Impasse (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  The 76mm cracked and sent a high-velocity shell across the battlefield, intended for a target some three hundred yards away.

  The snow eddied round with the wind and made a concerted effort to obscure the Panzer IV. Had the shell missed it might have succeeded, but it struck home, and the ex-German tank blossomed into a fireball instantly.

  “Good job, Nellie!”

  Haines, understanding the problems posed by the heavier snowfall, changed tactics and pushed his units closer to the infantry. His own tank swept up to the forward positions in the nick of time and was the first to successfully engage.

  Corporal Oliphant was already seeking out a fresh victim as Haines popped his head out of the turret for a better look.

  The Rifle Brigade’s positions exploded, partially from a volley from the defenders and partially from a well-timed shoot from the enemy mortar battalion assigned for the closer support work.

  Haines grimaced in horror as men and pieces of men flew skywards, the infantry positions bathed in high explosive and shrapnel.

  The Soviet infantry let out a loud ‘Urrah!’ and surged forward ahead of their tanks, eager to get in close.

  Haines surveyed the scene, aware that he had more responsibilities than just fighting his own unit and tank.

  Assessing the battle, he quickly realised that the present positions were untenable.

  The Lancer captain had first strapped on a tank in 1938, firing his first angry shot during the German Invasion of the Low Countries.

  He was considered an exceptionally competent officer by those above and below him and, what was more important to his men, he was lucky.

  Only once had the war touched him directly and the deep scar on his cheek and missing segment of his ear were visible reminders as to how lucky he could be.

  On 22nd February 1943, an Italian mortar shell had exploded on the engine compartment of his Crusader III tank during a fight with the Centauro Tank Division, as 6th Armoured tried to relieve the pressure on the beleaguered US troops at Kasserine.

  Pieces of the shell sliced through his right ear and across his right cheek, severing one of the headset wires. More pieces sliced through the headset earpiece just above his left ear, and yet another piece cut through the slack cord at throat level. One of his epaulettes was torn off and his watch face was shattered by another piece of metal.

  He remained in the line, despite his injuries and, since that day, had ridden his luck, probably far too often.

  Today he felt that all that was going to change.

  Keying the mike as he reassessed his decision, he heard Oliphant yell a warning.

  “Fuck me! Target, tank to front. ON!”

  Haines could do no more than give the order.

  “FIRE!”

  He released the mike as his eyes went in search of whatever it was that Oliphant had killed, at least judging by the sounds of celebration in his ears.

  He found it easily.

  “What the bloody hell is that, Nellie?”

  The huge vehicle was belching black smoke and the crew were already on the ground and running, pursued by bullets from some of the infantry.

  “Fuck knows, Boss, but it’s a big soddin’ thing and it’s dead.”

  Whatever it was, it was certainly bad news for Ambrose Force, as it was not alone.

  “Nellie, fire at will for now. I gotta speak to the pongos.”

  Keying the mike once more, he sought out the officer commanding the hard-pressed Rifle Brigade. After the initial exchange of call signs, Haines gave his orders.

  “Sahara 6 from Cassino 6, I will cover your withdrawal to Baker line. Keep the swine off you until the arty comes in, then toss smoke and move immediately. Clear, over?”

  “Cassino 6 from Sahara 6, it may be too late already, old bean. We’ve over a dozen tanks to our front. Can’t you engage them, over?”

  Fig#84 - Allied defensive lines in the Gail River Valley, 28th November 1945.

  Sparing a moment for a look, Haines could see nothing except the impressive white storm.

  “Sahara 6 from Cassino 6, negative. Can’t engage... no visual... not a bleeding thing. Arty on way soon. Stay on the air, over.”

  He assessed the position of the enemy advance as best he could and made a small notation on the edge of the tourist map before dialling into the artillery.

  The tank leapt violently as Oliphant engaged something and, judging by the whoops, engaged it successfully again.

