Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  The two men liked each other, both personally and professionally, and the CoS clearly responded warmly.

  “Berkut is a go at the agreed time. I will have the changes sent to you by messenger as soon as possible...”

  He waited as the voice on the other end asked a question.

  “No Comrade, nothing major in the ground plan, artillery re-tasking, and some extra air, that’s all, Comrade.”

  Rokossovsky laughed.

  “But of course, Mikhail Sergeyevich, but of course. I will contact you beforehand if anything else comes up. Goodbye Comrade.”

  The die was cast.

  My centre is giving way, my right is in retreat; situation excellent. I shall attack.

  Ferdinand Foch

  Chapter 95 - THE FUNNEL

  3RD RED BANNER CENTRAL EUROPEAN FRONT - MARSHAL ROKOSSOVSKY

  2050hrs, Tuesday, 23rd October, 1945, Front line positions, Assault formation of 19th Army, 3rd Red Banner Central European Front, Lingolsheim, Alsace.

  The artillery, the rockets, the air strikes, all had been merciless and unceasing, the last two hours filled with the orchestral sounds of an Army stirring itself for the advance.

  The Allied front had been bathed in high explosives, rear positions carpeted with Katyusha rockets; huge quantities of munitions were expended to break the ex-SS soldiers that faced the 19th Soviet Army.

  On the receiving end, the legionnaires of ‘Alma’ and ‘Camerone’ took their punishment like the veterans they were, some dying in a flash of white light, others just hugging the welcoming earth more closely, guardian angels and gods called upon in equal measure.

  True to the latest policy, the Red Air Force was operating mainly above friendly soil, either protecting against Allied incursion, or standing ready to swoop to the relief support of a ground formation in difficulty. Only if conditions proved favourable, would the ground attack regiments venture outside the protective comfort of ground anti-aircraft cover.

  At 2100hrs precisely, the Red Army steamroller moved forward and crashed into the front positions, bunkers and trenches, which had contained units of the Legion Corps up to three hours beforehand, when most were withdrawn to a line further south.

  Soviet infantry swept through the first allied positions, some riding on tanks, others enthusiastically charging forward on foot, all arriving with the expectation of close combat, but finding only the dead.

  Men, both civilians and soldiers, who had died of wounds, had been placed in the front line, relieving the living.

  Finding only corpses, the Soviet forces praised the effectiveness of their artillery, and charged forward again, running into a hidden defensive line bristling with machine-guns and anti-tank weapons, unbowed by the extensive barrage.

  Artillery was switched and mortars deployed, their shells descending on the defenders, killing and maiming with each passing minute.

  The assault started again and, yet again, the defence melted away, both legion units moving back quickly to the next defensive position.

  Three USAAF Thunderbolts arrived, intent on halting the enemy drive.

  Both sides had a grandstand view as the evening turned into day. A Soviet Katyusha round struck the rearmost Thunderbolt, transforming the aircraft into ten thousand pieces of nothingness, all surrounded by a huge orange fireball that slowly burned itself out.

  The ground attack was totally ineffective and the two survivors left the field, the leader smoking badly, his engine knocked about by machine-gun fire from the ground.

  The two legion units continued to gradually fold back, giving ground, but staying ahead of the enemy advance. The ex-SS soldiers did not give battle, but also ensured the Soviets did not fall out of contact either. It was a skilled withdrawal, designed for a higher purpose.

  By the time that midnight brought the new day, 19th Army had been able to report success, already through and beyond the Illkirch-Graffenstaden line, and fighting inside Molsheim.

  Other forces were secure on the banks of the Rhine, mirroring the advance southwards, but with next to no opposition.

  There was a party atmosphere in 3rd Red Banner’s Headquarters, the supposedly mighty ex-SS units so obviously badly hurt by Plan Berkut. The euphoric mood had quickly found its way to Zhukov’s own headquarters, where a map of Alsace reflected 3rd Red Banner’s breathtaking advance into Alsace.

