Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  “Well never mind. I assure you they are there, about a dozen of them, from what we can make out. They will make a surge shortly, so stand ready. We and the Yanks have AT weapons on this side of the bridge, but we need you to even the odds quickly. Keep them at bay if you can. You ok for ammunition?”

  “Yes, Sir, provided they only send the one tank battalion, we should be fine.”

  Ramsey was unsure whether that was humour, bravado, or pessimism, but decided he would let the man be, as his job was a difficult one.

  “Bottom line, Sergeant. We hold where we are. There is no alternative plan. They do not cross the river, or we are sunk. Clear?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “I’m leaving a squad here to provide you with close protection. They will keep their eyes skinned for tank-hunters. The rest is down to you. Good luck, Griffiths.”

  “Thanks, Sir, You too.”

  Replacing the receiver, Griffiths took a swift look through the vision block, but could not see the officer.

  “Well, you’ll be glad to know that our Jock friends have found a dozen Soviet tanks for us to play with.”

  He ignored the groans.

  “We are it, the only tank. Those Red shitehawks don’t get close to the bridge, and that’s the bloody short of it. The Major seems to know his business, and he’s left us some friends to watch our back.”

  Droves summed it up quite nicely.

  “Bollocks!”

  1042hrs, Thursday, 25th October 1945, Hunte River rail bridge, Barnstorf.

  Bullets kicked up at his heels, but the Black Watch officer made it safely to the forward defensive position, as did McEwan, although the latter sported a painful nick to his left calf.

  “Master Sergeant Hässler reporting, Sir.”

  “One moment..., Sergeant.”

  Ramsey wheezed. The rush over open ground, the acrid smoke coming from the Comet and other sources, all combined to make breathing difficult.

  “Let me... get my... breath.”

  Producing a pack of Lucky Strike’s, Hässler took one and passed them on, Rosenberg and another GI took one a piece. The other US soldier declined the offer.

  McEwan eyed the cigarettes with longing.

  “Want one, Jock?”

  “Aye, that I do, Sarnt. Thank ye.”

  A hand signal to the soldier who did not smoke sent the man to the edge of the position, eyes firmly fixed on the approaches.

  Breathing now stable, Ramsey grabbed one of his own cigarettes, raising a hand to stop the Sergeant’s apology.

  “What’s your situation, Sergeant?”

  “I’m down to half my doughs from forty-eight starters. Managed to evacuate the wounded during the last lull, but that was awhile ago, and the commies ain’t taking time outs anymore.”

  Ramsey could never get used to the American way of speaking.

  “How about ammunition?”

  “Plenty of it, of all shapes and sizes, but I am down to two bazookas now, Sir.”

  Hässler pointed down a small off shoot from his position, the beginnings of a veritable arsenal in view.

  “Splendid. Good work, Sergeant. I’ve got my chaps spread in a line behind you at the moment. Fields of fire seem fine, so long as you chaps keep your head down. I’ve also jollied up the tank boys.”

  Hässler could never get used to the British way of speaking.

  For once, Rosenberg stayed silent, a painfully bruised elbow keeping his mind occupied.

  The Master Sergeant stubbed his cigarette out and grabbed his canteen.

  “So, Sir, what happens next? We have stopped the big red machine, but it ain’t broke yet.”

  “True enough, Sergeant. If I’m any judge, our Red friends are gathering themselves for something more complicated.”

  He took the offered canteen, and was surprised to find it contained water.

  A quizzical look drew a response.

  “We lost our supply of quality booze when we were sent to hospital. Haven’t managed to find time to replace it yet, Major.”

  Ramsey could not help but like the man, so he nodded to McEwan, whose hand was suddenly filled with a full canteen.

  “Have a wee dram of that, Sarnt. That’ll put hairs on ye chest, so it will.”

  The brandy was the very best quality, found amongst the abandoned vehicles of some unknown Allied General’s headquarters.

  “Wow!”

  McEwan waved the canteen on, and it was passed to the unhappy Rosenberg.