  Passing coordinates based upon some hastily jotted down figures he had been given earlier, Haines waited as the gunners of the 152nd RA prepared their Sexton SPs.

  A single shell arrived, its explosion barely noticeable in the flurries, but sufficient to mark a miscalculation on Haines’ part.

  Cursing inwardly, he adjusted the fire, dropping two hundred and waited once more.

  The hull machine gun on his tank starting sending small bursts of fire into the whiteness, as the gunner managed to recognise darker patches moving rapidly forward.

  The second ranging shot arrived.

  ‘Close enough.’

  “Fire for effect until further. Cassino 6 out.”

  Switching to the Lancer’s radio net, he briefed his commanders on the plan before ensuring that Acting Captain Robinson took command of the 16th/5th.

  Haines, as the overall armoured commander, could not afford to be drawn in and lose the big picture.

  “Anything to front, Nellie?”

  “Not a sausage, Boss.”

  “Roger. Stumpy, back her up and get us into cover back there. We’re on our way to HQ.”

  The Sherman moved smoothly backwards, lumps of snow falling away as the rough ground caused ‘Biffo’s Bus’ to stagger and shudder.

  Haines took some time to survey the scene, feeling a sense of satisfaction as the artillery smashed down just in front of the infantry positions, or at least the positions they had occupied, the retreating men clearly visible now.

  ‘Clear... I can see the buggers...’

  Puzzled, he looked upwards and realised that the snow had almost stopped falling on his position.

  ‘Bollocks!’

  “Cassino 6, all Cassino elements. Rally on Baker, rally on Baker, immediate. Snow is stopping. Engage immediately.

  Driver Clair, known as Stumpy for reasons that were all too obvious when he raised himself to his full height, such as it was, heard the radio call and anticipated the next command, swinging the rear of the Sherman in behind a solid stone wall that marked part of the second position, created on the edge of Erlendorf and Riegersdorf.

  Oliphant took advantage of the lack of movement.

  “Vehilce to front... target on... shit and bollocks... Misfire!”

  Haines initiated the procedure.

  A second attempt failed, as did the next attempt. After that, the breech needed to be opened and the dodgy shell removed and launched as far away from the tank as possible.

  That task fell to the loader, Trooper Powell, as inoffensive looking a man as it was possible to meet, so clearly entitled to his nickname ‘Killer’.

  “Opening breech!”

  The noticeable tremble in the loader’s voice betrayed the nervousness of the moment.

  Powell immediately saw the indentations of the firing pin and his concern increased.

  At the moment his fingers touched the round, the Sherman rocked, the turret resounding like a bell. No-one needed telling they had been hit.

  Haines wanted to shout at the loader but decided better of it, not wishing to break his concentration.

  Oliphant was not so shy.

  “Those big bastards have seen us now, Killer, so speed your fucking self up or I’ll come back and fucking haunt you!”

  The shell was out now and Powell pushed himself and the shell up through the hatch.

  Seconds later, he dropped back inside, his cheeks blowing out as he finished battling with his fear.

  “Good work, Killer.”

  Whilst the
loader had been outside, both Haines and Nellie had checked the firing mechanism and quickly came to the conclusion that the fault lay with the shell, not the gun.

  “OK lads, drama over for now. Load up HVAP and be quick about it.”

  The high-velocity armour-piercing shell was the best available to the Sherman crew when it came to killing other tanks.

  “Target Sp to front... on!”

  Nellie had decided that the big ones would go first.

  “Fire!”

  The Sherman rocked and another Soviet vehicle was hit.

  “Over to you now, Nellie.”

  Haines returned to his planning, surveying the positions taken by his Lancers and finding himself generally satisfied.

  One tank seemed more forward than the others and certainly more exposed, its machine-guns hammering out in an effort to protect the retreating infantry.

  A quick look through his binoculars confirmed which vehicle call sign it was.

  ‘Banshee.’

  Switching to the squadron net, he keyed the mike.

