Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  The assault from Rechtern had been stopped.

  1237hrs, Thursday, 25th October 1945, the Rail Bridge defences, Barnstorf.

  It had all gone wrong.

  Soviet infantry had moved into the vacuum created by the withdrawal of Bluebear and Hässler, and the veteran soldiers were already bringing the east end of the bridge under close fire, albeit carefully, understanding the nature of the ominous pile in the centre of the single span.

  Yet more Soviet infantry were in the west entrance to the underpass, although understandably lacking in a desire to rush into an area containing munitions dressed with explosives and detonating cord.

  Ramsey’s unit was virtually surrounded, the enemy troopers across the river finding better positions, and returning fire on the covering 2nd Platoon.

  Picking up the field telephone, he spoke quickly with Grayson.

  “Captain, get Fielding to set the charges on the bridge now. Keep the Reds off him while he works. We have to blow that bridge. Clear?”

  “Fielding isn’t here, Sir. His sergeant is in charge and work is nearly complete. Hang on, Sir.”

  Ramsey risked a look at the west bank and saw Grayson shouting towards the pile of shells. He then rushed back to his main position.

  Grayson’s excited voice could be heard in the background, getting a quick heads-up from his man.

  He took the telephone handset.

  “Sir, give him four minutes. Then he can blow it. Just four minutes.”

  “Are all the 116th boys back over the bridge now, Grayson?”

  “No, Sir, not all. Still some of the yanks hanging on at the east end, giving the engineers some breathing space.”

  Ramsey ducked instinctively, a mortar shell striking the ground to the left of his hole, showering him with earth and bits of vegetation.

  “And what’s your situation, Captain?”

  “Holding, Sir. The main force was stopped south of town. Very messy, so I’m told. Aitcherson’s on the spot and waiting to see what they do next.”

  Increased firing betrayed another attempt by the Guards infantry on the mound, the defensive fire slacker than before.

  “Right. The underpass goes in two and a half minutes, got that?”

  “Yes, Sir, good lu...”

  Ramsey was picked up and turned over in mid-air, the force of the explosion removing both his boots, before returning him to virtually the same position.

  The Sten was gone, thrown out of sight by the blast, which had also severed the cable on the field telephone, and tossed the set almost to the water’s edge.

  Testing his legs, Ramsey brought himself up into a crouch position, filling his right hand with his Webley revolver, and the left with his cane.

  Picking his destination carefully, he sprinted forward, dropping in behind the tree stump he had considered wide enough to give him decent cover.

  “Lads! Lads, listen in!”

  Some men turned to their officer, others continued to pour fire into the attackers.

  “We have to hold here. I will blow that railway in two and a half minutes. Keep your heads down. It will be an almighty bang!”

  A few more eyes swivelled his way, and in those eyes he could see the fear of men approaching breaking point.

  He thought fast, and rose to his feet.

  “Lads, the Black Watch does not retreat! We will not retreat, so you will hold here, until I come back to retrieve this.”

  He rammed the cane point-first into the ground, the silver pommel instantly recognisable to every man of the old 7th.

  Ramsey took off, ignoring the pain in his feet, as sharp splinters and stones cut his flesh.

  He stumbled into the remains of Fielding, the man’s unseeing eyes showing no pain, despite the unrecognisable nature of the rest of his body.

  A few yards further on was the ignition point, two of the American engineers lying dead on the ground around it, protecting their work, even in death.

  Ramsey made a final lunge. He threw himself left, but was thrown to the right, the impact of metal changing his direction in mid-air.

  He screamed in pain, the rifle bullet having smashed into the same spot as the young German fanatic in Nordenham, and his already damaged ribs finding the butt of a Garand rifle.

  With teeth clenched hard, to counter the excruciating pain, he retrieved his lighter, and lit the cord.

  It fizzed and flared, making a noisy and obtrusive journey into the underpass.

