Winter Warriors

by Stuart Slade

  “Sir, air raid warning.”

  “I would never have guessed.” Asbach fixed a mock-serious glare on the radioman who had risked his life running through the bombs to carry the message.

  “Sir, not this. Jabos coming in right behind. Single- and twin-motors.”

  Damn. Grizzlies and Thunderstorms. That is all I need. The sense that something was wrong got worse, with the Amis it was either mediums or jabos, not both. It was almost as if..... Then the penny dropped and Asbach risked another quick look over the rim of his foxhole. What he saw threw him back to 1941 and the horrors of the retreat from Moscow that first winter of the war. White-clad Siberian ski-troops skimming through the snow, slashing at the Germans freezing in their first taste of a Russian winter. They were here again. They had broken out of the tree line even as the bombs had fallen and were racing across the snow towards the small cluster of buildings around the set of points that were the whole reason for this little way-station existing. This bombing raid wasn’t aimed at destroying the junction. It was a covering barrage for the attack by the ski-troops. It was aimed at seizing the controls that operated the junction itself. An attack that was already well on the way to succeeding.

  “Out! Ski Troops! Siberians!” Asbach yelled the warning but it was lost in the last roar of bombs. He was not the only one who had seen the attack though. Others had done also. Already a defense was being mounted. An MG-45 put out one of its vicious bursts that bowled over at least three of the skiers. For a moment Asbach had thought they had more, but some of those who went down opened fire on the German positions in return. Either wounded or just covering the attack, Asbach didn’t know which. The rest of the Siberians made it to the huts around the junction itself and Asbach guessed what would be happening. They would be resetting the points so that the gun train would head north, back to the allied lines. Still, to do that, they would have to capture this junction first and a single ski-platoon wasn’t going to manage that, even if they did have the Ami Jabos in support.

  1st Platoon, Ski Group, 78th Siberian Infantry Division, First Kola Front

  “Damn. We made it!” Marosy looked in amazement at the group of shabby little huts that surrounded them. Old, weathered and half-rotten wood, they offered but little cover. Most of that little was of the morale variety. Over on his right, three of the strongest Russians were already wrestling with the level that manually changed the points over. As they had guessed, the points had already been set to send the gun trains south again. Now the challenge was to make the frozen lever move far enough to send the trains along the north bound line. They had to do it; they had to do it fast and they had to do it under fire.

  There was a crackle of fire mounting from the main cluster of buildings used by the Germans. The shock of the medium bomber attack had allowed the ski troops to get across the open ground towards the railway lines but now the Germans were grimly determined they shouldn’t stay there. The problem was, the Siberians had to. They had to hold the lines until the trains had got through. What happened after that didn’t matter. Amidst the sound of the rifles and machine guns, Marosy heard the roar of engines starting. The Germans were getting their armor ready. They didn’t have heavy armor here but even their half tracks and armored cars were deadly enough against unsupported infantry. It was Marosy’s job to change the unsupported bit. The Russians were betting their lives on him being able to do it.

  “Eagles this is Ground Crown. Do you read me?”

  “Ground Crown, this is Little Eagle Leader. Keep your heads down. We’re coming in with rockets and .50 caliber. And be advised, the Big Snakes are on the move.”

  Curly, Battery B, US Navy 5th Artillery Battalion, Kola Peninsula.

  “The mediums are making their run now, Sir.” Perdue had already seen the formation of B-27s high up in the morning sky. Everything was timed to run off the first sighting of the mediums. If they screwed up, the whole plan would fall apart. It wasn’t a good way to run things but it was the only way that stood a chance of working. The rain of bombs from the B-27s was the signal flare that started the race. For the two remaining guns of the 5th Artillery, it was exactly that. A race.

