Impasse (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  The lead Sherman disappeared in smoke, its right track paying out, eventually flopping uselessly off the rear bogies, the left track driving the tank in an arc before the vehicle came to a halt, facing precisely north-east.

  Inside the Sherman, the driver was screaming in agony, the shock wave from the anti-tank mine having shattered both his ankles.

  The hull gunner was unconscious, his wounds more severe, his right side damaged by the force of the explosion, his thigh already expanding as the internal blood loss mounted.

  Hardegen went for his radio, ready to cater for any new threat, but chose to stay silent for the moment, leaving that situation to one of his officers whilst he took in the bigger picture, and listened to the frantic reports from his other force, east of Strassfeld.

  1438 hrs, Wednesday, 11th December 1945, Route 61, east of Strassfeld, Germany.

  Moreno had already had the hard experience of seeing his best friend die, and in a way outside that considered ‘acceptable’ to the combat soldier.

  Now, hell was being visited upon him, and he wrenched the earphones off his head, refusing to listen to the screams of dying men any longer.

  In any case, they had now stopped, them and the radio beyond repair as the flames consumed everything in the stricken tank.

  He cast a baleful eye at the Sherman ahead and to the right, the fire rising in a straight line from the open hatches, wherein five men, one of them his senior NCO and rock since day one, were being incinerated in their knocked out tank.

  Another Soviet shell crossed the no man’s land, seeking to inflict more death.

  The sound of it striking metal was intense, and the deep clang rang across the snow covered ground.

  The target, another Easy Eight, shrugged off the shell and it careened skywards, disappearing from sight somewhere behind Moreno’s field of vision.

  Two halftracks darted right, keen to be out of the field of fire of whatever it was, heading for some hedgerows.

  The lead vehicle hardly lost any speed as a solid shot punched through the rear compartment, easily penetrating the metal on both sides, and hardly noticing the two armored infantrymen that it dissected on its travel.

  The driver lost control on an icy match of road and the M3 fishtailed before coming to rest, nose down in a ditch adjacent to the road.

  Half the remaining crew had enough wits to throw themselves out of the vehicle.

  Starshina Kon ensured that the next round was an HE round, and it was right on target, destroying the halftrack and its remaining contents.

  The T54 shifted position again, quickly dropping back and left into a wooden redoubt, complete with an earth and board roof.

  The delay in moving brought Moreno’s tanks closer.

  “There, that small mound dead ahead. Something just moved!”

  There was no time to tear the hull gunner a new asshole for his procedure, but Moreno filed it for when they got out of the battle.

  ‘If we get outta the goddamned fucking battle!’

  The gunner was clearly losing it, his voice reflecting his fright.”

  “On-n.”

  “Fire!”

  The 76mm spat a shell at whatever it was in the small bunker, and was rewarded with the clues of a metal on metal strike.

  “Lay it on the fucker again, Smitty!”

  “Calm down! Calm… down! It didn’t penetrate! Find the tank that hit us.”

  The ATPAU’s experimental T54 had only just moved into the position when the shell had struck the front of the turret, sending sparks everywhere, and firing up into the earth and wood roof, sending the result of three hours work by some helpful infantrymen sky-high in less than a second.

  “Target. On!”

  “Fire!”

  The T54 bucked as it put a shell into the air. The movement hadn’t ceased before a squeal of delight rose from Kolesnikov’s mouth, the impressive end of another enemy tank marked by the turret, still tumbling through the air.

  Moreno wilted as the tank immediately to his right was blotted out, the turret turning end over end as it flew through the air, before coming to rest on the edge of the small frozen lake. The hot metal melted much of the ice surrounding it and it sank slightly into the earth, coming to rest in an upright position, resembling a dug-in tank waiting in ambush.

  The gunner had already put another shell into the position ahead, but without the same rewards offered by his last effort.

  “Driver, jink, goddamnit it, the turret’s turning on us.”

  He had only just realized what it was he was looking at, and now understood that their enemy was definitely a tank, and it had selected them for its undivided attention.

  The Soviet 100mm shell struck the corner of his glacis and deflected away into the snow.

  “Again, Smitty, again!”

  “On!”

  “Fire!”

  The movement of the Sherman prevented a decent shot, and the shell went wildly wide.

  The enemy tank also missed.

  Moreno’s Sherman closed the gap.

  “Calmly does it, Oleg. You can do this. Fire when you’re ready.”

  Every essence of Kon’s being wanted to shout at the man and reverse his tank away, but his training told him otherwise, and he calmly encouraged the gunner to do his job.

  The 100mm recoiled as another shell was sent on its way, striking the very top of the Sherman’s mantlet before travelling a few feet further, removing the .50cal at the pintel mount.

  The enemy shells continued to miss as the Sherman bounced around but, by way of return, the distance was closing, and the Sherman was nearly in the relative safety of the same small copse that had hidden Kon’s tank.

  Except for one small difference.

  “C’mon! C’mon! Pedal to the metal, Marty! C’mon!”

