The Free World War

by Matthew William Frend

  The co-ordination between air reconnaissance and ground forces was bearing fruit. Deming received another message from HQ, the column of enemy tanks was moving directly toward them – strength estimated to be at least a brigade.

  The numbers don’t matter right now … it’s all about making the right plays.

  As if to reinforce his point, the sound of gunfire met their ears.

  “Contact!” Deming heard over the battle net, “Two thousand yards!”

  His crew steeled for action, fears brushed aside, and every thought intent on executing their purpose – killing the enemy.

  Tense seconds followed. Would the Reds keep coming on … or would they stop to engage the attacking Hellcats?

  The chatter over the radio soon told the story. The flankers on Deming’s left had fired a volley at the enemy column, scoring some hits, then they’d disengaged, changing direction back toward the commander’s group.

  The flanking troop on the right were about to engage. They reported that the Red column was continuing along the gully.

  That should bring them under our guns.

  Minutes later, dull green rectangles loomed out from the long grass.

  “IS2s!” Deming called over the intercom, “Fire at will!” Geysers of earth and smoke erupted around the column’s lead tanks as the four Hellcats fired as one.

  Deming groaned, as through his scope he couldn’t see any hits. A painstaking five seconds elapsed as they reloaded.

  One more round then we’ll back off.

  Carrummmpff!

  At less than five hundred yards, the foremost IS2’s turret exploded as a 90mm HVAP shell hit its gun mantle.

  “Hit!” shouted Deming, “Start rocking!”

  The Hellcat lurched backward. Russian shells screamed overhead as Deming checked that the other units in his troop had also safely backed off.

  Immediately, and in unison, they rocked forward and fired another volley. Another IS2 was hit, this time by two high-velocity rounds simultaneously. Its turret blew off, spinning sideways into the grass.

  The Red column faltered. Their commanders were uncertain whether to head straight at their attackers, stay in position and take careful aim … or disperse and try to find a better position from which to return fire.

  Those fatal seconds of indecision cost them more lives.

  The troop of Hellcats on the right flank engaged from a low rise only two hundred yards behind the head of the column.

  Another IS2 died, another two were damaged.

  Turrets swiveled around in response, presenting an even better target to the guns of Deming’s troop.

  The carnage continued for several minutes, as the Hellcats fired relentlessly, moving in and out of cover. Some cooler-headed Russian gunners managed to score hits by taking aim and waiting for a Hellcat to come into their sights. One of Deming’s squad took a hit as it rolled forward into firing position. The 122mm shell hit the front glacis plate just below the M18’s turret, slicing through the light armor and hitting the ammo rack. The detonation was staggering, and exploding rounds shot out from the fireball. The crew had died instantly.

  Time to bug out, thought Deming.

  “Let’s move!” he called over the battle net frequency.

  “Relocate to Tango-Five … repeat, relocate to Tango-Five!”

  All armored and mounted infantry units withdrew and began moving at speed to the designated rally point five miles to the south-east.

  Behind them, a dozen burning tanks sent pillars of smoke in to the clear blue sky. Only two of them were American.

  That was two too many, Deming lamented, knowing the loss his crew would be feeling as they left their buddies behind.

  He radioed a sitrep to headquarters and stayed on station to wait for updated orders from Corday.

  The bumping ride to the rally position seemed surreal and strangely peaceful after the clamor and insanity of the firefight. No one spoke.

  Deming took the time to process the experience of the battle. Had they done everything right? Did any men die because of his poor decisions?

  He dismissed the questions. He knew he’d done the best he could. Then in his mind he saw the other side of the battle – the enemy’s losses. He recalled each of the Red Army tanks being destroyed, and the sight of the fiery wrecks and their crews burning alive inside.

  He felt nothing for them.

  After all … they started it.

  A few minutes later, the awaited message came through from Colonel Corday.

  There was an urgency in his voice, “Captain, you’ve got to get your men out of there! B Company has just radioed in that they’ve encountered a mass of Red armor, and are executing a fighting retreat. We have not heard from any of the scout units and suspect they are no longer operational. This is looking like a major counter-attack.”

  Deming checked his map and could see where this was going. The Soviets were aiming at a point where the 10th Armored’s flank intersected with the 26th Infantry Division to their right. He knew from the mission briefing that General Wyatt had been pushing his armor at full speed, but this had left the infantry struggling to keep up. Now the gap had widened between the two divisions.

  Deming got that feeling again, the one where he and his men were about to be the rats in the maze built by the brass-hats.

  A flight of allied fighter bombers roared overhead, drowning out some of Corday’s words. “… going to be a hell of a fight …” is all he made out.

  The Colonel didn’t disappoint Deming’s intuition. His voice leveled off, signifying the gravity of the situation, “Son, you’ve got to try to slow down any Red armor you come across … at the same time, make your way south-east to link up with 10th Armored Division. The other tank-destroyer companies will be doing likewise, so be sure to keep a watch out for them – we don’t want any mistakes out there.”

  The sound of anti-aircraft fire thumped away in the distance as Corday finished delivering their orders, “I can’t stress enough the importance of your role … the Russkies will be throwing everything they’ve got into this attack. If we beat them off we could open up the road to Moscow.”

