Sacrifice (The Red Gambit Series. Book 5)

by Colin Gee

  Ike responded to the knock.

  “Come in.”

  “Sir, Group Captain Stagg to see you.”

  “Show him in, Anne-Marie.”

  Hodges sat upright in his chair, setting his mug on the table.

  Eisenhower grabbed for his cigarettes and had one alight before the RAF Meteorologist strode into the room, his gait announcing the nature of his news.

  “Good morning James. You look fit to burst; good news, I hope?”

  “Good morning, Sir. General Bradley.”

  He thrust a folder forward insistently.

  “The latest reports garnered from our met stations. That’s the collated version from which we make our predictions.”

  Eisenhower perused the graphs and maps swiftly.

  “Tell me what I’m looking at here?”

  Standing by Eisenhower’s side, Stagg swept his finger across the map of Europe as he spoke.

  “What this is telling us is that winter is over and that, by the end of next week, the thaw should be well set, Sir.”

  Bradley piped up.

  “Temperatures?”

  “Hard to say, General Bradley, but within two weeks we could see a mean of 10˚ to 12˚ in the zone of operations, except the Baltic and Scandinavia, which should still be in thaw none the less.”

  “Ice?”

  Much depended on Stagg’s answer.

  “All gone in the area of intended operation, Sir.”

  Eisenhower held the folder up.

  “And this is kosher? 100%, James?”

  Stagg eased his collar.

  “Nothing is 100% in meteorology, Sir. But I am giving you my best estimation of the weather to come, based on all information to hand.”

  Ike nodded. Stagg had been the man who had advised him to go for 6th June 1944, despite the atrocious weather in the English Channel. He had trusted him then…

  ‘I’ll trust you now, James.’

  “OK. I’ll wait ‘til tomorrow. If there’s no significant change in your predictions, then I’ll look to initiate Spectrum on…”

  Eisenhower looked at the small calendar on the table, one advertising some men’s outfitters in nearby Trappes.

  Bradley looked down the numbers and satisfied himself as to the prospective date.

  “26th March, Brad?”

  “As you say, Ike. That gives us time.”

  “26th March it is then. As always, I’m relying on you, James.”

  “Sir.”

  The dapper RAF officer swept from the room, intent on checking and rechecking his findings.

  “So, do we give the boys the heads up today?”

  Eisenhower considered the suggestion, quickly shaking his head.

  “Nope. Let them carry on as normal today. They will know soon enough, Brad.”

  Both men returned to their coffee, different thoughts now occupying their minds.

  1122 hrs, Tuesday 5th March 1946, Wittensee, Bünsdorf, Germany.

  CSM Charles looked at his tank with great pride.

  The Centurion had been the sole survivor of the six Mk I vehicles given to the Guards Division, before hostilities commenced.

  Now she stood amongst the rest of 2nd Battalion, Grenadier Guards, one of two units in the Guards Division fully equipped with the new vehicle.

  ‘Lady Godiva’ was the sole Mk I, the unit having received the first production models of the more heavily armoured Mk II version.

  It was wholly obvious that, despite her battle damage, her crew maintained the tank in the best fighting condition, the smell of fresh oil and grease hanging in the chilled air.

  What troubled Charles was the apparent absence of any crew members.

  Hopping up onto the glacis plate, the driver’s position was found to be empty. Further investigation established that the fighting compartment was also unoccupied.

  Low whistling caught Charles’ attention and he spotted his driver, Trooper Wild, wandering in his direction.

  “Laz, where’s the rest of the lads?”

  “Sarnt. Pats and Beefy are o’er by Ordnance, playin' wit tha new toys. ‘Parently, the ‘onourable Lieutenant Percival thinks,” he coughed, setting his throat up to mimic the high-born British officer, “That one’s idea is a truly spiffing wheeze, don’t you know.”

  Charles caught his laugh just in time, not wishing to undermine the squeaky clean young ‘Rupert’, although part of his amusement was at Lazarus Wild’s Salford-accented attempt at a plummy public school voice.

  “What you doing anyway?”

  Wild profferred the grease guns he was holding.

