Sacrifice (The Red Gambit Series. Book 5)

by Colin Gee

  “Right. Any improvements we can see here?”

  Lemuel Pollo, Captain of Engineers, commander of the two platoon group allocated to the 501st, had clearly been itching to contribute.

  “Colonel, we took a pile of high-ex off that bridge. My boys can create some nice surprises for Ivan if he gets over ambitious. Sink a few in the road, in natural gathering areas, that sort of thing?”

  His voice ended the statement in question mode.

  “Don’t see any reason why not, Lem. What sort of detonation?”

  “All command detonation, Colonel. Nothing fancy, and nothing our boys can tread on by accident.”

  “Good for me. Present me with a laying plan a-sap. Anyone else?”

  Fig# 167 - Wollin - Initial Allied dispositions.

  Major Timothy Simpson, the Second Battalion CO, shuffled uneasily before taking the plunge.

  “Well, Sir... the terrible twosome’ve asked me to get permission for a special squad, based around the big rifles we captured.”

  The lead elements into Hagen had discovered a small repair facility, in which different weapons were undergoing maintenance.

  Sergeant Major Baldwin and First Sergeant Hawkes, the ‘terrible pair’ in question, had ‘appropriated’ six pristine anti-tank rifles, the purpose of which was now laid bare by Simpson’s request.

  Crisp laughed.

  “Well, I didn’t make Colonel by taking on impossible missions, so I guess we’ll give ‘em their head. Keep an eye on them though, Tim.”

  Baldwin and Hawkes formed a powerbase that most officers avoided like the plague, although both were always suitably respectful to the rank, and positively reverend to their colonel.

  “Ok then boys. If there’s nothing else, let’s get back to our units and pep ‘em up. Uncle Joe’ll be coming to play real soon; he can’t afford not to.”

  Salutes were exchanged and the officers group split up, each commander returning to his unit as quickly as possible.

  Not that they knew it, but ‘Uncle Joe’ was only ten minutes away.

  0954 hrs, Tuesday 26th March 1946, Second Battalion CP, near Klein Mokratz, Pomerania.

  The first casualty of the battle was Simpson, and before a shot was fired.

  He tripped on a piece of loose carpet and missed a step.

  The Major fell down the stairs into the basement that held the command apparatus of the 501st’s Second Battalion.

  The snap of his left leg was heard like a rifle shot.

  His scream of agony came immediately afterwards, the pain compounded as additional damage was done as he tumbled down the remaining few feet, the broken tibia and fibula punched out through his flesh, impaling themselves in the calf muscle of his right leg.

  The Battalion Medical officer rushed over, already fumbling for morphine.

  Simpson was quickly moved into an unconscious state as a heavy dose of the powerful drug hit his system.

  Outside, mortar rounds started to arrive. Although not directly on the CP, they most certainly announced to the occupants that Soviet activity was about to commence.

  Organising a stretcher detail, the MO evacuated Simpson to the aid post, where a complicated fracture became tricky surgery under extreme duress, as Red Army artillery joined in and started to fall danger close.

  1000 hrs, Tuesday 26th March 1946, Second Battalion front, near Grosse Mokratz, Pomerania.

  “URRAH!”

  “What the fuck?”

  Paratrooper heads rose from cover to establish what the heck was making that noise.

  “URRAH!”

  “Stand to! Stand to!”

  Fig# 168 - Wollin - First and Second Soviet attacks.

  The cries of officers and NCOs went up from along the defensive positions, calling men to expose themselves in air thick with shrapnel from mortars and artillery.

  Four lines of infantry were charging forward, weapons held out in front, like a scene from an old Great War newsreel.

  Easy Company’s Captain was obliterated by a mortar round as he went to give the fire order; his 2IC remained identifiable, although he was equally dead.

  Dog Company opened fire, prompting the entire Second Battalion to start pouring on the heat.

  .30 cal machine-guns, BARs, and Garands lashed out at the advancing NKVD infantry regiment, knocking men over like skittles in a bar.

  Now and again, an airborne trooper would wheel away, clutching some wounded part, or drop silently to the earth, never to rise again.

