Opening Moves (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  The allied controlled airbase in Berlin came alive with light as Soviet artillery and Katyusha rockets brought down a huge barrage, destroying every aircraft on the ground and inflicting massive casualties on the base personnel.

  In precious few cases were the attackers met fully and equally and, in the space of seventy-five minutes, the western air forces from the Alps to the Baltic suffered grievous casualties in men and machines. In one stroke, a major part of the Allied armies was crippled for some time to come for a modest toll in Soviet aircrew and planes.

  In other operations, Soviet sabotage and assassination squads had mixed successes. General Clark’s warning had proved timely for all but one senior commander targeted, although for General George Patton it had been a close run thing, just missing the attack on his command centre, and for French General De Lattre de Tassigny in his Baden-Baden headquarters it had run closer, as his slight wounds from grenade shrapnel showed. Perversely, the attack on General Clark’s Salzburg headquarters was extremely effective in dealing death, and many US military personnel were killed before the situation was restored.

  The only real success on the part of the assassination squads was in the British sector at the Headquarters of Bad Oeynhausen, where Field-Marshal Montgomery was severely wounded by sub-machine gunfire before the Russians attackers were driven off, killed, or taken prisoner.

  Sabotage units successfully destroyed ammunition and fuel dumps across Germany and the Low countries. One special NKVD unit even managed to wreck the PLUTO facility at Ambleteuse in Northern France and another sunk two freighters in Antwerp harbour.

  In all cases, casualties among the attacking Soviet units were extreme.

  The groups targeting the symposiums carried out their missions with varying degrees of success.

  Zilant-1, landing surprisingly accurately in fields to the north-west of Schloss Ahrensberg, swiftly formed and made their attack, overwhelming a strong detachment of British Military police. Within twenty minutes of the first shot, the Schloss was ablaze and every allied officer and all members of Symposium Hamburg were dead or left wounded to die amid the flames. Few of the attacking paratroopers had perished and they split into small groups, fanning out through the German countryside intent on further mischief before they were hunted down.

  At Schloss Neuhaus near Paderborn, the result was much the same, although one aircraft was downed by anti-aircraft fire and one group of paratroopers drowned when dropped off target into the Lippesee. A company of US MP’s defended stoutly but the Soviet troopers stormed forward regardless of losses, killing all before them. No allied officers or symposium members escaped unharmed, although a desperate handful of wounded men managed to escape by swimming the moat.

  Some remained inside and were found one by one with inevitable results, but not before one Major from the 82nd US Airborne Division had burst from his hiding place and gunned down the commander and 2-I-C of the attacking paratroopers. Whilst he paid with his life in seconds, almost cut in half by a burst from a PPS sub-machine gun, the net effect was to paralyse the attackers. Instead of fanning out to cause trouble elsewhere, the unit halted as the new commander, an inexperienced young Captain, struggled to gain control. As a result, the Zilant-2 force found themselves besieged almost medieval style by arriving US combat units.

  Zilant-3’s attack was a bloodbath for both sides. Early heavy casualties came to the Russian paratroopers, as they were engaged both in the air and on the ground by wide-awake gunners of the 486th U.S. Anti-Aircraft Artillery Battalion using the deadly US M-16 half-track quadruple .50 cal Maxon anti-aircraft mount. This weapon could put about two thousand rounds a minute in the direction of the enemy and many casualties were simply obliterated in the blink of an eye.

  None the less, the paratroopers fought back. Grenades overwhelmed the defenders and the .50 calibres fell silent.

  The Schloss was defended by a full company of experienced infantry from the 70th U.S. Infantry Division, and it seemed like every window of the three storey structure bristled with weapons.

  Russian casualties were murderous.

  Some troopers were armed with scoped rifles and started to methodically work the windows, killing defenders, clearing complete areas to enable an assault to succeed.

  Finally, the Soviet paratroopers broke into the building and slowly cleared room-by-room, thankful that they had brought additional grenades for each man.