  A sudden burst of firing made everyone instinctively duck, and a body came tumbling into the position.

  “Oi vay, Chief! Don’t you Shergeants ever knock?”

  Charley Bluebear unrolled himself and brushed his uniform into place, experienced enough not to salute in the front line, despite Ramsey’s seniority.

  “I am Warrant Officer, Corporal Rosenberg.”

  The Jew smiled disarmingly, testing his painful elbow by extending the canteen to the big man.

  “Thank you, Corporal Rosenberg.”

  A quick swig and the canteen found its way back to the rightful owner, the dour Scot looking somewhat overwrought at the reduced contents.

  “So what’s cooking, Chief?”

  Hässler and Bluebear had come to an accommodation over the nickname. If the Master Sergeant used it sparingly, and not in a derogatory fashion, then Bluebear wouldn’t break all his fingers.

  So far, the agreement was holding.

  “Lots of men crawling up as close as they can get over there. Over two companies, maybe even a battalion. Good cover if they stay down low, Master Sergeant.”

  Hässler hummed a response, his mind working the problem.

  Ramsey wondered why the senior man, Bluebear, was deferring to Hässler, a lower rank. He decided that they must have made another accommodation, and it wasn’t his place to interfere.

  The American-German NCO thought aloud.

  “We’ve got a good position, and they still have to come the one way.”

  Looking at Ramsey, he went on.

  “Yeah, they’ve got armor, but we can mess that up enough to hold them.”

  The Black Watch Major pursed his lips, his mind also caught up in matters other than those directly in front of him.

  Bluebear, conscious that minds were working, posed a simple question.

  “So?”

  Hässler remained quiet, looking at the English officer.

  Ramsey believed he knew what the NCO was thinking, and nodded his agreement to the Master Sergeant.

  “So, they are not coming here. This is a diversion.”

  He liberated the map from his pouch, and opened it up, placing it on the ammo box that Bluebear slid into place with ease.

  The answer was as clear as day.

  “Here, at Rechtern and Düste.”

  Even Rosenberg nodded, despite the fact that such matters were beyond his comprehension.

  “Sho they will be past ush then. Should we bug out?”

  The three faces looked at Rosenberg, as if he had been caught with his hand in the poor box.

  “Nope. The fuckers will be coming here after that, my little friend.”

  “Why? They don’t need thish town do they? They are past ush!”

  Ramsey prepared to explain diplomatically, but was beaten to it by the slightly less sensitive Indian.

  “It’s the bridge, you stupid corporal.”

  Rosenberg looked from face to face, seeking further explanation.

  Ramsey supplied it.

  “It’s a rail bridge. Heavy load. Stands to reason the Soviets want it, and I will warrant that there is no other such bridge for miles in either direction.”

  In that, Ramsey was absolutely correct.

  “Sho why haven’t we blown the fucking thing up...err...pardon me... Shir?”

  Hässler supplied the answer this time.

  “No explosives, you dumb fuck! Are all your people so stupid?”

  Unusually, Rosenberg bristled at the com
ment.

  “Only thosh of ush who have to put up with you fucking Krauts.”

  Ramsey went on, eyeing both men as he spoke.

  “So, we need to reorganise a little.”

  The resources were thin, but Hässler and Bluebear could jiggle things a little.

  “You gonna dial it in to the man, Major?”

  Quickly decoding the Master Sergeant’s words, Ramsey nodded.

  “You first, Sergeant. Get him in the picture now. I will nip off back to my boys, get them reoriented to the south, and then give my report to the Colonel.”

  Without standing on ceremony, Ramsey quickly checked the lie of the land, and then was up and gone, McEwan following in his wake, determined never to bring best brandy near the Yanks again.

  Willoughby was already making some changes, but the additional call from the competent sounding limey had made him tweak them some more.

  “Get me Ramirez at 2nd.”

  The handset made its way over as the Commanding Officer of the grandly named 2nd Battalion came on line.