  “I were toppin’ thems off at maint’nance. Fancy a brew?”

  Charles nodded, sensing there was something else to hear.

  “What you hiding, Laz?”

  “Err…you might wanna stay clear of ol’ Pansy forra while.”

  Charles frowned in suspicion, knowing that WO2 Flowers of the Maintenance Section was a constant target for light-hearted abuse by the tankers of his company.

  “And why might I want to do that?”

  “Seems he’s missin’ a shitload of ball-bearings, and he seems to think yer name’s written all o’er the ‘einous deed.”

  The NCO’s eyes narrowed.

  “And why the fuck would he think that?”

  Wild shrugged.

  “Beats me, Sarnt… although…”

  “Out with it, you bastard!”

  “Well, you writ the chit.”

  Charles’ blank face drew Wild into indiscretion.

  “Ball bearings, Sarnt. You signed a chit for some, ‘member?”

  “Yes, I remember. One box, ball-bearing, ½-inch, for the use of. And?”

  “’Parently, Pansy had a shitload delivered t’other day, and now he don’t ‘ave ‘em no more, and yer name is in’t frame… err… so I’m told, any road.”

  The penny dropped.

  “Who altered the chit?”

  “Pardon Sarnt?”

  “You fucking heard me. Which one of you tossers changed the chit. Ten? One ‘undred, was it?”

  Wild was spared further questions by the arrival of C Squadron’s commander, trailed by an extremely red-faced Flowers.

  The Squadron commander had resisted Flowers’ call for immediate punishment for the perpetrators of the crime, returning the seventy-two unopened packs they had recovered from the Ordnance, which helped smooth his ruffled feathers.

  He was further calmed by an invitation to watch the results of Patterson’s labours.

  ‘Lady Godiva’ had been moved up to the water’s edge, some one hundred yards from a moored rowing boat that had clearly seen better days.

  Stood on the back of the turret, Charles accepted the nod from C Squadron’s Captain and leant forward.

  “OK Pats. When you’re ready, and I hope for your fucking sake that this works.”

  The main gun effortlessly moved to line up with the wooden boat.

  In the breech lay a special round, universally dubbed a ‘Patterson’s Peril’, although, in truth, the senior ordnance NCO was as much to blame as Charles’ gunner.

  The 17-pdr spat its contents in the direction of the rowing boat.

  The results were staggering.

  The boat disappeared in an instant froth of savaged water, as the ‘Peril’ discharged its contents of thirty-six ½-inch ball-bearings like a shotgun.

  Of the boat, there was no recognisable evidence left, only a few pieces of wood floating on the disturbed waters of the Rammsee.

  ‘Fucking hell’ seemed to be the consensus of opinion from those present, although 2nd Lieutenant Percival, the Rupert, managed a very convincing ‘I say’.

  Captain White grinned from ear to ear.

  “Sarnt, good show. Tell Patterson he can make some more, say, three per tank, but he must be careful with Flowers, clear?”

  “Crystal, Sir.”

  In fact, Flowers proved invaluable in the process, and, acting to conserve his valuable stocks of ball-be
arings, found large amounts of nuts, bolts, and scrap metal, which made for a more suitable shotgun shell, the irregular shapes causing the cone to widen more.

  The new shotgun shells were issued out at three per vehicle, and Ordnance held a number of spares, should they be required.

  1442 hrs, Tuesday 5th March 1946, Headquarters, 1st Guards Mechanised Rifle Division, Torgelow, Germany.

  All four men saluted formally.

  “Comrade Polkovnik, a pleasure as always.”

  Deniken gestured his friend towards a comfy chair, as he dropped back into his own.

  Yarishlov gingerly eased himself into the chair.

  “Problems, Arkady?”

  The tank Colonel shrugged.

  “A bit of old age… although, to be honest, I did jar my back a little jumping off my tank. I’ll be fine soon enough.”

  Lisov, the 1st Guards Division’s second in command, returned to study the contents of the stacks of paperwork on his desk, his ability to speak greatly limited by the bandaging around his savaged face. A British ground attack aircraft had almost done for him the previous day when he was visiting 1st Baltic’s headquarters at Lauenberg, shrapnel from its rockets opening up both his cheeks and claiming three teeth.

