Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  Success was immediate, and one of the tanks started to burn, a direct hit on the engine deck causing a fire, disabling the tank.

  The crew decided there was no future in their staying put, and attempted to retreat. Emerging into a hail of bullets, they quickly reassessed that, for now, remaining within the cast metal was the safer option.

  The infantry attack rolled over the top of the T34’s, the US mortars ripping holes in the mass of men, holes that were further widened by the heavy defensive fire.

  But still they came, pushing on at the running crouch, the famous ‘Urrah!’ accompanying their advance.

  The attack floundered halfway over the bridge, the new wall of bloodied bodies providing some cover for those whose courage failed them in the face of extreme fire.

  A young Lieutenant stood and screamed at his men, most of them old enough to be his father, exhorting them to greater efforts for the Motherland.

  He sprang towards the mill building, advancing only two yards before being struck down by numerous bullets.

  Inspired, the survivors rallied and surged forward again, many suffering the same fate, but a few made it over and broke into the ground floor of the mill, clashing with the defenders there, as the upper floors received the undivided attention of the supporting tanks.

  The Soviet infantry commander launched his second wave immediately and, although many were cut down from positions on the riverbanks, the bulk of his men made it across, fanning out and pushing the 3rd Battalion’s doughboys away from the bridge.

  A T34 nosed onto the bridge and quickly rushed across, no thought for the mangled meat it left in its wake, as it crushed dead and wounded alike.

  Immediately turning sharp left, the tank was engulfed in a shower of sparks, and fire erupted from the turret hatches.

  Oakley’s gun crew had scored a direct hit with their first shot.

  Other tanks moved over the bridge and spread out as soon as they touched the west bank.

  The fourth tank across was struck as it rammed into the mill house, its engine immediately dying, as a solid shot smashed through the compartment.

  The crew were cut down by a .50cal in one of the second line tree trunk positions.

  Ramirez jerked his head in the direction of the nearby sound, his eyes catching the aftermath of the direct hit on the anti-tank gun.

  Almost lazily, the screaming body tumbled through the air and smashed down across one of the disturbed tree trunks, destroying the unfortunate’s spine in an instant.

  The Major knew who it was and turned away, eyes filled with tears, fed by grief and anger in equal quantities.

  Ramirez stayed silent, his eyes taking in the immolation of his battalion, with part of his brain screaming at him to make the decision to save what was left, and to hell with Willoughby.

  The decision was reinforced immediately, as a flight of four Soviet aircraft swept over the bridge, immediately attacking the US troops at Rechtern.

  “Fucking hell! I thought there was no air!”

  It wasn’t said to anyone particular, except maybe to himself, to reinforce his decision to retreat.

  Brave men on the Red side of the divide had taken to the air, and the four Shturmoviks were the first to arrive over the crucial battlefield.

  Although the air support was haphazard and uncoordinated, it was highly welcome, especially at a time when the Red Army suffered on a daily basis from the Allied superiority in the air.

  Yarishlov, in contact with the commander of 1st Battalion, grunted in satisfaction as he received the man’s report.

  Looking at his watch, he calculated how long it would take for 1st Battalion to complete its deployment, before issuing his orders.

  “Comrade Major, make sure your tanks are in position within seven minutes, and no later. The enemy force in Duste is engaged, but post men and tanks to watch for a counter-attack. Orient south-west, west, and north-west. I will be passing through your positions to Rechtern. Clear, Comrade?”

  Satisfied with the response, Yarishlov watched the young Engineer officer checking the bridge structure. The Captain’s orders were simple. Signal either ‘yes’ or ‘no’; there were to be no ‘maybes’ on this day. Either Yarishlov could drive his whole force over it, or he couldn’t.

  The specialist gave the ‘yes’ signal, having paid particular attention to the large crack across the roadway and, on receiving an acknowledging wave from Yarishlov, set his men to work putting strengtheners in place, just in case.

  Yarishlov turned his attention and radio frequency to Major General Obinin, the Special Group Commander, who had eagerly pushed his command group up to Brockmannshausen.

