Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  Despite the fact that intelligence had briefed them on the probability of a follow-up attack, the defenders were nearly taken off-guard.

  The Argyle’s CO, Beattie, an old Major, whose experience, it was humorously rumoured, went back to Balaclava and beyond, had a sudden seizure.

  The sight of their commander thrashing around on the floor, frothing at the mouth, eyes rolling in his head, unnerved some, and distracted all.

  Inadvertently, the Soviet commander had put in his attack five minutes before schedule, for no other reason than the Artillery’s need to move on with the main body quickly.

  Attention strayed from the fitting man to the eastern approaches, once again full of charging enemy infantry.

  The Argyles rose to the challenge, and put up a terrific defence, stopping the assault cold, forcing the enemy to again seek the advantage of shelter in the ruins of Barnstorf.

  Despite being without a head, the 2nd Battalion still functioned well.

  In the flooded fields, west of Gothel, bogged down tanks from the first attack lent their firepower to the second assault, but to no avail, the defences proving too strong. The American and British soldiers recognised the difference between the second half-hearted attack, and the all-out assault of the first wave.

  None the less, the action cost the 116th Infantry two of its company commanders, one dead, the other wishing he were, his triple amputation promising a mundane life of care, above the few functions he would be able to perform with his remaining leg.

  0945hrs, Thursday, 25th October 1945, Scharrel, Germany.

  The plan seemed to be working, although the heavy rain made verification more difficult.

  Best information put the enemy shadowing force off to the south, following the units of the 11th Guards, as they rolled the attack further away from Barnstorf.

  The heavy rain was a double-edged sword, providing good cover for the ground operations, and keeping the potent enemy air force out of the sky, offsetting the loss of visibility, the reduced effectiveness of his artillery support, and the restriction of movement caused by flooding.

  Major General Obinin decided, on balance, to accept its presence as a positive.

  “All units, attack. Artillery, standby.”

  The order was relayed, and the assault group moved forward as one, intent on forcing the Hunte, and opening the way for the 6th Guards Army.

  Silently, the lead units moved forward, the rain, if anything, growing in its strength and fury, visibility at a hundred and fifty yards at best.

  ‘Perfect! Keep raining!’

  0953hrs, Thursday, 25th October 1945, the Hunte River, Barnstorf.

  Blake was drinking more tea, wishing his batman had the skills of the unknown Scottish corporal who had conjured such delights from god knows where.

  None the less, he was determined to enjoy the brew.

  ‘Warm and wet, that’s all a man ever needs.’

  Blake had never heard of atheroma.

  He stifled a belch.

  ‘Indigestion.’

  He rubbed his chest, convinced the stewed tea had affected him adversely.

  Another piece of atheroma, this one larger, joined the first, starting on its own short journey.

  The first piece lodged in a coronary artery, diameter reduced by the build-up of fatty material, complimented by years of bodily abuse, the effects moving quickly beyond simple indigestion in a blink of an eye.

  His left arm suddenly became incapable of holding the mug, and it dropped to the ground, smashing noisily. His jaw set firmly, the pain in it causing him to freeze all movement therein.

  The second piece of atheroma, a detached piece of fatty deposit from the inside of an artery, came up against the first blockage, and caused a near-perfect seal, resistant to the pressure of blood trying to go on its way.

  The pain was intense, cutting through every sensation, every sense, until it was all-pervasive.

  Blake slid to the floor, his arms heavy and useless.

  Behind the blockage, a long-standing weakness in the coronary artery decided that its time had come, and the artery gave way under the pressure build-up caused by the pumping of the heart itself.

  The commander of the 154th Brigade was dead before he could blink.

  0955hrs, Thursday, 25th October, 1945, Main road bridge, the Hunte River, Barnstorf.

  “Stand to! Stand to! ‘Undreds of the bas!”