  The smell of fine American coffee filled the room and, soon enough, some arrived for the four men.

  Kriks, Yarishlov’s right-hand man, produced a small flask, freshening each man’s mug with something non-regulation.

  The four drank in silence, although Lisov’s discomfort was clear as the hot liquid made itself known inside his mouth.

  Deniken relaxed into his padded chair.

  “So, Arkady, are you here to discuss the training programme?”

  Placing his empty mug on the desk, Yarishlov looked a little wretched.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Excellent. I heard that your new tanks arrived, so I anticipated this and…”

  “I can’t do any training with your men, Vladimir, at least not mobile training, which sort of defeats the object.”

  Kriks poured more coffee, lacing each mug again.

  “Thank you. Look, it’s a total fucking balls up, simple as that.”

  Yarishlov was clearly extremely angered by events.

  “I have my new tanks, but I don’t have fuel. Or rather, I do have fuel, but I’m forbidden to use it for training purposes.”

  Yarishlov’s unit, the recently redesignated 7th Guards Tank Assault Brigade, had been gifted sixty-four T-54 tanks, fresh from the factory, tanks with which the guardsmen of Deniken’s division needed to train.

  The new tank formation had also been allocated its own constituent SPAT unit, which meant that nine of the extremely potent ISU-122’s were under Yarishlov’s direct command as well, making 7th Guards the most powerful formations of its type in the Red Army.

  “Shit.”

  There was no disagreement.

  Deniken pondered the issue.

  “Can you get fuel from somewhere?”

  “Vladimir, I can most certainly scrape up some, increase my returns on natural wastage, hide some expenditure in my reports, but nothing like the amount I would need to run meaningful training with your boys.”

  The infantryman shook his head in disgust.

  “I can occupy my boys with more training on the SKS rifle. We’ll still do what we can with you statically, so at least the troops can see the new animals up close... but proper training is not an option for now.”

  Deniken exhaled slowly.

  “So, we get specific orders about how our two units must train to fight tight, and in full cooperation, but we don’t get the means to fulfil our orders. Marvellous…” he raised his coffee in salute at some unknown imbecile, “Absolutely fucking marvellous.”

  “At least we won’t have the Allies to worry about, save their aircraft of course. You’ve seen the reports?”

  Deniken rummaged for his copy of the latest assessments.

  “Weather clearing slowly, temperatures coming up, will take time to recover, et cetera. You think that the Allies are as hampered as we are, Arkady... as our commanders say they are?”

  Yarishlov belly laughed, startling Lisov.

  “I don’t doubt that our comrades from the glorious Intelligence services are wholly correct in their assumptions.”

  They all laughed.

  “You mean, not a hope in hell eh?”

  “That’s about right, Vladimir. I think intel has it badly wrong and that the Allies have been tucked up nice and warm, just waiting for this opportunity. They’ll be along shortly, don’t doubt it.”

  In truth, GRU and NKVD reports were often inconclusive, sometimes claimed that the Allied Armies were crippled by the cold, but occasionally suggested that the Allies had been able to gather themselves and reinforce heavily during the cold months.

  Some reports from agents spoke of previously unknown units in French ports or camped outside Italian towns.

  It was the Soviet hierarchy that decided to suppress the fears of its agencies, possibly in order not to cause alarm amongst their army commanders, or possibly to mask their own shortcomings.

  1102 hrs, Wednesday 6th March 1946, Disembarkation point 1192, east of Rullstorf, Germany.

  The small spur ran off the main line and into the woods east of Rullstorf. Shrouded by the canopies of the surrounding trees, DP 1192, a simple double spur off the main line into the woods, was ideal for smaller trains to drop their cargoes, especially as the larger stations drew constant unwelcome attention.

  The contents of the two twelve wagon trains were destined for the 6th Guards Independent Breakthrough Tank Regiment, now attached directly to the 1st Baltic Front.