  The early pleasantries over and done with, Yarishlov made his report.

  “Comrade General, our first attack has taken the Wagenfelder Bridge, and the old mill buildings. Enemy infantry are still in the area in numbers, but I intend to pass through them with my 2nd Battalion, and the Guards Infantry, to get to Rechtern as quickly as possible. Over.”

  “Excellent work, Comrade Polkovnik. I can sense another Star in this for you! Now, Duste is still a problem, clear? Over.”

  “Yes, Comrade General. I have my 1st Battalion orienting against any threat from there as we speak. Over.”

  “Excellent again, Comrade Yarishlov. We have been stopped at the other bridges, so we must proceed with Plan Four at high speed. Acknowledge your orders, Comrade Polkovnik.”

  “Plan Four. Order received and acknowledged, Comrade General. Out.”

  Obinin’s message of good luck was spoken to a dead mike, Yarishlov already consulting his map, preparing to direct his units into the rear of the defenders at the rail bridge.

  At the appointed second, his force moved forward, crossing the Wagenfelder Aue, and turning north-west to Rechtern.

  The bridge protested, but held.

  In the command bunker of the 116th’s 2nd Composite Battalion, Major Ramirez still held the field telephone, the order to retreat not given.

  Partially because a mortar shell had severed the main phone line at the entrance to the position, and partially because the same shell had decapitated the US officer.

  2nd Battalion was put to the sword, and the reinforcements from the 1st Battalion in Duste ran head long into Soviet tanks and infantry placed there for just the purpose.

  1136hrs, Thursday, 25th October 1945, Rechtern Bridge, Barnstorf, Germany.

  Colonel Willoughby was also dead, his command vehicle too tempting a target for the Shturmoviks to ignore.

  Using their cluster bomb ammunition, they transformed it, and five of the US tank force, into scrap metal in the first pass.

  Despite the attentions of a 40mm Bofors AA gun, lineage unknown, the Soviet attack craft swept in again, but failed to increase their tally of kills on the second run.

  The defence force assigned to the Rechtern Bridge had been halved by the air attack, and had no chance to recover, before Yarishlov’s 2nd Battalion barrelled into them at full speed.

  None the less, the tank attack was halted by a combination of mines, and fire from the two M10 Wolverines, sited to the right flank of the defence.

  Yarishlov gathered his thoughts and changed tack.

  He sent a company of his infantry through the woods to the northeast of the bridge with simple orders.

  Most of his tanks and the majority of the remaining infantry were kept back to limit the danger, disappearing onto the woods north of Rechterner Straβe, feinting noisily to the north.

  However, the wily Tank Colonel kept a small number still on view, to keep up the pressure, and ensure that the defenders understood they had some enemy still to their front.

  The detached company of Guardsmen, supported by mortars pulled from all the companies, made a noisy demonstration against the river line, bringing the handful of stretched out defenders under heavy fire, and causing them to scream for reinforcements.

  A small Allied force moved northwards, weakening the bridge defences, accompanied
by one more of the ad hoc tank company, an elderly M4A2 that had seen better days.

  Enemy artillery fire started to arrive on the woods, prompting Yarishlov to move up his schedule, and he ordered the new assault to go in immediately.

  The tanks of 2nd Battalion swept out of the woods en masse, moving wide to the left of the bridge, risking fire on their rear from Duste, the infantry stayed on a more narrow front, more focussed on the approach that was wooded and the cover it afforded them.

  The lead squads ran into hastily planted mines, barely concealed, but no less lethal.

  The advance slowed, and two more of the T34’s succumbed to fire, one to an M-10 tank destroyer, and one to a bigger brother.

  However, the latter vehicle, a deadly M36 with a 90mm gun, fell victim to three consecutive strikes from Soviet shells, its inexperienced crew failing to relocate in time.

  Large calibre shells, probably 155mm, started to churn up the soil around the advancing Soviet tanks.

