Sacrifice (The Red Gambit Series. Book 5)

by Colin Gee

  The Cheshires’ ‘A’ Company had needed stiffening, and Kreyer had sent his last formal reserve, the remainder of ‘D’ Company, to help ‘A’ hold.

  None of this was known to Prentiss. His overriding priority was now the distinct possibility that his command was going to be overrun by a superior enemy tank force...

  “What the deuce...”

  Behind the tanks came half-tracks and lorries, of all shapes and sizes, but many familiar to an Allied officer.

  Prentiss Force was about to receive the full attention of 9th Guards Mechanised Brigade, as its commander threw in everything to ensure the evacuation of the trapped guardsmen.

  There were more tanks to kill than shells in the magazine, a thought that occurred to Prentiss and Cream simultaneously.

  “Engage at will, Cream, engage at will. Just keep it up and keep the bastards under pressure.”

  Prentiss fiddled with his radio, trying to raise someone... anyone...

  “Blackberry-six, any station, come in, over...”

  Static.

  “Electric traverse gone. Using hand traverse.”

  Cream’s report indicated a worsening electrical situation, hardly encouraging for a Colonel desperately in need of a working radio.

  Prentiss Force was living on borrowed time.

  1111 hrs, Wednesday 27th March, 1945, Route 206, west of Bad Brahmstedt-land, Germany.

  Major Thomas Fanshaw had, despite his and his mechanics’ best efforts, still not managed to bring his entire Squadron along for the ride.

  Six vehicles had fallen out on the forced march, victims still of the dodgy fuel issue, which looked more like a case of sabotage the more the MPs looked at it.

  That meant that D Squadron, 23rd Hussars, arrived with eight fully functioning Black Prince tanks, a platoon of infantry seconded from the 4th KSLI, and a Forward Air Support section, whose jeep bounced along behind the lumbering tank of the ‘D’ Squadron commander.

  Fig# 160 - Prentiss Force - Late arrivals

  Fanshaw realised that the lack of communication with any of the Hussars stationed to the south was bad news, and had taken six of his tanks along the same route plied by Prentiss an hour or so beforehand.

  Held up by some Soviet infantry who blundered into their path, seemingly escaping from Bad Brahmstedt-land, Fanshaw took a moment or two to examine the battlefield ahead.

  The number of Black Prince casualties alarmed him infinitely more than the number of dead Soviet tanks. The new force of enemy infantry and tanks brought him down to earth with a bump.

  “Damson-six, all Damson. Large enemy force to front. Line abreast and engage at will. Out.”

  As he concluded the message, he saw the immobile tank of his commander, enemy infantry creeping forward, moving down from the woods.

  “Driver, forward, right turn... head for the CO’s tank.”

  The FAS jeep tucked in close, ready to receive the inevitable order.

  Fanshaw hesitated to pass it as yet, the battlefield ahead too confused to know just who was who, at least with the certainty required to avoid friendly kills.

  Prentiss saw the Hussars’ tank approaching and slipped out of the turret, dropping into cover alongside ‘Kinloss’.

  When Fanshaw’s tank had stopped, he ran across the small divide and dropped in behind the Black Prince, releasing the squawk box handset from its mount.

  “Tommy, thank the lord you got here on time!”

  “I’ve got eight tanks, an extra platoon of infantry, and a FAS controller. He’s in the jeep behind us, Sir.”

  “Splendid, Tommy. You’ve radio contact with everyone I assume?”

  “No Sir, I’ve...”

  Prentiss ducked as bullets spanged off the rear armour, the two Soviet soldiers who fired quickly dropping back into cover again as a half-track arrived and spilled some KSLI infantrymen, initiating a brief firefight that cost five lives.

  “Say again, Tommy.”

  “I have no contact with anyone on your net, Sir. ’D’ Squadron only for some reason.”

  The sharp sound of tank guns seemed to accelerate in frequency and increase in urgency.

  “Tommy, tell whoever you can get hold of... on my command... fire smoke, red smoke, into the enemy positions, leading edge, clear?”