  2159hrs, Tuesday, 23rd October 1945, Overlooking Route 1420, Bruderthal, the Vosges, Alsace.

  They had heard the rumbles, instinctively knowing what was causing it. Their leader remembered the soldier’s age-old maxim.

  ‘Head towards the sound of the guns.’

  So they had done so, all of a sudden inspired by the possibility of release from the burden of their circumstances.

  The handful of men, survivors of the Zilant assault on the Chateau du Haut-Kœnigsbourg, had stopped for the night, slipping into a hollow covered with fallen tree trunks on the Holzplatz, a piece of higher ground some three hundred metres south of Route 854, and the adjacent watercourse, Le Kirnech.

  A double watch had been set, as the small party had been aware of the sounds of an army on the march throughout the Vosges.

  Indeed, on their journey to their present hiding place, a number of patrols had forced them to take cover, slowing their progress.

  Makarenko, his uniform unrecognisable as that of a Soviet Paratrooper General, took first watch with Nikitin, their eyes enjoying the site of explosives illuminating the undersides of the clouds, and understanding how it meant that salvation was close at hand.

  He stretched and yawned quietly, and then froze.

  A match flared, probably over a hundred metres away, but none the less, Makarenko realised he had chosen a spot dangerously close to a concealed enemy position.

  He debated for a moment, and then chose to withdraw.

  Makarenko threw a small piece of wood at Nikitin, gaining the soldier’s attention, and using rapid hand movements to inform him of the threat.

  The young sniper moved quickly through the mass of bodies, waking them up, before dropping by Makarenko’s side.

  “Everyone is awake and ready, Comrade General.”

  Even though Nikitin’s whispered words would not have woken a light sleeper next to him, the words seemed intolerably loud to Makarenko, a man who had brought his unit a long way, too far to see them fail at the final hour.

  Makarenko led his men away, moving to the northwest, putting distance between them and the unknown sentry.

  Nakhimov led the way, the small column moving in single file, until a raised clenched fist brought them all to an immediate halt.

  Senior Sergeant Egon Nakhimov did not recognise the gaudy emblem on the wet metal, but he certainly understood that, but for the flash of Soviet artillery, he would have walked the entire group into the perimeter of a parked Tiger tank unit.

  The paratroopers moved backwards slowly, moving away from the Panzers, not knowing that they had found part of ‘Tannenberg’ secreted in the valley, waiting to implement Operation Thermopylae.

  0415hrs, Wednesday, 24th October 1945, Benfeld, Alsace.

  Fig #63 - The Locations of Operation Thermopylae, Alsace.

  Lieutenant Colonel Blagoslavov was not impressed, despite the gains his unit was making.

  It was too expensive, both in consumables, and in manpower, seven of his tanks already lying behind him, five of the crews awaiting recovery by those who dealt with the menial task of extracting the shattered bodies and performing the subsequent burial.

  Enemy artillery fire was ineffective, surprisingly so, an indication that his own artillery and rocket batteries had been successful above expectations.

  However, as always, the German mortars made up for it. No matter what uniforms they wore, these men were Germans, and they were masters of the mortar.

  Thirty minutes ago, Blagoslavov had been listening to the bitter complaints of a Starshy Lieutenant, the new senior officer in his SMG Company. The previous commander
, an experienced Captain, lay bleeding in an aid post on the side of the Route de Sélestat, south of Sand, his body sundered by mortar shrapnel.

  Now, that same Lieutenant was waiting for the arrival of a burial detail, his life taken by the same damned mortars that had claimed nearly half of the company he led.

  Blagoslavov’s 110th Tank Regiment, of the 38th Guards Heavy Tank Brigade, was presently halted within Benfeld, whilst their comrades of the 18th Rifle Division ousted the defenders of Huttenheim ahead.

  132nd Rifle Corps had the lead at this stage, supported by Blagoslavov’s 38th Brigade, and was making good going, despite the occasional solid pocket of resistance, such as was being offered in the small village of Huttenheim.

  They had been promised that the defence would not stick, and, so far, the promises had held.

