Sacrifice (The Red Gambit Series. Book 5)

by Colin Gee

  Tea arrived, and Kreyer paused for the smallest moment.

  “If you’ve got anything else to stiffen Fuhlendorf then send it would be my advice, Cam. I can send 11 Platoon that way?”

  Major Blastow of the 75th supplied an additional solution.

  “My HQ troop is at a loose end. You’ve still got your squadron as reserve, so shall I take Fuhlendorf, Sir?”

  “That should do nicely. 11 Platoon and your HQ troop it is. Now, if you please, Major.”

  Blastow saluted and sped from the tent, and almost immediately the sound of roaring 6046GM diesels filled the silence, as the four Achilles drivers ensured they were all warmed up and ready to move.

  Prentiss returned to the map and examined the southern edge of the battlefield.

  “So who the dickens are these blighters then, eh?”

  “Damned if I know, Cam! No mention in briefing... no clue from photos... nothing. They’ve come out of thin air, but they are certainly real.

  Fig# 159 - Bimöhlen - Soviet Forces.

  The ‘blighters’ in question, 9th Guards Mechanised Brigade and 45th Guards Tank Regiment, had simply been undetected, mainly due to their expert camouflage and fire discipline, meaning that the Allied command had committed Prentiss Force into a position where they would be attacked on two sides by forces twice their size.

  More pressingly, the ‘blighters’ in question were already on the move northwards, and in greater numbers than before.

  1005 hrs, Wednesday 27th March, 1945, Prentiss Force HQ, Hill 73, Bad Brahmstedt-land, Germany.

  The reports started to arrive, as hard-pressed tank and infantry officers relayed news of the approaching hordes.

  The immediate impression was that Bimöhlen would hold, but that the north and south would probably be overrun.

  Fighting for their survival, the guardsmen of the 7th Guards Rifle Corps threw themselves forward, supported by a handful of SP guns from the 712th AT Battalion. The remaining AT guns and infantry were working some miles to the north, holding back the attempted advance of the Guards and 7th Armoured.

  On the southern edge of the battlefield, the Shermans and T-34/85s of the 9th and 45th advanced in waves, the mechanised infantry following close behind, all preceded by superb artillery support from the SU-76s of the 1823rd.

  The Cheshires’ map reflected the desperate position.

  “Right!”

  The sharpness of Prentiss’ voice indicated that he had made a decision.

  “Robin, if we try to do everything, all we will do is nothing... so... I’m abandoning Bimohlen and reinforcing Fuhlendorf.”

  “But...”

  Prentiss held up his hand.

  “Bear with me, Robin.”

  Grabbing a pencil, the Cavalry officer drew a few rough pencil lines, mumbling explanations and expectations as he went.

  He had converted the Cheshires’ commander long before he finished.

  The orders went out immediately and, Prentiss mused as he swigged the cold tea, would be sorted in time to give the Russians a bloody nose.

  Part of his decision was already redundant, as he found out, as waves of messages flooded the headquarters.

  “Sir, they’ve pushed our units out of Fuhlendorf.”

  “Sir, ‘A’ Squadron close to being overrun. Requesting permission to withdraw.”

  “Sir, Captain Montagu reports that enemy infantry have infiltrated the southern outskirts of Bad Brahmstedt-land.”

  “Sir, ‘B’ Squadron reports losing two more tanks.”

  “Sir, ‘B’ Coy Cheshires disengaging. Enemy infantry investing Bimöhlen.”

  “Sir, 75th ‘I’ Troop report two vehicles disabled by artillery at...”

  “Robin, we’re going to circle the wagons. Too late to do anything else. Here.”

  More pencil marks.

  “Right ho, Sir”

  Orders to quit Bad Brahmstedt-land and Fuhlendorf were sent, as Prentiss pulled all his forces into a circle roughly twelve hundred metres in diameter, all except for the southern edge, where a different decision was applied.

  1015 hrs, Wednesday 27th March, 1945, Prentiss Force HQ, Hill 73, Bad Brahmstedt-land, Germany.

  Freddie Merton waited for the 17pdr to send its shell downrange before querying the order.