  The Soviet mortars still took their toll, but, as the human wave closed, the mortars advanced, for fear of hurting their own.

  Montgomery Hawkes, Easy Company’s First Sergeant, rallied a group of troopers who were about to be overrun.

  “Stay put and hold!”

  Hawkes dropped three running enemy with a swift burst from his Thompson,

  “Incoming!”

  One grenade was clearly thrown well short, but the other was accurate.

  Hawkes threw himself to his left, catching the deadly egg, and throwing it back, all in one movement.

  It exploded in front of the position, claiming no victims.

  ‘Hot damn!’

  “Jesus, Sarge, you should be playing for the Yankees!”

  There was no time to celebrate, as the mass of enemy grew ever closer.

  The .30cal next to Hawkes stopped, the gunner reeling away as two bullets smashed his shoulder.

  The loader was already out of the fight, his life claimed by a mortar fragment moments beforehand.

  Hawkes dropped to his belly, unceremoniously pushing the wounded gunner out of the way.

  The man’s wailing was drowned out by the .30cal resuming its duty.

  “Layder, ammo me up!”

  The old hand rolled across the side of the position and set to work.

  Elsewhere, the attack seemed to be faltering, but, for some reason, the boldest and the bravest all seemed to make for Hawkes’ position.

  As they got closer, so the NCO’s voice became louder and louder, almost attracting enemy soldiers to him.

  “Fuck off, you bastards, fuck off!”

  The barrel swivelled frantically, with only occasional breaks in the relentless stream of bullets.

  Three men made a surge and Hawkes swivelled the weapon, knocking them all down in the blink of an eye.

  “I said fuck off!”

  “Nearly out, Sarge! One belt after this one!”

  Without pausing in his personal crusade, Hawkes directed Layder to find some more.

  When the temporary loader returned, the firing had ceased.

  There were two bullets left on the belt...

  ... and the Russians had gone.

  Out of the nine hundred and thirty men who comprised the 273rd Regiment of the 63rd NKVD Rifle Division, only three hundred and thirty-two returned to their starting positions intact.

  The rest lay upon the field, dead, alive and cowering, or wounded, bleeding, wailing, suffering until death made a judgement.

  In the tent that served as the 273rd’s HQ, the radio crackled with more orders, the fanatical Divisional Commander ordering another full-frontal attack on the ‘weakly armed’ paratroopers.

  “Stand aside, Hagan.”

  A single bullet ripped its way through the radio set.

  The Lieutenant Colonel, his face like thunder, returned his automatic to his holster.

  “Message not received, Comrade Polkovnik!”

  NKVD Serzhant Hagan, the now redundant radio operator, stared silently as his commander broke down in tears.

  1200 hrs, Tuesday 26th March 1946, Second Battalion front, near Grosse Mokratz, Pomerania.

  Crisp had gone forward to see the situation for himself, and, in the case of Second Battalion, to see how the replacement leadership was handling matters.

  The Soviets had launched another attack, this time aimed at First Battalion.

  Most of the infantry were motorised, ranging from motorcycle to half-track, which ma
de it a more dangerous proposition than the assault on Second Battalion.

  It had run in close, and some enemy soldiers had made it into the trenches, before being thrown back out by a surge of two reserve platoons from Plötzin.

  The paratroopers’ bazookas had proved extremely effective against the infantry vehicles, as well as light tanks that had accompanied the attack, whose rout from the field discouraged the infantry from pressing home the attack just at the moment when pressing might have brought about a breakthrough.

  As per the NKVD attack before it, the push by Shtrafbat 299 and elements of the 92nd Motorcycle Battalion withered bloodily, and the survivors fell back.

  The Soviet units were in disarray, and it was not until nearly two o’clock that a pair of senior Red Army officers arrived on the field to take charge and organise the disparate units into one coordinated fighting force.

  Across No Man’s Land, a quick telephone exchange satisfied Colonel Crisp that the situation was again stable.

  Ordering one platoon from each of Third Battalion’s companies to double westwards to form an additional reserve, Crisp quickly organised his regimental assets.

