Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  Clearing his mind, he thought back to the plan, reliving the simple presentation.

  The mortars.

  ‘Yes of course’.

  Then the tanks.

  ‘Yes, Yes.’

  Ordering his Gaz jeep to move off, he bore down on the OP of the mortar unit, intent on wiping the enemy off the ridge to his front.

  The artillery that had claimed his commander had also dealt roughly with the observation team, his arrival unnoticed as the two bloodied survivors worked on the damaged radio.

  Extracting his map, he spoke quickly with the senior survivor, a Lieutenant whose eardrums had been shattered by a close shell.

  Writing out his orders for the deaf man, he succeeded in getting his message across.

  It was even more of a fillip for him when the radio showed obvious signs of life.

  Slapping both men on the shoulders, he moved off to his vehicle, secreted behind a small farm building, adjacent to a smouldering wrecked vehicle of a type that he couldn’t recognise.

  Behind the British lines, the battery commander, the incoming directions now dried up, took it upon himself to fire on the last location, sending his 4.5” shells southwards, one misfire earning his immediate attention.

  The shells arrived on target.

  Dubestnyi heard the scream of shells and threw himself into a hole.

  The mortar OP survivors were obliterated by the first shell to strike the ground.

  The second struck the building, blowing all four walls outwards perfectly, the flat brickwork lying symmetrically out from the solid, but cratered, base.

  The third shell struck just behind the Gaz jeep, lifting it and its two occupants into a large tree some thirty metres away, the grisly package remaining stuck above ground level, flesh and metal swaying violently, defying the expectations of gravity.

  The fourth shell landed close to the destroyed scout car, causing more insult to already slain men.

  Back with the howitzers, standard operating procedure was applied and the gun re-fired.

  Not that anyone expected the shell to fire off, but it did, a relief sweeping amongst the crew, now that they would not have to complete the misfire procedure.

  Back at the target, Dubestnyi raised his head at the moment the shell landed, striking the fallen wall nearest the hole in which he had taken shelter.

  A brick, perfect and undamaged, propelled by the force of the shell’s violent end, struck him in the temple, staving in the front of his skull, and destroying much of the brain matter beyond.

  The Soviet commander gurgled incoherently, dying alone and unseen in the bottom of his accidental grave, his death painless but protracted, the sound of fighting long ended before he took his last shallow breath.

  On the Guards hillock, the fighting was desperate.

  Command of the Irish soldiers lay firmly on the shoulders of the surviving officer, a recent arrival from the halls of Sandhurst, ill prepared for the realities of modern combat.

  Despite his wounds, he moved position to position, bucking up his boys, doing what he was taught an officer should do, even though the officer in question had solely one good eye with which to find his way.

  The Jocks of the Royal Scots had taken a fearful pounding and welcomed the young officer, their own leader having fallen in the first attack.

  Every probe, every rush was bloodily repulsed, but every pile of Soviet dead came at a cost to the Irish and Scots.

  An unseasonably hot sun broke through the cloud and started to bake the soldiers of both sides, adding to their discomfort.

  An Irish Guards Lance-Sergeant sought out the new officer. Tumbling into the small log pile that now constituted the company headquarters, he gasped frantically for air, alternating between an upright and face down position as he struggled to get enough oxygen into his lungs. Face streaming blood from a nasty cheek wound, the NCO looked on his last legs.

  “Sir, we can’t hold the buggers. Me Brens have little ammo, and half the lads are down. We gotta pull back beyond the water there.”

  The bemused officer listened but did not hear, his shock taking over.

  “O’Rourke, you’re wounded.”

  “Sir, we gotta withdraw or me boys will all die here this day!”

  “Someone fetch the medic, will you?”

  O’Rourke spat as blood filled his mouth.

  “For fuck’s sake Lieutenant! Give the order or we’ll all meet the Lord Almighty on this fucking hill!”