  “Just sit tight and hold the buggers, Freddie.”

  “Blackberry, roger. Sir, can I...”

  Prentiss did the battlefield version of ‘hanging up the phone’, and the radio went silent, although the squadron net was still full of excited and strained voices reporting enemy kills or hits sustained.

  B Squadron’s Black Prince tanks had acquitted themselves well, especially against the 76mm Shermans of the Soviet mechanised brigade.

  The Soviet commander seemed happy to let the Shermans slug it out, whilst the T-34’s manoeuvred and used their 85mm guns to good advantage with angled shots.

  Prentiss committed his reserve squadron, sending all but one troop to support B Squadron, his HQ troop, and anything else he could scrape up, understanding that the escaping forces would flow around his positions, trying to gain friendly ground, whereas the southern attack was one that intended to roll over his force and, therefore, presented the greater risk.

  “Robin... I’m off to fight my tank. You know the score and can act accordingly. Best of British to you and your men.”

  What happened next came to be known as ‘The Battle of the Streams”.

  1015 hrs, Wednesday 27th March, 1945, Route 206, Bad Brahmstedt-land, Germany.

  The tanks, infantry, and SP guns swept down upon the Soviet infantry and their handful of supporting tanks like avenging angels.

  The imposing Black Prince heavy tanks, although slow, moved fast enough to overrun the first infantry units, caught indecisively between advance, retreat, and surrender.

  Many Soviet guardsmen raised their arms.

  “Sir?”

  Houlihan, Prentiss’ hull gunner, posed the question through the tank intercom.

  “No time... no facilities... sorry.”

  The 7.92mm BESA mowed the dozen men down, and the scene was repeated elsewhere.

  “Gunner, target tank, range seven hundred, left ten degrees.”

  The 17pdr moved effortlessly.

  “No target.”

  “Damn, target moving left, come left five degrees.”

  “Identified... on...”

  “FIRE!”

  The gun sent another AP shell out into the battlefield where it sought out a Sherman tank and burrowed effortlessly into its hull.

  Nothing but smoke emerged from the open hatches.

  ‘Kinloss’, Prentiss’ Black Prince, moved on as others halted, fire and movement, fire and movement, just like an exercise.

  “Infantry to front!”

  The BESA rattled as Prentiss stuck his head out of the open hatch to assess the threat.

  “Faust!”

  The Panzerfaust missed him by a foot, even as the firer was cut in half by the tank’s machine gun.

  Unperturbed, Prentiss kept his head out, the better to examine the battlefield.

  He had launched his attack down Route 206, intending to hold the small bridge over the Schmalfelder Au, securing his rear, before driving eastwards into the flank of the attacking formation.

  As counter-attacks went, it was unexpected and effective, up to a point.

  The slowness of the British tanks gave the enemy a chance to orient themselves and the Soviet commander turned a full company of T-34’s towards them, as well as sending infantry anti-tank units into the woods on the British right flank.

  The Soviet tanks charged forward, keen to close the range and, although unclear on the type of enemy they faced, the experienced Soviet tankers understood that close in was where the T-34 would profit most.

  A spent round pinged off the turret hatch, reminding Prentiss of the unhealthy nature of being exposed.

  “Blackberry-six, Conference-zero, over.”

  Cecil
Blacker’s voice responded.

  “Blackberry-six, Conference-zero... halt advance. Hull down and knock ‘em out on the run in, over.”

  “Roger, Blackberry.”

  As the C Squadron commander passed the order on, Prentiss took control of his own HQ tanks and formed a line.

  The enemy mortars and artillery seized on their immobility immediately, a chance he took to knock out more of the enemy tanks.

  His gunner was engaging at will, as Prentiss controlled the battle from his exposed position.

  The 17pdr whirred left momentarily, before firing, the muzzle flash hiding the end result.

  A second shell followed the same path and, whilst the Colonel saw no hit, the shrieks of delight from inside his tank told him of success.

  ‘Bloody headache won’t go away.’

  He shook his head to clear his eyes and squinted through his binoculars to the woods on his right.

  Snatching up the microphone, he contacted the recon commander.