  The recently promoted Captain Desandé now found himself as de facto Battalion commander, and, as Crisp slowly smoked his way through a Chesterfield, he watched the young officer grow into the role.

  Hawkes arrived and offered up his own report, the commander of C Company having sent him, hoping that the notorious scrounger could also scare up some more ammunition.

  Report complete, Hawkes responded to the gesture from Crisp and sat down.

  “First Sergeant.”

  “Colonel.”

  “How are you getting along with those rifles you acquired?”

  “Well, Sir... the Sergeant Major has them at the moment. We’re just waiting your say-so.”

  ‘Simpson didn’t tell them... of course he didn’t.’

  “Hell, I need all the firepower I can muster, First Sergeant. Green light from me, just keep me informed.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “How are the boys doing?”

  Crisp knew he would get the bottom line from the experienced NCO.

  “Most of them are just fine, Colonel. Funnily enough, it’s the veterans who are itchy.”

  “How come?”

  “They know how these things work, Colonel... how we always end up swinging our balls in the breeze for much longer than the brass say we will.”

  “Ain’t that the truth, First Sergeant.”

  Hawkes looked at Crisp quizzically, but quickly understood that his Colonel saw himself more as one of the doughs than brass.

  “For what it’s worth, Hawkes... I truly believe we just have this one day to stand ‘fore we’re relieved.”

  He accepted a cigarette and lit it and Hawkes’ with one easy motion.

  “Keep an eye on things in Second for me, ‘kay?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Both men rose and donned their helmets, a distant whooping and cheering suddenly apparent.

  The noise of engines revving broke through the human noise.

  ‘What the...?’

  Grabbing his Garand, Crisp stuck his head out of the bunker entrance.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’

  Hawkes slid in beside Crisp, trying to get a good view of the arriving jeeps.

  A Major dismounted from the leading vehicle, waving the remaining fifteen, some towing trailers, into cover behind a large barn.

  Once his unit was tucked out of sight, the Major hopped back in his jeep and rode the remaining yards to the CP.

  The glider-infantry officer spotted Crisp and dismounted, showing his experience by not saluting.

  Once inside the headquarters, military protocol was satisfied before Crisp took the Major’s report.

  “Major Field, 327th Glider, Heavy Weapons. General Taylor ordered us over here. Reckoned you need some extra firepower, Sir.”

  Crisp nodded enthusiastically.

  “We sure do, Major. What do you got for us?”

  “I’ve got six vehicle mounted M-20s, and twelve M-18s on tripods, thirty rounds to go with each, plus the crews, Sir.”

  Crisp had just been given the capacity to inflict a whole load of extra hurt on any attacker.

  The M-18 was a 57mm recoilless rifle with a capability for firing HEAT, High Explosive, and White Phosphorous.

  Its bigger brother, the M-20, had a calibre of 75mm, with the same range of shells.

  Captain Louis Desandé, proving that he was on the ball, spread out a map of the 501st’s full defensive position before being asked, enabling Crisp and Field to work out how best to utilise the new arrivals.

  Field copied details over to his own map. He left to organise his force whilst Crisp was back on the field telephone, apprising the various units of the new support available, call signs, and how to best utilise the new assets.

  Desandé accepted the two mugs of coffee with a nod and a smile, waiting for his Colonel to finish before handing his over.

  “Yowl! For the love of mike, your hands must be asbestos, Louis.”

  The Louisiana lawyer grinned.

  “Damn, but we needed those RCLs. God must surely be smiling down on us today.”

  The two engaged in small talk, driven by Crisp, as he tried to understand how his new man was operating.

  Satisfied that the Captain was coping, and would cope, and with coffee consumed, Colonel Marion J Crisp took this leave.

  It was then that his God smiled down on him once more.

  A jeep in the markings of the 1st Polish Corps bounced round the corner, narrowly missing three deploying RCL jeeps, its roof up and proudly displaying the orange panels that were intended to keep friendly vehicles from friendly attack from the air.