  A flight of ground attack aircraft flew overhead, hugging the ground, as best they could, to avoid interception, intent on wreaking havoc somewhere to the north. The Irishman, distracted as he quickly checked the Soviet aircraft were not a threat, initially missed the movement of the mentally incapacitated Lieutenant.

  The officer rose and headed off, his gait unsteady, his internal compass all wrong.

  “Oh sweet Jesus! Sir, will you come back here now, for the love of God!”

  Totally confused, the battered young man shouted constantly for medics to attend his NCO, even appealing to the Soviet engineers who closed in on him, before they battered his vulnerable frame to the ground.

  His capture gave O’Rourke command of the company, a position he used immediately, shouting to nearby men, organising them to stand fast, whilst others were to slip away across the modest watercourse.

  Seventy-nine sons of Ireland had pinned their colours to the hill. Exactly forty made their way back over the water to the north bank.

  The Royal Scots did not get the order, but in any case could not have disengaged successfully, so close were they to the attackers. The Penal troopers stormed the Jock’s positions, hand grenades and sub-machine guns doing awful work amongst the trees and foxholes.

  The platoon was overrun, some men choosing death, some choosing life.

  The prisoners were not all lucky, and more than one man was bayoneted in an act of vengeance, payback for a comrade lying dead or wounded in the hell the Russians had charged through.

  The Soviet tank support had withered away, mainly destroyed by the accurate fire of the single tank that hugged the shallow slope, five hundred yards to the north-west.

  Balianov had remained in his position, his tank concealed, whilst he tried to work out what to do about the unknown monster vehicle.

  Charles made a decision.

  “Driver, time to relocate. Reverse her up the way we came and we will pop round and up on top of the hillock.”

  In response, the Rolls-Royce Meteor engine increased its note from idle, and the Centurion reversed out of its firing position.

  “Commander, gunner. Infantry target to front, range six hundred.”

  “I see it. Engaging.”

  The Centurion Mk I, of which the British Army presently boasted six pre-production trials vehicles, was equipped with a 20mm Polsten cannon.

  The Polsten was a version of the Oerlikon, less parts, cheaper to build, but with no loss of performance.

  Twenty-three explosive 20mm shells spat from the Polsten mount, transforming the target area into a mass of rising earth and dust.

  Enough of them struck Balianov to remove everything from his armpits upwards.

  Third Kompagnie of the 58th Grenadieres were enjoying the payback of a turkey shoot, their mixed machine-guns reaping a deadly harvest amongst the attacking Soviet infantry.

  None the less, the Siberians of 2nd Battalion made it to the base of the hill, and the battle descended into a grenade exchange, small packets of death been thrown blind at suspected enemy positions, some resulting in silence, others bringing the screams of the injured and dying.

  The 60th Mortar’s observer brought down another barrage on the machine gunners, part of which caught the edge of the Grenadieres line, causing severe casualties to the platoon linking to the gunners.

  3rd Battalion had an easier ride, enjoying direct tank support, driving hard into the positions of the 58th Grenadieres 2nd Company, although they lost both commander and second to
the same tank shell.

  An experienced Oberfeldwebel ordered his men to fall back, rallying them the other side of the watercourse, where the recently arrived platoon of Vickers machine-guns contributed to halting the Soviet rush.

  The runner sent to 3rd Kompagnie did not deliver the message, and so the remaining grenadiers east of the watercourse were left vulnerable.

  The Siberian Guardsmen were quick to notice the opportunity, and drove into the exposed right flank, rolling up nearly a hundred metres of the 3rd Kompagnie’s position, halted only by an avalanche of MG42 fire from a small reserve unit the Kompagnie commander had hurriedly organised.

  He now lay amongst the dead, although his men successfully retook the lost metres, throwing the stunned Siberians back down the slope.

  An Acting Oberleutnant took command and reorganised the reserve, ready to meet any more threats.

  Back closer to Brahmsee, the combined Soviet tank and infantry force broached the water defence.