  “Crystal, Sir. Red smoke at enemy positions.”

  “Wait for my order to execute. Out.”

  Prentiss closed his eyes as the headache washed over him, almost wishing he could scrape the afflicted organ through his eyes.

  He focussed on the jeep, its position betrayed by two aerials sticking above the level of the scrape it had dropped into, and made the short dash in safety.

  “Flying Officer Rogers, Sir.”

  “Rogers. Do you have a tentacle link?”

  “Yes, Sir, I do.”

  “On my order, give the coordinates for this location,” he put his finger on the F/O’s map, “Red smoke, Limejuice... understand... initiate Limejuice.”

  “Yes, Sir, err, I’m on it right now, Sir.”

  The pilot officer, young enough to have been a twinkle in his father’s eye when Prentiss first took up soldiering, noted a map reference and calmly passed it to the Flight Sergeant next to him for checking.

  “That’ll do nicely, Sah.”

  Prentiss touched the young RAF officer’s arm.

  “Give me a thumbs-up when confirmed.”

  The radio operator went live on the tentacle net, a two-way system that put the Forward controllers in touch with the Air Support commander attached to 11th Armoured Division.

  Passing the details, F/O Rogers gave the map reference, colour, and, for the first time in his short career, initiated a limejuice attack.

  Prentiss had already gone and was back at the D Squadron commander’s tank, preparing to issue his order, watching the two aerials sway.

  A solid shot hit the tank and whooshed away, narrowly missing the half-track that had disgorged the KSLI infantrymen.

  The Black Prince rocked back slightly, as the 17pdr sought retribution some six hundred yards down range.

  On Rogers’ third attempt to be seen, Prentiss noticed the signal and acknowledged it, speaking rapidly into the squawk box.

  “Tommy...”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “I make the wind southerly. Confirm please.”

  After a moment, Fanshaw agreed.

  “Excellent.”

  It was probably the first bit of luck the Hussars had all day.

  “Fire the smoke, Tommy. Just keep it thick enough, nothing fancy. Limejuice inbound.”

  “Roger, Sir.”

  Red smoke shells started to burst amongst the leading elements of the renewed attack, and a number of vehicles, tanks and infantry carriers pushed faster, trying to get out of what they assumed was a developing kill zone.

  A few surviving tanks from ‘B’ and ‘C’ Squadrons joined in, understanding what was needed.

  Not one tank fired two smoke shells in a row, as survival meant reverting to solid shot, to kill the enemy forces as they closed in.

  1121 hrs, Wednesday 27th March, 1945, Hill 79, adjacent to Route 206, Germany.

  Colonel Karpetian screamed.

  He screamed at the aircraft that immolated his command.

  He screamed at the dead tank regiment commanders for not hearing his warnings.

  He screamed at his second in command for no other reason than he was there.

  He screamed at himself, inside, knowing that he had committed his men to no avail, and lost them all for nothing.

  The codeword ‘Limejuice’ initiated a rolling air attack, the likes of which he hadn’t previously seen.

  The newly rejuvenated Allied ground attack force had stacked its aircraft neatly behind the front line, each squadron issued with a target, but each required to delay in the queue, just in case a priority target was called in.

  Such was the ‘Limejuice’ system, which initiated the air controllers vectoring in available for
mations, sending them to the map coordinates, with strict instructions to attack the ‘red’.

  Karpetian’s order that his own men should fire red on the enemy positions could not be obeyed; there was no red smoke available.

  The SU’s had fired everything they had as well.

  And so Daniil Karpetian could only watch as Thunderbolts, Typhoons, Whirlwinds, and Mustangs ravaged his veteran units.

  Prentiss was back inside ‘Kinloss’, picking targets for Cream to destroy.

  The gloomy voice of an exhausted Higgins made itself heard.

  “Last AP going in. Only got HE left now, Sir.”

  ‘That’s bally awkward!’

  Prentiss could only make one decision.

  “Engage the soft-skinned stuff. Leave the tanks for D.”

