Breakthrough (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  Steadying herself on target, she released her breath slowly and pulled the trigger at the optimum moment.

  The instantly ruined head jerked, Maleeva grunted in satisfaction, and Sergei searched for other targets.

  The leader of Kommando Bucholz watched as the man he had summoned dashed in an ungainly fashion across the open space between buildings and fell headlong into the old Gasthaus on the edge of Everstorfermoor.

  He moved to the top of the stairs and looked down upon the panting figure.

  Never a man to beat about the bush, the impatient ex-Captain of Armoured-Infantry hollered at the man who had just dived into his position in response to his Kommandoführer’s urgent summons.

  “Erwin, get up here, first floor, and bring your secret weapon!”

  Despite his disability, the new arrival took the stairs two at a time and formally presented himself, saluting at the attention, resplendent in his German army uniform.

  “Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann. What can I do for the Herr Hauptmann this evening?”

  Choosing to ignore his old friend’s mock formality and the huge grin on Schultz’s face, he pointed the man towards the rocking chair in the corner of the room. Once Schultz was seated, he spoke quickly but softly.

  “The pioniere’s have had a hard time of it. We spotted two of the sniper’s, and they’re dead, but it cost us too.”

  Schultz had noticed the five bodies placed reverently outside, at the rear of the old gasthaus.

  “So you need Irma and me to sort the problem out?”

  Balancing on his good leg, Müller kicked a broken stirrup pump that lay amongst the rubble on the bedroom floor.

  “Indeed I do, Feldwebel Schultz, but only if you are up to it obviously.”

  “Depends if you are going to play the damned hero part whilst I work, Herr Hauptmann.”

  Nearby members of Kommando Bucholz were unsurprised by the exchange, for the two were old comrades, members of the ‘Grossdeutschland’ from its early days until they were both seriously wounded during the Battle of Michurin-Rog. Each had lost a leg in the action, Hauptmann Müller in the act of destroying two tanks that threatened to overrun his company headquarters, and Feldwebel Schultz in reflecting the same achievement, and also in rescuing his wounded officer, whose leg had been blown off by a mortar shell. However, Schultz had also used an MG34, Müller’s Walther, and a bag of hand grenades to drive off the Russian infantry company accompanying the four tanks, leaving over forty dead as they retired from the field.

  Equipped with prosthetic limbs, neither had been fit to return to active duties and had trained replacements until dismissed from service in late April to return to their homes.

  Both men wore their field uniforms, each man’s decorations mirroring the other’s, save for the Knights Cross dangling lazily at the throat of the junior man, courtesy of the senior’s recommendation for his actions at Michurin Rog that bloody day.

  “There is no cure for throat ache now, Herr Hauptmann, so keep your head down and pull whatever stunt you have to pull.”

  Müller laughed, but it died quickly, for the throat ache he felt was the absence of the Knight’s Cross, which most in his old machine-gun unit felt he had earned a score of times on the Russian steppes.

  “Just make sure that you and Irma do the job first time clear?”

  Placing his ST-44 assault rifle carefully in the corner of the room, Schultz pulled the secret weapon off his back and removed the blanket in which he always lovingly wrapped it.

  The light playing on glistening wood and metal, Schultz unveiled an object of deadly beauty. ‘Irma’ had formerly been part of a Soviet Guards infantry unit that Grossdeutschland destroyed in 1942. Having been ripped from the frozen hands of its former owner, ‘she’ became the personal weapon of choice for Feldwebel Schultz. Indeed, Müller had provided him with a signed document confirming his permission to bear the weapon and preventing any overzealous officer from taking it away.

  Over time, Schultz had acquired and hoarded ammunition for the Mosin-Nagant sniper’s rifle. He doted on it, oiling metal and wood, keeping the weapon in pristine shape and prime killing condition.

  When the rifle had been produced in a Russian factory it was firing-tested like all rifles, and the Soviets always set aside the best of them for further conversion to snipers rifles. The weapon Schultz had liberated was the very best of the best, its 4xPEM sight perfect, and not a blemish to be seen on the whole length of the weapon.

