Impasse (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  “Thank you, Comrade General Secretary. I must say that I’ve kept an eye on the region, and there have been no further attacks attributed to a roving group of SS soldiers.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Yes, Comrade Marshal, there have been attacks, but they are all verified as being opportunist elements seeking rations, or ex-military groups trying to disrupt our forces. Nothing at all SS.”

  “I understand your suspicions, Comrade Nazarbayeva. Is there more?”

  “Comrade General Secretary, I have always had concerns over the identification of the bodies of Knocke’s family. They were all burnt, a fate that befell few of the occupants of Primorsk, and something that was very convenient in making identification difficult. According to the GRU report, the bodies of the two girls were found together in their house, which, circumstantially, was seen as sufficient proof of identity for the investigators.”

  Another sip of water relieved the growing dryness.

  “The wife’s body was exhumed and identified by jewellery found on the corpse. Such items are easily placed on a body. In short, I find the evidence unsatisfactory and, looking at the actions of the legion units that were supposed to be controlled by Knocke’s blackmail, there seems little evidence of any positive influence exercised by our agent at all, Comrade General Secretary.”

  She drained the rest of the glass.

  “Comrade General Secretary, my investigations continue, but I have yet to find conclusive evidence that Comrade Pekunin acted in betrayal of the state, although there is some doubt over the effectiveness of some of his agents. Certainly, I find myself questioning some of the decision making, but that may just be hindsight.”

  Stalin’s affability and tolerance seemed to disappear in one noticeable breath and he, very deliberately to both watchers, extracted another cigarette and went through the motions of tapping it down and lighting it before speaking.

  “Comrade General. Your investigations must continue. Your efforts to keep secret these matters is noted... and the State thanks you.”

  Beria seemed to want to say something, but lost his chance.

  “Two of your sons are dead, and that is a personal tragedy. There is nothing I can do to change that. Both have died for the Rodina, and the Party, one as a soldier hero, the other in a way that is wholly regrettable... but it was necessary, Comrade.”

  Stalin stood and pulled his tunic into place, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, reflecting his peasant roots.

  “Comrade Nazarbayeva, I wish I had a thousand like you, soldiers who do their duty without question and without fear for their own position. Continue your investigation, and send me your final written report when it’s complete. Dismissed.”

  Remember that upon the conduct of each depends the fate of all.

  Alexander the Great

  Chapter 114 - THE FRIDAY

  0055 hrs, Friday 6th December 1945, Soviet Temporary Detention Camp 130, Baranovichi, USSR.

  “Hold the light steady, man!”

  Desperation and tiredness made the surgeon shout at his helper.

  “Damn it! Clamp.”

  “We have no more clamps, Sir.”

  “The pegs, give me a peg.”

  Needs must, so the wooden peg was quickly inserted into the inner thigh of the Sikh Corporal who lay dying on the crates that counted as a surgical table in Camp 130.

  Imprisoned in six houses on the southern outskirts of the town, formerly the old Jewish Ghetto, seven hundred and eight Allied prisoners were miserable, cold, and badly treated. Most worked for fourteen hours a day, reconstructing the large airfield, as well as creating new military and industrial areas around the Red Air Force site.

  They had been nearly a thousand when the work had started, but the harshness of the regime and the climate took their toll. The work was now complete, but for a few minor matters that the POW’s strung out as best they could, purely on the basis of ‘better the devil you know’.

  Seven hundred and eight became seven hundred and seven, as blood loss and shock claimed the Indian soldier, victim of heavy kicks from a rogue horse.

  The Sergeant orderly relinquished his hold on the man and stepped back, allowing the mean light to illuminate unblinking eyes.

  “He’s gone, Sir.”

  Dryden cursed.

  “All for the fucking want of the right kit. Another fucking life lost. For God’s sake!”

