Endgame (The Red Gambit Series Book 7)

by Colin Gee

  They all agreed with that and mumbled their understanding.

  “I’m not sure how long we’ll be here, but it’ll be at least until our forces have taken Seirijai and Okta. Figure midday at the earliest. Anything else?”

  He waited a second or two before continuing.

  “Excellent. Sergeant Major, make your moves as quickly as possible.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Now, back to your units and the very best of luck, boys.”

  Eighteen minutes later, Major Sebastian Visnevski’s head was parted from his shoulders by shrapnel from the second salvo of Katyusha rockets to descend upon the Old Man’s Nose.

  0815 hrs, Tuesday, 25th March 1947, 500 metres northeast of Senis Nosis, Seirijai, Lithuania.

  “Advance! Speed, comrades! Speed!”

  The BTR-152s and mixed tanks leapt forward as one, making good ground as the defenders of Senis Nosis recovered from the effects of two Katyusha strikes.

  The BTR-mounted 12.7mm DShK blasted away above his head, and was quickly joined by the two flanking smaller SGMB machine-guns, the three weapons spitting a combined rate of up to 1600 rounds per minute in the direction of the hill.

  The platoon of T34/100s took the right flank and scaled the secondary level without taking any fire of note.

  Centrally, four T-54s made a dash straight for the crown of Senis Nosis.

  On the left flank a single T34/85 nervously pushed forward behind Nazarbayev’s advancing mechanised infantry.

  He would have liked to put some smoke on the hill but that was denied him.

  Not even the tanks possessed smoke.

  ‘Not one fucking smoke shell between them!’

  Still, the advance was rapid and without casualties so far.

  The pleasurable thought was immediately driven from his head as the lead T-54 was engulfed in smoke and flame, the modern tank transformed from running vehicle to inferno in less than two seconds.

  “Mudaks! Jink, Comrade, jink!”

  One of his BTRS took a direct hit and his brain refused to acknowledge the evidence of pieces of his men being thrown metres into the air.

  Bullets were pinging off the light armour of the armoured personnel carrier as the defenders of the hill brought machine-guns to bear.

  Looking through his observation slit, Yuri Nazarbayev could see the flashes from the enemy’s weapons.

  There were a lot.

  He made a decision that many would criticise after the battle.

  “Teegr-Dva, Teegr-Dva, Teegr-Dva-Dva, Teegr-Dva-Tree, move around to the left… go around to the left, over.”

  He pointed in the direction he wished to go so his driver could steer away from the increasing volume of fire to their front.

  The two motorised infantry companies responded immediately, and the centre and left of the assault moved obliquely left, leaving the T54s in the centre ground without infantry support.

  Nazarbayev contacted their commander, ordering the tanks to provide support from cover.

  On the right flank the attack went in as planned.

  0820 hrs, Tuesday, 25th March 1947, Polish reserve position, Old Man’s Nose, Seirijai, Lithuania.

  “For fuck’s sake, Sergeant Major. We’re needed over there!”

  “No.”

  The infantry CSM, of equal rank to Czernin but under his command, baulked at the recon NCO’s lack of response to the threat posed on the left flank of the position.

  By nothing more than luck, the Soviet attack had chosen a route that denied all but one of the Centurion’s a shot, leaving only the left flank guard to take on the platoon of T34/100s.

  “At least let me send my AT team over there, Sergeant Major!”

  “No. there’s a greater threat here. I already have two tanks that will bolster up over there… but the enemy has moved off to the right and disappeared under the ridge line there.”

  As he spoke, Czernin suddenly had a moment of clarity.

  “Dupeks!”

  He shot a quick glance at the map and dropped down from the tank beside the angry infantryman.

  “I know what the bastards are doing. Look here.”

  A Centurion yielded to another hit and started to burn lazily, allowing the crew to get out and carry their wounded driver to safety.

