouble. The armoured car’s moved to cover us, with one vehicle in support, and the other two vehicles have gone. Moving round to our left I should say.”

  Starshy Serzhant Vetochkin stood and waited for his orders.

  “Take two of the panzerfaust, the 34, and three men. Set up on the edge of the trees to our left here. I don’t want anything coming up out of the low ground there and into our flank. Clear, Comrade Starshy Serzhant?”

  “Yes, Comrade Kapitan.”

  Clicking his fingers at the nearest three men, Vetochkin assigned the weapons and led his small group away.

  “Comrade Yefreytor.”

  Radin crawled over to his commander’s side.

  “Same as Comrade Vetochkin. Take three men, two of the panzerfaust and the DP. Cover the north side of the copse. Clear?”

  “Clear, Comrade Kapitan.”

  The group were quickly on their way.

  “What’s the armoured car doing?”

  Sergeant Urusov leant over, looking straight down at his Captain’s face.

  “Holding steady, Comrade Kapitan. They’ve set up machine-guns either side of it. These Amerikanski seem to know what they’re doing.”

  The unpalatable thought had occurred to Akinfeev.

  Another quickly took its place.

  “Comrade Izmaylov, a moment.”

  Even though Izmaylov was only a private, Akinfeev had always felt comfortable around the highly educated university professor who had volunteered for the Red Army on the day the green toads had invaded the Motherland.

  They had shared many conversations about the higher things in life, without any distinction of rank.

  “Comrade Izmaylov, something tells me we will not get out of this scrape.”

  Akinfeev leant across to the useless radio set and pulled out a spare map and the code book.

  Marking the movements of the infamous SS units on the map, he folded it and surrendered both the map and code book to the former professor.

  “I want you to find a place out there in the copse, away from the building… a place you can hide and not be found, Comrade. I order you not to take part in this battle. Y
ou must evade what is coming and report this information to our commanders at the earliest opportunity. Do I need to repeat those orders, Comrade?”

  “No, Comrade Kapitan, you do not.”

  All business, Izmaylov secured the documents before bringing himself to parade attention, saluting formally.

  Akinfeev returned the salute and, in a typical display of Soviet comradeship, hugged his man, knowing that he had saved his life with the mission.

  That Izmaylov was his friend was a given, but he had selected him for the other qualities that made Rodion Eduardevich Izmaylov the most complete and ruthless soldier he had ever met.

  The man was a born survivor and, if anyone could bring back the crucial report, it would be Izmaylov.

  By the time he had finished the thought process, he was looking into empty air, as the professor easily slipped away and out through the hole.

  The radio crackled urgently.

  “Pennsylvania-Six to Pennsylvania-six-two, go ahead, over.”

  “Six-two to six, we see signs of movement on eastern and northern edges, just set back from the tree line. Infantry only, but certainly not ours, six-two over.”

  “Six to Six-two, what weaponry, over?”

  “Six-two to six, unsure at this time, over.”

  “Six, roger. Out.”

  He raised the Greyhound commander, and was none the wiser when that conversation finished.

  A decision was quickly made.

  “Pennsylvania Six-Two from Pennsylvania-Six over.”

  “Six, go ahead, six-two over.”

  “Six-two, hold on your secondary line and deploy the sixty. Do not fire until I am taken under fire myself. Clear? Six over.”

  “Six from six-two. Understood. Three minutes, six-two over.”

  1423 hrs, Sunday, 17th March 1946, base of fire position, east of the copse, Bickenholtz, France.

  No matter what the plan was, as with most things military, the enemy tended to do things that messed things up.

  Hanebury waited for the set up of the 60mm mortar.

  To the north, Staff Sergeant Stradley chivvied his men along, trying to get it properly sighted in as short a time as possible.