  The radio next to him burst into life, the Brigade commander informing all his sub-units that Huttenheim had been cleared, and that the advance was to continue.

  Engines roared as the T34’s and IS-II’s moved forward once more, eating up the kilometre between them and the new front line.

  The 38th was, by the simple factor of availability, mixed medium and heavy tanks, the supply of replacements limited by factors beyond Blagoslavov’s control. His protests on the additional complication to his logistics were swiftly dismissed by senior officers, who clearly knew something he didn’t.

  The Soviet tanks approached Huttenheim.

  The signs of a swift and desperate fight were everywhere. Buildings and vehicles burned, their flames illuminating the bodies of comrades and enemy alike, lying where they fell, the whole hellish scene mixed with the cries of those in the extremes of pain.

  The deputy commander of the 424th Rifle Regiment waved the tanks through, the survivors of Blagoslavov’s SMG Company clinging to their sides, as they rattled on towards Sermersheim.

  Behind them came the mobile companies of the 424th’s 1st Battalion, ready to debus, and put in an infantry assault on any obstacle.

  Encountering no resistance, the column moved on through Sermersheim, and on to Kogenheim.

  The night slowly gave way to the day.

  Blagoslavov halted his lead tank battalion on the outskirts of Kogenheim, permitting his SMG infantry to move through the village. His second battalion shook out to the right flank, protecting the whole force. The 3rd Battalion stayed back, ready to act as a reserve force if things started to come alive again. While his men carried out their orders, the Colonel’s own gaze fell upon the shattered bridge over the Ill River, yet another example of the destruction of anything useful, carried out as the enemy force retreated.

  Overhead, a flight of Shturmoviks headed south, a sign that the sky did not belong to the Allied air force that day.

  His orders required him to wait in Kogenheim, allowing other units to arrive and deploy westwards, using Route 203 to protect the flank of the assault force. Their objective was the village of Blienschwiller, at the mouth of one of the passes into the Vosges.

  All along the route of advance, other units were similarly tasked and some, if not all, had encountered resistance from dug-in enemy guns and infantry, supported by mines and artillery.

  The Tank Colonel chose to question his orders, conscious that a delay in following the retreating enemy might permit them time to re-establish themselves.

  Major General Konovalov, commander of the 38th, agreed, and sanctioned the premature advance.

  110th Guards Heavy Tank Regiment moved forward again.

  0701hrs, Thursday, 25th October, 1945, overlooking Legion frontline position on the Aubach River, Alsace.

  Fig #64 - The Aubach River, south of Ebersheim, Alsace.

  “Steady, mes amis, steady.”

  Some of the infantry force covering the anti-tank guns seemed disturbed, and Colonel St.Clair moved among them calmly, doing what good officers do.

  ‘Alma’ had suffered over the weeks since the division had first been committed, but the unit had shown it was dependable, which was why Lavalle and Knocke had chosen it for the first major defensive action.

  Reduced in size by losing the 5th RdM to ‘Camerone’, ‘Alma’ was more of a large brigade than a division, but had been punching above its weight since the start of the Soviet offensive.

  The Alma’s new commander, Celestin St.Clair, stood with the commander of the special anti-tank company, upon whom, much depended.

  The anti-tank guns were positioned one and a half kilometres behind the River Aubach, silently awaiting the order to fire.

  A stand was called for in the plan, and Alma was about to make it.

  0711hrs, Thursday, 25th October 1945, Ebersheim, Alsace.

  Lieutenant Colonel Blagoslavov groggily dismounted from his tank, blood pouring from his mouth.

  A young girl had run out from her hiding place in Ebersheim, causing the driver to brake suddenly.

  As Blagoslavov hit the cupola, face first, one of the SMG troopers had shot the child down, for fear that she had a grenade in her hand.

  The crew of the command tank rallied to their officer, sitting him down, and pressing a dressing to his face.

  One of the infantry unit’s medics appeared and took command, the elderly man deftly removing some shattered teeth, before preparing to stitch the nasty wound.

