Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  The Mechanised soldiers had drawn off once more, the second attack having been made on foot, their lend-lease universal carriers proving particularly vulnerable to the defensive combination of Panzerfaust and Molotov cocktails.

  Many Guardsmen had sprung screaming from the small British and Canadian built carriers, their hair and clothing alight, flesh starting to split and fall away.

  This time the killing of unarmed men had been a merciful release.

  The Fallschirmjager had held, but only just.

  2027hrs, Tuesday, 23rd October 1945, Limbricht, Holland.

  Artem’yev cradled the bloody body as the hideously wounded man screamed and kicked his life away.

  As the 179th had swept into Limbricht, a last act of defiance from a 101st trooper had sent a burst from a BAR into the command group, catching the group as it moved up behind the assault force.

  One bullet had tugged at Artem’yev’s sleeve, nicking the flesh, painfully reminding him of the fine margins between survival and death with each small movement.

  Nikita Fyokhlachev was a mess, one eye rolling around on his cheek, as he thrashed around in agony.

  Other heavy bullets had taken him in the chest, stomach, groin, thigh, and both calves.

  “No! I can’t die! Don’t want to die! Fuck no! Not here! Oh Please, not like this!”

  Artem’yev held him tighter.

  “Arrrrggghhhhh!”

  His scream seemed to reflect more his fear of death than the pain that was wracking his body.

  The medical orderly, himself a victim of the BAR gunner, worked swiftly, trying to stop the flow of blood from the wreckage called Fyokhlachev.

  The wounded man vomited, a combination of lunch and blood projecting itself over the orderly.

  “Arrrggghhhhhhh No!”

  The pain gave him immense strength, and Fyokhlachev broke Artem’yev’s grip, arching his back like a longbow under strain.

  A calm settled upon his face.

  Fyokhlachev was dead.

  Gently easing the body to a position of rest, Artem’yev stood, and took a moment to honour his long-time comrade.

  Limbricht had been gained only with the expenditure of valuable blood, and, even though Fyokhlachev’s death hit him hard, the Colonel understood the need to exploit the costly gain.

  Approaching the signaller, Artem’yev checked his PPS magazine, using the distraction to steady his thoughts.

  “Inform division. Limbricht taken, advancing into the centre of Sittard, need reinforcements.”

  Artem’yev peered into the gathering gloom, his eyes straining to identify the vehicles so neatly parked, now beyond the use of their former owners.

  ‘Why not?’

  2303hrs, Tuesday, 23rd October 1945, Soviet breakthrough, Markt, Sittard, Holland.

  The rain had finally stopped.

  Crisp took a moment in the entrance to the church. He ached from head to toe, the strain caused by weeks of combat was beginning to take its toll, and carrying the wounded Pfc had eaten into his dwindling reserves.

  “Light ‘em if you got ‘em.”

  He took in the views around him.

  Saint Michael’s Church, across the Oude Markt from the 101st’s headquarters, housed in the Hotel de Limbourg, had been set aside as a hospital, a fact easily deduced from the liberal blood trails that marked the route taken by the stretcher cases.

  Crisp, and a number of his officers, had brought more wounded troopers with them, depositing the damaged bodies with the overworked staff of 326th Medical Company.

  Both St Michael’s and the ‘Limbourg’ fronted on to the main square, an open space that thronged with more medical facilities, triaging many of the new arrivals, as well as military vehicles and stores in equal measure.

  The Soviet threat to Einighausen had been too great, and the facilities there had been hauled into the centre of Sittard at record speed, leaving only the Belgians behind.

  His officers waited, taking advantage of the delay, drinking whatever was in their canteens and smoking their cigarettes.

  Crisp was too tired to even get his packet out, a fact realised by Reeves. The G Coy commander lit up an extra Chesterfield and passed it to his boss.

  Crisp nodded his gratitude.

  “Damn, but if this isn’t one hell of a goddamn mess.”

  He got no argument.

  Suddenly the veterans hunched automatically, the response of their combat sense to an approaching shell.

