by Gee, Colin
Some of the nurses were literally torn apart by the deluge. All twenty-seven were hit and none were spared awful injury. Fourteen were killed outright.
Ryzhov had sustained one further hit. A piece of rock the size of an egg destroyed most of his neck, leaving his partially severed head dangling by a crimson thread.
The screams of the wounded women penetrated even the most resilient of minds and Soviet infantry from the 115th Regiment moved quickly to help. Sometimes they found someone who could be saved; more often, they just helped to ease suffering or ensured that some young girl did not die alone.
The 75th had spent most of its war in Iran, so such horrors were new to them.
Their thirst for a reckoning would have a profound effect upon the battle to come.
1439 hrs, Thursday, 28th November 1945, hasty defensive position 300 metres south-east of Labientschach, Austria.
The 142nd RAC had moved their tanks into rough cover, facing north-west, with Notsch immediately at their backs. In front of them, some three hundred metres, was the first defensive line of the Italian battalion. In between the two forces, but nearer the tanks, the mortars positioned themselves to the flanks and out of the line of fire.
The Italian infantry found themselves covered in mortar shells, arriving unexpectedly from no one knew where.
The tankers of the 142nd RAC tensed ready, their guns loaded, eyes glued to episcopes and periscopes, seeking out the enemy force that would inevitably emerge into view.
On the orders of the Italian battalion commander, the mortar unit started throwing its own shells in the direction of the pass situated between Notsch and St Georgen, the previously unsuspected and unprotected route through the Alps and into Northern Italy.
The pass carried Route 35 from Villach to join with the 27 at Feistritz an der Gail or, in terms of this battle, offered a superb access route for a sizeable all-arms Soviet force to move into a position behind the main Allied defensive line.
For the want of decent maps, many men would die.
The lead recon element of the Soviet force had been tremendously unlucky.
It had tucked itself away to observe, taking up a position away from anything that could be credibly targeted by the enemy, only to fall foul of the happenstance of war, as the first Italian mortar salvo went off target and neatly dropped on and amongst the four vehicles, causing enough death and destruction to knock the unit out of the fight for some time to come.
The lead Soviet battalion commander suddenly lost his ‘eyes’, but felt he had received enough information to order his men into the assault.
His leading two infantry companies, equipped with lend-lease universal carries, swept into Labientschach and found it undefended.
Covered by this forward force, a small group of SP’s and infantry made a turn to the north-west with the intention of taking St Georgen and creating a defensive block, should any Allied threat appear from the direction of Semering or beyond.
As this force manoeuvred, Lieutenant Colonel Kozlov, eponymous commander of Special group that had been sent down the pass, committed part of his armour and two further motorised infantry companies, fairly reasoning that surprise was on his side and he should press Nötsch as soon as possible.
1455 hrs, Thursday, 28th November 1945, the Gail River valley, Austria.
Zhumachenko, the commander of 40th Army, had a schedule to stick to and he was already behind.
He had been forcefully reminded of that by his superior officer, Chuikov, a commander incapable of subtlety in word or deed.
Indeed, the commander of the 1st Alpine Front had previously sent extra units to the 40th, just to ensure the breakthrough went smoothly and it was one of those units, the 7th Tank Corps, which was now amassed against the depleted Ambrose force, spread along approximately eight miles of the Gail River valley.
Zhumachenko had already reinforced the depleted 28th Rifle Regiment, creating a combat group, adding tanks and motorised infantry to Kozlov’s command and dispatching it through the mountains, intent on falling upon the Allies positions in and around Nötsch.
It was this force that had recently engaged at Labientschach. Even though most of the formation belonged to the fresh 7th Tanks, command lay with the 75th Division’s regimental commander, Lieutenant Colonel Novak Kozlov.
Under Chuikov’s direct instructions, Zhumachenko had committed the majority of the 7th Tanks to the initial and subsequent assault phases, expressly to break through and open up routes into Northern Italy.
With Chuikov’s ‘encouragement’, he had added the entire 62nd Tank Brigade to the renewed assault, with the promise of more support from Front reserves if he was quickly successful.
Zhumachenko was a professional officer who had started as a private, He fully understood the value of the common soldier’s life, hence his attempt to outflank the enemy position with Kozlov’s force.
His finesse might have worked in its own right, but for the direct intervention of Chuikov, for whom time was more important than extra names on a casualty list.
Therefore, as news of Kozlov’s attack reached the leadership of Ambrose Force, the commander of 40th Army unleashed his own version of a tidal wave.
1501 hrs, Thursday, 28th November 1945, Allied western defences, the Gail River valley, Austria.
Katyusha and artillery rounds arrived on target, sweeping the Baker defensive line with death-bringing high explosive and shrapnel.
The tanks were, for the most part, unscathed, although most sported new silver weals where metal had struck metal.
The Tommies of the 10th Rifle Brigade suffered badly as dozens of men were virtually obliterated.
Charles Stokes-Herbst watched in horrified fascination as one man was tossed skywards by an explosion and, before he could fall to earth, another burst seized him and threw him towards the clouds again. Four times the body came down, only to be sent back up again, each time less than it had been before.
