Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  The RSM permitted himself a small smile, one that was not missed by either German.

  “Now, I must ask that your men do some more digging for me,” he looked around quickly, making a swift judgement.

  “Over there, if you please, nothing fancy, just enough for five to stay out of sight.”

  The twenty-eight ex-prisoners quickly dug in the woods, creating a last resting place for the dead guards.

  The final touches were made and it was difficult to believe that anything had been there, let alone dug holes and interred dead men.

  “Attention men,” Müller called the group to order, “We must move away before you are missed. Complete silence now. One, maybe two hours march, before we can rest up.”

  Turning to his own men, he nodded at the Canadian corporal, who understood and took the point, moving off towards their most recent base.

  1103hrs, Tuesday, 18th September 1945, Ekelmoor, Germany.

  Their hiding place was just under a kilometre north of Stemmen, a modest woodsman’s hut, long since forgotten by its owner. It was not large enough to house the thirty-six men who now called it home, so small shelters sprung up quickly, providing a dry resting place for those wearied by their imprisonment.

  The two men Müller had left in camp distributed some of their food stocks to the new arrivals, but supplies were short, so empty bellies with tantalised with a morsel, rather than a meal.

  Bordered on three sides by streams, there was no shortage of fresh water, and everyone drunk their fill of the cool reviving liquid.

  Most of the new arrivals took advantage of the security and fell asleep.

  RSM MacMichaels observed the two Germans whilst drinking his third ‘can’ of water, careful not to cut himself on the rough edges of the tin that had once contained standard British bully beef.

  The three, another Canadian Corporal was involved, were deciding the following nights activities.

  He moved closer, expecting a rebuff at any second.

  Far from it, as Müller realised the NCO was nearby, and beckoned him forward.

  “Apologies, Sergeant-Maior, I had thought you would sleep.”

  Accepting the apology for what it was, MacMichaels took the proffered hand and found it firm.

  “No problem, Sir. Now that I am back in the war, I don’t want to miss out.”

  Turning to the other German, he nodded respectfully, understanding the requirements of the award that hung around the German NCO’s neck.

  “Sergeant Schultz, I believe?”

  The two shook hands and both found strength there.

  “Welcome Sergeant-Maior MacMichaels. And don’t believe everything this one tells you,” he indicated Müller, “Whilst I will grant you that he is reasonably competent at what he does, he forgets who gets things done around here.”

  Entering into the spirit of the exchange, the RSM challenged his counterpart.

  “So you’re not the tea boy then? Shame, I needed a brew.”

  That earned him a comradely slap on the back from Schultz.

  “Corporal?” the word full of enquiry, aimed at the NCO wearing the Carlton and York uniform.

  “Staunton, Lieutenant Staunton Sarnt-Major, A Company, Carleton and York’s.”

  Confused, MacMichaels awaited further explanation.

  “I was knocked out by a shell outside Avensermoor. Came to wearing nothing but my pants and boots. This uniform belonged to my batman, poor fellow.”

  “I see, Sir,” which he patently did not, but held his peace.

  “I will do something about it, now you and your men are here.”

  Both the Germans had moved off to one side, seemingly fully occupied with arguing over how to smoke Russian cigarettes, so MacMichaels asked his question.

  “What is happening here, Sir?”

  Staunton deliberately misunderstood the question, and twisted the map towards the NCO.

  “We are only a small group, but we carry the fight, Sarnt-Major, we carry the fight.”

  He tapped an area circled in charcoal, drawing the man into the plan.

  “Now that we have your group, we have decided to go for a plum target. The airfield and supply centre at Lauenbrück.”

  “So we continue to fight the bastards then? But under a Jerry officer”

  “Yes we do, Sarnt-Major, under the command of Captain Müller, who, incidentally, is the most competent officer I have ever served with, bar none.”

  His eyes challenged MacMichaels to comment further.

  The RSM’s prejudices died under their unblinking scrutiny.