  “Roll. Maximum speed, give her everything we’ve got.” This whole attack depended on speed to get past the German unit while they were still recovering from the shock of the bombing. Every man on both trains had a rifle or grenades, A few had anti-tank rockets. The windows in the carriages had been knocked out. In front of the frames, extra pieces of wood had been nailed to give an illusion of extra protection. Now the trains looked like an old-fashioned ship of the line with the guns sticking out of their sides in rows. That was one thing running for them, the hail of fire the men on board could put out. Another was that the long straight run to the junction was downhill. That would allow the trains to build up speed nicely ready for the charge through the railway junction. Under his feet, Perdue felt the Mikado pulling as it got Curly and the rest of the train moving. Behind her, Moe had started to follow.

  F-72A Copperhead, 355th Fighter Group, Approaching Railway Junction 18 West

  The buildings were ahead, just as the model had shown. A large group in the middle, a smaller group surrounding the points. The Germans were scattered around the former; the Russians dug in around the latter. The fountains of smoke and debris from the B-27’s bombs were already subsiding, clearing the way for the raking bursts from the Thunderstorm’s six .50 caliber machine guns. Some of the armored vehicles were already covered by the blue clouds that showed their crews were trying to get them started. Copperhead changed her heading slightly. Eight five-inch rockets streamed out from under her wings to bracket one of the half tracks that was starting to move forward. The vehicle stopped and a thick black cloud rolled out. A kill.

  Mechanized Column, 71st Infantry Division, Kola Peninsula

  “Get those vehicles moving!” Asbach knew he had only minutes if that to get some sort of attack mounted. “Block that line!”

  He’d guessed what the Amis had in mind. They’ve come up with nothing so subtle as seizing the junction and driving his unit out. They were just going to crash the trains straight through. He glanced over his shoulder and saw what he had expected. Five kilometers away, the gun trains he had been chasing had crested the ridge and were heading straight for him. The ground was already beginning to shake with their weight. Did that make sense? Asbach realized it didn’t. What was making the ground shake was the salvoes of rockets and hail of machine gun fire from the Jabos making their final run towards him.

  Off to his left was a strange sight. A white cone running across the ground with a stick in its hand. Asbach recognized Lang in his white Fliegerschrenk cape with a loaded launcher in his hands. He dropped to one knee in the precisely-approved position, and held his fire despite the fountains of bullets whipping the snow around him. Then he fired. The rocket sped straight and true, scoring direct hit under the lead Jabo’s belly.

  Copperhead reared in the air, lurched over on one wing then plowed straight into the ground. The wreckage bounced through one of the flimsy buildings before exploding. Lang lowered his launcher and started to reload, taking a new rocket from the three round pack he had brought with him.

  1st Platoon, Ski Group, 78th Siberian Infantry Division, First Kola Front

  Noble Sniper Trufanova saw the man in the cape shoot the American sturmovik out of the sky and guessed who he was. The American pilot had spoken of this unit. They’d said it had one rocket man who was better, braver and more skilled than the others. The one who had shot down his Hammer Blow. It was her duty to kill any Hitlerites who were better, braver and more skillful than the rest. The less skilled and less brave could be dealt with after victory was won. She aimed at the man and squeezed her trigger, then watched him crumple as the bullet struck home. Through her sight, she saw the body moving. That was when she broke the sniper’s code, operating the bolt of her rifle and putting another shot into the crumpled rocket man. That extra shot cost her life.
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  Mechanized Column, 71st Infantry Division, Kola Peninsula

  Asbach saw Lang fall as the sniper shot him. Then he saw the body lurch as another shot struck home. Only, this time he was watching. He saw the muzzle flash from the rifle. So did three of his machine gunners. They saturated the whole area with bullets. There would be no more shots in the head from that one.

  Over by the tracks, a driver moved a half track onto the rails so that the way for the trains was blocked. Asbach’s Puma armored cars were already on the move. Their 50mm guns cracked shots at the Russians holding the buildings around the points. Then one of them exploded. The second wave of jabos, Grizzlies with their big 75mm guns sticking out the nose raced overhead. Asbach knew what was coming next. Jellygas.