  His helper, Hany Hamouda, an Egyptian 2nd Lieutenant, started to remove the equipment from the huge thigh wounds, incisions made by Miles Dryden in an attempt to patch up the arteries that had been torn by the shattered bones of both femurs.

  As he did so, he spoke the inventory aloud, a routine agreed by the medical staff to avoid leaving valuable equipment in a casualty.

  “Three clamps.”

  “Check.”

  “One stainless steel retractor.”

  “Check.”

  “Four wound hooks.”

  “Check.”

  Handmade from deer antler, they hooked into the flesh of the casualty and held open wounds for Dryden to work.

  Simple but effective.

  “Scalpel.”

  The officer removed it from Dryden’s hand, the naval surgeon seemingly reluctant to give up the blade; it had been a huge concession by the camp’s commander.

  “Wound frame.”

  The frame was a simple folding square that served the same purpose as the hooks, holding open an area for the scalpel to work.

  “Four needles.”

  “Check.”

  “Horse hair thread, one bob.”

  And so the list continued, not one that would have graced a proper surgical facility, but the prisoners had done well to acquire the few bits that offered Dryden and Hamouda even the smallest opportunity to save lives.

  “Soldering iron.”

  “Candle.”

  “Six body straps.”

  “Check...check...check...”

  “List complete, Sir.”

  It did not take long to inventory the medical equipment in Camp 130.

  “Ask the senior Sikh NCO to come and see me immediately please, Hany.”

  “Sir?”

  “They have their own ways with their dead. I would not wish to cause offence.”

  As a Muslim, Hamouda could understand fully, and was surprised at himself for not thinking of it.

  “Sir.”

  The Lieutenant left, to be replaced by the hospital dogsbody.

  “Tea, Sir, milk, and two sugars, as normal.”

  A mug of something steaming made its way into Dryden’s hand; it wasn’t really tea, just a concoction flavoured by some of the local flora. Milk and sugar were nothing but distant memories to all the prisoners in 130.

  Drinking the warming brew, Miles Dryden watched the nimble Egyptian pick his way across the snowy landscape before entering the hut set aside for the Sikhs and Gurkha soldiers.

  The Egyptian Officer had no place on the battlefields of Europe; his presence in 130 was a pure freak of happenstance.

  He had become a prisoner of the Germans during the first Battle of Alamein, and endured a long captivity, only to be freed by British forces in April 1945. For some reason, known only to Hamouda, he avoided returning to his homeland, and somehow attached himself to the 15th Scottish Division’s medical services in Lubeck, post-war.

  He was captured by the Red Army on the second day of the new war, when his small hospital was overrun.

  Dryden’s own path to Camp 130 had been less fraught, as his naval detachment in Murmansk was bloodlessly taken into captivity on the 6th August.

  The two shared the medical responsibilities for their charges, although the naval man did the majority of the surgery, Hamouda’s broken glasses hindering him too much for the delicate work.

  The senior Sikh arrived with a bearer party shortly afterwards, and they took their kinsman away.

  His ward round completed, Lieutenant Commander waited for the
card school to form, the ‘hospital’ being the only place where light in the dark of night would not draw unwelcome attention from the guards.

  The players arrived together as usual, and the pack of cards, dirty and damaged, was dealt out four ways.

  To Dryden’s left was Acting Major Kevin Roberts, a Canadian, wounded and taken prisoner at Tostedtland on 13th August.

  “Pass.”

  The next to act was Albert Barrington, a Canadian Lieutenant taken prisoner in the same battle.

  “One heart.”

  The next in line made a great play of examining his cards.

  “Aye, I’ll pass.”

  RSM Robertson looked at the naval man, challenging him silently, which challenge Dryden met with a deadpan face.

  “One spade.”

  “Pass.”

  His partner could not resist a dig.

  “Any chance of ye playing the game, Major, Sah?”

  Roberts grinned.

  “No speech play, RSM. You know the rules.”

  The grins were universal.

  “Two diamonds,” Barrington announced with considerable gusto.