  The sudden huge fireball stopped him in his tracks, his mouth wide open, as the Sherman was literally torn apart by something huge and unforgiving.

  A 152mm shell had simply demolished the vehicle.

  His own tank jerked again, as Nellie replied in kind.

  The target, another of the huge ISU-152s, stopped immediately and exhibited no signs of life. No hatches were opened followed, no urgent scramble for survival apparent. No fire or smoke came from it. The leviathan was knocked out, its crew not dead, but all badly wounded, and definitely out of the fight.

  Soviet supporting mortar fire was being adjusted expertly and shells started to drop amongst the British infantry as they neared their second line positions.

  Binoculars again pressed to his eyes, Haines swept the advancing enemy for some sign of the controllers. As the snow continued to peter out, spotting the enemy vehicle proved to be easier than he had expected.

  “Nellie, see that halftrack with the antennas... two o’clock... tucked in behind that bush. HE and take it out.”

  “Still got aitch-vap in, Biffo. Next shot.”

  Haines let it go.

  Biffo was a nickname he had acquired because of his legendary capacity to get into scraps, normally with Allied contingents, and normally managing to drag his mates into matters against their will. Despite the frequent use of his fists to settle disputes over matters of signal insignificance between parties generally too ‘oiled’ to remember what started the fight, Haines’ combat and leadership qualities secured him promotion from the ranks and eventual command of a troop in, and then leadership of, B Squadron, 16th/5th Royal Lancers.

  Oliphant decided to aim the shell rather than just get rid of it.

  A small enemy SP had come onto view behind the halftrack and he put his shell into the superstructure, causing the vehicle to manoeuvre erratically, whilst seeking cover behind a farm building.

  Killer slotted an HE shell home and it was quickly on its way for a fatal rendezvous with the observer vehicle from the Soviet 10th Mountain Mortar Regiment.

  The British infantry still lost men to the mortars but they remained unadjusted for some time, enough to ensure that the Rifle Brigade could get organised for phase two.

  A Sherman disappeared in a huge fireball as another of the ISU’s made a hit.

  “Cassino 6, all Cassino elements. Concentrate on the big SP’s. Take ‘em out of the fight now.”

  Four had already been savaged, two by Oliphant, much to the gunner’s merriment.

  The Lancers focussed their main guns on the ISU’s and the heavy SP’s suffered badly, the two surviving commanders finding excellent reasons to withdraw to positions out of direct sight.

  Lt Ionescu was crying and screaming.

  He was the only casualty in the Hetzer, the small SP that Haines’ tank had put a shell into a few minutes beforehand.

  With the damaged vehicle now safely tucked away behind an old storage building, his crew were trying hard to get the wounded officer out of the vehicle and away for medical treatment as soon as possible.

  Any movement they tried, and each breath he took, tortured Ionescu’s shattered body, producing extremes of pain.

  One moment he had been encouraging his men to advance, the next the whole vehicle smelt of burnt metal and flesh. Lieutenant Tudor Ionescu had been ripped open, exposing both lungs and liver to the appalled gaze of his crew.

  The 25pdrs of the British Sextons rocked the small SP, the pitter-patter as shrapnel struck the metal sides began to unnerve the men, as did the screams of their officer.

  The senior man, a Corporal and the vehicle’s gunner, took a lump shrapnel in the back, killing him instantly.

  The remaining two crew members lost their nerve and ran, leaving Ionescu in the snow to die alone.

  Major Emilian was crying and screaming, his command in tatters and half his crew dead around him.

  Although untouched himself, the Rumanian was covered with blood, the products of his gunner and loader, both killed by the inexorable passage of an armour-piercing shell on its way through the turret.

  The radio was silent, despite him screaming orders at his men; silent for two reasons.

  Firstly, there was no one left to hear his calls, the only vehicle undamaged being the Zrynyi II, its engine having given up the battle shortly after the advance through Müllnern, five kilometres to the east.

  Secondly, his radio had been destroyed by the same shell that had claimed his turret crew.