  Again, they were ruthless, leaving no man alive, killing even the wounded, be they in uniform or civilian clothing, even as experienced American reinforcements began to arrive.

  The battle in and around Schloss Kransberg began to abate as the surviving groups of paratroops were methodically eliminated room by room. By the end of it, only ninety-three Russians were left alive of the seven hundred and forty who had dropped on Kransberg, and many of them were badly wounded. Of the American defenders, symposium attendees and their German instructors, only three men was found alive, two of which were devoid of any identification, too wounded to talk and close to death. Six allied divisions and four corps had lost their commanders as a result.

  "The essence of war is violence. Moderation in war is imbecility"

  -British Sea Lord John Fisher

  Chapter 38 – THE CHTEAU

  0401 hrs Monday, 6th August 1945, With the Zilant #4 Group, Airborne over Allied occupied Germany.

  Makarenko had chosen to go with Zilant-4 for more than one reason. Firstly, it was the assault that the least preparation had gone into and most likely to need his leadership. Secondly, it was the furthest distance to travel and therefore the greatest risk of detection en route. Thirdly, it was the most difficult target by far. Fourthly, there was no information on what force was defending the Château. Finally, he had seen the place with his own eyes in the mid-twenties when, as a young Captain of twenty-five, he had visited France as part of a military mission after the Great War.

  As he looked around him at the other nineteen men confined within the dark red interior of the Li-2 transport aircraft he felt an icy hand grip him inside. He remembered how a light-hearted conversation between junior officers in the Autumn of 1925 had become serious, turning to military matters and, more specifically, how to assault the Château. They had concluded that modern weapons would make it an extremely costly exercise indeed.

  The General had selected the 3rd Battalion 298th deliberately, as the battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Oleg Potakov, was one of his very best officers. Capable of independent thinking and quick in adapting to tactical situations, the old hand had qualities that would be much in demand in the coming action.

  They were also the fittest of the combat units, again all due to Potakov’s regime. This was essential for the assault, as the gradients involved in reaching the Château were severe and would test the strongest and fittest of men, even without the additional load of weapons and equipment.

  Not for the first time that night, Makarenko prayed to a god he did not believe in. Thus far, they had not been fired at by ground forces, and no enemy aircraft had engaged them. However, his god had already turned his back on him, for the paratrooper battalion’s veteran commander and part of his headquarters group were already dead. Their Li-2 experienced catastrophic engine failure and turned into a fireball trying to land shortly after take-off.

  Looking around at his soldiers, Makarenko smiled and tried to encourage a relaxed attitude whilst all the time filled with foreboding. Smoking was forbidden on the aircraft, not the least of reasons being the two flame-throwers assigned to members of his group, both sitting snugly between the legs of their nervous owners. However, that did not mean that they could not drink, and so a bottle of Moscow Crystal vodka was doing the rounds, calming butterflies and bringing a warm glow to otherwise white faces.

  All the men with Makarenko were veterans of Leningrad, the Svir River, through to Vienna. None of them expected to survive this night’s action but still they went.

  Opposite him was the sle
eping figure of his best sniper who, although still a relative boy of nineteen, had taken the lives of over one hundred Axis soldiers with the Nagant rifle he was cradling. Yefreytor Aleksey Nikitin was renowned for his ability to sleep, even in the middle of an artillery barrage but, even so, Makarenko thought it showed great calm to do so on this night of all nights, and he envied him the ability to rest.

  Makarenko caught the enquiring gaze of a young Senior Sergeant and smiled back with genuine affection. He knew him well, the competent and lionhearted Nakhimov, for he had decorated him with the Order of the Patriotic War [first class] for his bravery when the 100th attacked over that damn Reichsbrücke Bridge in Vienna. They might still be trying to get over that river now if it had not been for Nakhimov killing those SS gunners with nothing more than grenades and a Nagant rifle. The hand to hand fighting had been bestial. Bayonets, knives, sharpened spades; all brought their own bloody wickedness. A shudder ran down Makarenko’s spine at the thought of the abject terror of that close-quarter fight. His inner voice spoke to him in respect of men long dead. ‘Govno! How those Germans had fought, even when defeated and doomed to die.’ His mind wandered to the calibre of the men with him, similarly doomed, and then to the unknown nature of the men they would face this night.

