Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  His voice failed him, his split tongue swollen in his mouth, the bruising to his face and mouth preventing the clarity he so needed.

  One of 1st Battalion’s IS-II’s had made it to safety.

  Just one.

  Of the rest, all fourteen were destroyed, and not one shot had been fired at their killers, wherever they were.

  Lacking orders, 2nd and 3rd Battalions moved up to assist their comrades, and immediately, the lighter T34’s of 2nd Battalion started to be smashed apart.

  Pointing, and making urgent sounds, Blagoslavov managed to make the gunner understand that he needed the tank to move over to the 2nd’s position.

  The IS-II moved off, the driver choosing the route that placed a row of buildings between him and whatever they were out there.

  The command tank halted behind a pretty bungalow, totally concealed and safe, the agitated Blagoslavov immediately dismounting and running to the 2nd Battalion commander’s tank.

  0720hrs, Thursday, 25th October, 1945, overlooking Legion frontline position on the Aubach River, Alsace.

  Captain Bäcker chuckled to himself.

  “Watch this, Colonel. A party trick.”

  Turning to the nearest gun, he shouted at the commander.

  “Wagner, heavy charge.”

  Moving to the gun layer’s position, Bäcker slapped the Corporal on the shoulder and replaced him, leaning out from behind the gun shield to quickly check his bearings.

  The gun was cleared ready, and Bäcker sighted the weapon on the quaint bungalow.

  Careful to remove his face from the sight mount, he fired the weapon, leaning out once more to watch his handiwork.

  The building stood, apparently undamaged.

  Beyond it, the 128mm shell had slammed into Blagoslavov’s tank.

  The Soviet tank Colonel turned, watching the flames engulf his vehicle, the combination of shell and fire leaving him the only survivor.

  Observed from the Pak position, the column of smoke indicated Bäcker’s success.

  Relinquishing the seat to the gun layer, the Panzer-Jäger commander resumed his previous position, surveying his handiwork more closely with his Zeiss binoculars.

  “Impressive, Capitan Bäcker, very impressive.”

  The officer nodded thoughtfully.

  “And now we must relocate, Sir. I don’t think they’ve seen us yet, but I want to move anyway.”

  Turning back to the anti-tank crew, he yelled his order.

  “Achtung! Relocate to position Bruno immediately.”

  The order was relayed to the other three guns, and the line fell silent as they prepared to move off. The accompanying mortar section put down their smoke, as arranged.

  0724hrs, Thursday, 25th October 1945, Ebersheim, Alsace.

  The dismounted infantry of the 424th moved quickly forward, believing they were charging whatever it was that had destroyed the tank battalion.

  The waiting legionnaires of ‘Alma’ let them come on, waiting silently in their prepared positions, luring their enemy into the killing ground on the banks of the Aubach.

  The low cracks started, the Soviet infantry setting off mines as they ran. Men went down, holding shattered legs and feet, the small mines doing no more than maiming, but doing so in numbers.

  Then the defensive line opened fire, machine-guns and rifles filling the air with buzzing metal, angry wasps with a deadly sting.

  Still they came on, growing smaller in number every second, until the order was given and they dropped to the ground, hugging Mother Earth for all they were worth.

  Two batteries of the Legion Group D’Artillerie then brought down a barrage upon both emasculated companies, one battery firing the standard LeFH 105mm, the other the more spectacular Nebelwerfer.

  It proved too much for the 424th, and the survivors retreated, ending up back where they had started, but with over a hundred casualties.

  Other companies from the 424th started to arrive, and another infantry assault was put in over the Route 321 Bridge, shaping to turn the flank of the defending legionnaires.

  It had been partially dismantled by legion engineers, prior to the arrival of the Soviet forces, but still the guardsmen threw themselves at the standing piles and remaining cross-members, swinging across as best they could.