  Ramsey slithered back as best he could, every movement an agony, every movement moving him another inch towards safety.

  He could hear Robertson shouting to the men, telling them to take cover.

  ‘Urrah’s’ sprang from hundreds of throats, as the Soviet infantry equated the lack of fire with impending success over the defenders, surging forward in confident mood.

  The IS-III’s, unmolested, moved into view, the first tank racing forward towards its goal.

  The det cord burned down, its final few seconds witnessed by a curious Soviet private, who suddenly realised that he was experiencing his last breath.

  For him, and countless others, the world suddenly ended.

  1239hrs, Thursday, 25th October 1945, astride Route 48, Barnstorf.

  Yarishlov’s tanks swept forward, conscious of the suffering of their infantry, and determined not to fail again.

  Their fire was more accurate this time, enemy positions noted and marked, the SP guns and trailer weapons smashed one by one, until the Allied commanders pulled them back.

  Yarishlov was interested in the enemy tank, determined to employ his own 100mm gun to good effect, satisfied that Deniken could manage the battle for the moment.

  Behind him, the additional forces were already moving against the US defences on the Dreeke road.

  To his left, yet more were pushing forward to the northeast, enemy fire slowing them but not stopping them.

  To his front, somewhere, was the enemy tank that had killed so many of his comrades.

  A jeep bounced up alongside and out sprang the muddy and bloodied infantry officer he had come to admire. Sparing a quick look at the jeep, he recognised it for the one that he had travelled in with Deniken so many days before.

  “Comrade Polkovnik. My men have broken through and...”

  The cataclysmic event that interrupted Deniken’s report was later equated to a volcanic explosion.

  The shock wave was immense, and both men feared for their ears.

  A huge pall of smoke and flame rose from the railway line.

  After a moment spent taking in the scene, Deniken spoke calmly.

  “Well then, Comrade Polkovnik. We’ve wasted our time, and our men.”

  Both officers were horrified that so many lives had been lost in trying to take the rail bridge, only for it to be destroyed in front of their eyes.

  The radio crackled in Yarishlov’s ear, his attention mainly focussed on something darker in the dark greenery ahead.

  Yarishlov listened to the message, the man’s shock and disorientation evident, but still composed enough to make an important report.

  The dark area grew slightly darker.

  “The bridge is still up. Proceed, Comrade Deniken, and get away from this tank fast.”

  Deniken was momentarily surprised by the curtness, and then grasped the situation perfectly.

  He leapt off the attractive target and ducked behind the jeep.

  “Kriks, do not turn the turret. One o’clock, in the trees there, See it?”

  Kriks looked.

  “No... wait...yes...mudaks...the bastard has us cold.”

  “Driver, turn the vehicle to the right, millimetre by millimetre, carefully. Kriks, shout when you are on.”

  Yarishlov instinctively realised that the enemy tank had him, and was just waiting for a better shot, ‘or maybe something else?’

  He quickly analysed the situation.

  ‘A better shot? What is better than me sat here in the open eh?’

  T
he T44 rotated slowly, the driver skilfully inching the vehicle into position.

  “Stop. I’m perfect, Comrade.”

  The veteran tank commander spoke the words softly, not risking making his gunner jump with the command.

  “Fire.”

  The two guns fired together, and both hit.

  The 17pdr APCBC round struck the mantlet and flew skywards, the strike resounding inside the turret.

  The 100mm AP shell struck the Glan bull on the right shoulder, transforming the heavy carcass into small pieces, and decorating the surrounding trees with bite-sized pieces.

  Griffiths raged.

  “You fucking pillock! It’s still alive. Move back, Drives, smart about it.”

  “I sodding ‘it it, Sergeant. Every shell but one ‘it, and that was Drives’ bloody fault.”

  “Shut up, you horrible excuse for a gunner. “

  The banter hid the tension of the moment, the ammunitionless Comet no longer of any use, so Griffiths felt free to quit the field.