  A message from Deniken indicated that the infantry could not advance, and so Yarishlov brought his tanks back again.

  Once the Soviet troops were all back at their start positions, the two forces commenced an exchange, whose purpose seemed more to be about reminding the enemy of their presence, than to actually hit anything.

  The American heavy artillery stopped, and had Yarishlov and his commanders known that the guns were permanently out of action, then they might have considered a different course of action.

  Seven Il-10’s of the 118th Guards Assault Aviation Regiment had stumbled across the M40 guns as they were redeploying, smashing the already depleted US Artillery Battalion to a meaningless group of shattered survivors, before finding themselves on the receiving end of an attack from a group of vengeful NF30 Mosquitoes. The RAF’s 29 Squadron, normally tasked with night-fighting operations, was aloft this day on the back of simple courage, and with no small help from their onboard radar sets.

  One IL-10 escaped, one Mosquito was lost, and the 118th Guards were stricken from the Red Air Forces’ order of battle.

  As the NF30’s quit the airspace over the battle, more rain began to fall upon the combatants below, lightly at first, but gathering in its weight and intensity.

  The Allied defence was relatively leaderless, but, worse, the officers in the front line did not know it.

  Worst of all, there was a force at work that destroyed much of the cohesion.

  Lieutenant Colonel Cameron Dunn, his unexpected prominence the result of the loss of so many senior ranks, was now the senior officer in 154th Brigade’s headquarters. Feigning competence, he issued orders to units, sending reserve companies of Gordon Highlanders in all directions.

  Contact from the now leaderless 116th brought more disaster, and his orders pushed the 1st Battalion northeast from Dreete.

  They ran into Yarishlov’s 1st Tank Battalion and lost the unequal struggle, retreating in disorder, and leaving a third of their men on the field.

  Back at Rechtern, matters were taking a bad turn for the Allies, as the detached Soviet Guards infantry found that some fallen trees had made the crossing of the Hunte a possibility.

  Quickly, a platoon was pushed over and established itself. It was rapidly reinforced by a second platoon, and Yarishlov informed of the development.

  Deniken was ordered forward again, but timed to strike after the two platoons had announced their presence on the north bank, a noisy diversion to draw the defenders attention at a critical moment.

  With perfect timing, the ancient M4A2 was turned into a fireball, an AP shell reaching across the river from the east bank. The US tank exploded almost immediately, providing a distraction greater than the attacking forces could have dreamed of.

  Taking advantage of the unexpected lack of Allied artillery, Deniken harried his men into a full-scale leg race for the bridge, the enemy fire slackening as allied casualties mounted, the supporting fire from the mortars and the supporting T34’s becoming increasingly effective.

  The surviving M10 decided that discretion was called for, beating a hasty retreat to a position further back.

  Yarishlov urged his armour forward, prepared to accept the disadvantages of the boggy field for the closer support he could offer Deniken’s guardsmen.

  The US mortar platoon increased its rate of fire, self-preservation lending speed to the process of reloading, but to no avail.

  The first of the Guards infantry crossed the bridge over the Hunte, and dropped into the trenches and foxholes beyond, some occupied, some not.

  Vicious disputes for ownership erupted, and the GI’s were rapidly thrown out of the positions.

  Two of the 2nd Battalion’s T34’s were badly bogged down, their thrashing tracks doing no more than digging the metal monsters deeper in the quagmire.

  Aware that bullets were still pinging off their armour, the crews wisely decided to stay put until such times as the field was in friendly hands. Both continued to provide the best close support they could, despite the nervousness caused by their immobility.

  The nearest T34 to the river, enjoying a stable firing position, planted an 85mm shell in the surviving M10 as it moved away in the distance.

  Damaged, its main gun useless, and its crew badly knocked about, the tank destroyer moved away to the west, in no condition to take any further part in the battle.

  Three Soviet tanks, two 76mm T34’s and a later model with the larger weapon, rolled over the bridge in close column, fanning out immediately.

  The remaining allied infantry decided enough was enough, and the defence crumbled.