  Deming disconnected and then passed on the briefing to his crews. Then they raced into the maze, and went looking for the cheese.

  ∞

  ∞

  558th Tank Destroyer Battalion headquarters was in a state of controlled chaos. A constant flurry of messages was being carried back and forth between the comms section and the officers in the planning area of the ruined farm buildings.

  The Battle of Krynki was in the balance. The Allied divisions comprising 3rd Army executing the encirclement of the twenty Soviet divisions of the 2nd Guards Tank Army and 2nd Shock Army, were in danger of being outflanked.

  Colonel Corday, stooping over the map table, looked at his watch. They hadn’t heard from their units since the morning.

  “The minute any of the companies make contact, I want orders going out to the others to provide support … and where’s that air recon?”

  Lieutenant Clay headed to comms to follow up.

  Corday scoured the map, then grunted in frustration. The lack of updated information was going to get men killed.

  He moved to the theater map on the wall, “General Wyatt has informed me that the Soviet offensive is an attempt to stop us reaching Minsk … and to delay our drive to Moscow until winter sets in.”

  The group around the table watched as the Battalion Commander used a baton to draw an imaginary line heading north from the battle.

  “They’ve concentrated more than fifty divisions across a one hundred mile front …”

  The baton waved from side to side over the map, with the key city of Minsk in the center, “… with another twenty divisions in reserve. This is good news for our campaign along the Baltic coast …” he said, as he pointed briefly to an area around Riga in Latvia, where several Marine divisions advancing from the landings at Gdansk, had been slogging away.

&n
bsp; “… as the Reds must have diverted some of their reserves from that region for this attack. The bad news is that those russkie divisions are now here …” He tapped the map. “… in front of us.”

  He turned away from the map, and assumed the countenance of a coach getting his team ready for a really tough match.

  “General Patton has called this the ‘Red Brick Wall’ … but he also thinks that the thing about walls is that they’re rigid, and they crumble when you make holes in them.”

  A stir rippled through the officers and men on hearing the 3rd Army leader’s words.

  “… and we gentlemen, along with the rest of 10th Armored Division … will be the sledgehammer!”

  A cheer went up, and the Colonel soaked up the optimism for a moment before continuing. “But for now, we’ll have to hold our ground, and with the help of our air superiority, beat off this counter-attack.”

  Lieutenant Clay returned with an update, “Colonel, the other four companies have linked up with Alpha Company.”

  He stopped at the map table and indicated to an area behind a large group of red-arrow markers.

  “They are engaged in a harassing action, and have also been coordinating with XIXth Tactical Air Force observers to direct fighter-bombers onto the Red armor.”

  “Hmmm … sounds like the running-back is doing his job … putting in a block … hopefully it’ll slow some of the Russkies down.”

  Corday looked at the map where Lieutenant Clay had just shown them where Deming was fighting. He could see that 10th Armored would only be able to continue to close off the encirclement if the infantry division covering their flank had time to move up and stop the Red armor.

  It was also now clear that the main units of their battalion were cut off behind the advancing enemy.

  Lieutenant Clay completed the picture he’d just put together while in the comms section. “Division has advised that the Hellcat’s activities are having a double effect … air recon reports show that the progress of the Red armored columns appears to be slowing down, probably due in part to them having to deal with the uncertainty caused by our tank destroyers in their rear.”

  The Operations Intelligence officer looked as though he were a cat with a mouse. “It’s also having the effect of compressing these three Red columns here, here and here … as the units at the head of those columns are unable to fan out and deploy as they were no doubt intended to do.”

  Corday lifted his attention from the field of operations, to a more strategic picture. “So much armor compressed in such a small area …”

  A glint in his eye showed how he relished the prospect, “I’m also going to call for air support – but from IX Air Force Bomber Command.”

  ∞

  Breathless, Cooper dropped and buried himself into the tall grass of the steppe. Keponee and Greene followed suit. The engines of the mechanized units searching for them growled and the ground shook thunderously, permeating a shudder through their bones. The knee-high grass gave them the same comfort as if it were a stone wall. It was keeping them out of sight, but that was all. The armor roaming around them would crush either as easily as if it were cardboard.

  The three of them were all that remained of the Chaffee’s crew of five after its encounter with the KV2. They’d spent the night hiding in a grove of trees, huddled together to keep warm under the increasing drizzle. Now they were moving south toward their own lines, through the fading green of a sea of grass turning to seed.

  With the sound of engines growing louder, Cooper didn’t need to signal the others to be quiet. Crouching low, his left side burned due to a chunk of shrapnel from the KV2’s killer blow still stuck in his shoulder blade.

  “Half-track … get ready!”

  The grease-gun in his right hand felt light and nimble, so he’d try to use it one-handed if they were spotted. He held up his blood-streaked left hand, signaling for the other two to hold their fire. The clanking rumble of tank treads grew deafening. Cooper threw himself lower, hugging the earth harder trying to be invisible, but coiling himself like a spring in case he had to roll out of the way.

