Sacrifice (The Red Gambit Series. Book 5)

by Colin Gee

  The next three aircraft shredded the lightly armoured AA vehicles with 23mm cannon shells, causing one to burn spectacularly, the 40mm shells exploding like a Chinese New Year party. The destruction of the nearby FOO was an unknown bonus.

  Their flight path took them over the hidden reserve who, faithful to Prentiss’ orders, refused the opportunity to fire at the Soviet aircraft.

  Not so the remaining AA vehicles around Bad Brahmstedt-land, who plucked one, then a second Shturmovik from the air in under ten seconds.

  One of the Yak-3s, a 3K version mounting a 45mm cannon, took a different path, rounding the northern positions and running north to south over Bad Brahmstedt-land, successfully engaging and destroying a Crusader AA before mechanical unreliability cut short its attacks and forced the failing aircraft to fly away.

  A third sweep of the battlefield rewarded the Soviet flyers with more kills, as cannon and machine-gun bullets found bodies and vehicles, inflicting casualties on both the anti-tank vehicles and Cheshires, knocking out one of the Achilles.

  One Yak-3, a UTI trainer pressed into frontline service, took fatal hits from a Cheshires’ Bren gunner, flipping over and burying itself in the earth twenty yards from A Squadron’s command tank.

  A piece of flying propeller decapitated Algie Woods with the precision of a quality surgeon, sending the head with upper teeth flying away, and leaving his ruined body to drop on to the turret floor, the blood still spurting from the open wound, drenching the gunner and loader in an instant.

  The lower jaw, all that was left of Woods’ head, seemed to laugh at its unfortunate predicament.

  Cheshire infantrymen and Hussar tank crew alike, as much as a hundred and fifty yards away, heard the animal-like screaming from inside “Agincourt”.

  The attack aircraft departed, leaving behind five of their number.

  The Soviet artillery started up once more.

  Major Stuart French, the Hussars’ 2IC, was white as a sheet.

  “Sir, it’s Captain Soames, Sir. Major Woods is dead, Sir.”

  “Good grief, poor Algie. What’s A Squadron’s report?”

  “Three tanks lost, Sir, two more disabled… track damage, being worked on now.”

  Soames was a new arrival, an unknown quantity, and one that now gave both French and Prentiss a moment’s concern.

  Prentiss made his decision swiftly.

  “Right. I’m going to drop in on Soames… just to make sure he’s ok, and see to poor Algie. Gather the reports and radio me if there’s anything significant, otherwise I’ll be back toodle-pip.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Prentiss climbed into his Dingo armoured car and moved off to assess A Squadron’s abilities, or rather, to see if its de facto commander was capable of running the show.

  The enemy artillery seemed to grow in intensity, making Prentiss check his watch.

  0820.

  The Dingo pulled up near to ‘Agincourt’, but within the shelter of a stand of three trees, screening it from any observation.

  The sight of the Black Prince’s crew appalled Prentiss.

  Two of them were simply drenched with blood, the other two less so, but all four were clearly in a state of extreme shock.

  Standing over them was Captain Soames, whose voice carried over the sounds of bursting shells.

  “It’s now your tank, Sergeant, so I suggest that you get a grip of yourself and get it back into action. That’s a bloody order, man!”

  “Ah, Captain Soames, what have we here?”

  The immaculate officer sprang to attention and peeled off a parade ground salute, which Prentiss casually returned, his mind already forming an opinion that was not complementary.

  “Sir, these men refuse to remove Major Woods from the vehicle and get it back into action. Despite my best efforts they…”

  “Thank you, Captain. You may return to your command. I will come and see you directly. Where’s your vehicle?”

  Soames pointed to a well-camouflaged tank in the next stand of trees.

  “Very well. Carry on.”

  Prentiss turned to the four men of ‘Agincourt’s crew, their faces raised in expectation of a beasting from their CO.

  “Sergeant Thorne.”

  “Yes, Sir?”

  “Will you be able to command her if we can get poor old Major Woods’ out?”

  His voice said yes, his eyes said otherwise.

  “Good man.”