  “I want back into the fight, so that’s good enough for me, Sir.”

  “Excellent, Sarnt-Major. Now, we gave this place the once-over a week back, just in case we ever had the opportunity to do some work there. Here’s what we have.”

  And as he sketched the layout of the Soviet air base, Müller and Schultz drifted back into the impromptu briefing, aware that MacMichaels’ issues had been addressed and that there would be no problems.

  1400hrs, Wednesday, 19th September 1945, Headquarters of 1209th Grenadiere Regiment, 159th Infanterie Division, Neuwied, Germany.

  Oberst Pömmering was furious, his wrath not confined to the lower ranks that strayed within range, but also heaped upon his closer officers, men who saw a new side to their quiet, laid back commander on this awful day.

  Calling a meeting of his Regimental officers, the allotted hour had come and gone, and still Maior Gelben and Oberstleutnant Wilcke had not arrived.

  Determined to get to the bottom of the sabotage, he waited for the two battalion commanders to put in an appearance, whilst hounding the Regimental Supply Officer, questioning him about the fire still raging in the ammunition compound.

  He would wait long and hard for both missing officers.

  Oberstleutnant Wilcke was dead, shot in the heart by his driver, the body and car dumped unceremoniously into the Rhine, leaving 2nd Battalion leaderless.

  The communist soldier, a GRU operative slipped through the lines at the end of the war, walked steadily back to his unit, the story of their beloved commander’s death at the hands of enemy aircraft already prepared in his mind.

  Maior Gelben was actually at the regimental headquarters already, something that would give Pömmering the briefest moment of regret before he died.

  Peter Gelben, or as he was known at school, Pjotr Gelben, was another agent who crossed over during the refugee influx into Western Europe.

  Setting out his stall carefully, he rehearsed his actions, laying out his tools ready for the job that he was about to undertake. The other two occupants of the room were beyond help. One, a glassy-eyed Gefreiter, whose shattered forehead was gently dripping blood over the radio set. The second, a Hauptfeldwebel and the important piece of stage dressing, the tunic pocket containing some incriminating letters, already tainted with the blood from his chest wounds.

  Gelben had removed the silencer, and ensured that he topped up his weapon, ready to catch three casings, equal to the number of holes in the dead Hauptfeldwebel’s torso.

  Quietly moving the desk to the door, Gelben readied himself.

  The sound of raised voices in the main room encouraged him to act, and he pulled open the door, grabbing the grenades and pulling the cords, sending the first straight at the angry and surprised Pömmering, the second to the centre of the mass, the third to the closest edge of the nineteen assembled officers.

  Ducking down, the sounds of men in panic were swiftly drowned out by the explosions, one after the other, the angry frightened shouts were quickly replaced by screams and whimpers from those torn by high explosives.

  A piece of something burst through the door, spurring him to move into phase two.

  He followed the three grenades with two more, each phosphorous, designed to burn as much of the evidence as possible.

  High-pitched screams indicated at least one wounded man caught by the unforgiving flames.

  He grabbed the dead NCO
’s PPK pistol, and, without hesitation, fired into his right calf.

  Anticipating pain is not quite the same as dealing with pain, and he grabbed at the desk as nausea washed over him.

  Dropping the PPK by the Hauptfeldwebel’s body, he aimed his own pistol out of the window and fired three times, making sure the casings flew inside the room, the ones from the bullets he had fired earlier already picked up.

  Less than thirty seconds has past and he was done with all but the last phase of his plan.

  Opening the door, a steadily building fire greeted him, the dead being consumed, and taking their secret with them.

  He slipped off his tunic, using it to beat at some flames, trying to damage it and get himself as sweaty and dirty as possible in the short time he anticipated exposing himself to the danger.

  Would-be rescuers found the wounded Maior, pistol in hand, struggling to escape the flames, his smoking tunic obvious testament to his narrow escape at the hands of whoever had committed this atrocity.

