Sacrifice (The Red Gambit Series. Book 5)

by Colin Gee

  ... and First Sergeant Hawkes was scrabbling for more Garand rounds, as Soviet assault troops spilled from the leading crew wagon...

  ... and Major Field was whooping with joy as his RCLs ripped the leading AA carriage into pieces and caused the front T-34 wagon to come apart as it’s ammunition exploded...

  ... and Captain Pollo tumbled away from the demolition charge he had just set on the rails...

  ... and nine sixteen-inch shells flung by HMS Nelson arrived, followed by eight fifteen-inch monsters, contributed by HMS Warspite.

  0211.

  Those who saw their arrival would never be able to adequately describe what they witnessed.

  The 32nd NKVD Regiment disappeared in the briefest of moments, the exploding shells providing sufficient illumination for observers to see men, whole and partial, thrown hundreds of feet , propelled at high speed into the air or sideways, reaping more death as bodies smashed into bodies.

  The T-34s were wiped out, although only one took a direct strike, the blast waves sufficient to turn over all but one of the vehicles, killing or incapacitating their crews.

  The rear AA carriage received the full blast of one of Warspite’s shells.

  Later, the crew were found in soft repose, but very dead, much the same as those who manned the rearmost tank wagon, whose KV-1 turret remained silent for the rest of the battle.

  Warspite was capable of putting out two rounds a minute; Nelson, two every three minutes.

  Warspite’s secpnd salvo ploughed the same turf as before, killing many of the dazed survivors, but mainly visiting more horrendous injuries upon the fallen.

  Nelson’s next salvo was misdirected, but landed to the advantage of the airborne troopers, dropping in the woods behind the smashed leading battalions, and finding the remnants of the 273rd NKVD Regiment, the entire 9th [Independent] Flamethrower Battalion and the rest of the T-34 company waiting to move up.

  Backpack flamethrower tanks rose like flaming torches, further illuminating the stripped trees, sometimes just the fuel tank, but often complete with its unfortunate operator.

  Bathwick was already on the radio, halting further fire from offshore, the task successfully completed in two awful minutes.

  2113 hrs, Tuesday 26th March 1946, Second Battalion front, near Grosse Mokratz, Pomerania.

  Whilst the battle was technically won, there was fighting left a’plenty, as the armoured train continued to lash out at the paratroopers, despite the fact that Nelson and Warspite had wrecked the track behind them, and Captain Pollo had done the same to the train’s front.

  More than a few troopers were caught out as they watched the naval display with incredulity, only to expose themselves to bullets from the ‘Alexsandr Shelepin’.

  Pollo and three of his men tumbled in beside Hawkes, their unexpected arrival nearly costing them their well-being.

  The engineer officer checked his men, cursing that two had been felled on the run in, both of them the ones carrying the explosives with which he intended to attack the crew coach, whose metal-shuttered windows spouted bullets in all directions.

  Underneath the wagon, survivors from some of the Soviet assault groups had gathered, glad of the top protection.

  Pollo ordered covering fire, intending to try and retrieve one of the explosive bags.

  He rose and immediately fell back coughing, a pair of SMG rounds smashing through his right lung in an instant.

  Hawkes directed one of the engineers to tend the wounded officer, and prepared the rest to cover him whilst he tried the same mission.

  The largest of the engineers, an older man who should probably have been at home in front of his fire, shuffled the flamethrower off his back and laid a hand on Hawkes.

  “My job, Sarge. No one’s a-waiting for me back home, not since both ma boys went to God at Ie Shima.”

  The older man, showing remarkable agility, was up and out and had dropped beside the first engineer’s corpse before any serious fire came his way.

  “What’s he getting?”

  Hawkes popped up and placed two bullets in a crawling NKVD rail soldier, intent on getting closer.

  “HE blocks. We still got some of the stuff we lifted from the Commies. Enough to fuck that piece of shit twice over.”

  The engineer rose and put some of his own bullets on target, knocking two men over as they scrabbled around under the rail cars.