  No sooner had Moreno shouted the encouragement than the tank slewed, one track with firm grip, the other losing it in a slushy, muddy hole that deprived the tank of traction

  The tank slowed considerably, and continued to lose forward momentum as the left track sought purchase on something about as resistant as water.

  Perversely, the sudden arrest of their forward movement spared them, and the 100mm shell streaked past without contact.

  Although it came at the cost of being an easier target, the Sherman was now a better gun platform and Smith put the sight on the enemy tank. Part of him acknowledged the unspoken suggestion that it was not one he’d seen before, whilst the other part required silence as it concentrated on killing it, whatever it was.

  An HVAP flew from one tank to the other in less than a second, with spectacular results.

  The T54 had just started to reverse away, relocating to yet another position, when the 76mm shell struck its front left bogie, stripping it, and the track it held, from the tank.

  Inexorably, the shell moved on, removing idlers and lodging in the rear drive, jamming it solid.

  The 100mm had fired virtually at the same moment and the shell struck the centre of the glacis plate of the Easy Eight, deflecting against the hull side, through the hull gunner before exiting into the floor area, and wreaking unknown damage under the revolving turret floor.

  The smell of tortured metal, blood and smoke overrode their every sense and the hatches quickly flew open, propelled by desperate men.

  Moreno grabbed his gunner.

  “The fucker’s still alive, Smitty. Let’s give her one more now. One more, mano.”

  Smith was scared out of his wits, but responded automatically to the voice of his commander, dropping back down into his seat. The loader was long gone, so Moreno pushed home another HVAP.

  “On.”

  “Fire!”

  Nothing happened.

  “Shit! Misfire!”

  Smitty started the procedure automatically.

  Firing the gun a further three times, one for luck, Smith gave the order to his loader and the breech was opened. With the utmost of care, Moreno extracted the shell and nestle
d it carefully in his arms.

  It was still there when a 100mm shell punched through the hull front and exploded against the rear of the crew compartment, roughly one and a half foot from Moreno.

  Two explosions combined.

  “Nice shooting, Oleg. He blew up rather nicely.”

  “When the fucking thing works, this is a great gun.”

  That was true, and Kon had found himself wishing he had been able to take it into battle against the German Panzers at Kursk, during Bagration, or at the Seelow Heights.

  Another Sherman was filling his sight.

  “Target front, four degrees left.”

  “On!”

  “Fire!”

  The tank caught fire and the crew bailed out.

  Moreno’s driver, witness to the destruction of his tank and his friends, dashed away and threw himself into a depression in the ground.

  From there, he stood witness to the destruction of yet another of Moreno’s force.

  He turned when the sound of heavy breathing reached him, expecting to find a fellow tanker seeking refuge.

  The Siberian Kandra ripped into his chest, and he fell bleeding into the snow.

  The other Soviet soldier crawled past his gasping comrade, avoided the dying American, and slipped up to the edge of the hole. He calmly flipped up the sights of the last but one Panzerfaust his company possessed, and waited for his moment.

  “Mohawk-six, Stonewall-one, over.”

  Hardegen had heard some of what had gone on, and feared the worst. It fell to the commander of one of the 808th’s Jacksons to fill him in on the gory details.

  Master Sergeant Christensen told the story without emotion, and in as few words as possible.

  He was interrupted by the arrival of a large caliber shell.

  The 100mm transited the turret from front left, brushing the breech without causing damage before striking the corner of the open turret and down through the back of the turret, carrying on to clip the rear body and burying itself in the snow a few yards from the Jackson.

  No one was so much as scratched by the transit of the large shell.

  “Motherfucker! Find the bastard, find him now!”

  That proved a lot easier than expected, as the T54 was again producing smoke, thick oily smoke that announced its position to the world.

  “Crew, bale out!”

  Kolesnikov looked at his commander.

  “I can try mending it. He’s still alive, Comrade!”

  “As are we, Oleg, but not for long if we don’t get out. The gun’s fucked so that’s that. Now, bale out!”

  He went, leaving Kon alone.

  Picking out his notebook, he quickly studied the list.

  Leaning forward, he grabbed the technical manual and inserted flares in it and its accompanying additional notes. He placed a shell in the breech and left it half out. A few more shells were added to the floor.

  He opened a small fuel cock and fuel oil began to flow into the fighting compartment.

  An enemy shell struck his tank, rocking it hard and dislodging the shell in the breech.

  Kon lunged forward, and stopped the casing from dropping to the floor.

  Quickly he re-inserted it and performed the final act.

  He opened a small box in his position and pressed two buttons simultaneously.

  Sticking his head out to check the battle situation, he was nearly decapitated by a 90mm shell screaming past the turret. As it was, the heat hurt his eyes, and he swore he could smell singed hair.

  The Jackson had missed, and so he lunged for safety as the demolition charge burned away.

  The results were spectacular for both the T54, and the remaining portions of the bunker position it was in.

  Christensen was claiming the kill when a panzerfaust struck the glacis of his tank, wounding both men in the hull.