The fifth descent finally permitted the shattered remains to come to rest, unrecognisable and awful, dropping on top of the rear hull of the nearest Lancer Sherman.
The 17th/21st Officer vomited down the side of his turret.
Wiping the residue from his mouth, he dragged his eyes from the vision and back to his front, comprehending the enormity of the assault at the same time as his tank commanders scared voices filled the airwaves with reports.
“Oh my fucking god!”
As far as Stokes-Herbst could see there were tanks. To the Lancer it seemed that the T34’s of an entire Soviet tank regiment were bearing down on his position.
It would not have been of any comfort for him to know that behind them were more armoured beasts, and that it was actually an entire tank brigade shoehorned into the narrow pass, sixty-two tanks intent on reaching ground well behind his present location.
Over him or through him, it made no difference to them.
He thumbed his mike.
“All...”
The 17th/21st’s leader’s voice was cut short and those tank commanders exposed in their turrets were startled by the huge explosion that sent pieces of Stokes-Herbst’s Sherman flying in all directions.
An undetected ISU152 had put a shell into the tank and hit everything it needed in order to bring about a catastrophic end to Stokes-Herbst and his crew.
The squadron net was filled with voices, some demanding orders, some suggesting options, all decidedly unnerved by events and the presence of so much enemy materiel.
Moving up from the headquarters, Haines understood that command needed to be re-established quickly so he cut across the airwaves, his voice alone helping to steady the nerves of most of the listeners.
Not yet in a position to issue definitive orders, he soaked up the information that his tank commanders relayed, building up a mental picture of a disaster in the making.
Standing in the cupola, the Lancer officer should have seen the approaching problem, but was too intent on listening to the radio.
Clair shouted a warning as he flung the Sherman to the right, noticing just in time the huge shell hole in the road to their front.
Nellie Oliphant squealed as his head connected with the breech, causing him to recoil automatically.
His head, shooting backwards at speed, perfectly connected with Haines’ groin, incapacitating him in an instant. The tank commander dropped into the tank, clutching his genitals as Oliphant struggled to regain his senses and work out what the red stuff in his eyes was.
Powell took one look and acted.
“Stumpy, pull her into cover now. Biffo’s hurt and Nellie’s pissing claret all over the fucking place.”
A gruff acknowledgement and the tank shifted into a lower gear. The light through the hatch all but disappeared as the Sherman was taken into the safety of some nearby trees.
“Need a hand, Killer?”
The gunner had already worked out what had happened.
“Nah. Nellie nutted the gun again. I’ll check it for damage obviously.”
“That’s funny, no really.”
Nellie didn’t mean it of course.
‘Prat!’
“Biffo took Nellie’s head in the goolies. Someone else can check them for damage later. I ain’t touching them for all the tea in China.”
There was no need for a headset to hear the guffaws from the two men in the hull.
Stumpy, grinning from ear to ear, took the initiative.
“Right ho then. If you’re fine with the mental case and the eunuch, Sparkle and I’ll stick some more juice in the bus, quick like.”
The driver and hull gunner swiftly slipped out of the tank to drain down the fuel drum lashed on the back of the tank.
Powell got the bandages out of the kit and started to work on Nellie.
“Just a small thing, mate. Less’n half inch, I swear. Just a lot of blood. Not even a lump.”
Killer cast an eye at the incapacitated Haines every now and again, feeling the man’s pain but, without a doubt, seeing the funny side. He stayed silent in that regard, with no intention of testing matters, as he suspected that a heavy blow in the bollocks would have given the punchy officer a sense of humour failure.
As he cut the bandage lengthways, so as to make a pair of ties, a slightly more coherent groan announced the return to life of the tank commander.
“Urghh. Fucking hell! What hit me?”
Winning the battle of ‘keeping a straight face’, Powell finished his work on the person responsible.
“‘Ardest substance known to man, boss. Our Nellie’s noggin. Took you in the meat ‘n two veg... right and proper.”
Haines, the pain still incredibly intense, realised he had been lost to the battle at a crucial time.
Straightening himself as quickly as he could, which was anything but quick, he took up the headset that had been wrenched from his head as he fell.
There was no traffic on the net.
He switched to command frequency to forewarn Colonello Pappalardo.
Nothing.
The set was dead.
He moved the frequencies.
The set remained stubbornly rooted in silence and that silence was heavy with meaning.
The waves of infantry and tanks had washed over the Baker line.
Some infantry and tank commanders had decided that, in the absence of any orders, a prudent withdrawal was called for, and what defence there could have been was swiftly undermined by the appearance of holes as a Sherman here, a section of infantry there, pulled back.
Isolated pockets of the Rifle Brigade resisted and, under specific orders, the attackers ignored them and swept on, eager to pursue and push forward.
The Folgore infantry, supported by the four 6pdr anti-tank guns of the Rifle Brigade, exacted a price from both T34’s and infantrymen, but their rally was brief.
Acting Captain Robinson was long dead and the leadership spine in the 16th/5th was presently a CSM. His tank stood like a rock, attracting knots of infantry to it, the already bypassed defensive position building in strength by the second.