  As he was helped from the scene, he ordered that the body of ‘that traitorous bastard’ was recovered, also ensuring the preservation of his planted evidence.

  As Maior Gelben had his wounds tended to, a written order, originating from the Divisional Commander, arrived for his personal attention.

  As he read it, he understood the unexpected advantage that his actions now offered him.

  He addressed the muddy motorcyclist formally.

  “Confirm to GeneralMaior Bürcky that I have received this order, and that I acknowledge its contents. Dismissed.”

  The Private returned the salute and turned on his heel, anxious to return to his billet and away from the hospital that was now starting to receive the horribly burned corpses.

  The Leutnant doctor stitching Gelben’s calf finished his work with a flourish.

  “Not quite as good as new, but look after it and there will be no lasting effects.”

  Nodding towards the message in the blackened hand of his patient, he enquired as casually as he could, more out of nosiness than any real quest for knowledge.

  “Good news from our commander, Herr Maior?”

  “Very good news, Herr Leutnant, and you may address me as Oberstleutnant.”

  And with that, the newly appointed commander of the 1209th Grenadiere Regiment rose to test his leg, walking out into the modest sunlight to consider the new opportunity he had been granted.

  He spared no thought for the comrades he had killed, looking down only to pick his way safely through their dead bodies.

  1005hrs, Wednesday, 19th September 1945, Headquarters, Red Banner Forces of Europe, Kohnstein, Nordhausen, Germany.

  Summoned by an order from Zhukov, issued before the previous day’s meeting with the GKO, most of the Red Army’s senior European commanders were already gathered in the underground meeting room.

  The Marshal sat there with his Chief of Staff, making final alterations to the presentation document, including details that had presented themselves after the overnight fighting.

  The losses from a heavy bomber raid were still being assessed, but would undoubtedly illustrate one of the main points that Zhukov was about to make to his generals.

  The Red Army did not have enough supplies.

  The senior commanders were all engaged in their own conversations, discussing the military situation, and how their peers were coping with the extraordinary difficulties that were being experienced.

  Zhukov rose and the room slowly became silent, as each group in turn realised that the meeting was about to begin.

  “Comrades, the Red Army finds itself advancing, and winning battle after battle against the capitalist enemy. From the Baltic to the Alps, we are pushing them hard, and they give way before us.”

  No man in the room failed to recognise the dressing for what it was; the precursor to bad news.

  “Our ground and air forces have done magnificently. Our naval comrades playing the part we have asked of them to the full.”

  He cleared his throat, preparing himself for the hard part.

  “Comrades, it has not been enough, and we find ourselves in difficulty.”

  This was not news to the men present of course.

  “Attacks are failing now, for the first time, because we do not have the means to push, and push hard.”

  Indicating Malinovsky, he cited an example.

  “Forces of the 1st Red Banner Army were displaced by an enemy counter-attack, for no greater reason than the ammunition was not available to make a decent fight.”

  Some eyes swivelled towards Malinovsky and Zhukov decided to stop any negative thoughts developing immediately.

  “Marshal Malinovsky was wholly correct to withdraw his units, given the circumstances. We cannot ask our soldiers to fight without giving them the tools to do the job.”

  Malinovsky inclined his head in acknowledgement of his superior’s defence. Satisfied that he had done what was needed, Zhukov pressed on.

  “This is not an isolated case, as many of you will know.”

  Nodding to Malinin, Zhukov consulted his papers as the CoS revealed a wall chart, laying bear the serious losses of trains and supplies, from the Motherland through to destinations in Germany.

  Pointing out the most salient points, Zhukov moved on.

  “The munitions, the equipment, and the vehicles are, for the most part, being produced. There were issues, but our efficient comrades in the NKVD have acted to ensure no repeats.”

  Everyone present understood his glowing praise was for the benefit of any report that reached Beria’s ears.