  Conservative estimates credited Schultz with killing over one hundred and fifty enemy troops with the weapon but his speciality was in killing snipers themselves, and up to sustaining his amputation, he had been officially been accredited with twenty-two such executions, high value kills that meant that many German boys still breathed.

  “So, where are they hiding?”

  Müller grabbed his chin, half contemplating the stirrup pump, half preparing his answer.

  “The other side of the river. Other than that, I don’t really have a clue, Erwin.”

  “Fuck.”

  “I agree entirely, Feldwebel,” grinning from ear to ear as his plan took shape, “But we’ll kill the bastards, just the same.”

  Muller showed Schultz a hole in the wall. It was covered with a large pillow, and an old blanket sat next to it, ready for use.

  The former officer knew how Schultz liked to operate and had made the necessary extras available.

  “I thought that would be suitable for you?”

  Schultz liked the height. He could comfortably lie down and the pillow would be handy to prevent the brickwork scratching Irma. He checked the area behind the hole. It was dark enough to be safe, and he settled himself down, ready to adjust Irma’s sights.

  “Range to the target? Best guess?”

  Muller drew in the dust on the floor, sketching each item in turn until dramatically marking his final position with a cross.

  “Roughly two hundred metres to the bridge. They’re not there. I think eight hundred metres to the tree line, but they’re not there. I think they’re in the middle ground, Erwin. My gut says on the road line. You know there’s a ditch either side. Probably about.....here”

  Schultz considered the matter and resolved it immediately.

  “I will set for five hundred metres then.”

  “I see no advantage in firing from elsewhere, especially as I’ve found such a perfect spot for you here, Erwin.”

  Schultz mumbled a reply, his mind already coming into focus for the job in hand.

  “Excellent. Now you have a few minutes while I get set up. You’ll like this.”

  The officer grinned with unconcealed glee as he picked up the old stirrup pump and worked at separating it from the perished hose.

  His own preparations done for now, Schultz held the rifle between his knees and reached for his cigarettes.

  “Time for a smoke, Herr Hauptmann?”

  “You are way ahead of me, aren’t you? Carry on, Feldwebel.”

  The puzzled man sat more upright and eased his false limb into the right position, lit a cigarette, and watched his commander and friend set his trap.

  Schultz had finished his cigarette at the same time as the trap had been prepared. When Müller had finished, he stood back and admired his handiwork.

  “You are a fucking sneaky bastard, Herr Hauptmann, if you don’t mind me saying so!”

  Muller half-bowed in mock appreciation.

  Schultz stretched himself out on the floor, again checking the area behind him, and brought ‘Irma’ into position.

  Taking hold of the blanket he pulled it up over his head to prevent any light showing through when he extracted the pillow.

  Before committing himself Schultz stuck his head out and looked up at his leader for the command.

  With an unlit cigarette in his mouth, Muller checked everything was ready.

  “Let’s do it. Alles klar, Herr Feldwebel?”

  “Alles klar, Herr Hauptmann,” said Schultz,
as he and Irma retreated into their personal darkness.

  “What a fool. Olga, an easy kill for you, sweetheart.”

  Maleeva had slid down into the ditch where she was enjoying a few sips of water before resuming her work. The whispered summons brought her slowly sliding back into position.

  “Stop calling me sweetheart, you uncultured ass wipe,” the words were hissed with mock venom, for she and Erinov were more of a team than was militarily permitted. Soon she would have to declare that she was pregnant, but not who the father was, or the two would not serve together again.

  “Where?”

  “The building nearest the bridge. The man hides but yet he reveals himself. Can’t you see?”

  He waited as the sniper swept the zone.

  “The smoke, Olga. First floor balcony, yellow door to the left of centre. Slightly open. You can see him breathing out his smoke and the very tip of his helmet.”