  Uncharacteristically, Drives stalled the engine.

  The crew said nothing, waiting for their experienced driver to sort it out. The engine turned, but refused to fire.

  Griffiths watched the field to his front, studying the enemy tank, assessing if their recent target had worked out their position. He also watched the ground in front of their position, the Soviet forces spreading out, and, as he watched it all, Griffiths became witness to something truly awful.

  Dunne, foaming at the mouth, eyes wild, had lost the plot, even to the point of producing his revolver, and threatening his own men.

  Snatching the radio from the surprised radio officer, he spoke rapidly, issuing orders well beyond his comprehension.

  “York-Six calling Trafalgar Leader, You may attack. That position is lost, over.”

  “Roger York-Six, Trafalgar Leader out.”

  Dunne returned the handset to the young captain.

  “What have you done, Sir?”

  “I’ve stopped the enemy, Captain Bracewell, that’s what I’ve done, Single-handed, no help from any of you bastards. All by myself, I’ve won the fucking war!”

  “But that’s our positions, our men!”

  “Long gone, Bracewell, I issued orders, don’t you know.”

  “No you didn’t, Sir.”

  “Silence, you mutinous bastard! How dare you disagree with me!”

  “Get the aircraft back on and call them off.”

  The operator was fingering two perfect holes in the front of the comms pack.

  “Set’s fucked, Captain.”

  Bracewell looked at the destroyed radio.

  “Then so are we all, Robson.”

  The sound of attacking aircraft drew his attention.

  “Oh Jesus, so are we all!”

  Others came to his aid, and a brief struggle took place. The revolver discharged twice more, before Dunne was wrestled to the ground.

  Bracewell, his hand seared by the heat of the barrel, turned to the rest of the staff.

  “I am relieving Dunne of his command.”

  Turning back to the signals corporal, he issued his first order.

  “I’m the radio officer, Sir. There is no such message logged!”

  The revolver spoke once, the hole immediately appearing in the canvas overhead.

  “Consider yourself under arrest, Bracewell. I will have you court-martialled.”

  Suddenly, sure of his course of action, the radio officer leapt forward.

  Dunn’s radio conversation had been with Lieutenant-Commander Steele, officer commanding 822’s Fireflies, and the overall leader of a two-squadron sortie by the recently formed Royal Naval Air Wing.

  Accompanying him were his old comrades from the days of HMS Argus, the Corsairs of 853 Squadron FAA. Both squadrons had increased in strength, despite days of continuous combat, reinforced by men and machines from the training facilities, and survivors, recovered after the sinking of Argus.

  Steele too, had heard the cry for help from Barnstorf, and had led his men into the air, despite the awful flying conditions, confident that their naval air experience in the unforgiving North Atlantic would carry the men through on their mission of support.

  South of Barnstorf, 822 and 853 Squadrons found the enemy where Dunne had predicted.

  Fig #69 - Immolation, Bloody Barnstorf.

  On the ground, the surviving tanks of Yarishlov’s 1st Battalion scattered as the attacking aircraft were spotted. They tried to make cover in the woods, despite the presence of the enemy infantry.

  RP3 rocket’s, fired from the Fireflies, left criss-cross patterns in the air, most of the time ploughing up the sodden earth but enough hit to reduce the 1st Battalion to a shambles.

  Tank after tank exploded, one tossed on its back, tracks still running, crew dead and dying inside.

  One aircraft singled out the road bridge, three rockets destroying the structure, and the engineers who had laboured to preserve it.

  Yarishlov’s T44 was selected for particular attention, two of the rockets landing close enough to remove the tracks, sending pieces of it flying across the field.

  Stunned by the shock wave, the tank Colonel fought back the nausea and tried to radio his units. His aerials had been carried away, so he tried in vain to contact men already dead or beyond caring.

  Casualties amongst the accompanying infantry had been heavy enough, and they too sought cover in whatever was closest, large bodies of frightened men closing on the woods to the west and north-west, yet more investing the southern edge of Barnstorf itself.