  Then he heard the thunder of the approaching trains. He spun around. They were very close; their sides lit up with a rippling wave of flashes as those inside poured rifle fire at the German troops milling around. He guessed very few of the shots were hitting anything, but the sheer volume was making his men put their heads down. He was expecting the trains to slow down as the drivers saw the track was blocked but there was no sign of them doing so. It suddenly occurred to him; they weren’t going to.

  Curly, Battery B, US Navy 5th Artillery Battalion, Kola Peninsula

  “You know, I’ve always wanted to do this.” The engine driver spoke contemplatively, but there was a glimmer of sheer joy in his statement. Ahead of them a German half-track blocked the railway line. Its gunner was intent on firing his machine gun at the Mikado bearing down upon him. Suddenly the German realized the awful truth and leaped out of his vehicle to run clear. He just made it. The locomotive smashed into the half track and spun it around before the disintegrating wreckage was hurled through the air to land in a blazing heap at one side of the track.

  Perdue heard and felt the crash, but it didn’t really register. He was leaning out of the engine cab, firing his pistol at the Germans to one side of the train. The roar of gunfire from the carriages hadn’t stopped. The ripping noise of the PPS-45s and captured banana guns mated with the slower cracks of the SKS, Garand and Mozzie-Nag rifles to make a thunderous role of musketry that seemed to dominate the air around the train.

  One of the armored cars had turned to fire on them. It could hurt, this one had a 75mm gun in a semi-fixed mounting. Its first shot screamed straight through the wooden carriage it had been aimed at, probably the crew had loaded armor piercing shot by force of habit. They didn’t make the same mistake twice. Its next shot was explosive and it devastated the carriage, leaving its thin wooden box in ruins. The carnage inside had to be awful. Then the armored car stopped firing and broke away, trying to escape from the shots of a Grizzly that was closing in on it.

  The Mikado was slowing, Perdue turned to the engine driver. “We hit?”

  “No sir, points coming up, we have to take them a bit careful like. Or we’ll go over.” Perdue nodded. It was fortunate the northern branch was the part of the points that went straight, not curved off but the slowdown was going to be dangerous. The rifle and machine gun fire from the Germans was hitting the carriages. That had to be hurting but the points were coming up. As the train slowed, the men on the first flat car reached down, hauling the Russian ski troops on board. Then Curly accelerated away. The remaining ski troops would have to be rescued by Moe.

  1st Platoon, Ski Group, 78th Siberian Infantry Division, First Kola Front

  Knyaz had the remaining part of his force forming a rear guard, holding back the German troops while the rest got clear. The Ami-fighter-bombers were strafing the German positions. Perhaps they would hold the Germans back long enough for my rear guard to board the second train out. That second train was in trouble. Two armored cars, Pumas, were shooting at it with their 50mm guns. The damage was easy to see. The great gun had been hit several times and many of the carriages were little more than splintered wood. A few meters away, the American pilot was talking to the sturmoviks, steering them to the targets. A couple of Grizzlies were already lining up for a pass on the Pumas. Knyaz saw their noses disappear in the flash of the 75mm guns firing. One of the Pumas blew up. The other stopped firing and backed away fast. Its crew knew what was to come. Sure enough, the napalm tanks wobbled free. Rolling orange and black clouds from the inferno shrouded the second American gun train from the Germans.

  “Bratischka, quickly, while we are screened by the fire!” The Russians left their positions and ran to the track where Moe slowed down to take the points and make the pick-up. They ran alongside the train, grabbing the arms held down to them and being hauled on board the flatcar behind the engine. Knyaz was last on board, and he looked quickly around. “How many?”

  “We have lost eight dead, and have four wounded.” The voice of the Sergeant was heavy. Twelve was a heavy toll for a small unit. Then Knyaz looked at the train he was on, saw the damage and the bodies scattered in the wreckage. The men on this train had paid a much heavier price than his little unit.