  He checked his watch, intimately familiar with the timings of the whole Zilant operation, mentally checking off another milestone, as his group should now be on the final run to target. Given the difficult nature of the terrain on approach, Zilant-4 was designed to arrive before the others, to allow time to get into position for a simultaneous attack by all four Zilant groups.

  The vodka bottle arrived back with him, an expensive purchase obtained during one of his recent visits to the capital, and one he shared with his men quite easily. With a smile, a raised eyebrow, and a raised bottle, he put the glass top to his lips and swallowed some of the smooth quality vodka. Re-stoppering the third-full bottle, he passed it to the air force crew chief, shouting over the drone of the engines.

  “For you and the pilots, as thanks for the ride Comrade Sergeant.”

  “Thank you Comrade General,” and no sooner had the words come from his lips than the bulkhead red light illuminated, drawing every single pair of eyes in the aircraft.

  “I wish you luck sir,” said the Sergeant, who stiffly saluted and issued the orders that set in motion preparations for jumping.

  As in all paratrooper arms, checking belts and buckles was all-important, and the troopers, now standing, went over the arrangements of the men in front and behind.

  Parachutes secure. Weapons secure. Kit secure. Hooked up.

  The Air Force Sergeant opened the door and all felt the chill of the high-speed air that rushed in.

  With a last check to make sure the magazine of his PPSH was firmly in place, Makarenko moved forward to the door and gripped the vertical rails that he would use to throw himself out into the night.

  One of his Majors had jokingly asked for a transfer to the Navy the previous evening, and right now that seemed like an excellent alternative.

  With no more thought than to understand the meaning of the forceful pat on his back and the now green light in the corner of his eye, Makarenko launched himself into the night sky over Alsace.

  0420 hrs Monday, 6th August 1945, Zilant #4 Group, Saint-Hippolyte drop zone, French Alsace.

  Ideally, he would have liked to put his forces down on the more level and easier ground to the south of Orschwiller but the distance was too great. Too much chance of the alarm being raised.

  Therefore, the drop zone was located to the north-west of Saint-Hippolyte, in an area that was reasonably free of jutting stones and mature trees but none the less angled and dangerous. Makarenko had little doubt that many of his young troopers would die in the jump.

  Overall, four hundred and ninety-three Russian paratroopers were targeted against the Château, which number had been reduced by the loss of the battalion commander and two further losses as aircraft aborted through malfunction.

  Four hundred and forty-one jumped from their aircraft over France and all made it to the ground, although twenty-seven would never rise again and another forty-six sustained injuries that took them out of the fight.

  The dead and injured were mainly gathered together on roughly the four hundred metre height line, near le Luttenbach, a small stream that ran from the heights towards Hippolyte, just west of a small road that led in the direction of the Château.

  Leaving a security force and medical personnel behind, Makarenko set off uphill, gathering stragglers to him as he advanced. It was a testament to the air force crews that nearly all his units had been dropped on the correct location and the benefit of that was immediately apparent to the General as he was quickly in command of a substantial organised force. With the stragglers came more injured who were either directed or escorted to the aid station by the stream.

  As Makarenko moved onwards and upwards, his senior officers gravitated towards him, eager for an update on the plan. In addition, the specially briefed and equipped point party assembled and took the lead in front of the General.

  The absence of Potakov was discovered, and a disappointed Makarenko appointed Major Rispan, the able 2IC, to command until the Lieutenant Colonel showed up.

  As such, the plan was very simple. Being paratroopers, they could rely solely on what they carried with them and many of the young troopers were laden with grapnels and lines. Others, from the engineer platoon, had explosive charges and detonators. The ever-present sniper rifles would be useful as ever but Makarenko’s ace in the hole was the mortar unit who hurried along at the rear of the column, having judiciously found every single round possible before joining the advance. Their four tubes would give the General an edge, provided a suitable place could be found to establish them. Field radios were the final essential tool, in order to ensure that the attack was as coordinated as it could possibly be.