  “Ah’ll double ye, Sah.”

  Dryden laughed the sort of laugh that could easily be imagined to originate from a vulture circling a dying beast.

  “Three spades.”

  Robertson was fit to burst, and his partner’s pass did nothing to assuage his concern.

  Barrington milked the moment.

  “Four spades.”

  “Get ye the fuck, Lieutenant, Sah!”

  Dryden leant forward.

  “I’m unclear about that terminology. Is that a pass, Sergeant Major?”

  Robertson looked down his nose in mock anger.

  “Aye, that it is, damn your black hearts!”

  “Good. Pass.”

  Roberts accepted the NCO’s scathing glare for his final pass.

  The hand was never played.

  Within moments, the doors of the hospital flew open and in charged members of the security detail, shouting, screaming, sometimes lashing out.

  “Collect up everything now, Doctor.”

  “What?” Dryden sat there in the midst of chaos, still clutching his hand of cards, staring at the Soviet officer.

  “You’re leaving tonight, Doctor, so get everything you need ready... in ten minutes. These men will help. Dawai”

  Before dawn started to spread its light across the land, the four bridge players, Hamouda, the two orderlies, and four guards were onboard a small freight wagon, heading southeast.

  Behind them, the seven hundred prisoners of Camp 130 were efficiently liquidated.

  0947 hrs, Friday 6th December 1945, Headquarters of SHAEF, Trianon Place Hotel, Versailles, France.

  “A routine probing attack... nothing more, Walter.”

  “Are you sure, Brad?”

  Bedell-Smith spoke into the receiver again, questioning the General on the other end more closely.

  From the nods, the rest of the officers assumed that the answers he received were positive.

  “Thank you, Brad. If anything changes, let me know immediately.”

  “General Bradley says that Simpson states it’s normal stuff, Sir. Every day of late, somewhere along his line, the Reds probe early in the morning. Nothing too dramatic, probably just enough for their infantry commanders to report stiff resistance, and then curl back up in the warm for the rest of the day.”

  With the exception of the morning skirmishes, whole sections of the front had become relatively quiet. The temperature outside recognised no uniforms or causes above any other, and was equally harsh on the soldiers of both sides. Most of the frontline had become an area of stalemate, where no attempt to advance was made.

  Fig#98 - Spectrum Blue Operational Area, The Front Line, December 1945.

  That was particularly true of the Hürtgenwald, scene of intense fighting during the German War, where the boot was now on the other foot, with US divisions in defence on favourable terrain.

  Everything seemed right; was right.

  Eisenhower lit another smoke from the dying cigarette he had started at the sound of the telephone ringing and Bradley’s first words.

  He went through his checklist yet again.

  ‘The plan is good, and we’ve been over it time and time again...check.’

  ‘Weather...good as it can be for us...check.’

  ‘Enemy responses...none as yet...check.’

  ‘All assets in place...all in place...check.’

  ‘Supplies...we’re well provisioned and want for nothing...check.’

  ‘Morale...spoiling for a fight, so George says anyways...mind you, so does Guderian...in his way...check.’

  The cigarette leapt to and from his lips with every thought.

  Suddenly, the filter stopped a few millimetres from Ike’s lips.

  ‘Feel worse than D-Day, don’t you, bud? So what’s wrong then, eh?’

  The answer would be supplied before midday.

  0955 hrs, Friday, 6th December 1945, Headquarters, 2nd Red Banner Central European Front, Schloss Rauischholzhausen, Ebsdorfergrund, Germany.

  “This is worse than fucking Kursk.”

  Petrov couldn’t argue, as he hadn’t been present at the great defeat of the German invaders.

  Not that it mattered, as he knew what his commander, Marshal Kirill Meretskov, Konev’s replacement as OC 2nd Red Banner, meant.

  Anyway, the Marshal hadn’t been there either.

  They had done the best they could in the time they had been given, the hours since the warning spent adjusting, preparing, reinforcing, replenishing, and waiting.