  The last AP sped across the wet ground and disappeared into the innards of a T-34 that was pushing itself out of a streambed, exposing its underbelly.

  Men emerged, screaming, their clothes burning, their flesh melting.

  “Target half-track, three hundred. On.

  “FIRE!”

  A miss, the jiggling vehicle making it as difficult as possible to get a hit.

  Another shell swept across the field, striking the vehicle in its bogies and shredding the track instantly.

  Cream’s second shell caught the human content as it tried to bail out.

  Pieces of body flew in all directions and no-one stirred once the smoke had cleared.

  The air attack was growing in intensity, as more assistance was brought in to stop the Soviet counter-attack.

  Every weapon that could be brought by the Allied ground attack aircraft was released above the streams of Northern Germany.

  Fire... shrapnel... explosions... bullets... rockets... all brought horror and death, as the Soviet mechanised units struggled to either extricate themselves or push forward.

  A French piloted Whirlwind, a venerable aircraft dragged out of mothballs to help equip the newly re-established Armee de L’Air, selected a juicy target and lined up its four 20mm Hispano cannon.

  The pilot, for too long a prisoner of the hated Boche, shredded the half-track with a short accurate burst and turned away to find another target of opportunity, not hearing Prentiss’ cursing, nor the popping off of MG rounds as the KSLI vehicle burnt.

  The surviving light infantrymen braved the burning half-track, and desperately tried to recover the driver… and failed.

  The last Whirlwind placed its five-hundred pounders very precisely, despite the loss of its port engine.

  Two Soviet-manned Shermans and a half-track were turned to scrap metal in an instant.

  The French pilot failed to adjust for the loss of weight, and the aircraft tilted, exposing the full profile to a ZSU AA mount.

  The airman was dead before the port wing clipped a smoking T-34 and the whole aircraft turned end over end, like an out of control Catherine Wheel, pieces flying off with each earthly contact, until the strain caused the shattered air frame to come apart completely, showering some hiding Soviet infantry with burning aviation fuel.

  They ran around like human torches until a merciful bullet struck them down or a fiery death overtook them.

  To the eternal credit of the experienced 9th Guards Mechanised, those at the front still tried to press, and closed, in some cases, to zero range with the British tanks.

  Those in the killing zone were visited by another wave of Typhoons, seemingly beyond numbers, who discharged rocket after rocket into the disappearing red smoke.

  A few British tanks topped up the marker, allowing the airborne killers to continue their assault.

  It was a slaughter direct from the days of the Roman Empire, or the Crusades, blood and bodies visible everywhere upon the field.

  In ‘Kinloss’, the turret was turned by hand, and the BESA used to discourage a group of infantry who seemed intent on approaching.

  “Cease fire, man!

  Cream stopped immediately.

  “They’re surrendering. They’re bloody well surrendering!”

  All across the field, dazed and shattered Guardsmen raised their hands in surrender and gradually the guns became silent.

  Not so the Typhoons, and an appalled set of British tankers watched as more than one non-combatant was cut down in a strafing run.

  Prentiss shouted towards the jeep, hoping to catch Rogers’ eye.

  A second run had finished before someone noticed him, and understood the signal he was giving.

  ‘Stop the attacks, for the love of god!’

  There were no more, the controllers glad to reign back their assets and send them south to a situation developing around Hamburg.

  Prentiss took leave of his crew and, sending one of Fanshaw’s troopers to bolster ‘Kinloss’, left the D Squadron commander in charge of the area and commandeered the jeep for his own purposes.

  “Drive on, Flight Sergeant. I’ll show you the way.”

  The jeep turned and headed back towards the centre of Prentiss Force, the dead body of F/O Rogers curled up in the back.

  As the vehicle drove Prentiss away from the centre of fighting, he looked sorrowfully at the evidence of his losses.

  His Hussars’ Black Prince tanks were everywhere; dead, burned out, punctured, living, the whole range fell before his eyes.

  Even then, he really had no idea of the cost that victory had exacted.