  A distant voice hailed Prentiss and he turned to look, ignoring the object in the grass, hastily but only partially covered with piece of bloody cloth.

  The approaching RSM was limping and running in equal measure.

  After a splendid salute, RSM Stacey stamped his foot and answered his CO’s query.

  “Near miss, Sir. Slammed my ankle into one of the stanchions. Nothing to worry about, Sir.”

  Prentiss beckoned the RSM away from the forlorn tank crew, a nearby shell burst adding urgency to the Colonel’s words.

  “Most of poor old Woods is still in the tank. I’ll need your help, Sarnt-Major.”

  Divesting themselves of their tunics, Prentiss and Stacey climbed up on the tank, the former disappearing inside the commander’s hatch.

  ‘Oh my Lord… oh my Lord…’

  None of his crew watched as the hideous body of Major Algernon Woods was hauled out, still containing enough blood and fluid to make it extremely unpleasant for the two handling his corpse.

  Stacey laid him on the rear engine covers and grabbed a small tarpaulin from the turret stowage boxes.

  Prentiss and he wrapped the still form carefully, before dragging Woods off the tank and placing the cadaver next to a tree.

  “Thank you, Sarnt-Major. Most unpleasant. I’ll speak to them and get ‘Agincourt’ back on the run. Keep a close eye on things here, if you please.”

  The message was not lost on Stacey, who threw up a salute and limped back towards his own tank, some five hundred metres away.

  “Lads,” the vacant faces met his, albeit slowly, “We’ve moved your boss out of the tank now.”

  The faces were still blank, but there did seem a slight flicker to Prentiss’ eyes.

  “I need old Agincourt back in the fight now, y’hear. I know what you’ve lost, lads, you know I do… but we’ve got a war to win, and you know that your Major would be spitting feathers if he thought his tank wasn’t there when needed, eh?”

  The flickers were more pronounced now.

  “Come on then, boys. What do you say, eh?”

  He waved at his driver, who bounded over from the Dingo.

  “Baines will make up your crew. He’s done the conversion, so put him where you want, Sergeant Thorne.”

  Thorne stood slowly, legs shaking and unsteady, but he drove himself up to stand at attention.

  “We won’t let you or old Splinter down, Sir.”

  The other three joined him with reassurances.

  They moved off towards ‘Agincourt’, taking the first steps to mount with demonstrable effort.

  “It’s none too pleasant in there, Baines. Keep an eye on them, Corporal. I’m relying on you now.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Gingerly, the men of ‘Agincourt’ returned to their positions, and the tank became a fighting machine once more.

  As Prentiss dropped into the Dingo’s driver seat, he wondered how effective it would prove.

  Slipping the small armoured car into gear, he headed for Soames’ tank.

  Before he got there, the Soviet Army launched an attack that would bring Prentiss Force to the point of extinction.

  0850 hrs, Wednesday, 27th March 1946, Astride Route 111, Germany.

  Soames’ Black Prince engaged something, Prentiss didn’t know what, but soon it seemed that all of ‘A’ Squadron was firing, supported by the Achilles TDs of the 75th, and heavy machine-guns from the Cheshires.

  British mortars added to the resistance, and Prentiss quickly steered away from the position that the mortar plato
on was secreted in, not wishing to expose it to fire.

  Slipping into cover a reasonable enough distance away, Prentiss pushed himself up out of the driver’s seat and pressed his binoculars to his eyes.

  Fig# 157 - Bimöhlen - Soviet Northern assaults.

  Enemy armour and infantry on foot were swarming out of Wiemersdorf, seemingly intent on overwhelming the defenders of Fuhlendorf before the British could get reorganised.

  It was immediately clear to Prentiss that his left flank was already in danger.

  A short radio conversation sent his CS Churchill tanks, fitted with 95mm howitzers, and two of the Crusader AA vehicles, to support the defence of Fuhlendorf.

  ‘Damn and blast it. Where’s our artillery?’

  His eyes blazed, even though numerous Soviet vehicles were now smoking on the field.

  Back on the radio, Prentiss switched to the Artillery network and gave precise orders.

  He waited until the artillery shells started to arrive before revving the Dingo and returning to his HQ.