  Through the feathered veil of green, he glimpsed several of the distinctive rounded helmets of the Red Army. As he watched them bob around above the armored side of a half-track, the pounding in his heart put a painful pressure on his wounds, and he thought he might pass out.

  Gotta stay on top of this … the guys need me.

  Within seconds, the rumbling passed and began to recede, followed immediately by a second vehicle, then a third. Fortunately, they were following an animal track and not spread out, line abreast. The three waited another full minute before moving off again.

  “We’ll head south-west. That should keep us in line with the Division’s forward units.”

  If everything is still going to plan, he thought … ours sure went south after that KV2 hit us.

  Although his memory of the encounter was murky, he knew they’d only survived Three-Z’s destruction because the Russian tank could only fire high-explosive shells meant for killing infantry – not other tanks.

  If it’d been armor-piercing we’d all still be inside the wreck.

  The pain in his shoulder was affecting his concentration; he had to strain to maintain a positive frame of mind – essential for the leader under circumstances like these.

  The distance back to their own units was unknown … maybe ten miles – maybe twenty, depending how the battle was going. With so much enemy activity it was going to be a miracle if they made it.

  Better keep any doubts to myself though … let the guys focus on keeping us alive … I’ll just do the navigating.

  He looked up at the sun, their only means of finding a direction.

  Gonna be dark soon … if we find a good hole-up we’ll take it.

  The horizon ahead was stained by the smoke of battle. The late afternoon sun painted a gloss of gold over the dark gray of the evening, and Cooper took heart. He’d seen a hundred sunsets mark the end of the day’s fighting. The night would force both sides to limit their operations to patrols and skirmishes, for fear of mistaking their own troops for the enemy.

  The trio followed a heavily treed gully for a mile or so, then stopped for a rest.

  “Wonder how the TDs are doing?” Greene pondered as they fell to ground beneath a big oak.

  “Better than us I hope,” Keponee said flatly, leaning back against the tree. “And remember they’ll be getting re-supped by air.”

  He looked over at his wounded commander, “Coop, your arm okay?” he asked, “You want me take a look at it?”

  Cooper was flat out on his back, cushioned by a carpet of sphagnum moss. All he wanted to do was fall into the painless oblivion of sleep, but he knew it was too early for that.

  “Nah … I’ll just pack some of this green shit into it … you guys keep a look out. If we don’t see any Reds before it gets dark we’ll stay here.”

  They hadn’t had any time to grab a first-aid kit when the Chaffee brewed up, just guns. First rule: staying alive meant being able to fight back. Then you could worry about details like food or injuries. They couldn’t do anything about either for the moment. The sooner they got back to the Division the better.

  A half-hour of rest then we keep moving through the night.

  As the distant drumming of artillery slowly subsided, Cooper watched with relief as the sky darkened, and the first star blinked into view. An early evening chill drifted through the air under the big tree, and he thought how much more comfortable they’d be inside the close confines of their tank.

  “Damn,” he complained. “Why does it feel like I just broke up with my girlfriend?”

  Keponee laughed. “Hah! I’m gonna miss that little tank too.”

  The gunner sat up and watched Cooper wince as he stuffed moss over the wound under his shirt. He tried to distract him to help keep his mind off the pain.

  “So … your girlfriend; is she pretty?”

  “Oooohhh
yeah …” Cooper said, and smiled at her memory.

  “Skin like a pink rose petal, hair like maple syrup … and …”

  “Stop! Stop already … I get the picture … and you’re making me hungry.”

  “Maple syrup on flapjacks …” lamented Greene, “… maybe we could improvise – there’s plenty of wheat out there on the prairie, make some flour … smother the pancakes in oak sap …”

  “Oh shut-up man,” Cooper moaned. “I thought I was delirious.”

  The thoughts of his girlfriend had helped with the pain, so he continued to revel in his memories.

  “I remember the first time I took I her out,” he continued. “It was the first time – you know, so I was only expecting dinner and maybe some face slapping. We went to a diner where I knew the desserts were great, cuz girls just love their dessert,” he said sagely. “Anyway, like I said, not expecting anything … but the peach cobbler must have been awesome, cuz she was all over me when I dropped her home.”

  “Neck injuries?”

  “Man … talk about a tongue lashing …”

  “And that’s when you got your face slapped,” Greene said, putting a dampener on the cozy picture.

  “Hey, how else is a guy supposed to know how far to go?” Keponee added, finishing Cooper’s story. He stood up and offered his commander a hand up.

  They walked carefully on in the twilight, giving their eyes time to adjust. There would be no moon, so Cooper picked out a star in the southern sky and used it as a reference.

  The conversation fell to a whisper, but talking would keep them all in earshot when the darkness fully enclosed them.

  “In a hushed voice, Greene asked, “So, when we get back, what are we gonna call Three-Z’s replacement?”

  Keponee thought for a moment, “Well, if we call her Four-Z, that ain’t gonna rhyme so well as Three-Z.”

  Greene huffed, “And, you would also have to think of another Z – to go with the first three. I mean, Zpeed, Zwerves and Zmoke – how can we add to that?”