  A 6pdr anti-tank gun of the Irish Guards, stationed six hundred yards behind the bridge, took on the lead T34/85, scoring three hits without inflicting noticeable damage, before it was obliterated by the tank’s second shell.

  The gunners had succeeded solely in slowing the enemy advance, the tanks and infantry renewing the attack with the benefit of some mortar support. The 3rd Battalion’s 82mm mortars put down an accurate mix of smoke and HE on the defending machine-gunners.

  A platoon of Siberians tried to sneak around the lakeside of Brahmsee, keeping low to avoid being spotted. Failing to see the final platoon of the machine-gun company, half of them fell before they gave up the attempt and withdrew to cover further back.

  Another anti-tank gun died.

  It had been deliberately keeping quiet, waiting for an easier shot. The weapon’s position was betrayed by a young gunner in the act of urination. The experienced tankers of the 34th Guards potted the movement and put HE shells into the woods, adjacent to their first kill.

  Gun and gunners came apart under the hits.

  The lead T34 committed to the bridge. The Siberians, conscious of their job to keep enemy AT weapons at bay, pushed hard, shooting down a PIAT team that moved too soon from its concealed position.

  A second tank, then a third, crossed the small bridge.

  The fourth disintegrated as a solid shot took it under the turret, flinging the heavy mass of metal backwards and into the water.

  The hull crew scrambled out, dazed and shocked, a Vickers machine-gun reaching out and touching both fatally.

  The three tanks that had crossed already were in a funk, not knowing what had killed their comrade, but understanding that only movement would prevent them following their friends into Valhalla.

  All decided to turn right, imagining the threat to be in the woods dead ahead, and seeing safety in the woods to the right.

  The commander of the JagdPanzer IV needed no second invitation, his order sending a 75mm high-velocity shell into the side of the rearmost tank.

  The T34 started to burn immediately.

  A few Grenadieres on the reverse slope saw the fatal strike and played the game they loved to play with the Red Army tank men.

  Their bullets beat upon the armour, keeping the tankers inside until the heat grew too much and they had to either bale out and risk being mown down, or stay, and burn to death.

  There was no love lost between the infantry and the tanks at such times.

  The men chose bullets rather than fire, and none made it to safety.

  The tank platoon commander ordered his unit to advance over the bridge, relaying the news of something nasty in the vicinity, position unknown. He made the safety of the woods, putting solid green between him and the probable killer.

  Behind him, the second tank took a hit, confirming the direction of the killer’s location, something he immediately passed on to his men.

  Spewing black fumes, the wounded T34/85 rallied, and made the safety of green mass.

  The safety was an illusion.

  Smoke trails erupted from the leafy shadows, panzerfausts aimed by vengeful men, two targeted on each tank.

  The Commander’s tank blew up, immolating the crew in seconds, both panzerfausts striking home and penetrating the armour.

  Only one struck the labouring second tank, detonating on the mudguard.

  In a panic, the driver slewed his tank to the right, heading for the north side, putting distance between him and the killer woods.

  Exposing his tank to the Centurion.

  “Target tank, one o’clock, range four-fifty!”

  A short delay as the electrics moved the turret the required amount.

  “Gunner, on!”

  “Fire!”

  Patterson was on a roll, a fourth T34 knocked out before his eyes.

  “Gunner, it’s still moving!”

  Patterson had hit the damn thing, he knew he had, but there it was, still ploughing forward, kicking out more smoke than a rubber factory on fire.

  “Gunner on!”

  “Fire!”

  A definite shower of sparks; another hit.

  “Pats, are you firing fookin blanks, sunny Jim?”

  Incredibly, the T34 was still rolling, its turret turning, seeking its assailant.

  “Right ho, Gunner. Deep breaths. Get this one right or it’s the cookhouse for yer. Line her up, Pats.”

  To Patterson, this was an affront to his professionalism.

  Taking extra care, he slowly rotated, leading the tank in textbook fashion.