  Mechanized Column, 71st Infantry Division, Kola Peninsula

  Asbach looked at the trains pulling away. That was impossible. That shouldn‘t have happened. One just can’t do that with trains. He stopped an orderly who was collecting casualties. Once the trains had escaped, the jabos had left. “How is Captain Lang?”

  The orderly chuckled. “The Captain is still with us, Sir. A bullet in the shoulder and one through his ear but still alive. He refuses to be put on sick call Sir. That’s why the men call him Captain Still Sir. No matter what the enemy do to him, he still turns up for duty.”

  “Very good. Give the Captain my commendations and ask him to come to me immediately. We must reassemble the unit and get after those guns.”

  Asbach stared at the cloud of smoke that marked the position of the escaping guns. If he could get moving and kept up the chase, he would have one more chance to intercept them.

  27th Canadian Armoured Regiment, Kola Peninsula

  “Right boys, this is the last stretch. We’re hitting the outer edge of the Finnish forces that have got our infantry bottled up. We break through here and we’ve punched through to the hedgehog. They’re Finns ahead of us; not Germans. So we can expect a lower standard of equipment. They’re hard bastards though; they’ll fight. And remember what they did to the RCAMC detachment back at Division. There’s payback due for that.” A stir of agreement ran around the tank crews and infantry gathered for the briefing.

  Captain Michael Brody looked at the assembled team. His squadron of Sheridan tanks had been reinforced with a troop of armored infantry carried in Kangaroos, old Ram tanks that had been converted to armored infantry carriers. There were rumors that the Yanks were producing a new armored carrier, one that was completely enclosed and bullet proof. If it was, that would make a change from their existing half-tracks. Until that rumor became reality, if it ever did of course, the Kangaroo was the best infantry carrier on the battlefield. Well, the least vulnerable anyway.

  “The word is, take it easy. There’s no hurry over this. Our hedgehogs are in no danger. The Finns have been trying to break into them for days now and had no luck. Time isn’t long enough for supply to be a problem so we don’t have to crash through. When we contact the enemy, open fire; pin them down and call for artillery. We’ve got lots of it and even more airpower. The Yanks are over on the other front so we don’t have them to worry about. It’s just us and the Russians overhead.” An exaggerated sigh of relief went around the meeting; the American fighter-bomber pilots were notorious for hitting friendly targets. “Right, so everybody mount up. The ground’s hard, we’re not stuck on the roads. First troop, left flank, second troop on the road, third troop out to the right flank. Line abreast. Infantry, you follow on behind. Enemy infantry we’ll take care of, if we run into Pak guns, you take over and handle them while we cover you with HE.”

  “Any word on the Paks, Sir?”

  “Word is, since its Finns, 50mms.” A murmur of discontent at that. Although the 50mm w
as technically obsolete, at the ranges the Finns fired them it didn’t make much difference. The 50 was much smaller and easier to hide than the 75s and 88s the Germans used. Usually the first time somebody saw them was when a tank was knocked out. It was a 50 that had brewed up the tank used by the previous commander of A squadron and put Brody in command today.

  The relative warmth of the day before had softened the mass of snow that had fallen during the storm and caused it to compact. The cold of the night that had followed froze that compacted mass hard and turned a soft field that would bog tanks down into what amounted to near-perfect tank ground. Brady’s command had three troops of tanks. Technically, he should have had a total of fourteen M27s; but his squadron, like everybody else’s was under strength. Including his own vehicle, he had eleven operational tanks, spread out into a rough line abreast. There were patches of forest ahead, ones that would grow larger and closer together as the site of the besieged Canadian hedgehog got closer. The plan was to plow through the defenses before the Finns could react, force them out of their positions and back on to that hedgehog. It was a classic hammer and anvil approach; Brody’s tanks the hammer and the Canadian infantry in the hedgehog the anvil.