  Maleeva settled and concentrated on the yellow door. There. A breath of smoke blossomed at an average man’s head height from behind the slightly open door, and as Sergei had said, the very tip of a helmet was in view.

  “Fool indeed, Comrade.”

  “Four-seven-five metres I think.”

  Maleeva just hummed ‘uh-ha’, her rifle already set to four hundred and her ability to make the adjustment herself not in question.

  Carefully, she assessed the point at which the smoke made itself known around the door, using the helmet tip to make a judgement as to where to place the shot.

  One more puff to make sure.

  The rifle kicked into her shoulder and Sergei saw a hole appear in the door at precisely the spot he would have fired, had it been his turn to rifle this day.

  Another stream of smoke escaped, and the helmet remained.

  Ego is often a dangerous thing, especially if you are a sniper.

  For a sniper, ego can be a terminal affliction.

  Shocked that she had got her calculations wrong, Maleeva adjusted without sparing a thought for any other possibility.

  She breathed out and fired, Sergei immediately marking the disappearance of the helmet tip and noted Olga’s grunt of satisfaction.

  Ignoring the familiar ‘zip’ sound of a passing bullet, Erinov turned to congratulate his lover, to be greeted by the vision of her lifeless eyes as she slid back down towards the bottom of the ditch.

  Within seconds he joined her, a Mosin-Nagant round taking him just in front of his left ear and blowing off the larger portion of the right side of his skull.

  “Done.”

  The rifle was withdrawn from the hole, and the pillow put back to stop up the gap. Immediately Schultz emerged from under the blanket, he started to run a rag over Irma’s body, removing any dust.

  Müller let the end of the fire hose drop to the ground and, having spat and wiped away the dirt that had accumulated on his lips from blowing smoke down it, he concentrated on enjoying a second cigarette, free from the taste of soot and rubber.

  Looking across at his old comrade, he appreciated the man’s professional examination of his brain wave sniper trap.

  The old fire hose secured to the door at head height, with the wooden shelf jammed in behind it on which the helmet had proudly sat before the second shot sent it spinning away.

  “You are one perverted soul, Jochen Müller. I have to hand it to you on that one. The Devil will welcome you to his domain with open arms, you do know that?”

  Müller guffawed loudly.

  “Oh, what a comfort! Danke, Kamerad. At least I won’t be alone.”

  Schultz acknowledged the point with an accepting nod and a grin.

  The light moment evaporated as professionalism established itself once more.

  “Same position or do you need to move?”

  Schultz gave it a moment’s thought.

  “I can go from here again I think. It was only the one sniper, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes it was. So, when you’re ready, we shall see whether we will get any more customers for our contraption, although I think the Russians will be coming in larger numbers soon.”

  As they had started their deadly game, the artillery and mortars had picked up their firing rates, a reasonable signpost for an imminent attack.

  ‘C’ Company had been very badly mauled in their defence of Tostedt, which was why Lascelles had shuffled the pack and dropped them back into Dreihausen, where they could quickly sort themselves out.

  Only eighty-seven men had made it out of Tostedt, and then, only by the skin of their teeth. Behind them lay numerous dead and wounded, accompanied by a few volunteers to tend them. Many Canadians had been summarily executed before Zvorykin brought order.

  Those eighty-seven survivors suddenly found themselves in a maelstrom of fire, as Soviet T34’s and rider infantry charged down the road from Otter and crashed into their hastily prepared positions. Some 2” mortars coughed defiantly, a few rifles, and one Bren, got off a few shots before the position was overrun by dismounted submachine gunners.

  The young 2nd Lieutenant who now commanded the unit was beaten to the ground as the company command post was overrun.

  In less than ten minutes, ‘C’ Company had been wiped out, over half its survivors surrendering without a fight, too exhausted by their previous exertions to offer resistance.

  Through the gap, Zvorykin led his own tired men, but victory has a habit of giving soldiers energy, and they were on top of the Carleton & York engineers before they could do more than manage a few desultory shots.

  Dreihausen Bridge was intact and secure, and Major Zvorykin set about the second part of his orders.