  “They’re coming around the hill. Set up to cover our rear immediately! Send a runner to the engineers to inform them.”

  For all his annoyance with Czernin, the man was a professional and organised his men at high speed.

  Czernin was back in his turret and calling orders to his crew when the Bren gun beside his tank started to rattle.

  “They’re here! Driver forward… and… right turn… hard right… drop in behind that wrecked lorry… gunner… numerous targets coming over the ridge… engage on sight… high ex.”

  His crew sorted, Czernin looked out of his hatch to take in as much of the battlefield as he could.

  “Target…on…fire!”

  His tank rocked back and the leading BTR slammed to a halt as an AP shell destroyed its engine, driver, and commander.

  Czernin fingered his microphone.

  “I said high-ex!”

  “It’s what was fucking in it!”

  The loader’s voice betrayed his fear so Czernin let it go, but determined to give Milosz a serious chewing out later.

  In front of his eyes, the BTRs disgorged men who tumbled from the still-moving vehicles, although more died as his other tank put a shell on target.

  The hull machine-gun joined in the defence and, in concert with the thump of Bren guns, bullets starting to claim casualties amongst the Soviet motorised troops.

  “Target…on… fire!”

  The shell struck home and removed the rear end of a turning BTR, treating the defenders to the weird sight of what appeared to be half a vehicle driving away down the hill.

  It would have been comical enough for laughter if the bullets weren’t raining down upon the Polish defenders.

  An incredible storm of lead was coming back at them and Czernin kept his head down low to avoid losing it.

  “Target… on… fire!”

  The Chaffee rocked back on its suspension once more, but this time Bartek Otulski missed, and missed badly.

  “Bartek, forget the fucking vehicles… take out some of these shitty machine-guns… direct HE.”

  “On it.”

  “Infantry surging left!”

  The driver’s warning made Czernin stick his head fractionally above the cupola.

  The turret whipped round at full speed traverse and the coax stuttered, knocking two of the attackers down, and forcing the others to ground.

  Czernin considered the .50cal on his pintel mount, but decided using it would be the last and most stupid thing he ever did.

  “Traverse right… quickly… infantry group… shit! Bazooka!”

  The turret traversed again and bullets spat, joined by the hull machine-gun, and the group of men were chewed up by fast moving lead.

  None the less, something came their way and passed just by the side of the hull before exploding behind them.

  “What the fuck is that?”

  Czernin did not expect an answer; all he knew that it was deadly and had only just missed.

  “Look out for those bloody things!”

  His peripheral vision caught three smoke trails reach out to his companion tank and wipe it and its crew off the face of the earth.

  “Four’s gone… keep your eyes open for these bazookas… kill them straight away… don’t wait for orders!”

  He grabbed the thompson from its clips.

  The sound of bullets striking the tank now resembled handfuls of hi-speed gravel, such was the volume of fire.

  “Target… on… firing!”

  The 75mm gun sent another HE shell into the enemy assault force.

  A smoky trail reached out and Czernin instinctively ducked.

  The explosion rocked the light tank and hot gases punched th
rough the interior.

  ‘Am I still alive?’

  He decided he was, given the stench that rose from where Milosz’s bowels had opened in terror.

  “Report!”

  The crew all called in, except Milosz who was screaming in pain, and it was Otulski who supplied the details of their lucky escape.

  “It hit the fucking barrel!”

  “What?”

  “The fucking thing hit the barrel.”

  Czernin understood now why his loader was holding his face, and why the smell of the explosion and the hot gases were all-pervasive.

  ‘Oh my god! You poor bastard!’

  The stream of product from the explosion had come straight out of the breech and struck Milosz in the left side of the face as he leant over to get another shell.

  From what Czernin could see, it had virtually melted the man’s eyeball and burned from ear to nose down to the bone.

  He had to be brutal in order for them to survive.

  “Michal… tend to Jan… driver… reverse slowly!”