  “Major, I just got off the line with a British officer who has firmed up the Intel. Best guess is the commies will definitely come straight at you with everything they got. You must hold, Oscar.”

  Quite clearly, Major Oscar Ramirez was unhappy with that decision.

  “If they get through you, they will have options, Major. But we think they are after the rail bridge, so I am trying to locate some explosives, to at least drop the bridge at Rechtern as quickly as possible.”

  Willoughby had enough time to drink half a cup of coffee as the Spanish-American officer vented his spleen down the field telephone.

  “Now hold on there, Oscar! You will hold, and that is a goddamn order, son! I’m sending up some assets. Armor, and extra bodies from 3rd Battalion.”

  Clearly, that had little effect upon the Major’s tirade.

  “Well, Major Ramirez. You will goddamn hold that position, or I will goddamn find someone who will, and I will make it my goddamn mission in life to visit myself upon your fucking sorry ass for the rest of your days. Am we clear, Major?”

  Clearly, the response from Ramirez was unsatisfactory.

  “Major, you are relieved immediately. Put your second in command on the horn immediately, and consider yourself under arrest.”

  1051hrs, Thursday, 25th October 1945, Command Post, 3rd Composite Battalion, on the Wagenfelder Aue River.

  “He wants to speak to you, Phil.”

  “Jesus, Oscar. You told him to fuck off!”

  “He is hanging our asses out to dry for a hunch. Pinning us here with no manoeuvre, all on a fucking guess from some limey.”

  The telephone changed hands.

  “Captain Oakley.”

  He listened, sparing an occasional horrified glance at his friend.

  “Are you sure of that situation, Colonel?”

  The Captain almost jumped as the storm broke quickly in his ear.

  “No, Sir, I am not questioning you, as such.”

  Oakley winced.

  “Well, Sir, that’s unfortunate. But to fix this unit in position on that basis is just wrong, Sir.”

  Suddenly, the jaw grew tenser, teeth set hard against each other in response to some direct words.

  “Let me be frank, Colonel. We can give you some time, for sure, and maybe enough time for the engineers to do their job. But if the Red Army comes down that road in force, we haven’t got a hope in hell of stopping a full scale attack, and to stand here and let it roll over us would be suicide, Sir.”

  His decision made, Oakley grinned at his ex-commanding officer.

  “Well, if that’s the case, Colonel, I believe that you’ll be down to the corporals in no time, cos your order is a cluster fuck.”

  He replaced the phone on its cradle.

  “So, what now, Oscar?”

  The handset flew across the tent.

  “Cowards! Fucking useless fucking cowards!”

  Pulling out his Colt automatic and dramatically chambering a round, Willoughby rounded on his staff.

  “Get my goddamn vehicle out front, now! Macey, with me. I’m going to visit myself upon them yellow sonsofbitches!”

  1059hrs, Thursday, 25th October 1945, Route 344, east of Rechtern.

  He waited.

  The Colonel, his face betraying the strain of command, concentrated on his watch, the steady growl of the T-44’s engine hardly a distraction.

  The second hand swept with agonising slowness, finally reaching its zenith.

  Patiently, Yarishlov waited, again, time not his friend.

  However, when the expected fire arrived, the results were spectacular. No matter how often you saw a Katyusha Regiment put down a barrage, the sight was still an awesome one.

  “All units advance! Driver, forward.”

  The T-44 moved gently off, Sergeant Lunin’s skills easing the thirty-five ton beast into motion without so much as a sway.

  Ahead of Yarishlov, the entire strength of his 1st Battalion was already edging forward, intent on overrunning the Allied defences on the nearby tributary of the Hunte, along with men from two of the 16th Guards Rifle Division’s shattered regiments, banded together to make a special unit, charged with a single purpose; to cross the Wagenfelder Aue river.

  He had switched his own position from the Rail Bridge, expecting his presence would ensure that the 1st Battalion pressed as hard as it could.