  Three of the quickly thrown together ZSU-37-2s, self-propelled AA guns, designed to stay with moving armoured formations, and nine of the latest model IS-IIIs, sat patiently waiting their turn, whilst the first train to arrive yielded up its cargo.

  Eight IS-IIs were already idling on the nearby road, waiting on two more of their number, and the two IS-III command tanks, still on board.

  His own tank was one of only three survivors from the last battles of the 6th Regiment, but Senior Lieutenant Stelmakh had left it in Scharnebeck. Instead, Corporal Stepanov had procured one of the unit’s GAZ cars to drive his young officer to the disembarkation point, where he was tasked with marrying crews and new vehicles.

  The men had arrived two weeks before the vehicles, so he had found time to get to know most of them, making his job easier.

  Summoning each NCO by name, he was able to detail crews easily to tanks, and the whole process moved swiftly enough to please his watching commander.

  The men of the 6th were all briefed on the necessity of remaining in cover, and to be especially mindful of discovery from the air.

  Unfortunately for Stelmakh, the units disembarking the previous day had been less adept at keeping their presence secret, attracting the scrutiny of an RAF photo-interpreter, who decided that her instinct was enough to suggest the existence of a worthwhile target in the woods near Rullstorf.

  Twelve Mitchell Mk IIIs of the newly fledged 320 Squadron, Marine Luchtvaart Dienst, the Dutch Naval Aviation Service, were sent to turn the small area in matchwood.

  Flying in tight formation at twelve thousand feet, the drone of engines from the B-25s announced their arrival just before the whistling of falling bombs.

  Thirty-six thousand pounds of high-explosive landed in an area of roughly one and a half square kilometres, transforming the quiet woods into a mass of flailing timber, metal and flesh.

  Stelmakh was picked up and thrown through the air, crashing back to ground, before rolling up against a concrete plinth, part of the unloading ramp.

  His commander, a Major newly arrived from a quiet post on the Iranian border, disappeared in a red soup, as a large piece of tree trunk flew at high speed through the space he occupied.

  Despite the splinters of wood sticking in his left arm, Stelmakh raised himself up, calling
to Stepanov, who was scrabbling on all fours, firstly in one direction, and then in another, as explosion after explosion disoriented him.

  A bomb exploded in Stelmakh’s direct line of sight, presenting him with the awfulness of a dozen men being blown apart and scattered like chaff in the wind.

  “Stepanov!”

  Finally the confused man heard the voice and raised himself up.

  “Stepanov! Here man, here!”

  Another bomb exploded, scattering earth and other less savoury detritus over Stepanov, forcing him to drop to the ground again.

  A piece of something hard clipped Stelmakh’s forehead, breaking the skin. The small wound bled ferociously, immediately flooding his left eye with blood.

  Using his good hand, he wiped as much away as he could.

  “Stepanov! Come on… move!”

  Pushing himself up, the driver sprinted the last few yards, dropping next to the concrete plinth, facing his officer.

  Both men were panting hard, effort and shock causing them to seek oxygen in abundance.

  A huge explosion sent a shockwave through both men, and their heads turned automatically.

  There was only time for one loud, intense, petrified scream, before the smashed hulk of an IS-II landed squarely on top of them.

  The Dutch Mitchell Squadron was one of only two intercepted by Soviet fighters that day. Its intended escort of Spitfires XVIe’s from 322 [Dutch] Squadron failed to be on station due to a navigational error, leaving the La-7s of the 147th Guards Fighter Regiment, recently released from duty with 106th Air Division at Leningrad, to knock a pair from the sky with their first pass.

  Frantic calls for help brought 322 Squadron to the right place, but the low-altitude configured Spitfires were not quick enough to stop another three Mitchells spiralling to earth.

  The La-7s flew back to base in good order, having achieved a rare air victory.

  On the ground, the newly arrived armour had been badly knocked around, both IS-III command tanks and five of the battle tanks destroyed. Four of the IS-IIs and one of the ZSUs had also been lost. The greater problem was finding troops to marry with the surviving vehicles, some of which would need major repair before being capable of combat, as casualties amongst the waiting crews had been extreme.