  Once inside the farmhouse, the briefing started.

  Prentiss Force was being assaulted at four points; two from the north and another pair of attacks coming from the south.

  “FOO?”

  “No contact, Sir. Nor from the AA troop stationed nearby. I suspect they’ve had it.”

  Prentiss worked the problem.

  “Lieutenant Jemeson, take three men from the signals section, maps, radios… drive like blazes and get back on that hillock. You’re our FOO until relieved.”

  Fig# 158 - Bimöhlen - Soviet Southern assaults.

  A voice summoned him urgently.

  “Sir!”, he turned to the signals sergeant, “It’s Captain Soames reporting in, Sir.”

  Quickly moving over to the NCO’s position, Prentiss listened in as the newly frocked commander of ‘A’ Squadron made his brief report.

  “Blackberry, over.”

  “Blackberry, this is Apple-five, they’re falling back. Fifteen enemy tanks destroyed. Apple has lost four vehicles total, over.”

  “Roger, Apple. Out.”

  A shell fell nearby, dropping a lump of plaster from the ceiling, straight onto the map table.

  Prentiss swept his hands over it, clearing the dust away.

  “Talk to me, Stuart.”

  “Sir, ‘B’ Squadron has taken fire from a combined tank and infantry force that moved obliquely across them… seemingly headed for Bimhölen.”

  French drew a rough pencil line.

  “Major Merton stopped the blighters here, and they’ve fallen back. ‘B’ has lost three tanks, with two disabled but still in the fight. Also, two of the Stags have been knocked out, Sir.”

  “Can he hold?”

  “Freddie says he’s in good shape, Sir.”

  “Any word from the Cheshires’ CO?”

  “Light casualties generally, Sir… except Bimhölen, where the Soviets pushed in very close. The Cheshires hung on there by the skin of their teeth so it seems. 15th/19th counter-attacked and knocked the stuffing out of the enemy, who fell back. Only one Comet lost, Sir.”

  The Hussars’ Colonel accepted a mug of steaming hot tea from his batman.

  “Thank you, Wrigglesworth.”

  Others also got their own, allowing Prentiss a few moments to take the full situation in.

  “Right, Stuart. I want Cecil to send his ‘C’ Squadron closer to Bimhölen. Tell him I want them tucked up safe in these woods here,” his fingers hovered over the woods near the autobahn immediately west of Bimhölen.

  “Send First Platoon of the Recce Troop as well.”

  Prentiss moved on, seeking additional alternatives, and spotted one immediately.

  The Regimental administration troop was backed up in the western end of Bad Brahmstedt-land.

  “Right, Stuart. I want to form another infantry reserve right here. Leave one man per vehicle, and get the rest up here immediately…with transport… make sure Sandy knows that I want him in position quickly.”

  Captain Lysander Chandos Montagu, commanding the Regiment’s logistical support troop, was not known for his speed at the best of times, and Prentiss wanted to make sure the man got the message.

  “And ‘D’ Squadron? Anything from Tommy at all?”

  “No, Sir.”

  A young radio operator interrupted.

  “Begging your pardon, Sir, but Major Fanshaw has been moving for some time. He apologises but was unable to get through on the radio. The transmission was lost before completion, Sir.”

  “Get him back as soon as possible and find out his arrival time here.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Both Prentiss and French stood back from the map.

  “Right. So we will get ‘D’ Squadron at some time, but we don’t know when. We still have some armour reserve, and Sandy’s boys as infantry for the moment. That’ll have to do for now.”

  He addressed the radio operator curtly, revealing the stresses of command.

  “Get me the Brigadier immediately.”

  Taking the last gulp from his mug, he offered the empty up to the hovering Wrigglesworth.

  “We need more infantry, and another FOO… and I think soon. Let me know as soon as Jameson reports in.”

  The conversation with Brigadier Harvey started with a quick briefing on the situation. Prentiss’ plea for reinforcements was cut short by the arrival of a 76mm HE shell.

  0939 hrs, Wednesday 27th March, 1945, 23rd Hussars HQ, Bauernhaus Holzbein, Bad Brahmstedt-land, Germany.

  “Sir? Sir?”