  Above all... waiting.

  Petrov knocked back the small vodka the two men had permitted themselves, placing his empty glass alongside that of his boss.

  Meretskov finished reading the letter from his protégé, the young Stelmakh, folded it, and put it back in the envelope, his mind suddenly filled with thoughts of his old comrade, Georgii Stelmakh, killed by the Luftwaffe in 1942.

  He waived the envelope at Petrov.

  “The boy’s doing well, Tovarich. Just like his old man it seems.”

  Permitting himself a smile at the memory of his old friend, Meretskov stretched, and watched as the clock ticked its way to 10 o’clock.

  “It is begun, Ivan.”

  As if to emphasise the moment, a phone rang, its trill sounding more urgent than normal to the ears of men whose wait was now over.

  1000 hrs, Friday 6th December 1945, the Ardennes, Europe.

  Hitler had done it in 1940, and again in 1944.

  It had seemed more than reasonable to the Allied planners that their forces could do it going the other way in 1945. Better supplied, better equipped, and with air superiority over the battlefield.

  One thing that was not really appreciated was the difference in opposition.

  In 1940, it had been an unprepared and poltically demoralised French Army.

  Four years later, in the main, it had been US Army units that received the onslaught, many new to war, some more experienced but so tired and battle weary; all unprepared.

  The element of surprise had been key on both occasions.

  The lack of it was to be key to many a young man on this occasion.

  Allied planning for the opening of Spectrum Blue, the opening ground attack of the Spectrum Operations, required fighter-bomber strikes throughout the rear areas of the Soviet front, particularly to deal the legendary Soviet artillery a deathly blow.

  Heavy bombers were targeted against the crossing points on the Rhine and other watercourses, both hamstringing any movement of reserves and munitions, as well as denying an escape route for the frontline formations.

  On the ground, three main thrusts pushed out from the Allied lines.

  From Nuess and Wersten came the German 101st Korps, pushing down the Rhine on either bank, its sights set firmly on Cologne.

  To the south, US 17th Corps, part of US Third Army un
der George Patton, was tasked with making the running through the Ardennes to meet the German Korps at Cologne, trapping 6th Guards Tank Army and 5th Guards Army in a pincer movement.

  Additionally, US 3rd Corps was to assault towards Koblenz, and the junction of the Mosel and Rhine.

  Whilst the land was white, there was no falling snow, and visibility was excellent across the battlefield, permitting ground-attack aircraft to successfully engage, bombers to hit their intended targets, and artillery spotters to bring their enemy under close scrutiny.

  The Allies advanced relatively unopposed.

  1209 hrs, Friday, 6th December 1945, Dahlem, Germany.

  Up to two minutes ago, the advance had been a relative breeze, with only the occasional resistance from a seemingly broken Red Army.

  Signs of hasty flight were everywhere, although not all Soviet soldiers had managed to escape.

  Only at Reuth had it been a problem for the 90th US Infantry, and Captain Towers had lost half a dozen men in a few minutes of frenzied activity.

  Love Company of the 359th Infantry Regiment had moved off the main route to check out the small village.

  The welcome of the local populace was cut short by the stammering of a DP 20.

  Four GI’s and twice as many civilians had been put down in the first burst. Two more of his men died during the storming of the Chapel, along with four of the Soviet soldiers who had been left behind.

  Two others found themselves in the hands of the enraged townsfolk, and were beaten to death before Towers could intercede.

  Had he been so inclined.

  Love Company had radioed in a contact report and was immediately rewarded by being ordered to take point as the slated unit, King Company, had a mine problem at Stadtkyll.

  One platoon of K had attempted to manouveure around the deadly mined ground, and found itself in L Company’s area, so was swiftly attached to Towers’ command.

  So, with orders for swift movement still ringing in his ears, Towers pushed his men forward, trading a little caution for speed of advance, right up to the point that mines became the least of his problems.