  Despite all best efforts, over three hundred and fifty men moving through rough terrain in the dark cannot be a quiet affair, and so it was that the advance group had little notice of the presence of a small vehicle until its headlights announced its imminent arrival, stark against the darkness of the woods. A swift hand gesture and the paratroopers disappeared in an instant, most struggling to control their lungs as their systems demanded more oxygen.

  The men prepared their weapons but understood the general briefing that no shots were to be fired until the actual assault on the Château got underway. Yet again, the planning had taken into account the need for stealth and a small number of silenced weapons were available. The point party’s commanding officer crouching with Makarenko had one, a Standard HDM .22 calibre pistol. Across the other side of the track, the experienced eye could make out at least two S40 silencer equipped Nagant rifles and Makarenko knew that the Senior Lieutenant Nazarbayev commanding that group also had an HDM.

  As the vehicle grew closer Makarenko became aware that they were almost at a road junction, and from memory, he could see the map and recall the track running in from the west as the road they were on hair pinned back on itself. Less than four hundred metres from where he stood lay the gateway to the Château.

  The vehicle, a jeep all buttoned up, slowly descended from the west until it stopped roughly two hundred metres from the junction. Inside two lights could be distinguished, one swift in the act of lighting a cigarette, one constant as a torch was switched on. The jeep looked almost primeval, as its split screen, so illuminated, seemed almost to look malevolently upon the hidden paratroops.

  By some sixth sense, Makarenko understood the situation and stepped out into the road calling to two others, switching on his own torch and waving it from side to side. With him stood a relaxed pair of Russian officers concealing weapons of silent death.

  The internal light went out and the jeep started forward towards the group, the driver dipping the lights so as not to dazzle the ‘damn Frenchies’.

  It ground to a halt alongside
Makarenko.

  The side of the jeep was thrown open and a stocky American officer stepped out. Had Makarenko had the time to study American uniforms he would have seen the insignia of the 101st US Airborne Division. All he recognised was the rank of Major.

  The man stretched and spoke lazily, reaching into the jeep for his map.

  “Thank Christ you French guys are out here. I’ve been driving round for ages trying to find that damn Château.”

  He stopped stretching in an instant, suddenly aware that the uniforms were just not right and that there was hostility in the air.

  A glimpse of a concealed weapon emerging made him go for his own automatic but he was dead before his hand made it halfway, two silenced pistols taking his life in an instant.

  The driver was only faintly aware that something was not quite kosher before a second pair of bullets meant another American boy would not be home for Christmas.

  Some troopers quickly slipped out of hiding and carried the bodies into the woods.

  Nazarbayev extracted the clip and slid two replacement rounds home as he spoke to the General.

  “Comrade General. The American spoke of finding the Château. I think he was going there.”

  Ever the opportunist, Makarenko immediately saw the possibilities.

  “Are you sure young Vladimir?”

  A smile and a vigorous nod was all he needed.

  The jeep would be their Trojan horse and unlock the gates to Haut-Kœnigsbourg.

  Quickly he consulted his own map with his officers and set in place a plan.

  The main body moved on, ignoring the road and tackling the ascent on a more direct but less easy fashion through the woods.

  After some delay, the jeep and its new crew in American uniforms took to the road, crossing the track of Makarenko’s force twice on its way upwards.

  Slowly it ground towards the final bend to the west of the Château itself, where the up road meets the down road, and where the first French checkpoint was located. The assault force gathered to the south-west of the entrance gate. Parties scurried away, cutting communication wires when they found them. Others formed ready to make their own secondary attacks on different sections of the wall using line and grapnel. The mortar section set up ready to bring down a barrage on the Château or the road, either to break the defenders or stop reinforcements in their tracks, whichever was required. A blocking party was positioned on the approach road for just that purpose, with one of the precious radios.