  The six-barrelled Nebelwerfers, reloaded after Soviet counter-battery fire from the 1027th Artillery Regiment had caused casualties amongst the crews, brought down a full strike on the assault force, and the arrival of accurate Legion heavy mortar fire again caused the 424th to falter.

  Blagoslavov, his misery added to by a painful cut from a piece of flying glass, commandeered the tank belonging to the 2nd Tank Battalion’s third officer.

  2nd Tank Battalion drove hard up the Route de Scherwiller, angling away from the Aubach defences, looking for an advantage against the ‘Alma’s’ left flank.

  One of his leading tanks stopped, and he watched as the turret swung.

  Assessing the aiming point, the covering smoke screen opened up by a sudden stiff breeze, Blagoslavov finally got a look at one of his tormentor’s, the huge anti-tank gun bouncing along behind a German half-track as it tried to relocate.

  With difficulty, he communicated his orders to the gunner, the turret eventually turning to engage the distant vehicle.

  A number of shells had already been fired at the beast, but none had come close to scoring a hit, so far away and fast was it moving.

  The Artillery liaison officer with the 110th Tanks calmly called it in, knowing he needed to state the coordinates of where the PAK would be, not where it was now.

  His efforts were rewarded, and the 122mm’s of the 1027th Artillery smashed both the gun and prime mover in their second volley.

  Enemy artillery was now dropping smoke rounds between their lines and the infantry of the 424th.

  ‘The bastards are going to withdraw!’

  Blagoslavov halted his tank again, concealed in a small stand of trees, and quickly scribbled on a pad, communicating his orders to the loader.

  Fiddling with the radio, the man contacted 3rd Battalion, and ordered them forward immediately.

  From his position on the flank, Blagoslavov could see the enemy infantrymen moving backwards, unmolested by fire from Ebersheim, their escape concealed by the smoke barrage.

  However, the smoke did not prevent 2nd Battalion’s tanks from seeing the movement, and a number of vehicles started to engage the legionnaires with high explosives and machine-guns.

  The mass of men suddenly went to ground.

  3rd Battalion’s tanks, sporting grapes of infantry, rushed forward into the smoke, intent on running down the retreating men.

  Emerging from the smokescreen, they were puzzled to find an empty landscape, not the target-rich environment that they had anticipated.

  Beneath the metal tracks, the small anti-personnel mines started to detonate, with no effect.

  The mass of tanks converged on the two bridges over the Aubach.

  0742hrs, Thursday, 25th October, 1945, overlooking Legion secondary position ‘Bruno’, the Aubach River, Alsace.

  “Right about now.”

  St.Clair judged the moment almost perfectly, the flash of exploding mines filling his binoculars less than two seconds after his words.

  He watched as the trap was sprung, enemy heavy and medium tanks rolling over anti-tank mines, shattering tracks and bogies, and coming to an enforced halt in an extremely dangerous environment.

  “Wait.”

  Grudgingly, he recognised the courage of the enemy soldiers, watching as the infantry grapes dismounted and rushed forward, intent on securing the bridges, as well as covering the tankers while they worked on repairs.

  Men were bowled over as the deadly anti-personnel mines in the third layer started their harvest, linked combinations, and strings of all shapes and sizes of mine inflicting heavy casualties on the running men.

  “Fire!”

  Behind Colonel St.Clair, two radiomen
spoke into their mouthpieces, passing his order to the waiting units.

  Legion mortarmen filled the sky with bombs, intent on smashing the infantry force.

  The heavy anti-tank guns, now in their secondary positions, started working the crippled vehicles, enjoying the turkey shoot.

  Soldiers from ‘Alma’, whose feigned ‘retreat’ had started the planned trap, rose up out of their second line positions, and ripped more holes in the ranks of the advancing Soviet infantry.

  St.Clair watched the destruction of the Soviet assault force with a professional eye, revelling in his contribution to the plan that had delivered the enemy up, although a small part of him felt sympathy for the men who were being destroyed in front of his eyes.