  “There are major issues with bridging, and I will come to that shortly.”

  Taking a sip of water, he shuffled his paper to the next page.

  “Our losses are high, but so are theirs. None the less,” he reluctantly conceded, “I have underestimated the resilience of the Capitalist forces.”

  They all had.

  When the predictions had been made, none of them felt that the expectations of an Allied collapse were unrealistic. Nevertheless, the responsibility lay with the Commander-in-Chief, a fact that General Secretary Stalin had forcefully pointed out the previous day.

  “The Third phase will not proceed as planned. It is postponed indefinitely, pending a resolution of the supply situation.”

  A message sent on the Monday had informed the commanders of 1st Alpine and 1st Southern to delay operations for 1 day, giving both men a chance to attend the meeting.

  Neither of them had really believed it was anything other than that which had brought them to Nordhausen.

  A chorus of disbelief rose from the room, the loudest voices easily recognisable as Chuikov and Yeremenko.

  The bald Marshal held up his hand, asking for silence.

  Chuikov was fit to bust, his face scarlet with the pressure of maintaining his silence.

  “It is postponed only, Comrades. Phase Three is an integral part of our operations, but we simply do not have the resources available to conduct offensive operations on the broader front.”

  Making direct eye contact with the Commander of 1st Alpine, he tried to make light of the slap in the face for his old warhorse.

  “There will be sufficient capitalists left for you, Vassily, honestly.”

  The humour was wasted on a man who faced more weeks of inactivity. He rose to protest and was cut off at the knees as Zhukov shouted at him, part in anger and frustration, and part to spare his old warhorse from saying something he might later regret.

  “No, do not speak further. It is Comrade Generalissimo Stalin’s personal order. Not for discussion or debate.”

  The display of emotion told everyone more about the Moscow meeting. It had obviously gone very badly for the ‘Victory Bringer’.

  Arriving in Moscow late on the Monday, the first meeting had gone on long into the night, breaking up in time for him to see the first faint rays of sunlight as he journeyed back to the quarters arranged for his personal use.


  Tuesday was spent in the presence of Stalin and the GKO, fielding questions, often tinged with accusation and the allocation of blame, and receiving criticism and orders in equal measure.

  Nazarbayeva was excluded, and gave no input during the two days, the GRU’s written report considered sufficient at the time.

  Zhukov’s next words completed the picture.

  “We are now directed to pursue the Five Point plan, concentrating as much of our resources as possible on breaking through, and permitting the Manoeuvre Groups to operate as outlined. Previous mistakes will be rectified, and will not be repeated. Anyone failing to discharge their orders to the full, will, without exception, be summoned back to Moscow for a full explanation.”

  Such explanations tended to end with a bullet in the head.

  “So, the Five Point Plan.”

  Zhukov reminded each officer present by turning to the situation map on the wall, slapping each location in turn, reciting from memory.

  “1st Baltic Front will contain Denmark and nothing more. Seal up the English and leave them to stew. The main thrust of 1st Baltic will be from Hamburg, through Bremen, aiming into the Netherlands, via the North German Plain.”

  Marshal Bagramyan understood his task perfectly, and was already holding a written request for more assets to balance his savaged order of battle.

  Moving down the map, Zhukov turned, and caught the eyes of Malinovsky.

  “1st Red Banner will focus its efforts on Osnabruck, pushing up to the Rhine and securing the southern flank of 1st Baltic. You will also drive south-west and threaten the Ruhr.”

  “Our main effort on the Ruhr will come from 2nd Red Banner,” ‘Konev again, why is it always that swine that gets the prime work?’, “The main advance to come through Cologne, and into the southern edge.”

  Noting the grin on Konev’s face, Zhukov decided on a word of caution.

  “2nd Red Banner is also responsible for mounting the pinning assaults on the Saar, and west of Karlsruhe. Do not forget to give them the necessary support, Comrade Marshal.”