  The Argyle and Sutherland Highlanders were caught unawares, but quickly recovered, although the Soviet rush had made it to within one hundred yards, the volume of fire quickly stopped them in their tracks, dropping men to the sodden roads and pavements, never to rise again.

  The Argyle’s Major was on the way to the rear, destined never to fight again, command of the ad hoc company now in the hands of a young Captain, whose heaviest responsibility before this bloody day had been organising the battalion boxing competition.

  None the less, Brian Jesmond came from soldier stock, and was up to the task.

  Within seconds, he had organised a mortar barrage on the lead elements, and a minute after that, artillery started to fall on the echelons behind.

  As dictated by the Soviet battle plan, contact meant that their own artillery and mortars commenced firing, falling behind the river, restricting the movement of the local reserves.

  To the north, Soviet forces were rushing the river line from Eydelstadt, the survivors of the 31st Guards Rifle Division, intent on pinning the defenders in place at least, although men of the 77th Engineers followed closely behind, in case opportunity arose.

  The British 154th Brigade was under greater pressure than before, as much by the surprise of the assault, as its severity.

  Back at the courtyard on the Nagelskamp, Ramsey heard the growing sounds of fighting and, along with his men, grew restless, not knowing that Brigadier Blake was unable to issue instructions.

  Blake’s 2IC was struggling to control the battle already, thoughts of self-preservation more paramount in his mind.

  Without thinking, he had dispatched one of the reserve companies of his 2nd Battalion, directing the men of the 5th/7th Gordon Highlanders to the defences at Walsen, passing them through the local reserve force of the reduced C Company, 2nd Seaforths.

  Whilst the fight at Walsen was intense, the commander on the ground was content that he could hold, the assaulting troops being kept at a suitable distance from the water.

  All of a sudden, he had an embarrassment of riches, and was able to report confidently that the line would hold.

  Kommando Friedrich’s 1st Alarm Kompagnie had shifted north, mirroring a Soviet move, pushing up to a line between Rödenbeck and Aldorf, slotting in beside the other Seaforths, mainly members of the old 2nd Battalion.

  Spurred on by the example of some Red Army NCO’s and officers, a handful of brave men tried to swim across and were machine-gunned in the water, Brens, Stens, and Enfields turning the water maroon with blood.

  There was no room for mercy on the Hunte that day.

  However, there was opportunity for error, and the petrified acting Brigade commander made more gaffs, as he struggled with his inner demons.

  The remaining company of 2nd Battalion, more Gordon Highlanders, was sent forward into the mill, at the main road bridge, compacting the defenders, bringing problems as enemy mortar fire started to yield three or four casualties a shell, rather than the one or two had the units been properly spaced.

  Junior officers and NCO’s tried to sort out the problems, some of them joining the ranks of the fallen, as they bravely exposed themselves in the effort.

  At the bridge itself, Soviet infantry swarmed forward, accepting terrible losses for speed of advance, a brave rush bringing the survivors to the ruins next to the east bank.

  Grenades flew one way, and then the other, casualties screaming as flesh was sliced by hot metal.

  As if to try and mask the sounds of suffering, the rain redoubled its efforts, the noise drowning out screams and
gunfire to all those but those closest.

  Five hundred yards upstream, the fight for the middle bridge was intense, the assault force being backed up by some tanks, including those still bogged down from earlier attacks.

  1st Black Watch were exhausted, but still fighting, their casualties higher than other units, as the Soviet mortars proved more effective, causing many casualties with tree bursts.

  The commander urgently called for assistance, knowing that his position was dire.

  A Soviet mortar shell had landed alongside one of the old Vickers, tossing it forcefully into the air.

  It dangled from the tree still, accompanied by the detritus of its gunner.

  Two men had been wounded trying to knock it back down to earth before the attempt at recovery was abandoned.

  The other machine-gun continued to wreak havoc with the advancing Soviet infantry, although they had taken to crawling forward, their bellies deep in the mud and puddles, edging closer to the river line.