  Hawkes recharged his Garand and tried a difficult shot, watching the bullet ping off the metal side next to a shutter.

  The shutter opened carefully and Hawkes, exhaled.

  The Garand cracked

  ‘Ouch! Whatever that hit’ll have a goddamned headache and a half.’

  He hadn’t needed the modest spray of blood to tell him that his bullet had found a mark.

  An AT bullet chewed through the armour, as the last PTRD was brought into action.

  Hawkes turned to the old engineer and shouted.

  Rising up, the man was halfway through his second step when the world turned white.

  Those in the shell hole, protected from the blast, were only stunned.

  Other paratroopers nearby were killed and wounded as the canvas bag was hit by bullets and the Soviet explosives surrendered to the laws of nature.

  The older man simply disappeared.

  Trying to clear his head, Hawkes suddenly found himself experiencing a phenomenon of the battlefield.

  The Germans have a word for it; blutrausch, and it has a number of similar interpretations.

  A rush of blood.

  A lust for blood.

  A trance-like state where the one who experiences it goes berserk, embarking, without fear or reason, on a journey of violence and murder until it passes.

  Hawkes was that man.

  He grabbed the flamethrower pack in his left hand and charged out of the hole.

  Bullets split the air all around him, but the Soviets, particularly those under the wagons, were as disoriented and shaken up as Hawkes and his engineer buddies.

  Firing the Garand one-handed, the 101st NCO put down three men hard. The charger pinged from the empty rifle, but Hawkes continued onwards.

  A panicky NKVD trooper rose up, his hand trembling so much that he couldn’t fit the new magazine into his PPSh.

  Hawkes rammed the Garand barrel into the petrified man’s face, sending him reeling away and squealing at the extreme pain of his wound.

  Using a strength lent to him by the ‘Blutrausch’, Hawkes swung the cylinder in his left hand, staving in the head of an NKVD NCO who was calling on his men to target the devil in their midst.

  The webbing caught up in the insensible man’s arms as he collapsed.

  Hawkes let it go and swapped the Garand around, holding the barrel end, and swinging the rifle like a club.

  Another victim fell, head smashed through to the cortex, as the heavy butt cracked the woman’s skull like papier-mâché.

  Not a sound escaped Hawkes’ lips; neither scream, nor grunt, nor yell.

  The group under the wagon melted away, turning to run back down the track, leaving two shocked soldiers to hold up their hands in surrender.

  As their comrades were cut down by other paratroopers, the two fell victim to Hawkes’ lack of reason and temporary suspension of reality.

  Both died under the whirling rifle butt, during which frenzied attacks the wood was splintered and damaged beyond recognition, the last two blows inflicting hideous open wounds, as the sharp splintered edges wrought destruction on the man’s face.

  With no enemy to hand, Hawkes went in search of more. Elsewhere, the train was being knocked apart, as RCLs and bazookas did steady work.

  The crew coach, around which Hawkes had done his awful work, still resisted, and the airborne NCO immediately set about dealing with it.

  Having prepared his equipment, he scaled the side, clinging on to the metal rungs that normally permitted entry to the main door.

  He waited patiently. An occasional bullet ping
ed off the armour, fired from the enemy’s positions by one of the few still mentally capable of that simplest of military tasks.

  Those who spoke of what they witnessed post-battle, talked of a blood-soaked Hawkes, his hair cut in the Huron style, making him appear like a bloodthirsty savage of old, clinging to the side of the armoured train, illuminated by the fires and explosions of the battlefield.

  The later descriptions of their NCO normally included words like ‘mad, ‘lunatic, or the universally popular ‘the devil.’

  The metal shutter on which Hawkes concentrated, started to shift upwards, and he readied himself.

  Unknown to Hawkes, the car’s officer intended to have a look before surrendering his command.

  The shutter moved open just enough and Hawkes lunged.

  Everyone inside the armoured wagon knew exactly what it was, and the screams started long before Hawkes pressed the trigger.