  As a soldier of France, most of him enjoyed the sight of the invaders being vanquished so totally. As an officer, and commander, he felt immense pride in the discipline and expertise of his men, regardless of its lineage.

  The crack of high-velocity weapons to the west drew him momentarily, but the sight of two T34’s starting to burn confirmed that his left flank was secure.

  0744hrs, Thursday, 25th October, 1945, Route de Scherwiller, Ebersheim, Alsace.

  Blagoslavov ripped off his bandages, tearing his stitches, his anger driving him through the pain, just as if it was not there.

  Ordering his own artillery to set down smoke, he attempted to extricate what was left of his command.

  3rd Battalion was in real trouble, with its leadership gone, and its vehicles mainly immobilised, either by mines or by fear.

  2nd Battalion had been stopped by enemy tanks, positioned west of the Route de Scherwiller. In any case, moving further up that route was pointless, with the main body being butchered behind him on the outskirts of Ebersheim.

  The men of the 424th were dying in droves as mines, mortars and machine-guns gave them a working over, an examination the like of which none of the Soviet veterans had experienced before.

  Lieutenant Colonel Blagoslavov ordered his unit to fall back, knowing that he was condemning some of those lying immobilised, but knowing that he needed to save as many of his men as he could.

  Acknowledging an incoming message from Major General Konovalov, and warning the 38th’s commander not to proceed too far forward, Blagoslavov prepared to move his own tank to safety.

  The 2nd Battalion had enjoyed a success against their tormentors, and one of the enemy vehicles on their flank had been set alight by direct hits.

  The mix of T34’s and IS-II’s pulled back, making the edge of Ebersheim with only one more loss.

  Smoke from the Soviet barrage had drifted on the wind, helping to mask 2nd Battalion’s withdrawal, and Blagoslavov also used it to cover his own drive back to the relative safety of the German village.

  The survivors of the main thrust started to appear, a man here, three there, a tank moving at high speed, jinking from side to side to escape the enemy guns that still fired across the smoky divide.

  Returning his borrowed tank to the normal commander, Blagoslavov started the job of reassembling his shattered regiment.

  2nd Battalion was still relatively intact, fifteen vehicles ready to move on orders. 1st Battalion now had three tanks up and running, testament to the skill of his mechanical engineers.

  3rd Battalion had seven tanks back in the village, probably more still marooned in the minefield beyond.

  By any standards, he had suffered a defeat, the loss of over thirty tanks in one engagement only surpassed by the horrendous casualties inflicted upon his SMG troops, and the infantry of the 424th.

  In return, he could claim one enemy armoured vehicle and one anti-tank gun, as well as numerous infantry.

  Setting up a headquarters at the Mairie, Blagoslavov liaised with the senior officer of the 424th, the wounded Major seemingly still in shock from the losses inflicted upon his battalions.

  The infantry could do nothing more than hold in place for now, so shattered were they, and the tank officer doubted that they would manage that, if pressed hard by the enemy.

  The pain was starting to return, his jaw working overtime issuing orders to hard-pressed tank officers, trying to pull his unit back into some kind of order.

  A small column of vehicles drew up in the Rue Principale, and an irate Konovalov emerged, determined to salvage the situation.

  There were no niceties or formalities.

  “What the fuck has happened here, PodPolkovnik?”

  Expecting nothing less from his commander, Blagoslavov started drawing on the map, showing enemy lines, routes of advance, describing the attack in sufficient detail for Konovalov to understand exactly ‘what the fuck’ had happened.

  “And your Regiment? How much is left?”

  “At this time, I have twenty-five vehicles, Comrade General, fourteen IS and eleven Tridsat’s, with maybe another five to come after repair.”

  “And the infantry?”

  “I’ve no longer an SMG company of note. Perhaps a platoon of men left standing, but I don’t think they’re fit to fight at the moment, Comrade General.”

  Konovalov understood.

  “The 424th is reorganising for defence at this time. Mayor Din informs me that he can muster three companies of men in total, Comrade General.”