  He grabbed the ‘grease gun’ and threw himself off the SP, intent on hosing down the bastard who had hit his tank.

  Firing as he ran, his mind barely registered the shape of another panzerfaust emerging from the position.

  He snatched for a grenade before realizing that he had none, his eyes widening as the enemy anti-tank soldier took careful aim.

  Screaming like a banshee, he hurled the empty grease gun at the enemy soldier, and redoubled his efforts to close the man down before he fired.

  He failed.

  “Job tvoyu mat… but that was fucking disgusting!”

  Kon couldn’t agree more.

  Both he and Morozov had been looking straight at the small battlefield cameo, unable to interfere, but none the less concentrating intently on who would win the small race for life or death.

  Neither had expected to watch the enemy soldier transformed into a fog of liquid and small pieces by the direct strike of a panzerfaust warhead on his chest.

  The firer seemed little better off, lying in the snow on the edge of his position, face down and motionless. The soldier who had been behind him seemed in a state of shock, the whole area round the vaporised American soldier transformed into one giant flower head comprising various shades of red.

  The Jackson crew was too busy trying to get themselves to a position of safety to realize that their commander had given his life for them.

  Checking the T54, and being satisfied that its secrets were destroyed, as per orders, Kon called his men together and they started off at the run, keen to put as much distance between them and the advancing enemy force.

  1503 hrs, Wednesday, 11th December 1945, Strassfeld, Germany.

  The advance had been stopped dead, Moreno’s force gutted by the T54, some anti-tank and anti-personnel grenades, a few hand-picked anti-tank infantry, and a whole lot of good luck.

  The surviving doughboys had migrated westwards, dropping into the edge of Strassfeld, where they found themselves under close assault by Artem’yev’s Guardsmen.

  Artem’yev’s wound was painful, but did not persuade him to leave the battlefield.

  He had been flung against a brick wall when an engineer charge exploded, and his arm had snapped with a sound that exceeded that of the fierce fighting taking place for every brick and stick that was once Strassfeld.

  “There, we will attack there!”

  His left arm tucked in his tunic and supported by bandages, he wielded his pistol, using it to inform his assault group where he intended to attack next.

  “Urrah!”

  The twelve man group shouted as they sprang forwards yet again, the bodies of ten of their comrades left behind in other hotly contested places.

  The man running next to Artem’yev screamed and fell, rolling over a few times before coming to a silent halt.

  Another took his place.

  Artem’yev tried not to notice that his men migrated to positions around him, in an effort to prolong his life and preserve him from harm.

  An American soldier appeared in front of him, raising his head to take a look at the attacking Russians.

  Artem’yev blew the man’s brains all over the wall behind him, immediately leaping in through the window the dead man had once occupied.

  He overbalanced on landing, his broken arm unable to offer assistance, falling awkwardly, and smashing the broken limb into the chair the American had been resting on.

  Artem’yev screamed in agony.

  Another US soldier clattered round the corner into the area and put two rounds into the next Guardsman as he climbed through the window.

  The Carbine shells didn’t kill him, and he went down, holding his shattered crotch.

  One bullet did for the next man, catching him on the bridge of the nose and scrambling the brains beyond, dropping the corpse half in, half out of the window..

  Recovering himself, Artem’yev put four shots into the American, throwing him back against the door frame.

  More men arrived from both sides, and the small area became a seething mass of humanity, as men battled to stay alive whilst exhibiting no humanity whatsoever.

 
; It was truly awful, but reflected Artem’yev’s plans to bring the enemy close, and was exactly the same in many other positions throughout the ruins of Strassfeld.

  A man fell heavily against Artem’yev as he struggled to raise himself up, dislodging the pistol from his grasp. A second blow occurred, and the Soviet Colonel found himself face down on the floor with one man’s full weight on him, plus the majority of another man’s, as two soldiers strove to throttle the life out of each other.

  Again, the agony of his broken arm overcame him, and he noisily vented the pain.

  The weight lessened as another American soldier took an interest and joined in.

  He pulled back the Soviet soldier’s head and ran his knife from ear to ear, bathing both his comrade and Artem’yev in blood.

  “Thank… thanks… Walter…”

  The rescued man coughed and gasped his way through his thanks and stood as best he could, unwittingly allowing Artem’yev to recover his Tokarev.

  Two rounds smashed into the lower back of the rescued GI, three more destroyed the chest of Walter, his saviour.

  Artem’yev’s intervention changed the balance in the fight, and the last armored infantryman was shot down by a burst of PPSh, leaving two survivors moaning on the floor.

  An experienced corporal shot them both.

  Artem’yev, deftly sliding a full magazine into his Tokarev one-handed, slapped a few shoulders and led his men on.

  A grenade landed at his feet and he kicked out, making a heavy contact, and sending the deadly object back through a doorway.

  It exploded, sending a shower of dust and plaster in all directions.

  Some sixth sense warned Artem’yev.

  “Out!”

  His men threw themselves out of the windows and doors, their departure marked by the arrival of at least four more grenades.