by Gee, Colin
He had not, and the Lancer Captain now realised that the Brigadier was not fit to serve.
“In which case, Sir, I suggest we move the RAC boys west... to sit in Nötsch... support them with a battalion of the Italians and reposition the Archer reserve... in case all hell breaks loose up the Gail Valley.”
Haines reasoned that if he could get agreement to the reorganisation, he would set things in motion and tackle the Brigadier’s ability to command afterwards.
He had not allowed for what actually happened.
“Right ho, Captain. Now, you get it all organised. I’m off for a lie down before tiffin, brief me if the Germans look like being troublesome.”
Ambrose disappeared, heading off to his tent for a sleep, leaving the two Lancers and the Force staff shocked and silent.
Haines suddenly realised that everyone was looking at him.
It is said that nature abhors a vacuum. The same applies to the military.
‘Oh bollocks!’
“Right, you heard the plan. Get them moving now and get them moving fast. Charlie,” he turned to the 17th/21st man, “With a battalion of Eyeties and the Rifle Brigade, you’ll have more infantry than you had before, by a country mile. Free me up three of your tanks from the Stossau reserve, the best mechanically, to act as a mobile group. Get them positioned here.” He tapped the map, indicating a track running from the main road just west of Pöckau.
“Call sign... call sign will be...,” his mind went blank.
Stokes-Herbst ventured a suggestion.
“Robin?”
“That’ll do, Charlie. Robin it is. Make sure you’re topped off and ammo’ed up. Have a chat with the munitions officer before you leave, but get my mobile group in position as soon as poss, ok?”
The radios in the command centre had already contacted the 142nd RAC and the Italian unit, both units acknowledging the new orders without question.
The Archer unit remained worrying uncontactable.
Whilst the staff might have been young and inexperienced, they were nothing if not efficient, and the Archers received written orders as soon as was practicable, orders directing them to new positions at Stossau.
Haines took one of the staff officers to one side, giving him a delicate task that would require a certain sensitivity.
The commander of the Folgore Regiment, the Italian Infantry unit, was soon on the radio, confirming his orders and the dispatch of his second battalion to Nötsch, with a mortar platoon in support.
The Folgore’s battalions were not full sized, but were undoubtedly big enough to make a difference.
The third battalion was drawn up in Arnoldstein, where it started firming up the defences.
Again, the efficient Italian Colonel was on the radio, reporting to the British ‘Brigadier’ on a successful deployment. Haines had seen no reason to inform the Folgore commander of the change of leadership.
The 142nd were noticeable by their silence.
Captain Biffo Haines, aware of the facts of Stokes-Herbst’s encounter with the RAC troopers, took it upon himself to make sure that the Churchill tanks were moving.
The Churchills had not moved; neither were they started up, nor had the light shelters been moved away.
‘Biffo’s Bus’ drew up on the road outside of the farm yard that the 142nd had selected as their home.
Haines ducked his head into the turret and exchanged a few words with his crew before climbing out and dropping into the snow.
Fig#85 – The problem at Notsch, Gail River Valley, 28th November 1945.
“Sergeant.”
The man saluted.
“Name?”
“Massala, Sir, Sergeant, 142nd RAC.”
He didn’t wait for a reply from the Lancer officer, swinging into his prepared statement and pointing to a few men, either lying on wooden benches or sat around gripping their stomachs.
“Sir, some of the lads’ve got a right case of the trots. At least two from each tank. We can’t move without ‘em, Sir.”
The story was backed up by sounds of moaning from one or two of the ‘affected’ men, made more dramatic by more clutching and rolling of bodies.
Saying nothing, the Lancer officer moved forward, looking over the sorry bunch, who all managed to avoid eye contact, which, in itself, told him a great deal.
“Two things, Sergeant. Firstly, if you and your bunch of no-hopers are going to feign the shits, at least have the sense to smell of shit or look like you are shitting.”
The Sergeant looked uncomfortable for all the wrong reasons.
“Secondly,” he took his beret off and indicted his tank, “If you and your lousy bunch of knob jockeys don’t get your fucking arses in your tanks and down the road pretty pronto, then my gunner will start with your vehicle and won’t stop until they are all in flames... leaving you wankers free to join the poor bloody infantry. Are we clear, Sergeant?”
“Sir, the lads have...”
Haines grew in stature and in volume.
“Are we clear, Sergeant?”
The RAC Sergeant set his jaw.
“We ain’t doing it. We simply ain’t bloody doing it. We’ve been through it all too many fucking times... far too much to die now... all of us.”
The man’s voice grew in pitch as the words came tumbling out, his ‘incapacitated’ men realising that their subterfuge had failed and another tack was needed.
“My men here...all of us...we’ve done our bit, god knows... and fucking more besides... more than you high and mighty soddin’ regulars and that’s that, so...”
Had the NCO but realised it, the Lancer officer Captain Haines had disappeared and had been replaced by something called Biffo, a creature with a short fuse and little capacity for compromise.
One straight right put the Sergeant on his backside in the muddy snow of the courtyard.
The Lancer extended his hand, the Sergeant so confused that he accepted the help without question.
Biffo posed a simple question.