It could no longer be ignored and the third battalion of the 62nd Tanks, committed forward from reserve, focussed all their energies upon it, high explosive and solid shot raining down upon the concentration of British soldiery.
The Sherman stopped firing, not destroyed but out of the fight, its crew almost catatonic with shock and horror at the sight of the CSM’s headless body collapsed in the well of the tank.
Soldiers of the 115th Rifle Regiment moved forward in a focussed assault, their minds still full of the hideous events at the Unterfederaun Bridge.
British riflemen and tank crew surrendered, hands in the air, most with the blank faces and distant eyes of men who had been through hell.
A tanker fell, shot dead in revenge by a young Soviet Corporal who had cradled a dying nurse.
Another followed, this time a Rifle Brigade officer, selected for no other reason than he tried to protest about what was to come.
The sixty-two prisoners were herded into a hollow behind the CSM’s tank and ordered to strip. Eleven accompanying NKVD troopers gathered up the uniforms and dog tags before the Chekist Captain nodded to his infantry counterpart, satisfied that he had obeyed his orders to the letter.
He watched, dispassionately, as the men of the 115th worked out their angst, replacing their grief at the deaths of those at Unterfederaun with a bloodbath, engorged by their frenzied bayonet practice on men who could do no more than raise a fist in their own defence.
Tanks and infantry moved on once more, leaving no witnesses to the events in the hollow.
The sixty-two uniforms, most with pockets containing papers and personal artefacts, plus the dog tags, started their journey to their destination, the temporary camp of an NKVD penal unit...
In a concealed position...
In the Wurzen Pass...
On the Yugoslavian border.
1607 hrs, Thursday, 28th November 1945, Headquarters of Force Ambrose, Hohenthurn, Gail River valley, Austria.
During the Second World War, the Italian Army had gained a reputation as slackers, lacking in soldierly skills, and being poorly led.
Erwin Rommel had once said ‘Good soldiers, bad officers’, which more accurately reflected the worth of the better formations of the Italian Army.
However, the Folgore Regiment had landed on its feet with Pappalardo, and it was thanks to his efforts that some Allied units escaped the debacle.
The reserve Sherman troop, call sign Robin, had been committed to stiffen the western defences, especially when the 142nd RAC disappeared from the airwaves and the Italian infantry commander reported his desperate position.
Reforming a reserve, the Italian Colonel put together two groups of Archers, Apple and Arrow, each supported by a group of his infantry, complete with armoured transport.
‘Biffo’s Bus’ had been swept along in the tide of retreat, Haines acknowledging that he could no nothing to stop the withdrawal for the moment.
His chance came and went at the ‘Charlie’ line. There were no forces posted there, nothing to identify ‘Charlie’ as a firm defensive position, so there was no encouragement for those fleeing to stand firm and fight back,
At the ‘Dog’ line, he seized the opportunity and broadcast his orders, halting the few survivors from the 16th/5th and 17th/21st, turning the tanks around to support the men of the Folgore who had established themselves once more.
Getting some semblance of organisation took Haines some time, but he was soon able to report to Pappalardo.
“Firensay Dicky, Firensay Dicky, Cassino Six over.”
The Italian Colonel himself answered.
“Cassino Six, Firenze Dieci receiving over.”
“Colonel, Able, Baker, and Charlie lines are down. Repeat, Able, Baker, Charlie are down. I’m organising on Dog but need back up. Request release of Robin, Cassino Six over.”
Haines was more than annoyed to find out that ‘Robin�
� had already been sent to the eastern defences.
However, Pappalardo sweetened the disappointment.
“I have a group of six guns and infantry which I’ll send right no...,” the Italian Colonel was cut short as a number of heavy calibre rounds fell around the headquarters, “Fanculo! Cassino Six receiving over?”
“Firensay Dicky, Cassino Six receiving over.”
“Cassino Six, we were just hit hard. Wait...”
Pappalardo unkeyed the mike and took a moment to survey the surroundings. At first glance, it appeared that the HQ had been lucky.
His second in command had already started to organise another headquarters move.
“Cassino Six, Firenze Dieci, we have to move. Will send the guns and infantry immediately. Call signs Apple and Arrow. I may be offline for a while. Over and out.”
Haines started at the silent radio for a moment.
Switching channels, he got through to the TD’s at the first attempt, sending the SP’s to the important height that dominated Pöckau and the Dog defensive line.
On his own initiative, the Italian infantry commander deployed his men to the north slope to screen the Archers, something Haines wholly approved of when the situation reports started to come in.
Organising those soldiers and tanks that had escaped the overrun Baker line, Haines created a bastion on and north of Route 83.
They had no chance to rest.
1629 hrs, Thursday, 28th November 1945, Headquarters of Force Ambrose, Kartner Strasse, Maglern, Gail River valley, Austria.
The headquarters was hastily set up, in as much as the radios were placed on the rear of a wooden cart, tables and chairs were rounded up and the security platoon dispersed around the farmyard.
Pappalardo watched as Haines’ information on the latest assault was mapped. The Lancer officer was clearly under pressure but still coping and leading the defences well.