  The sound, almost like a sudden deep intake of breath, was followed by a moment’s silence.

  Then the five-storey building across the square exploded outwards, a 152mm shell exploding at second floor level and turning the upper floors to a collection of wood and brick moving at high speed.

  The cries of ‘medic’ rang through the failing sound of the explosion, men hit by the debris screaming in pain at their awful wounds.

  By comparison, the mortar shell that followed it did next to no damage, creating a modest hole in the square itself.

  Bits of shell and road flew out from the epicentre, striking indiscriminately.

  Reeves shielded Crisp from the blast, his body taking the fragments that would have hit the Regimental commander.

  He sank to his knees, blood spilling from his mouth, coughing as the warm liquid filled his lungs.

  Galkin, Fox Company’s CO, dropped heavily to the road, his left leg knocked away from under him by the impact of a lump of stone.

  Others in the square lay silent, or rolled noisily in pain.

  Two medical staff that had emerged for their own tobacco break, crossed themselves in acknowledgement that their God have saved them from death, and carried the moaning Reeves into St Michael’s for immediate treatment.

  The Russian-born Galkin held up his hand, seeking support, and pulled himself upright with the help of Crisps’ firm grip.

  “How is it, Con?”

  The Captain tested the leg, ignoring the pain, seeking to find out if the damage was more than just flesh.

  “Hurts like hell, of course. Do I get leave?”

  Crisp snorted, appreciating the man’s efforts, despite the obvious pain he was in.

  “Not a snowflake’s.”

  Sizing up the injury, and satisfying himself that Galkin could walk, Crisp was happy that he hadn’t lost another company commander

  “Get yourself seen to, Con, I want you back on line a-sap.”

  “Roger that, Colonel.”

  “And check up on Josh when you are through, please.”

  Galkin was already hobbling away to the nearest triage point.

  Making his way across the narrow lane, Crisp and the rest of the men entered the Hotel Limbourg.

  Opposite the main entrance was a sunken beer cellar, cleared out, and filled with the artefacts of command, now the combat headquarters of the 101st US Airborne Division.

  Brigadier General ‘Joe’ Higgins broke off his animated discussion with Bud Harper, commander of the 327th Glider Infantry.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Crisp, thanks for coming. Take the weight off.”

  He gestured at one of his array of NCO’s, and a coffee magically appeared in front of the weary Crisp.

  “So how goes it with the 501st?”

  “We are holding, Sir, but each time there are less of us to fight back. We may have to concede some ground, shorten our lines some, but we will hold.”

  Raised voices at the main door interrupted the conversation, and a bloodied Von der Heydte moved quickly through and into the headquarters.

  “Apologies, Herr General. There is a problem. We have lost our radios, so I am here.”

  Harper produced a lily-white handkerchief, extending it to the German so he could remove the blood from his eyes.

  “Danke, Herr Oberst.”

  Moving to the map table, Von der Heydte drew everyone to view the problem.

  Problem was an understatement.

  “The Communists have penetrated deeply here, and split
my command.”

  Experienced military brains worked the problem, the collapse of part of the Fallschirmjager’s front at Munstergeleen, permitting a deep incursion almost to the railway line.

  The edges of both Sittard and Geleen had held firm, but the Soviets had developed a penetration five hundred metres wide, and it threatened to cut the defence in two.

  The sound of small arms fire started to develop, coming nearer, and growing in intensity, so much so that the fire fight drew the attention of all present.

  Higgins was about to direct one of his officers, but spotted Crisp’s signal to a nearby NCO, who quickly slipped out the door in response.

  As quickly as it took the group to refocus on the map, Rocky Baldwin crashed back through the door.

  “Russians! Just down the road here. Platoon strength, coming in fast!”

  Weapons were grabbed and cocked, the headquarters staff shocked that they should suddenly find themselves close to the action, but unaware that the worst day of their lives was about to begin.