  In his efforts, the NCO lost his grip and fell from the armoured train.

  No matter, one burst, in that confined area, was enough.

  The flamethrower hung from the opening by its barrel, now bent beyond use by the weight of Hawkes as he fell. The tank dangled above Hawkes as he shook off the latest indignity of his fall.

  Inside, the twenty men and two women were noisily incinerated.

  Paratroopers swept forward, and the wounded of both sides were recovered and taken to be either tended or eased into the next life.

  No-one went anywhere near Hawkes, who sat on a discarded ammo box, chain smoking whatever he could find, Russian or American, staring at something a thousand miles away

  Anyone who came within twenty yards felt threatened, albeit silently.

  Moving around the battlefield, Colonel Marion J. Crisp was apprised of Hawkes’ state, and immediately moved to help resolve the situation.

  Grabbing another box, the paratrooper Colonel took a seat and lit his own cigarette in silence.

  Hawkes had no idea he was even there.

  This was not the first time that Crisp had seen such an event; he understood the risks of touching the NCO, but did it anyway.

  Hawkes struck his hand away.

  “Steady, Monty. It’s me... you know me... c’mon Monty... take my hand now.”

  Hawkes looked vacantly at his Colonel.

  “Hi Monty. Now then... take my hand ‘kay, eh?”

  Hawkes stared at Crisp’s hand, covered with the Colonel’s own blood, then his own hand, cut, bloodied and bruised, almost as if reacquainting himself with a long lost friend.

  After some moments, he extended it.

  The two hands met and Crisp took a firm but gentle hold.

  “I think we might go now, Monty... don’t you?”

  “Can’t.”

  “You can’t? Why can’t you come with me, Monty?”

  “Haven’t been relieved. Must be relieved.”

  Crisp could only smile.

  “First Sergeant Hawkes.”

  The eyes that looked at Crisp were changing, reflecting the ongoing departure of whatever it was that had transformed the NCO into a berserker.

  “Colonel, Sir?”

  “First Sergeant Hawkes, you are relieved.”

  “Did we hold ‘em, Colonel?”

  Crips nodded, trying not to think of the cost of victory, for, despite everything, that was what it was.

  “You held them, First Sergeant.”

  Hawkes’ eyes softened, and Crisp seized the moment.

  “I think we should go now, Monty. Stand up.”

  Still holding hands, the two came to their feet and officer helped NCO from the field.

  As soon as was practicable, Crisp made time to visit the position of the Naval support team, for no other reason than to congratulate them on a job well done.

  As he neared their position, he became aware of bodies, lots of bodies, mainly clad in the uniform of the enemy, but occasionally those of men from his own command. He even recognised some dead troopers from regimental headquarters, sent up to ride shotgun over the Naval officer and his radio operators.

  “Damn.”

  His voice drew a challenge.

  “H-Halt! Who goes th-there?”

  He recognised the voice immediately.

  “Colonel Marion J Crisp approaching, Lieutenant Commander.”

  “You m-may approach, C-Colonel.”

  Bathwick’s Lanchester sub-machine gun was a large piece to drag into the field, but it seemed to have proved effective, given the dead enemy surrounding the Naval officer’s position.

  The Killick, Harrington, was fiddling with his radio, teasing the top performance from it. The other rating was laid out reverently, alongside two of Crisp’s men, seemingly fast asleep, but decidedly dead.

  Bathwick’s hands were shaking like a man with the DTs, the shock debilitating him as sure as any bullet.

  There was little purpose to deep conversation whilst the man was so wiped out by his experiences, so Crisp went for easier fare.

  “One day, Lieutenant Commander, you must tell me what happened here. I’ll bet it’s one hell of a story.”

  Without trying, the Airborne Colonel had managed to see over forty enemy bodies within fifty yards of the positions the Naval OP and his men had held.

  A cloud of cigarette smoke from one pile of earth and wood indicated that some of his men were still alive, and he rose to make his way over, maintaining the crouch that veterans use to move around with in the presence of the enemy.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant Commander. You made all the difference.