  Another shell struck the front of the tank and Emilian found himself sprayed with the detritus of the driver, whose body lay directly in the path of another AP shell.

  Almost dreaming, Emilian slowly wiped the bits and pieces from his face, and hands, and arms, and chest, and...

  Seven seconds after the last impact, Major Anton Emilian mind collapsed and he suffered a total psychological breakdown.

  He shouted loudly into his microphone, cursing Hitler, Antonescu, Stalin and King Michael equally, commanding his officers to press home the attack, squealed at anything he could see for stealing his mother’s apples and, finally, screaming an order for coffee as he imagined himself in his favourite watering hole in Constanta.

  His screaming turned to maniacal laughter as he noticed the severed handset. He threw it at the dead gun crew, cursing them for their silence and pushed himself up out of the turret with the flags that were on hand to replace the radio.

  He made patterns with the two flags, none of which would have been recognised as proper orders by anyone, even if he had been seen.

  Actually, he was seen, but not by his own side.

  “Look at ‘im, the stupid bugger!”

  The hull machine gun fired a short burst, knocking the man off the tank turret and onto the snow below.

  “Jesus Christ but he’s still going!”

  Haines took time to focus on the single man who was behaving so erratically.

  Clearly, some bullets had hit the man as he now only waved the one flag, his right arm dangling uncontrolled at his side.

  None the less, he continued to make his signals in the direction of anyone and anything that he could spot.

  “Let him be, lads. He’s had enough.”

  Emilian had dropped to the ground, exhausted by his exertions, drained of energy, and weakened by his blood loss.

  The flag still jerked feebly as the dying man kept up his efforts.

  Sparing his enemy a final look, Haines turned back to managing his defence.

  “Let him be.”

  A moment beforehand, some miles behind the lines, a Sexton had fired a shell that would prove less forgiving.

  It arrived about two feet to the left of the Romanian officer and transformed him into pieces no larger than a matchbox.

  1135 hrs, Thursday, 28th November 1945, Headquarters of Force Ambrose, Hohenthurn, Gail River valley, Austria.

  The Soviet attack had been driven off at a
cost. The infantry losses were more than made up for by the arrival of an Italian Battalion, with two more en route.

  However, the 16th/5th Lancers needed to pull in the tanks of the 17th/21st to make up their own numbers; exactly half of their starting vehicles were either knocked out or so badly damaged as to be of no further use. Part of the reserve B Sqdn moved up, taking up the middle of the line, in between the two ravaged lancer units.

  Haines and Stokes-Herbst had consulted on the position, given their head by the strangely disinterested Brigadier Ambrose. The senior officer had even given them his only decent map before returning to dictating orders to his staff regarding the required shaving routine in cold weather.

  The two Lancer officers were too tied up in their own concerns to really understand that Ambrose was not fit to command. The staff of Force Ambrose was, for the most part, too inexperienced to challenge a senior officer of proven credentials, and with such an immaculate record of accomplishment.

  Outside, the two Captains broke out their cigarettes and spread the map on a dodgy trestle table. One look at it told Haines that the defence was vulnerable, possibly much more than that.

  “Bollocks. We’ve got nothing here, Charlie. Didn’t even know this road was here.”

  The failure in the maps was starkly revealed by the one decent bit of cartography in the unit,

  Each man produced his own map, the one each had worked from until now.

  Neither showed what was obviously a reasonably sized route circumventing the Arnoldstein position, starting in Villach and ending in Nötsch, just over two miles west of the highly important position.

  Stokes-Herbst hissed in disgust.

  “Christ, we may already be outflanked, even surrounded! We best fall back, you’d say?”

  Haines scratched his cheek.

  “Not down to me, is it? I’d say not though. Let’s go and put it to the Brig and see what he has already planned.”

  Spreading the map out before Ambrose, who set aside his irritation at having his dictation interrupted, Haines pointed out the possibilities, expecting the man to have made provisions and to have placed men there.