  Captain Finlay lay in peaceful repose, his quiet form not betraying the horrors of the shrapnel wounds that had ripped his back to shreds and stilled his heart.

  Kampfgruppe Friedrich’s 2nd Kompagnie answered the call for help, moving up without orders, integrating themselves with the Jocks and stiffening the line.

  The first German casualty was Dieckhoff, shot in the groin and ankle as he ran forward.

  A number of the Kommandos fell, but the position was soon restored.

  Hauptmann Strecher moved gingerly around the frontline, encouraging a soldier here and there. Despite the pain from a sprained ankle, he brought his brand of cheerfulness and encouragement to his men.

  A renewed bout of firing marked the start of another Soviet probe, lead by tanks, and Strecher moved quickly to the nearby anti-tank gun, another of the 61st’s six-pounders.

  The crew were all experienced men, and the evidence of that was the five T34’s already lying smashed from the first attacks.

  Strecher was satisfied that the men knew their craft, and moved away.

  Suddenly he was lifted, a silent force propelling him into a tree, chest first, knocking the wind from his lungs and stunning him.

  Groggily, he knelt on the soaked ground, shaking his head to clear his vision, drawing hard on the cold air.

  His eyes started to focus on the six-pounder, lying on its side, one wheel pointing towards the gods.

  An HE shell had landed next to the gun, the blast tipping it over and ripping through the crew.

  One man, probably the gun layer, was trapped under the gun, the wheel pressing him into the ground.

  The gun commander, who had been nearest to the explosion, lay on the ground adjacent to the new shell hole, no injury apparent, but none the less dead.

  Three other crewmembers had died, coming apart under the force of the shell.

  One man survived, unconscious, knocked out when the unpinned trail of the gun had struck him in the face as it flipped over.

  The ex-Luftwaffe officer hesitated for a moment, his eyes alternating between the horrors around the gun to the gathering force of enemy tanks.

  Calling to no one in particular, but none the less calling for all he was worth, Stracher leapt forward, the pain of his ankle and broken ribs, lost in the adrenalin of battle.

  Three men answered his call, and together they rolled the gun back onto its wheels, releasing the gun layer, and dragging him clear.

  He did not survive the move.

  The rain stopped, going from downpour to nothing in a few seconds.

  “Kameraden, how is to fire this gun?”

  CSM Green spoke up.

  “No idea, Sir. Seen them a few times, but never fired one.”

  “I can do it, Sir. Easy enough. My cousin is in the gunners, so I’ve seen it done.”

  Private Johnson grinned as he slipped into the gun layers seat.

  “Sarnt-Major, grab that lever,” he indicated the breech handle, “That way to open it, a shell goes in,” Johnson leant back and adopted a serious tone, “Make sure it’s in now, ok?” Green considered a reply, but held his tongue. The private was looking through the gun sight, playing with the gun laying controls, almost pre-occupied in thought before he remembered he was only halfway through his brief.

  “And then push the lever back round. Step out of the fucking way tout-fucking-suite like, and tell me the shell is loaded, OK?”

  “OK, I got you.”

  Turning back from his minor adjustments, Johnson adopted a serious tone.

  “Keep out of the way of that breech, Sarnt-Major.”

  “OK, I got it.”

  “Achtung!”

  Strecher yelled a warning, as one of the T34’s pushed forward, furthest forward of a wedge of seven metal beetles, angling towards the bridge.

  “Enemy tank to front, Kameraden. Engage the one on the road!”

  The other soldier, MacPherson, another of the 1st Black Watch, slipped a shell out of its box and passed it across to Green, who in turn fed the breech, drawing the lever across and sealing it. Stepping back, he yelled at Johnson.

  “Clear!”

  The breech leapt back and the new crew were all surprised to see a spectacular direct hit, the front of the T34 disappearing in a blossom of red and orange.

  The tank moved on through the fire.

  Green was fit to burst.

  “You fucking tosser! That’s explosive! Gimme armour piercing, quick!”