  Whilst the Southern Defences had been embroiled in their life or death struggle, Lieutenant Colonel Robin Kreyer had ravaged the two groups of the 7th Guards Rifle.

  Around Fuhlendorf, the drive south had been totally blunted, and the Guardsmen either surrendered or moved off eastwards to try their luck elsewhere.

  Many of that group were swept up in the attacks on the Cheshires’ ‘A’ Company, and the battle on the edge of the woods had, for a little while, hung in the balance.

  Timely use of his reinforcements gave Kreyer victory in that area too.

  Perhaps the greatest success was on the autobahn side, where the larger part of 7th Guards had tried to escape.

  Shot at by tanks, AA guns, SP guns, and infantry, the toiling Soviet escapees suffered hideously from the flanking fire, and many turned back northwards, running into their retreating rear-guard, and the leading tanks of the Guards Division.

  The final Hussar casualty was A Squadron’s First troop leader.

  His tank engaged an armoured vehicle to its front, moving south, some distance away, intent on driving down Route 111.

  The Black Prince missed; their target didn’t, and a 17pdr APDS round punched through the turret, neatly removing the commander’s left arm at the elbow.

  The radio net was full of excited voices, all of which revealed the truth of the exchange.

  The Guards Division had entered the battlefield, and the destruction of the 7th Guards Rifle Corps was complete.

  Leading the way came ‘C’ Squadron, 2nd Battalion, Grenadier Guards.

  The Centurion II at the head of the column moved cautiously off the road and crossed the autobahn to where its recent target lay abandoned.

  “Laz...Pull in alongside her.”

  The commander heard the mumbled response but was engaged on other matters already.

  Recently promoted CSM Charles checked the surroundings, and saw only friendly pudding bowl helmets amongst the living soldiery, or at least those armed with guns, the others being unarmed and shuffling the walk normal for shocked and dejected prisoners of war.

  Behind the tanks, half-tracks fanned out across the ground, disgorging squads of soldiers to help sweep the field clear of any hiding survivors.

  “He fired first... stupid... just stupid...”

  “Can it, Pats.”

  The gunner was mortified that he had fired at one of his own.

  “I must’ve killed someone, for crying out loud, Sarnt Major, I must’ve!”

  Charles dropped down into the turret and selected the Thompson sub-machine gun.

  “
Pats... listen to me. I gave the order, end of. He fired first, end of. He’s a Black Prince, and unless I’m very much mistaken, the first bugger you’ve seen. Certainly the first I’ve seen. No blame attached to us, no matter what, ok?”

  The gunner nodded, but it was plain he didn’t see it that way.

  “I’m off to take a gander. Stay tight and keep your eyes peeled. Commander out!”

  The Black Prince had taken, by Charles’ quick estimation, eleven direct hits, and had still been operational.

  ‘Impressive stuff, gotta say.’

  He clambered aboard, waving to a passing Cheshire Corporal, herding four dirty and dishevelled Soviets with the point of his bayonet.

  A quick look inside the tank filled him with relief, although the blood certainly meant that someone had taken a tap from Patterson’s shell.

  A Cheshires’ Sergeant wandered up and begged a cigarette.

  “You the buggers what bagged him, are ye?”

  He flipped his petrol lighter, giving first light to Charles.

  “Yep. He fired at us, but missed… we didn’t. Know what happened to the crew, Sarge?”

  “Think the commander lost an ‘and or summat. Rest were fine seemed. They took the lad off t’aid post.”

  Charles looked at the Cheshires’ NCO quizzically.

  “Cheshire?”

  The Sergeant laughed.

  “Feck orf. Wiltshire born and bred you.”

  They shook hands and parted.

  Charles dropped back into ‘Lady Godiva II’ and slapped Patterson on the shoulder.

  “Bloody good shot, Pats. Seems you clipped a Rupert on the way, but everyone’s alive... and the tank will be back working directly. No great harm done.”

  Charles wasn’t being insensitive to the tank officer who had lost his hand, more realistic about needing his gunner fully on the job.

  “OK. Laz, move her on down the road.”

  The centurion moved not one inch.