  He pushed his head back out as the hull gunner did what he could, which was enough to silence the burned loader as an ampoule of morphine brought instant relief.

  The turret machine-gun hammered out in defiance as the Chaffee backed away.

  Czernin stuck his head out quickly and gave Scorupco steering instructions into a shell hole.

  ‘Perfect.’

  The hull machine-gun could still operate, but the hole covered the lower portion of the hull and the tracks.

  The fire had died away and he considered the .50cal once more.

  His second Chaffee exploded for a third and final time, the blast virtually ripping the small vehicle apart and almost blowing the fire out.

  He hadn’t known the Sergeant who commanded that well, but sadly knew that he had four children and a wife waiting in Edinburgh.

  Unaware of what was going on in the general battle, Czernin tried contacting other tanks in his troop, without success.

  He snatched up the thompson halfway through one attempt, and shot down two Soviet soldiers who materialised twenty yards from the left side of the tank.

  The two men went down bloodily, both writhing and moaning in the mud.

  “Commander out!”

  He dropped off the side of the tank and drove home a fresh magazine as he moved towards the two men.

  The RPD light machine-gun that one had carried he had seen before.

  It was the tube weapon in the other’s hands that had caught his eye more.

  Quickly checking the area before he moved forward, he put a burst into each man before collecting their weapons, plus a bag containing more of the strange projectiles.

  Bullets started to pluck at the earth around him as he moved back towards the Chaffee and he was forced into cover.

  The tank’s turret turned and sent a few bursts towards the enemy and the fire dropped away enough to encourage him into a second effort.

  He rose and immediately dropped to the ground again, again fumbling for his thompson.

  A pair of enemy soldiers, oblivious to his presence, dropped into a hole behind the Chaffee and prepared to fire one of the strange rockets at it.

  The submachine-gun chattered and one man was thrown away by multiple impacts.

  The other dropped out of sight, the ‘bazooka’ still in his possession.

  Czernin made a quick decision and was up and running in an instant, thompson at the ready, his entire focus on getting to the enemy missile man before he raised his head to take the shot.

  The Russian did raise his head to fire, but not with the brand new RPG-2 he had been holding, but with a Tokarev automatic pistol, and Czernin was the target.

  The fifth bullet the Soviet soldier fired struck the submachine-gun, sending it from his grasp and painfully jarring his wrist.

  Another clipped the side of his upper left arm enough to draw blood but not enough to stop his charge and impact into the Soviet guardsman.

  His body hammered into the Russian and drove the shouting against the body of his comrade lying in the bottom of the hole.

  Czernin felt bones give way and a groan of excruciating pain came from the man he had just inflicted massive injuries on.

  Both lungs were pierced by broken ribs, and at least one of his thighbones had given way when folded hard around the SKS rifle the dead man still gripped in his hands.

  Foamy blood immediately sprang from the dying man’s mouth as he cried for his mother, but Czernin was in no mood for quarter.

  He grabbed the discarded Tokarev and put two bullets into the man’s chest at point blank range.

  The dying man gurgled a few times more before falling silent.

  Catching his breath, Czernin felt his own aches and pains surface, but grabbed the SKS and checked the vicinity for more tank hunter teams.

  Yet more bullets came his way, and he quickly worked out that his tank was more exposed than he first imagined, as the firing came from close in, and on both sides of the Chaffee.

  Breathing deeply, Czernin tried to get as much oxygen as possible into his lungs so he could make a quick sprint to the rear of the tank and use the squawk-box to warn them of their predicament.

  He was up and running before he had completed the thought.

  0828 hrs, Tuesday, 25th March 1947, Senis Nosis, Seirijai, Lithuania.

  “For fuck’s sake, kill the bastard!”

  Nazarbayev was reloading at the precise moment the enemy tanker had sprinted from cover and watched impotently as the man had a charmed life in the storm of bullets his men fired at him.