  “T-Thank you, Colonel.”

  As Crisp engaged the survivors of his own Headquarters covering group, the sound of approaching engines drew cries of alarm from along the 501st’s lines.

  “Stand to!

  “Here they come again!”

  But the sound grew behind them and, accompanied by great relief, units of the 1st Free Polish Armoured Division arrived.

  The same was repeated at other positions on the paratroopers’ front, as the well-equipped units of Polish X Corps caught up with the demanding timetable.

  101st US Airborne Division had held until relieved.

  The 501st suffered 35% casualties during the first day of the landings, the majority of which came from the battered First and Second Battalions. Two hundred and thirteen of their casualties were dead, the same as the regiment lost in the duration of its commitment to the D-Day landings.

  It was subsequently estimated that the naval shells from Warspite and Nelson, claimed a minimum of six hundred and fifty Soviet lives in less than two minutes.

  But for the naval support, the Soviet night attack would probably have achieved its objectives.

  As it was, Kudryashev’s and Rybko’s initial plans came to nothing.

  They would do much better next time.

  0304 hrs, Friday, 29th March 1946, shoreline of the Vilm-See, Pomerania.

  The hole was constantly filling up with water, the marshy terrain unsuitable for foxholes, but occupying one was far better than being exposed if the Russians lobbed mortar shells in their direction, so the picquet grinned and bore the wetness with stoicism.

  A pair of sentries from the Fallschirmbatallion Perlmann, 7th FJR/2nd Fallschirmjager Division, posted to watch for any activity in the lake, sat closely observing the far bank, conscious that something was occurring.

  The senior man wasted no time in calling the events in, and soon the readiness squad was deployed either side of them, commanded by an Oberfeldwebel, and with Major Kurt Schuster in tow.

  A plume of orange flame leapt into the night sky across the dark waters of the Vilm-See, the largest lake in Pomerania, illuminating furious activity, easily observed despite the thousand metres that separated the two forces.

  The sound of an explosion quickly followed, causing many of the Fallschirmjager to tighten their grips on their weapons, whilst understanding that whatever it was, it wasn’t directed at them.

  It was one of the o
riginal pair that hissed a warning, focussing the watchers on a new threat, approaching from the island side.

  “Hold your fire, menschen,” hissed Schuster, immediately moving across the rear of the position to get closer to whatever it was...

  “It’s a boat, Herr Maior... there... low in the water...”

  The sentry held out his arm, pointing down the line of sight.

  Snatching up his binoculars, Schuster strained his eyes, trying to work out what was the source of the growing engine noise.

  ‘What the hell?’

  Shouting.

  “Can you hear that?”

  “Yep, Herr Maior. Don’t know what he’s saying though.”

  “Weapons ready!”

  The paratroopers settled themselves, waiting for the fire order.

  Shouting.

  “If they’re trying to make a sneak attack, then someone should tell them how to do it!”

  No-one even sniggered, as minds concentrated on getting the first shot just right.

  Shouting.

  ‘What?... what the he...’

  “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!”

  The tension left many a trigger finger, although more than one veteran looked at officer wondering why.

  Shouting... in some unknown tongue... and in German.

  “Watch them closely, menschen.”

  Schuster moved off to one side and flicked his torch, sending three swift bursts of light in the direction of the approaching ‘boat’.

  “Come this way, whoever you are. I warn you, no tricks.”

  The schwimmwagen, Schuster recognised it as it reached the shoreline, pushed itself up and out of the water, moving forward slowly until the driver found a place that obscured him and his vehicle from the sight of the Soviets they had left behind.

  The occupants were wise enough to stay silent, surrounded as they now were by tough-looking paratroopers.

  “You get one chance at this, so make it good.”

  Even as he spoke, Schuster noted the familiar SS camouflage and what looked like a Polish General’s uniform.

  “Herr Maior, we’re all that’s left of Battalion Storch, Skorzeny’s special raiding group.”