  “Roger, Blackberry.”

  In response to Prentiss’ order, three Staghounds moved around the rear of ‘C’ Squadron and started engaging enemy infantry in the woods.

  The 17pdr fired again, and Prentiss slammed his head against the hatch.

  In anger, he shouted through the hatch.

  “Don’t forget the bloody warning, Cream!”

  Sergeant Cream exchanged glances with the loader, who could only shrug as he slid another round home.

  The ‘fire’ warning had been given as plain as day.

  “Blackberry-six, Chester-six...sitrep, over.”

  The Cheshire’s radio operator passed the handset to Lieutenant Colonel Kreyer.

  “Chester-six, as you expected. Enemy forces moving down Route seven. We’re shooting them up from the flank but they keep on running. Holding elsewhere, but do watch your rear. Still unable to raise our air support, over.”

  “Blackberry-six, roger.”

  The tank rocked as a shell exploded adjacent to the rear compartment.

  “Fucking hell!”

  Briggs, the driver, clutched his forehead where the blast had propelled him against the episcope.

  “Just a bit of claret, Bert. Just give it a wipe, lad.”

  Houlihan even helpfully threw a dirty handkerchief to the young driver.

  A shell struck the front of the tank adjacent to Briggs’ driving position.

  The inside took on a taint of redness for the briefest of moments, but there was no penetration.

  Houlihan shouted.

  “Find the fucker, Tim! Where’s he at?”

  “Got him... FIRE!”

  Houlihan only spotted the T-34 because it suddenly fireballed.

  It had driven up the stream, using the banks to cover its side armour.

  As had many more.

  “Colonel, they’re in the stream beds... the stream beds!”

  Prentiss came around.

  ‘What the deuce?’

  He had fallen comatose for the briefest of moments.

  Dragging himself back to consciousness, he queried the report.

  “The bastards are in the streams, Sir, We can hardly see ‘em!”

  His eyes focussed on the blazing tank so recently killed by Cream.

  “Blackberry-six, all units. Enemy tanks using streambeds to move forward under cover. Out.”

  The Black Prince nearest Prentiss took a hit, a shower of sparks flying from the tank’s turret.

  The hatches opened, and the driver and hull gunner started to emerge.

  The vehicle exploded, sending the turret straight upwards and the driver forwards, minus his legs.

  ‘Oh my God.’

  Prentiss fixed momentarily on the horrible image of the burning gunner, trapped by his mangled legs, hanging from the hull hatch, writhing, twisting, screaming...

  ‘Oh my God!’

  He spotted the movement close in.

  “Gunner! Left ninety, target tank, range thirty metres!”

  “Fucking hell!”

  An expression shouted by most of the crew.

  The gun turned, seemingly taking an age.

  “He’s spotted us! Smartly now, Cream!”

  The gun levelled with the accelerating Soviet tank.

  “FIRE!”

  The smoke cleared.

  “Shit!”

  Prentiss felt the heat of the muzzle flash as the 85mm shell bored into the side of ‘Kinloss’, wiping through both Briggs and Houlihan before ricocheting back, causing both cadavers more indignity.

  The hot shell came to rest on what used to be Houlihan’s lap, sizzling like a chop on a barbecue.

  The loader vomited.

  Cream fired again.

  Prentiss shook his head to clear his vision, which responded sufficiently to observe the Soviet tank part company with its turret in dramatically spectacular fashion.

  “Fire in the tank!”

  Higgins, the loader, shouted, in between clearing the vomit from his mouth and adding to it.

  Retaining enough presence of mind, he started to extinguish the small fire that had started around the mess that had been Houlihan.

  “Load me up! Another tank coming in!”

  Prentiss dropped inside and grabbed a shell.

  “FIRE!”

  The shell hit dead on.

  The T-34 kept coming.

  “What did you load, Sir?”

  ‘Oh bugger it!’

  Higgins, fire extinguished, virtually barged his Colonel aside, grabbing an AP shell.

  The previous HE shell had wiped a grape of infantry off the T-34, scattering them far and wide, and given the Red Army tank crew the fright of their lives.