  The needle worked quickly, pulling together the split flesh. Blagoslovov winced, but held firm, the pain almost unbearable.

  Major Svir, commander of the 1st Tank Battalion, quickly assumed temporary command whilst Blagoslovov was being attended to, extending the infantry cordon to the edge of the village, and pushing his tanks beyond it to the banks of the Aubach.

  0712hrs, Thursday, 25th October, 1945, overlooking Legion frontline position on the Aubach River, Alsace.

  This place had been chosen for a number of reasons; the river, the terrain, the open killing ground. The positioning of the guns had been decided days beforehand, but still, to the Legion Officer, the distance seemed too great.

  “Are you sure you can kill then from here, Capitan Bäcker?”

  “Ja, these are no ordinary guns, Colonel.”

  And they weren’t, certainly not to look at, if nothing else.

  Despite their low profile, the four weapons were still larger than any anti-tank gun St.Clair had ever seen, and he quietly thanked his maker that he had not chosen tanks as an Army career.

  “Standby, Capitan.”

  “All guns, standby,” the anti-tank officer spoke softly into the mouthpiece, even though the nearest enemy was nearly two kilometres away.

  “You think, when the rear one is level with that tree, Capitan Bäcker? This is your business, after all.”

  The former SS Hauptsturmfuhrer grunted in response, waiting calmly, assessing ranges and angles, like the veteran he was. Bäcker was an anti-tank specialist; a brilliant training officer from the Beneschau SS-Panzer-Jäger Schule, a man who had earned his spurs on the Russian steppes in charge of a 50mm Pak 38 outside of Moscow.

  For this battle, he had a very different weapon at his disposal.

  There were four of the monsters, two either side of Route 1083, defending the approaches to Selestat.

  St.Clair almost forgot himself, the rearmost IS-II slipping past the marker tree.

  “Tirez!”

  The experienced Foreign Legion officer wasn’t sure what he had expected, but he was sure he didn’t expect the huge explosion that followed, as the adjacent anti-tank gun sent its heavy shell down range.

  Representing the last of Germany’s anti-tank weapon development, the 128mm PAK K44 was a beast. Huge and unmaneuverable though it was, the punch it possessed ruled the battlefield, and it could reach out to nearly three kilometres, killing with relative impunity.

  Three of the four shells struck home, each of the heavy IS-II’s succumbing to the irresistible force of the PAK’s huge shell.

  Fig #65 - Trap on the Aubach River, south of Ebersheim, Alsace.

  0715hrs, Thursday, 25th Octobe
r 1945, Ebersheim, Alsace.

  A low moan escaped Blagoslavov, slightly muffled by his bandaging.

  All eyes had swivelled at the sound of explosions, the heavy crack of a supremely dangerous weapon arriving sometime after the tanks had been struck and killed.

  Major Svir was dead, his IS-II sat turretless, already wreathed in flames. The turret had struck the building behind, demolishing it, bringing down a cascade of brick and wood to engulf the hot metal and its softer human contents.

  Another IS-II sat smoking gently, its surviving crew staggering around behind it, badly concussed, and shocked by the heavy strike.

  A third heavy tank showed no outward sign of damage, but its loss was betrayed by the bloodied figure emerging from the turret, his one good arm working in unison with the stump of the other, desperate to escape the horrors of the interior.

  The remaining tanks were moving at top speed, their commanders desperately trying to find some cover; any place to hide from the lethal killers.

  Two failed spectacularly.

  The first exploded in a fireball, a shell taking it through the side just below the turret ring.

  The second did not burn, neither did it explode, but it was no less spectacular watching a tank of some forty-five tons simply come apart at the seams, as two 128mm shells struck simultaneously.

  Climbing onto his command tank, Blagoslavov tried to broadcast to his unit commanders, the tightness of the bandaging preventing the attempt.

  He ripped away at the linen, exposing his wounds to the air again, desperate to call in orders to stop the destruction of his command.

  The second circuit was alive with requests for information, requests that became more strident with each extra Legion volley.