  Stretcher mouthed some unsavoury German words, although unsure if he would have known himself.

  “Clear!”

  Johnson’s second shot struck the road underneath the advancing tank and carried on, rising as it went, just missing the rear plate of the tank, before it carved its way through the knot of infantry at the rear of the vehicle.

  The carnage was awful, the solid shot smashing aside five men before continuing on its path.

  “C’mon man! Hit the fucking thing!”

  The breech closed once more.

  “Clear!”

  Again, the six-pounder fired, and again the shell missed, this time by a clearer margin, as the vehicle had increased speed.

  A smoke trail reached out from the riverbank and struck the Soviet tank on the glacis plate.

  The tank crew died, some instantly, the rest when they tried to bail out of the stricken vehicle, as vengeful German and Scottish infantry cut them down within seconds.

  An old German Kommando soldier, once a member of the Volksturm, had swum across the Hunte to get a better shot, his Panzerfaust easily disposing of the tank.

  He joined the number of floating bodies in the slow-moving river, a tossed grenade killing him as he struck out for the friendly west bank.

  “Clear!”

  This time Johnson scored a kill, a more difficult shot by far, but one that gave spectacular results.

  Strecher, with the benefit of his binoculars, had directed the gun’s fire onto a T34, positioned more towards the rear, drawn as he was by the telltale flapping aerials.

  The tank contained the company commander and radio, both now being incinerated as the vehicle brewed up dramatically.

  A shell exploded, followed by another, and then many more, vengeful observers bringing down mortar fire on the anti-tank gun position.

  Green yelped as piece of shrapnel buried itself in his left buttock, and then again as a larger piece of metal opened the back of his left hand.

  The temporary crew sought cover as best they could, only Macpherson escaping injury, although his decision to hide within the ammo compound was debateable at best.

  Seeing the gun silent, and mindful of the ammunition issues, the Senior Lieutenant in control of the mortars ordered the fire stopped.

  Strecher, the tip of his nose altered by a stone thrown up from a blast, was first to sit up.

  Spitting away the blood and earth, he called to the rest of his crew.

  “Kameraden, back to the pak!”

  Green, angry as hell, the pa
in motivating him, picked up the shell he had been about to load, cleaned the earth and leaves from its glistening casing with his hands, before sliding it home.

  “Clear. More ammo, man!”

  Macpherson was slowest to respond to the call, but quickly produced a pristine shell from the nearest box.

  Again, the gun thundered its defiance, and again it hit home, this time catching one of the T34’s as it turned, penetrating the lower hull, removing the back idler and last road wheel, causing unknown but probably terminal damage to the engine.

  The crew made a quick escape, and were luckier than their comrades were, all five making it to cover without injury.

  Strecher searched for more targets, conscious that the only live tanks he could see were backing up, moving away as their guns hammered out to cover the withdrawal.

  The defensive fire of the Highlanders also started to slacken, the men tired of firing, refusing even the easy targets of retreating men’s backs, as the Soviet infantry moved away from the field.

  Soviet mortars again opened up, this time dropping a mix of HE and smoke, trying to cover the withdrawal.

  Green’s backside was hurting like hell, and he could not find a position that was comfortable.

  Arching his back, he became aware of one of nature’s glories, the spectacular phenomenon curving across the autumn sky, its colours rich and vibrant, as the sun gave full vent to its powers.

  As is the want of every observer of such things, many an eye followed the rainbow’s curves to establish where it came to ground.

  Green and Strecher looked at the rainbow, and then looked at each other.

  It terminated at the rail bridge, from whence came the sounds of extreme violence, punctuated by the flashes of guns and shells, as the Soviet main assault charged forward.

  0956hrs, Thursday, 25th October, 1945, Main rail bridge, the Hunte River, Barnstorf.

  “Next bridge up river’s under attack too.”

  “You don’t shay.”

  Hässler slithered in beside Rosenberg, and ignored the usual provocation.