  Nothing.

  The 76mm shells, there had been three in total, had not hit directly, but had been close enough to do harsh work amongst the men and equipment of the Hussars’ headquarters.

  The Holzbein’s farmhouse was levelled.

  Lysander Montagu’s men had already dragged dead from the rubble and laid the distorted bodies out with as much reverence as shattered bone and riven flesh allowed.

  Major French, identifiable by his epaulettes only, seemed to have taken the most punishment, the general effect of which had been to virtually rip his limbs from his torso, what attachment remained made the corpse resemble a string puppet of the most ghoulish kind.

  Next to him lay the totally intact Wrigglesworth, unmarked, save a light covering of dust, but equally dead.

  The radiomen were stretched out, completing the line of five bodies so far recovered.

  “Sir? Sir?”

  Prentiss dragged himself from the edge of the black abyss.

  “H-H-Here!”

  Pressure grew on his legs as someone stood on top of the debris hiding him from the rescuers.

  Something… a door possibly… was pulled away and a draft of cool air hit Prentiss in the face.

  “Here he is!”

  Hands grabbed at him, bringing comfort by their presence alone, whilst others worked to move the ‘something’ that made breathing so damn tricky.

  The weight came off and he found himself dragged, not into the room in which he had stood a few minutes before, but into an open area topped by a greying sky.

  “Sir?”

  Prentiss looked up at the portly frame of Captain Montagu.

  “Give me a moment… there’s a good chap.”

  The Hussars’ commander mentally examined his person, ticking off the list and becoming more incredulous as he neared the end.

  ‘Legs… arms… am I bleeding?… no?... what nothing at all?... jammy blighter… nothing broken…ah! Eyes… bit smudgy but working… Ah… I’ve a roaring headache… still… miraculous stuff…”

  A shell exploded nearby, reaping a harvest amongst the soldiers of Montagu’s group. Hot metal brought forth screams of pain, which served to bring Prentiss out of his dreams.

  “Sir, the Russians are attacking north... south... everywhere, Sir.”

  As Prentiss became more aware, he sorted out the sounds of high-velocity guns, machine-guns, mortars, and aircraft engines.

>   “Get me up, Sandy.”

  Montagu swept the Sten round to the small of his back and, with another soldier, helped Prentiss to his feet. Their helping hands were then waved away.

  Swaying unsteadily, he looked around, sparing a lingering stare for the line of casualties.

  “Right. Walk me to my Dingo, will you?”

  ‘Bit shaky old chap… but what do you expect eh?’

  “I’ll need your man here to drive me, Sandy. I need to get a grip of this situation, or we’ll all be rather inconvenienced, I think.”

  Prentiss mounted the small command vehicle with incredible difficulty, his balance becoming worse, rather than improving.

  “Damn and blast.”

  Prentiss took a look at his new driver and then raised an eyebrow towards Montagu.

  “Green, Sir.”

  “Right, Sandy. Keep an all-round formation, but pay more attention to the river road… Route Four I think it is. You’ve got Recce and AA back-up. Stay close to your radio.”

  He held up a radio handset to emphasise his point.

  “Good luck old chap. Drive on, Green. Get me to Bimöhlen.”

  Lysander Montagu stood saluting a cloud of exhaust fumes as Trooper Green gunned the 2.5 litre engine and the small armoured car leapt away, sending Prentiss tumbling backwards into the passenger compartment.

  Prentiss arrived at the Cheshires’ HQ, set on raised ground between the two main defence lines.

  “Blazes, Cam, what happened to you?”

  Robin Kreyer, the Cheshires’ OC, examined the haggard and blood-streaked cavalry officer, who waved away his enquiry, seeking a map from which to work.

  “This current, Robin?”

  “Indeed. Tea, Cam?”

  “Love one.”

  “Situation, Robin?”

  The Cheshires’ Lieutenant Colonel immediately pointed at Bimöhlen.

  “Buggers pressed us hard here, but we’re sound again.”

  His finger moved to the west.

  “Your tanks arrived in the nick of time, and your vehicles on the ridge drove into the side of the attack, and they’ve fallen back into Wiemersdorf.”