  The commander of the 38th Tanks winced, understanding that each supporting battalion had been reduced to a company, and that such news represented appalling casualties.

  “What else have you done?”

  “The artillery is hitting the last known enemy positions. I have requested release of the mortar brigade to my control, and await the answer.”

  “I have your answer, and we must do without them, for now.”

  The men exchanged looks, the Lieutenant Colonel because he was disgusted not to get the support he needed, the General because he understood the man’s disgust, and also because he understood that Blagoslavov had done the best he could, in the circumstances.

  “Go on, Panteleimon Tarasovich, what else?”

  The use of the patronymic was not wasted on Blagoslavov, and he knew he was no longer in danger.

  “All units are being reorganised as we speak, and I’ve ordered up supplies and more medical personnel to deal with the large number of wounded.”

  Words were obviously becoming more difficult, the swelling more pronounced, the pain increasing.

  “Comrade PodPolkovnik, I am moving the 108th up to take over the van. Our comrades from the 419th Rifles will take over from Din’s men.”

  Grabbing the map, and twisting it round to face him, Konovalov showed the wounded tanker his next assignment.

  “Once they pass through your positions, I want you to move back here, to Barr and Eichhoffen. Get your units rested, Comrade. We need a security screen on our flanks. The valley entrances are heavily mined, and Army engineers will be coming up to open them up ready. There are light enemy defences, some guns and infantry, but nothing major in place. You shouldn’t have any problems, Comrade.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  In a softer voice, Konovalov offered his support.

  “This was obviously prepared, and you were the unfortunate one that walked into it, Comrade Blagoslavov. You saved half your unit from the SS bastards, remember?”

  ‘I lost half, you mean!’

  “Now, get your men ready for the move. The Rifle Corps has detached 424th to your command until further notice. Make sure your tank repair unit is ready to salvage what it can, after we have pushed the Germanski Legion back.”

  Slapping Blagoslavov on the shoulder, Konovalov ended the meeting.

  “Now, go and get your own wounds seen to, Comrade PodPolkovnik.”

  Konovalov took personal charge of the next assault. A handful of men were lost to mines, a few more when the damaged bridges disintegrated within seconds of each other, command detonated by some Legion demolition engineers.

  Rokossovsky had dedicated some of his precious bridging engineers to the assault, and they made short work of e
recting something to carry the IS-II’s of the 108th Guards Heavy Tank Regiment.

  Launching an attack over the Aubach, the Soviet force met with no resistance.

  The Legion had withdrawn again.

  Unfortunately, this earth is not a fairyland, but a struggle for life, perfectly natural and therefore extremely harsh.

  Martin Bormann

  Chapter 96 - THE TIGERS

  3RD RED BANNER CENTRAL EUROPEAN FRONT - MARSHAL ROKOSSOVSKY

  1307hrs, Thursday, 25th October, 1945, Headquarters of Mobile Group Blagoslavov, Hotel le Manoir, Barr, Alsace.

  Rather surprisingly, the pain in his face had subsided to a constant dull ache.

  The proper dressing, completed in a less pressurised environment, may well have helped. Certainly the painkillers pressed into his hand by the medics did, although Blagoslavov himself suspected that the vodka had been the greater measure.

  The move north-west had been done quickly and efficiently, the ravaged units settling in at Barr and Eichoffen in record time, both villages relatively untouched by the two wars that had rolled over them.

  Quickly, he directed his units into rough defensive positions, and set his officers to the task of reorganising the shattered regiment.

  His second in command returned to the small square, the smug look betraying the man, and that his search for somewhere appropriate to house the regimental headquarters had been more than successful.

  Le Manoir was an imposing manor house set in its own grounds, and the splendour and sophistication of the interior was the precise opposite of everything that the tank officer had experienced over the last two and a bit months.

  Within two minutes, the exhausted Blagoslavov was snoring louder than one of his tanks at maximum revs.