  “Gunner on!”

  “Fire!”

  As unspectacular as the previous hits had been, the final shot brought about the catastrophic destruction of the third tank.

  When the smoke had cleared sufficiently, all the crew could see was a useless lump of metal, already beginning to glow dark red.

  Back at the bridge, the rest of the Guards tanks enjoyed little success, the JagdPanzer IV stripping the track off the second in command’s vehicle.

  Communications were virtually non-existent, any contact with supporting artillery impossible.

  An enterprising infantry officer dispatched a runner with written coordinates, aiming him at the headquarters in the town behind them.

  A grenadiere dropped the volunteer, knocking the life out of him with a Mauser rifle bullet, the message fluttering away on the breeze, never to be delivered.

  Overhead came six IL-10 aircraft, rather less than the number that had distracted O’Rourke previously.

  The survivors of the 118th Guards Assault Aviation Regiment were not alone, harried and hounded by the Spitfire Mk IX’s of 308[Polish] Squadron RAF.

  A Spitfire staggered in mid-air as its engine was flayed by the rear-gunner of the last Ilyushin.

  At that height, there was little the pilot could do but try to control the crash.

  The Spitfire smashed into houses in Langwedel, killing indiscriminately, German civilian and Soviet soldier alike.

  The airborne melee disappeared from view, heading deep into Soviet territory.

  In Langwedel, all was chaos.

  Buildings were burning and the rescuers, soldiers of the headquarters submachine-gun company, found corpses and body parts spread throughout the scene, the Polish fighter having scythed through a kindergarten on the Rotdornweg, in use as a safe haven for the families of Langwedel.

  It had been clearly marked so that it would not be attacked, something the already dead commander of the 67th Guards Rifle Regiment had found too attractive to ignore, moving his headquarters close by.

  The staff of the 67th had also suffered. Although their building was missed by the impact, flammable aviation fuel first sprayed and then ignited, turning the large house into an inferno.

  The Soviet attack was leaderless and uncontrolled, descending into a self-preservation exercise for the individual units.

  Leaving a platoon of his men, the SMG company commander decided he could do little wrong if he headed to the sound of the
guns.

  Senior Lieutenant Yolkov ordered his remaining men forward, presenting a strange sight to the uninitiated.

  His unit had been issued with steel plates as body armour, something they had baulked at using, until they had experienced its effectiveness.

  Almost resembling knights of old, the eighty men doubled out of Langwedel, aiming to make contact with the 3rd Battalion and seek orders.

  What Yolkov did not realise was that he was the senior surviving officer in the whole regiment, so the orders were his to give.

  As Yolkov and his men moved up to 3rd Battalion, the sister unit displaced the Germans from the leading edge of the ridge.

  3rd Grenadiere Kompagnie pulled back across the watercourse, dropping into hastily prepared positions on the north side, reliant on the small water obstacle to slow any charge.

  Too many grenadieres did not fall back as ordered, incapable because of severe wounds, or uncaring because their lives had been terminated with extreme violence.

  2nd Battalion’s Siberians surged forward, but the watercourse did its job and, in conjunction with streams of 7.62mm bullets, the attack ran out of steam, the survivors falling back to the positions the grenadiers had recently evacuated.

  They had hardly reached the positions before they were joined by a deadly hail of 8cm mortars shells, the swift barrage called in by the Acting/Oberleutnant, who was proving more than capable as a battle leader.

  Back at the MuhlenStraβe Bridge, the 3rd Battalion’s soldiers had pushed the grenadiers back over the watercourse, the ferocity of their attack causing panic in the German ranks.

  In this area, there were no hasty positions to drop back on, and the danger to the whole position was clear, until the Vickers machine-guns of the 2nd Platoon 1MG discouraged the Siberians from pressing too hard, dropping enough to the earth to force the pursuers back into cover. Quickly recovering, 2nd Kompagnie formed a tentative line.