  His eyes took in the detail of the SKS in the enemy’s hands.

  ‘Palenkov gone for sure… and probably Huninin too.’

  His plan had not gone well as the enemy were prepared for his rear attack.

  ‘Mudaks!’

  He had left his other two RPG teams to watch the rear of his assault, in case new enemies arrived on the field, but now he needed at least one here, as the enemy tank was proving to be a serious block on his advance.

  A runner was dispatched to bring one up the slope whilst Nazarbayev quickly came up with a new plan with two of his senior NCOs.

  It never got off the ground as a shout drew his attention back to the Chaffee, which was manoeuvring back slowly, its hull and co-axial MGs hammering away defiantly.

  If nothing else, Nazarbayev was decisive.

  “Give me the mine!”

  Instantly, the German-made mine appeared and was thrust into his hand.

  “Cover me if anyone interferes, Comrades!”

  He levered himself upright was running like a greyhound before anyone could comment.

  The Hafthohlladung weighed about three and a half kilos, a not inconsiderable weight to carry when stalking an enemy tank.

  Somewhere off to his left rear, an enemy saw the threat he posed and tried to bring him down.

  He accelerated more, although he thought it impossible to run faster as his heart and lungs seemed to want to burst from his chest with every leap and bound.

  The tank loomed large in front of him and he made the last surge, failing to notice the bullet that ploughed across his left calf.

  Inside the tank they heard the metal on metal sound as the magnets attached themselves.

  Nazarbayev tugged on the ignitor as a bullet spat off the tank’s side and clipped his temple.

  Shaking the blood from his eyes, he pulled again and the charge was set.

  He ran.

  0833 hrs, Tuesday, 25th March 1947, Old Man’s Nose, Seirijai, Lithuania.

  Czernin sprang up and ran straight into the Soviet officer coming the other way.

  They crashed into each other and collapsed at the rear of the still reversing tank.

  Czernin’s pain returned as his previous injuries manifested themselves and stole his breath.

  Nazarbayev felt light headed, the Poles’ chin having connected hard with his forehead, further opening the ricoc
het wound.

  Both men were stunned by the shockwave as the Hafthohlladung detonated.

  It was an unequal contest, the magnetic charge capable of penetrating nearly 140mm of armour, nearly four times the maximum thickness the Chaffee could muster.

  The side armour surrendered with ease and the tank was flooded with the stream of hot gases and plasma.

  Unseen by either man, Scorupco emerged from the driver’s position, swathed in orange flame, only to fail in his efforts and succumb to his injuries, falling partially down the front of the tank where his torso hung from the hatch by burning legs.

  Self-preservation became their prime concern, and both men ran as fast as they could, to put distance between them and the burning Chaffee.

  Some of the Polish defenders saw simply another Soviet rush, and fired on the pair.

  It was Czernin that took the first hits, leading because Nazarbayev was slowed by his calf wound.

  Two bullets entered and exited his right forearm no more than four inches apart, knocking him slightly off-balance. Another round took him in the hip. The mud did the rest, and he disappeared into another shell hole.

  Nazarbayev followed him as a bullet clipped his heel and spun him round in mid leap precisely as another round crashed into his left shoulder and took him totally off his feet.

  The two men crashed to ground and rolled into each other, bringing further pain to Czernin and adding a dislocated little finger to Nazarbayev‘s woes.

  Neither man had any great interest in fighting any more, as their energy drained along with their blood.

  The Soviet officer eyed his enemy, but decided that there was no threat so did what most soldiers would do in such a situation.

  He lit a cigarette.

  Czernin felt the desire wash over him and, with his rough Russian, managed to get one of his own.

  The two bleeding warriors lay in the mud gasping and smoking as the battle grew in ferocity all around them.

  A grenade went off near the top of the hole, covering both with a wash of mud.

  The tension broke as Czernin started to laugh at the vision in front of him, the red and brown figure looking comical to his eyes.