  Their reply missed the stationary ‘Kinloss’ by the width of a fly’s genitalia.

  Cream put the AP shell straight through the turret ring.

  The T-34 halted and backed up, its gun slightly canted where the shell had bounced back into the mounting, wrecking it.

  Prentiss stuck his head out again, his binoculars in hand.

  Bullets twanged off the metal, as infantry in the woods saw an easy target.

  They, in turn, were silenced by the armoured cars, who dashed forward, keeping on the move, using their speed as defence.

  Again Prentiss tried for a view of the battlefield.

  What he saw was staggering in its intensity.

  The Soviet armour lay shattered, pillars of smoke and flame indicating where British shells had met Soviet metal.

  However, his own tanks also contributed to the scene of desolation. One Black Prince, probably from ‘B’ Squadron’s 3rd Troop, glowed like a brazier, an incandescent red tank standing out in a sea of red blood and red fire.

  And still it went on.

  Another British tank erupted in fire, the flames dying as quickly as they started.

  Aircraft swept overhead, Fleet Air Arm, and rockets flashed, descending somewhere to the north of Bad Brahmstedt-land, where the escaping 7th Guards Rifle Corps flowed around the central core of Cheshires and Hussars.

  Soviet artillery stopped almost instantly.

  “Right, prepare to move out. Higgins, you’ll have to drive.”

  “Sir, she won’t start. Briggsy said, Sir. That close one did something and knocked the engine out. We’re on battery power, Sir.”

  Prentiss had no recollection of the report.

  He stuck his head out and surveyed the rear of the tank.

  Two engine covers were open, testament to the force of the blast.

  “Right. Nip out and see what’s to be done, there’s a good chap. Let me know what’s up on the squawk box. Watch out for enemy in the woods.”

  Higgins pushed himself up through his hatch and disappeared from view, although the sounds of his efforts, couched in colourful language, could still be heard inside.

  “Tank target, three hundred.”

  Prentiss looked and saw the T-34s turret emerge from behind a rise in the land.

  “FIRE!”r />
  The shell cut through the earth and grass, emerging in perfect position to strike the gun mantlet.

  “Fuck”.

  Cream watched as the white blob went skywards, the rounded mantlet winning over penetrative power.

  Prentiss was conscious of the gunner’s eyes on him as he loaded a replacement shell.

  The 17pdr fired and the shell arrived as the T-34 lurched into a deeper part of the stream.

  The commander in the turret disappeared in sparks as the AP shell struck the base of his cupola and carved its way through his body before deflecting back inside the tank.

  A small curl of smoke betrayed the success of the shell, and the tank came gently to a halt, clearly out of the fight.

  “Bloody hell!”

  Prentiss slotted another shell home, surprised at the fear in Cream’s voice.

  “Didn’t you get him?”

  “Sir, you’d better have a gander at this lot... I mean... Jesus...”

  Before he could raise his head out of the hatch, Higgins dropped back in, accompanied by the patter of bullets striking the heavy armour.

  “Why didn’t you use the squawk box, man?”

  “It’s knackered, just like the engine, Oil everywhere... musta burst all sorts of couplings. In any case, Sir, nearside track’s off.”

  Prentiss continued on up through the hatch and saw that which had frightened Cream.

  At least another forty T-34s were committing to the battle, turning off the autobahn and heading towards HQ and B Squadron... or what was left of them.

  Another Fleet Air Arm flight went over, again dropping their ordnance north of Bad Brahmstedt-land.

  ‘Can’t they see they’re needed here!’

  Lieutenant Colonel Kreyer had no idea that the Hussars were in such dire straits, the radio links shot to pieces, literally as well as proverbially.

  He was controlling his part of the battle with flair, directing the Fleet Air Arm against the forces escaping to his west, where there were fewer assets to interdict them. To his eastern side, the escaping 7th Guards was running across the front of his forces, and his infantrymen and the Hussar tanks were enjoying a turkey shoot, just as Prentiss planned.

  Matters were hotter on the northern edge of his position, where cannier Soviet officers were trying to get their men closer to the British positions and move on through the woods, rather than the two exposed flanks.