“What was that you were saying, Sergeant?”
The NCO regained his senses and spat some blood away, barely missing Haines’s tank overalls.
“Sir, you gotta understand. We’ve been through hell, in this one and the last. Me and the boys are done... really we are. There’s no fight left in us.”
A murmur from the rest of the RAC troopers supported the assertion.
Biffo and Haines silently wrestled for supremacy and unusually, especially given the circumstances, Haines won through.
“So, you think you’ve done your bit and now you intend to sit this out, eh?... EH? Leave your mates to fight... whilst you sit back and press wild flowers? Is that it?”
The sarcasm stung a little and the Sergeant stood a little taller.
“Yes, Captain, we’ve done our bit and more... and our mates have been killed by the dozen...and for what, eh? For fucking what?”
He turned to his men, almost preaching to them, rather than reasoning with Haines.
“For what? Get rid of one fucking Hitler and another comes along straight away. A few yards here, a few yards there... and all the time we bury our chums.”
Biffo was back in the ascendency again and the Sergeant had an extreme close-up of the angry lancer’s face.
“Listen to me, you sorry excuse for a fucking soldier. You and your men’ll do as you’re ordered for a number of reasons. One, because you’re soldiers and you obey orders. Two, because if you don’t, all of your mates will have died in vain.”
The Lancer officer focussed his attention purely on Massala.
“And three... ‘cause if you don’t, I’ll stretch the lot of you wankers in the snow... starting with you, sunshine. Fucking comprendez... Sergeant?”“
The delay in stating the man’s rank supplemented the contemptuous tone, stinging the Armoured Corps NCO as it was meant to do whilst, behind Biffo’s back, the fourth reason had traversed its gun and was pointing at the nearest Churchill, with Stumpy and Kil
ler, equipped with sten guns, covering the group from the driver’s and loader’s hatches respectively.
“So... you and your sorry bunch get your tanks moving... and we’ll say no more about this. Clear?”
The Sergeant exchanged looks with some of his men, the little shrugs and head movements telling the watchers that the Lancer officer had won the day.
“Clear as crystal, Sir.”
“OK then. Stay on the net... and if you see anything, anything at all, I need to know straight away. If you and the Eyeties can’t handle it, I have Archers and a ready troop of Shermans that can get up to you. Call signs Apple and Robin. Released on my orders only, clear?”
For the benefit of the surly group that was starting to sort itself out, Haines increased his volume.
“You’re not alone in this fight, lads, just as you’re not alone in losing mates, We’ve all done our bit... and I wish we could all just go home... but we can’t, not while the sodding Russians keep this nonsense up. We’ve to stay here... and we’ve to do the job, otherwise it’ll be your sons,” he selected one of the older troopers for some serious eye contact, “Or your grandsons who’ll have to do the business for us... and then what would we think of ourselves, eh? EH?”
The grumbling continued, but they moved smartly enough to their vehicles.
“Sergeant, a word.”
Taking the RAC man aside, Haines laid it out clear and simple.
“If you and your men do this right, we will say nothing more about any of it, Sergeant.”
The man nodded.
“However, Sergeant, if you or your men let me down in any way, I’ll visit myself upon the lot of you and you’ll pray for the sodding Redcaps to take you away. Are we clear?”
“Clear as crystal, Sir.”
The NCO’s nose trickled blood again.
“Good luck to you and your men, Sergeant.”
A brief salute was exchanged and both men quickly to their tanks.
Nellie made a great play of following each vehicle with the gun barrel until his commander put an end to the game.
With ‘Biffo’ safely back in his cage, Haines waited until all the Churchills were on the road before moving back to the headquarters position.
1214 hrs, Thursday, 28th November 1945, Headquarters of Force Ambrose, Hohenthurn, Gail River valley, Austria.
By the time Haines returned to the headquarters, Brigadier Ambrose was on his way to the rear. The medical officer, a man scrounged up from one of the Eighth Army’s rear echelon units, decided that Ambrose needed to be evacuated and that he was the only one who could go with him.
Haines sought out the staff officer he had entrusted with the task and nodded his acknowledgement.
The Italian Colonel had arrived to report to the Brigadier, only to find that he was now the senior officer on the Allied side.
To be fair to him, the man had the common sense to understand that he was not equipped to lead the tanks, so he was openly relieved when Haines returned.
Colonnello Dante Pappalardo was perplexed by his sudden elevation to leadership but took it in his stride, unaware that he had already taken orders from the Lancer officer he now commanded.
The basic position seemed sound enough, or as sound as it could be, especially as Haines’ provision for Nötsch was soon to be in place.
Another Soviet attack had fallen before the Rifle Brigade and Italian infantry force, but again, had cost valuable British tanks.
Stokes-Herbst reported two more 16th/5th losses and four from 17th/21st.
“The bridges, Capitano? They are ready?”
“No, Sir, they are not. Brigadier Ambrose had requested some engineers to prepare them, but none have arrived.”
One of the Lieutenants passed Haines a message chit.
“Here we are. Demolition squad requested at 1312hrs on 26th November. Acknowledged and action was promised, Colonnello.”