  Yarishlov watched through his binoculars as the retreat gathered pace, becoming a rout, more and more Allied troops adding to the flow.

  Running men swept through the US mortar positions, urging their comrades to come with them.

  At first the mortar men started to dismantle their weapons but, as the tide grew stronger and the voices more panicky, most left their tubes behind and fled the field.

  A short company of the 154th’s 1st Battalion, all Gordon Highlanders, mistakenly, but fortuitously ordered forward by Dunn, ploughed headlong into the retreating US troops, sweeping many of them up, and adding to their numbers as they moved forward.

  The Jocks stopped at the mortar positions, and swiftly dug in on the edge of the woods, just to the east of the rail line, defending the southern flank of Barnstorf.

  Other men had run in the direction of Dreeke, and were similarly met by men from the 116th’s 1st Composite Battalion.

  Again, the running men were taken onboard and a strong position established in the wood line, either side of the west running Rechterner Straβe.

  A tentative probe by one Soviet platoon was swiftly repulsed by this blocking force, but the Gordon’s were, for now, left alone.

  1140hrs, Thursday, 25th October 1945, Allied defensive position on Barnstorf Rail Bridge, Germany.

  The lone Mustang fighter left a smoky trail behind it, product of a close encounter with Soviet AA fire.

  None the less, the pilot circled the position for two minutes before closing the ground and dropping his speed.

  An object was seen to fall from the aircraft, dropping onto the rail line directly where Route 48 crossed the metal tracks.

  The P51 increased speed steadily and flew off to the south-west, disappearing into a sky once again become grey before its time.

  One of Aitcherson’s men retrieved the bundle. The white silk aviator’s scarf continued a notebook, held open by a rubber band on the appropriate page.

  The Cameron Highlander officer consulted with Robertson, the RSM in no doubt as to the significance of the message.

  With Aitcherson’s blessing, RSM Robertson and two men doubled away to find Ramsey, and give him the bad news.

  Ramsey was found in strained discussion with the US Engineer officer, Fielding.

  “It’s not enough, Major. Simply put, if I try bringing it down with what I have, I may as well goof off, Sir.”

&nbs
p; “Is there nothing that you can do, Fielding?”

  “Unless you have about a thousand pounds more Composition C, then I reckon not, all save wreck the tracks, Major.”

  Hässler, witnessing the conversation, whispered to Robertson, bringing the Senior NCO up to date on events.

  “Some douche bag in supply sent up crates of ‘C’ for the engineer boys. Wrong goddamn size, half pound blocks, instead of full pounds, and then only a part of what was asked for.”

  Shaking his head, Ramsey brought up his binoculars, the landscape to his front devoid of any Russians, save the dead and dying, his focus upon the stout rail bridge.

  “Sah, I have bad news the now.”

  Although he said nothing, the Black Watch Major’s face spoke volumes.

  He accepted the notebook.

  “A Yank pilot dropped it tae us, Sah.”

  Ramsey read the brief message, his face turning to thunder by the time he had finished.

  “Gentlemen, our flyer friend informs us that about three miles to the east is a large concentration of enemy forces, oriented this way, estimated at over divisional strength.”

  The silence was deafening.

  “He also insists that there are two armoured trains sat with them, ready to move.”

  1st Lt Fielding snorted in derision.

  “Well, anyone who has read the reports knows the Soviet track gauge is different, so that’s a non-starter.”

  Ramsey inclined his head and, yet again, was beaten to it by Bluebear, who went for the less sensitive option.

  “The German had them, so maybe the Russian has the German one’s, Lieutenant.”

  He spoke the words in his monotone way, and not as a question.

  Fielding ceded the point with his silence.

  “So, we can stop the trains by smashing up the rails some, Major, but the Commies will repair the track quick enough, and in this weather, a rapid advance with them could do us no end of hurt.”

  Ramsey’s mind hit upon a solution.

  He gathered the assembly close around the map he held, fingering a specific point on the east bank.