  The St Petrus school building was burning brightly, illuminating the corpses of both sides, victims of Artem’yev’s swift assault.

  The subterfuge of using the captured transport had worked well, and a little play acting with some of his own men firing at the vehicles but wide of the mark, ensured that the airborne troopers let the lorries through with no checks.

  Bailing out from the 6x6 Dodge’s, the Guardsmen of the 179th Regiment fell upon the American airborne from behind.

  The frontline was overwhelmed in minutes.

  A smaller, but equally effective repetition got the Soviet infantrymen into the outskirts of Sittard, where they slowly moved forward, the only casualty being a Dutch civilian whose curiosity proved terminal.

  Until they moved into Walramstraat.

  A roadblock at the junction with Overhovenerstraat looked unoccupied.

  It wasn’t, and the .30cal machine-gun posted there knocked down the lead squad of Soviet infantry, the rest taking cover, either behind the rubble and wreckage in the road, or by kicking in doors on either side of the killing zone.

  More Dutch civilians died, some for no reason other than they got in the way, others for protesting at the intrusion of armed men in their homes.

  Making their way through the gardens, a determined group of soldiers flanked the roadblock, and rushed the defenders.

  Four MP’s from the 101st’s police unit fell, two dead, two wounded. The only man untouched by the Soviet volley got off a shot with his Garand, putting down the NCO leading the group, a destroyed knee bringing screams of agony.

  Hands were raised, but ignored, and all seven MP’s were dead in a heartbeat.

  The main Soviet force swept on, pushing hard, brushing aside the occasional modest resistance, until reaching St Petruskapittel.

  In the church and the academic building, night was turned into day by grenades and gun flashes, fires growing throughout the two separate buildings. Street fighting developed, often of the closest kind, and death came to the soldiers of both sides in every bestial way imaginable.

  Inside the church, the US airborne troopers ceded ground, and were driven into the tower, holding the stairs against all rushes, killing a score of Guardsmen.

  A small stock of gasoline nearby provided the inspiration for an act that stood out in a night of extreme barbarism.

  Screaming and laughing maniacally, the Guardsmen sloshed the petroleum all round the base of the tower, setting it alight, and screaming with pleasure as the flames took hold and rose higher with every second.

  Somewhere inside, men grabbed at the bell ropes, and the whole scene was accompanied by indiscriminate maniacal tolling.

  Those outside watched as men jumped from the side openings onto the main building roof, some slipping and falling to their death below, others being shot off by the maddened Russians.

  Still others chose to die by falling, rather than the alternative of death by burning. They hurled themselves out into the darkness and fell to the ground. Two managed to drop on top of an enemy, each Soviet soldier killed in turn.

  Yet others had no choice over their end, and fiery living plumes started to descend, each screaming meteor ending in an awful mound at the base of the tower. Each pitiful pile burned, marking the body of a paratrooper, the area around the church scattered with such piles, burning like candles set around an altar.

  Artem’yev did not interfere, leaving the mopping up to others, and pushing his units forward towards his goal; the Markt.

  It was the lead group of the 179th’s 3rd Battalion that Master-Sergeant Hawkins had seen in the Oulde Markt, approaching the Hotel Limbourg.

  Men went down on both sides as the two groups clashed on the Oude Markt.

  The Americans had the advantage of cover, vehicles and crates providing excellent firing positions, the Guardsmen had numbers on their side.

  Cover won, and the depleted guardsmen withdrew around the corner, some of their number investing the houses at the junction of Oude Markt and Kloosterplein, quickly setting up their DP’s and rifles, to put fire into the paratroopers.

  Artem’yev took over from the dead battalion commander, switching the 3rd’s advance, a tourist map now his most useful tool in organising the assault.

  Leaving some men to cover Kloosterplein, he focussed one company on a rapid assault up the Gats, a road that reduced to a narrow lane, winding through the buildings before terminating in the Markt itself.

  The other intact company moved past the church, intent on securing Limbrichterstraat, and entering the Markt beyond.