  The driver, ‘clearly a man with a death wish’, spun the wheel, missing a telegraph pole by a fraction of an inch, before swinging the back end of the vehicle round in some incredibly extravagant handbrake turn, bringing the lend-lease vehicle to rest, sideways on to, and no further than, two foot from a solid stone wall that could have crushed the vehicle and occupants without any difficulty.

  Revving the engine to emphasise his point, the driver, a Polish NCO, spoke excitedly and encouraged his passengers to dismount.

  The three men, gingerly handling boxes of equipment, stepped down unsteadily, clearly victims of an epic and exciting journey.

  No sooner had the last box cleared the back seat than the jeep was rammed into gear and leapt away, accelerating between two of Field’s jeeps when such a manoeuvre seemed impossible.

  The British personnel, they were clearly British to Crisp’s mind, stood in silence, looking at the flying mud as their tormentor disappeared from sight.

  The Paratrooper Colonel moved forward to find out what was going on.

  The officer looked at him, and looked again in the direction of the disappeared jeep, speaking slowly and with control, his drained white face betraying everything about the journey he and his men had just experienced.

  Seemingly unaware of Crisp’s rank, solely his presence, the Lieutenant Commander offered up an opinion, accompanying it with a gesture at the departing lunatic.

  “You know... after that... I must confess... I’m surprised any of the buggers make it to adulthood at all. Totally bonkers. Never been so frightened in my... good grief... my apologies, Sir.”

  The naval officer came to attention and peeled off a smart naval salute, which Crisp, his face wearing an expression of solid amusement, acknowledged in total silence.

  “Bathwick, Lieutenant Commander, His Majesty’s Royal Navy, seconded from HMS Nelson for shore duties, Sir.”

  “Lieutenant Commander.”

  “Sir, if you can show me where my men and I can best set up, we’ll get ready to help out if the enemy get restless.”

  He snapped at the rating who nearly dropped one of the boxes.

  “Harrington! Steady, Killick. It survived that nightmare. Don’
t bugger it up now.”

  “Aye aye, Sir.”

  “Sorry about that. Sensitive stuff, our equipment, Sir.”

  “Stuff?”

  “Radio equipment, Sir. We’d be bugger all use to you without it, now wouldn’t we?”

  Crisp felt he was being stupid, but he really had no idea what the clearly crazed Englishman was on about.

  “Lieutenant Commander Bathwick. I’ve no knowledge of your attachment here, or of what you can do for me.”

  The naval officer smiled knowingly.

  “Another balls up. Oh well. Colonel, Sir, I can bring down some fire from our vessels at sea to support your defence here. I’ll need to see your maps, tie in with your own radio frequencies, et cetera, et cetera, and,” he looked at his watch, “If all goes tickety-boo, I’ll have everything online for you within twenty minutes or so.”

  ‘Tickety-boo? Are you goddamn kidding me or what?’

  “What sort of support you got for me, Lieutenant Commander?”

  “Well, Sir, I’m from the Nelson. She’s a battleship. That’s nine sixteen-inch guns just for starters, and I’ve got a link to our Fleet Air Arm boys as well,” he spared a look for his hapless rating, “Provided that Harrington hasn’t buggered it up with his antics.”

  ‘Sixteen inch guns. Oh my God.’

  Crisp felt like all his Christmases had come at once.

  Fig# 169 - Wollin - Rienforced Allied Forces.

  “Lieutenant Commander, I’ve a piece of high ground that’ll suit you just dandy. First Sergeant!”

  Hawkes had moved away when the Polish jeep had first approached, and now moved back to his Colonel at the double.

  “First Sergeant. Scare up a squad of your boys and help the Lieutenant Commander and his men set up on Point Curahee a-sap.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Hawkes disappeared in search of hapless victims to help in fulfilling the order.

  “You’re very welcome, Lieutenant Commander. I’ll come up and see you when you’re all settled in. Meantime, Captain Desandé there,” he pointed at the 2nd Battalion CP, “Will supply you with all unit call-signs and, I daresay, a decent cup of coffee. Ask him to arrange a field telephone for your position. I’ll sort a small security section from my headquarters troops. They’ll be with you directly. Happy with that, Lieutenant Commander?”