  It was ‘B’ Company who got the warning out, suddenly aware of enemy attacking from their south, as more Russian infantry and tanks pressed in on Tiefenbruch and Riepshof from the east.

  The carrier soldiers and the dozen men from the ‘Bucholz’ found themselves attacked by tanks coming from Dreihausen.

  Panzerfausts taught the tanks a harsh lesson and four T34’s flamed in as many minutes. The Soviet infantry again dismounted and charged.

  Some carriers were destroyed by tank shells, but five were captured as a brief close combat ended with the defenders overpowered. The Canadians, for the Russians now knew who they faced, were organised into a party and marched off to the rear at speed.

  The five surviving members of the Kommando Bucholz’s Panzerfaust group were summarily executed as partisans.

  Part of Yarishlov’s force was drawn into the fighting with ‘B’ Company, the Canadian perimeter swiftly became a circle as the unit was surrounded, along with the greater part of the Support platoon.

  Radio messages screaming for support arrived in the battalion command post but the pot was empty.

  ‘A’ Company reported enemy infantry in Vaerlon and also in Burgsittensen.

  Some good news came from the Admin Platoon stationed in the woods south-west of Avensermoor. They had spotted tanks to the south, probably coming from Stemmen, which had to make them friendly but that bright spot was tempered with the fact that efforts to make contact with the new force had failed, and so they were of limited value at the moment.

  Enemy troops were pushing hard at Everstorfermoor and still the bridge was standing.

  “Where is Roberts? Get him on the radio. I need him to sort that bloody mess out!”

  The strain was beginning to tell as it became obvious that the Carleton & York’s were in big trouble.

  “Any response from Brigade? I must have tanks and artillery support. Where’s my artillery support? The Russians are coming. Where is air eh? Where is my air?” The cigar rotated fiercely in his hand; a hand trembling with the strain.

  In truth, a calm and rational officer could not have saved the battalion from the fate Yarishlov had prepared for it, but Lascelles’ obvious decline affected everyone, a feeling of near-panic spreading through the entire battalion headquarters.

  Brigade Headquarters had heard the reports and had responded, both by ra
dio and by dispatching physical support, but nothing they could do would salvage the situation.

  Looking at the cigar, his psychological prop, he snorted and threw it onto the map table.

  Lascelles slipped under the waves of despair and was engulfed by panic and terror in equal measure.

  Through the mists of desperation he heard a voice shouting outside the command tent.

  “Tanks! Fucking tanks!”

  These were obviously the tanks Admin Platoon had seen, and a wild-eyed Lascelles dashed outside to make contact. Inside the tent, a shocked 1st Lieutenant tried hard to bring order to the chaos caused by his commanding officer’s rapid breakdown.

  Lascelles’ mad dash caught the attention of the tank commander and he gave the contact report, his hull gunner easily locating the running figure and dropping him with a short burst. Lascalles died without understanding Admin Platoon’s error.

  The majority of 4th Guards’ 1st Battalion swept up and into Wümme, fanning out to the north-west and enjoying the target laden environment laid out before them.

  The Carleton & York’s mortar platoon had been pumping shell after shell across the Oste in an attempt to stop that assault and had no time to reorient before direct fire from a dozen T34’s swept their position, killing one in five of the men in a few seconds.

  From Burgsittensen in the north-west through to Dreihausen in the south-east, the Canadians were being slaughtered.

  Some 6-pounder anti-tank guns from the 1st AT Regiment had been turned to face westwards, and they lashed out at the tanks in and around Wümme. The others started to seek targets in the area around Tostedt Land, finding it hard to distinguish between friend and foe in the failing light.

  Zvorykin had under-estimated the distance and it had taken him longer than he had expected to move silently up the south bank of the Wümme River.

  To his dismay, he witnessed one enemy gun find a target and spared a horrified, yet fascinated moment to watch the destroyed vehicle burn.

  Checking his map he consulted his pre-noted coordinates and called for his radio.