  Accompanying Yarishlov’s tanks were all the surviving Guardsmen of the recently reinforced 49th Guards Rifle Regiment, under the command of the newly promoted Lieutenant Colonel Deniken, and a full battalion of the 77th Engineers waiting to rush forward if things went wrong.

  The 49th had taken a hammering over the previous two months, but had been bolstered by the arrival of men from units that were disbanded after receiving heavy casualties, bringing the regiment up to about 75% strength, all being veteran soldiers.

  Ahead, the first wave engaged, and the radio waves were filled with the sound of orders and calls for assistance.

  1104hrs, Thursday, 25th October 1945, Wagenfelder Aue Bridge, southeast of Rechtern, Germany.

  The red brick timber mill sat adjacent to the west end of the bridge, its windows sandbagged, indicating its nature as a strongpoint, and the centre of the US bridge defence.

  From each window, at least one weapon was being fired, sometimes as many as four. Carbines to heavy machine-guns, the whole range of automatic weapons available to the defenders of the 116th Infantry was on display.

  All along the riverbank, foxholes and hastily dug trenches held more men, all of which were up and pouring fire into the advancing Soviet infantry and tanks.

  The position was completed by wooden strongpoints, created from interlocked tree trunks, four such positions holding heavy machine guns, two containing anti-tank guns, all at the front line and, further back, another eight providing cover for the mortar support.

  The Soviet soldiers were knocked over in great numbers, an individual man often struck by four or five bullets at a time, the defending Americans profligate with ammunition to balance their lack of numbers.

  One of the anti-tank guns revealed itself, seeking out a T34, but the shell went wide of its intended target, wiping through a command group from one of the infantry companies. It left only the senior officer unwounded.

  The experienced tankers of the 1st Battalion did not miss in their turn, the wooden structure, and the gun and men it held, disappearing as five HE shells struck home.

  A mine claimed the lead tank’s track, an unavoidable problem for the Soviet armour, given the sodden nature of the surrounding fields that confined them to a narrow approach.

  The second vehicle immediately moved up and commenced nudging the disable T34 forward.

  Almost immediately, another mine exploded, on the same side as before, sending a pair of heavy road wheels flying.

  The tank’s commander emerged from the hatch and waved off the pushing tank.
<
br />   Once the shoving had stopped, the tank crew attempted to evacuate, the driver’s broken leg fatally slowing him down, his body left hanging from the hatchway. The defending machine-guns switched their attention elsewhere.

  The shoving started again when another vehicle moved up, and two more mines exploded as the advance picked up pace.

  The second anti-tank gun joined the fight, its solid shot bouncing off the glacis of the abandoned T34.

  A volley of tank shells missed the gun position, but the crew, unnerved and already worn down by weeks of fighting, abandoned their gun, and ran from the field.

  From his own command bunker, Ramirez observed the slow but inexorable advance of the tanks.

  He motioned to Oakley, knowing that he could be sending his friend to his death.

  “Captain Oakley, I need that gun in action a-sap. Take three men from the Reserve platoon; get it up and running yesterday. Clear?”

  His delivery was matter-of-fact, cold, impersonal, all designed to hide his anguish.

  “You got it, Major.”

  Returning to his binoculars, Ramirez could hear the Captain sorting out a small group from the reserve, shaking out men with some AT experience. Then it was quieter again, the would-be gun crew moving off at speed.

  To his front, the tanks had crawled to within one hundred yards of the bridge, their main guns starting to inflict casualties upon the defenders. High explosives shells proved particularly useful in pummelling the red brick timber mill, occasionally blasting men out of windows, as another point of resistance was silenced.

  As the T34’s drew closer, they spread out in a fan shape, following their orders, and readying to commence the infantry assault.

  A bazooka shell smoked its way over the water, the shot speculative and ill advised.

  Ramirez gripped his binoculars tighter as another of his precious AT weapons was lost, a single HE shell blotting out the gunner and loader in the blink of an eye.

  The mortar officer, three yards to his left, redirected the fire, bringing his unit into action against the concentration of tanks at the end of the bridge.