  Refraining from a machine-gun sweep, Steele called in the Corsairs, detailing the different sections into their own singular attacks.

  853 Squadron consisted of nineteen aircraft, well over strength, a matter hidden from higher authority by the officers and men of the Royal Naval Air Wing, for fear of having them removed.

  Five sections dived under Steele’s instructions, his skill bringing each section in, staggering their assaults, and changing angles of approach to confuse any Soviet AA gunners.

  Yellow section attacked the Russians to the west.

  All but two of the Squadron’s Corsairs had received the special field modification, which allowed a double load of the chosen ordnance to be carried under each wing, sacrificing range and speed for power of attack and maximum damage to the target.

  Yellow section’s four aircraft attacked in a slanted line, and conducted a textbook delivery of their payload.

  Napalm.

  Dunne had much to answer for, as the dropped tanks spread their awful load across friend and foe alike, turning the field and woods into an inferno, secondary explosions marking a grenade cooking off here, a mine there.

  Blue section was next, their four aircraft immolating the Guardsmen heading north-west, the wall of fire falling just short of petrified Allied soldiers. Even then, the experience proved too much for some. Scot and American alike started to flee, panic bred panic, and within a minute, all the defenders were running for the Channel ports.

  Yarishlov emerged from the turret, still reeling from the near misses, his eyes seeing much, but his brain struggling to comprehend what was in front of him.

  Some yards away, Deniken’s jeep stood unmarked, engine running.

  Unoccupied.

  Deniken had taken refuge in a small shell hole and had survived the attack on the T44, unlike his two comrades.

  From the hole, he had watched as the first aircraft approached the mass of men, fear turning to abject horror, as hundreds of soldiers disappeared before his eyes, as the bright yellow wave seemed to engulf everyone in sight.

  Now, he was focussed on his men approaching Barnstorf, willing them forward, looking at the approaching aircraft, knowing who would win the race for life.

  White section, all but one of their aircraft modified, swept in line abreast, and dropped their Napalm just short of the buildings southeast of the railway line.

  Whole lines of men were g
obbled up by the greedy flames.

  Deniken screamed in frustration and horror, beating the ground with his fists, as comrades from the old days were reduced to black pygmies by the unforgiving horror weapon.

  Others, less fortunate, ran around the field and houses, streaming flames, their screams rising above all sounds of battle until some comrade or enemy gave them mercy.

  Through his tears, Deniken saw a few dozen of his men still mobile, but retreating from the blackened fields.

  Another group of aircraft, three this time, dropped their fiery loads around the Rechtern Bridge, ensuring that there was nowhere that he could look without seeing death at its most horrible.

  Aloft, circling lazily, leaving others to watch for enemy aircraft, Steele was satisfied, his professionalism to the fore, his humanity shelved.

  “Good job, Green Flight. Spot on the money.”

  Checking his target area, he called the Red flight leader and issued his final instructions.

  The four Corsairs turned as instructed, circling to the west and approaching down the rail line, its metal tracks serving as a perfect marker for the attack.

  Again line abreast, the four aircraft dropped sixteen napalm canisters on and around the west end of the rail bridge.

  Grayson was groggy, a mortar shell having momentarily knocked him out.

  Around him, men of his Gordon Highlanders fought alongside GI’s from the 116th Infantry, as the engineers struggled to finish the job.

  Many of the brave men had fallen, but the engineer unit’s sergeant seemed to bear a charmed life, and was near to completion.

  The napalm attacks on to the positions south and south-west had drawn many eyes, euphoria turning to sympathy, sympathy turning to fear, fear knocking on the door of panic.

  Many an eye turned at the approaching four aircraft.

  “Jesus Christ! They’re going to attack us!”

  Grayson leapt from the hole before finishing his words, loading the flare pistol, knowing he was too late.

  “You stupid useless fucking bastards!”