“Merda! So where is our next line of defence?”
The staff placed a hastily prepared overlay on the map the Colonel had supplied, an Italian army map of superior quality.
The next position lay between Riegersdorf and Pöckau, then just outside of Pöckau itself.
After that, one further line obstructed the approaches to Arnoldstein before the defensive positions were set in Arnoldstein itself.
“So, we have some time, at least. Tenente, repeat that request for demolition team please.”
The Lieutenant moved off to the radio immediately.
“Your thoughts, Capitano?”
“Sir, these positions,” he ran his fingers over the ones between Arnoldstein and Riegersdorf, “Are less than satisfactory for the tanks. No field of fire for us really.”
The snow had gone and visibility was now excellent.
“We need to hold this line as long as possible... that way I can guarantee the best support for your infantry forces, as well as the artillery observers having the best possible opportunities to do good work.”
Pappalardo could understand that.
“So why not bring all of your tanks up to this line, Capitano?”
‘Good question, Colonel.’
“The enemy’s artillery is very effective, so we can’t bunch up, Colonel.”
Haines thought that the rate of tank losses would ensure that all his assets were up front soon enough, but kept the thought to himself.
“These tanks at Stossau, Capitano. Why not move them up closer?”
Pappalardo had spotted the six tanks from A-17/21, set back as a reserve.
“Nötsch is the short answer, Colonel.”
For the first time, Haines realised that the major issue was even clearer on the Italian Army map.
“Our maps were inferior, so we initially missed this possibility,” his finger described the road that bypassed the front line and led straight from Villach to Nötsch.
“Ah, this is why your Generale di Brigata needed my battalion. And your tanks too?”
Haines kept a straight face.
“Yes, Colonnello, we’ve sent a group of five heavy tanks from the Royal Armoured Corps to back up your men.”
He took a quick look at his watch and smiled.
“They should be arriving any time now, Sir.”
‘If they know what’s sodding good for them!’
“Excellente, Capitano, excellente.”
The Italian screwed up his eyes, examining a notation more closely.
“What is Inniskilling?”
“Irishmen, Colonel. Survivors from a battle up north. Enough escaped to form two platoons, which are sat there as a reserve. Of limited use, I’m afraid. The men are knackered, Sir, totally knackered.”
“Nakered?”
“Tired, exhausted and fought out, Colonel.”
“Ah, I understand. Then we will leave them alone for now, Captain.”
The Inniskillings that had escaped Puch were taken out of the 1st Royal Irish where they had taken refuge and sent back to the rear, where reinforcements were intended to marry up and make the unit an effective fighting force once more.
However, the requirements of war overtook the idea in short order.
The Colonel cast his cap to one side and selected a thin cigarette from his case, lit it and pored over the details of his force.
“Now, what can we do to annoy our red friends?”
“You mean attack them, Colonel?”
“Yes, of course. I have spent too long running alongside the Germans not to know the value of a good counter-attack when it is least expected.”
‘Now you’re my sort of fucking Colonel.’
Much as the Italian really did want to have a go, there was simply not enough information to make any informed judgement on a possible counter-attack, so he reluctantly let the idea slide... if only for a moment.
One of the other staff members suggested that the bridge at Furnitz might need some attention and Colonel Pappalardo jumped at the possibility.
“Do we have the ammuni
tion for such fire? Without affecting our defence?”
Without needing to check, the staff Lieutenant spoke with certainty.
“Most certainly, Sir. There’s absolutely no problem with our ammunition supply for artillery. The RA boys are sat on top of an ammo depot.”
“Then let us send the Communists at the bridge a few shells, Lieutenant. As soon as possible.”
Pappalardo was a belligerent man who had learnt much of his soldiering in Russia with the Alpini Division ‘Guilia’
The artillery, resting after its efforts in halting the previous attack, did not welcome another call to arms so soon but set about the task and soon dropped their shells on the bridge and environs.
The Allied commander had no idea whether the shells did good work, but it was enough for him to know that he was hitting back for now.
As the shells passed overhead, Pappalardo and Haines set about planning a more pro-active defence.
Their efforts were to prove in vain as two events made all the difference and condemned Ambrose Force to destruction.
1434 hrs, Thursday, 28th November 1945, Gail River bridge, Unterfederaun, Austria.
Pappalardo, ever aggressive, got a little creative with his artillery and mortars and, seeing that there was no shortage of ammunition, it seemed wholly reasonable.
The Sextons switched their fire randomly between the different bridges and areas that he and Haines had identified.
At 1434 hrs, after a ten-minute breather, the 25 pounder Sextons started up again and dropped on the crossing point at Unterfederaun.
After two salvoes, they quickly swapped to the Furnitz road junction, hoping to catch the Soviets unawares.
The second shell to arrive at Unterfederaun took the life of the commander of 115th Rifle Regiment, the assault formation of the 75th Rifle Division. It also took the legs of the divisional commander, Colonel Ryzhov.
Two lorry loads of nurses were passing by and they stopped to attend to the wounded and dying.
The last but one shell of the final salvo struck the raised stone block on the north end of the bridge, transforming it into a thousand pieces of life-taking natural shrapnel.