  The telephone was answered by his commanding officer, and so Higgins wasted no time.

  “Sir, Higgins. We are in danger of being overrun here!”

  Higgins waited with a patience of a saint, whilst Maxwell Taylor delivered the standard rhetoric about standing fast, and the expectation that all his command would do likewise.

  The opportunity to talk came eventually.

  “I don’t think that’s possible, Sir”

  “Joe, I need more time, and you are going to give me it, goddamnit! Hold that town for two more hours. That’s all, just two goddamn hours, Joe!”

  “Sir, I seriously doubt we can give you that. The commie bastards are on top of my HQ as we speak.”

  As if to emphasise the point, a grenade detonated alongside the Hotel Limbourg, bringing screams from injured men.

  “Joe, I will do what I can, but you must hold. I’m sorry, but that’s it, General. I will put a burr up the ass of the engineers, but you gotta hold!”

  Two Russians ran into the headquarters, trying to escape from the slaughter spreading slowly into the square, straight into a burst from a Thompson sub-machine gun.

  Both men collapsed, side by side, reflecting each other, with arms and legs in a star pattern.

  One was dead, his face and chest destroyed by .45 bullets.

  The other lay silent, unmoving, save for his eyes that flicked in all directions, trying to comprehend why he could not move, unable to see that his spine had been severed by the heavy Thompson round.

  “I will hold, General.”

  Joe Higgins waited whilst one of his Lieutenants put a bullet into the wounded Russian.

  “Unless there’s anything else, Sir, I gotta go.”

  “Good luck to you and your men, General.”

  “I think we’ll need it, Sir. Goodbye.”

  Handing the receiver back to the operator, Higgins pondered for a moment.

  “Ok, listen in! Pack it up, and get ready to move. Get the latest reports in from the units, and get that updated”, he gestured at the situation map, “We will stand until ordered out, if anyone asks. I will be back in three minutes. You have three minutes.”

  Higgins grabbed his carbine, its folded stock wet with blood from an unknown source, and moved to the main entrance to start his own assessment.

  Only friendlies were in sight, but the Soviets were obviously still near.
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  The rush that had almost carried to the Markt had been thrown back by a surge of men from the reserve, the bakers and postmen fighting with unexpected ferocity. The Chafee tank had long since lost its battle for survival.

  Some of the Soviets had got to the entrance of St Michaels. The grenades they threw inside wounded the already wounded, and added doctors and medics to the growing list of battle casualties.

  Higgins saw that Crisp had already organised a withdrawal of the wounded, and grunted his approval.

  Turning around, the barricade obstructing the route coming from the Gats was silent, the men there hunched ready but, as yet, untested.

  Beyond that, the Limbrichtstraat entrance on to the Markt was more animated, the defenders active in their defence but, as yet, no sign of what they were firing at.

  The Markt itself had emptied of the living, its sole occupants a handful of dead, some laid out in organised rows by caring medics, others thrown into bloodied heaps by whatever high-explosive shell had ended their lives.

  Crisp’s voice cut through the sounds of battle, detailing men to find usable transport from amongst the thirty or so vehicles in the Markt.

  The Gats suddenly burst into life, followed almost immediately by a flurry in the Oude Markt behind him.

  Almost in slow-motion viewing, he had a grandstand view of the Gats defenders rising up as an assault force of Guardsmen overran them, PPSh’s lashing out, opposed by Carbines and Garands, momentum alone carrying the assault force to the barricade.

  One Russian left the melee and moved towards the 101st’s commander, screaming like a Viking Berserker.

  Higgins let fly from the hip, four bullets whistling past the unhinged Soviet soldier.

  The Carbine jammed.

  Scrabbling for his pistol, Higgins was about to lose the most important race of his life, the advancing soldier slapping his new drum magazine to make sure it was properly home.

  Unable to get his automatic out, Brigadier General Higgins faced death with stoicism, until the Guardsman’s throat blossomed like a huge scarlet rose, and he was thrown backwards, the impact of other bullets killing him three times over.