Endgame (The Red Gambit Series Book 7)

by Colin Gee

  Head poking out through the cupola, Stelmakh felt himself start to react and then, much to his surprise, not, despite the fear that gripped him and wrestled with his innards.

  Kalinov simply hummed, denied any input from the outside world, save the sounds of battle that started to rise once more.

  Around the IS-III, the motorcycle troopers and two platoons of men from the 22nd Guards Motorised Rifle Brigade pushed forward, carefully moving from cover to cover, screening the tank as they advanced.

  A few bullets spanged off the tank’s plates, one close enough to make Stelmakh jump with fright, the spark stinging his cheek until the heat died away.

  The DShK had been set ready so that all Stelmakh needed to do was rise up and aim, although to do so would risk exposing himself to enemy fire.

  The turret coaxial stuttered and Stelmakh watched as tracer bullets ate away at partially demolished wooden structure, from which two men emerged running as if the devil was on their heels.

  The turret rotated slightly and walked bullets into the hindmost man, who fell like a rag doll.

  The crew understood that there was no time for ceremony and Stelmakh had ordered that any target should be engaged without orders.

  His eyes swept the area ahead, to the side, and occasionally in the air above, just in case the dreaded enemy ground attack aircraft came calling.

  He missed seeing the muzzle and only caught the discharge of the weapon, before the hull front disappeared in a violent explosion.

  “Yob tvoyu mat!”

  Stepanov’s voice had gained almost an octave, but he was intact, if not scared shitless.

  “Where is he?”

  Ferensky had not seen the flight of the Panzerschreck, neither had he seen the point of origin.

  Stelmakh instinctively knew he had no time to tell him and propelled himself up through the turret.

  The DShK hammered briefly before jamming.

  “Mudaks!

  He pulled the cocking handle to free the stoppage… hoping to free the stoppage… and pulled the trigger again.

  Nothing.

  He looked at the Legion anti-tank soldier, and saw only sightless eyes, and beyond another body, that of his loader who had also been caught by the short burst.

  Both men were dead by his hand and ‘Krasny Suka’ lived to fight on.

  “Driver, halt.”

  Stepanov needed no further encouragement, his hands trembling on the steering controls, the anti-tank rocket having hit just to the left of his position.

  Checking that the infantry were moving up either side, Stelmakh pushed himself further out of the turret and unjammed the weapon.

  He ducked instinctively as a small firefight developed off to the right, the supporting infantry getting up close and personal with a group of Legionnaires.

  A flurry of grenades was followed by a sharp assault, and the position was taken at the cost of three men from both sides.

  The assault moved on.

  “It’s not good, Rolf.”

  The bloodied man was panting, having narrowly escaped a Soviet frontal assault with his life.

  “I lost three men back there. We’re massively outnumbered… the schreck team didn’t get the tank either, so he’s going to be coming round that corner soon enough.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a Three for sure. Bastard thing machine-gunned Willi and Franz. They hit it, but you know… they’re a fucking bitch them things.”

  “Yeah. Right. You have to hold the line there.”

  Peters indicated the building that the survivors of the recent attack were huddled in.

  “Need you to keep the bastards off my back. I’ve got one Rotkäppchen left but this isn’t the time. We’ll try the Soviet fausts from the flank… just keep the infantry off my fucking back, Klaus!”

  “I’ll need more men, Rolf.”

  Peters had few men left that weren’t already tied up, just two sections from the new arrivals.

  “OK, take six men from the two reserve sections, three from each. Just hold them, Klaus… hold them.”

  The man moved quickly off to get the extra men.

  Peters moved over to the weapons point, where he selected two of the Soviet panzerfaust copies, one for him and one for his companion.

  “Right then, Patrice, just like I showed you in training and we’ll kill the bastard. Follow me and keep low.”

  The Belgian legionnaire, one of the few non-Germans in the 4e RACE, took the Lans from Peters’ hand without comment.

  The two moved off to find a good position from which to get a side shot at what was about to come around the corner.

  The 122mm belched flame as an HE shell was sent on its way to obliterate a machine post that was giving the infantry a hard time.

  Alongside the heavy tank, two armoured cars were also pushing up, the commanders emboldened by the progress being made.

  Armed with machine-guns, the BA-64s helped sweep the area, concentrating on any points that could harbour an anti-tank weapon.

  “Driver, advance, take the right hand turn ahead when I say.”

  Stepanov, slightly calmer now after his near-death experience, mumbled a reply.

  The IS-III moved forward slowly.

  A scruffy infantry officer emerged from a building and waved the tank down.

  “Driver, halt.”

  Stelmakh stood up and leant over the cupola.

  “Comrade Mayor. Kapitan Holmin, 22nd Guards. We’ve taken all the buildings on this side of the street, so you’re clear to the junction. We’ve not progressed further… there’s a solid nest of the bastards in the first house around the corner this side… yellow and green shutters… can’t miss it… any chance you can sort them out with a shell or two?”

  “What’s ahead of us when we come round the corner, Comrade?”

  “Ruins mainly, a couple of intact buildings… I’ve a pair of DPs set up to watch for anything that sticks its head up.”

  “What about my left flank when I’m round the corner?”

  “That’s the motorcycle boys’ job. Haven’t seen them so maybe they’re hung up.”

  “Risky for me, Comrade.”

  The infantryman could understand the problem.

  Fighting a tank in a built-up area in an environment rich with heavily armed and competent infantry was no fun for anyone, least of all the men in the steel boxes.

  “Understood, Comrade Mayor. I’ll push a group of my men over the road before you turn. Orders to watch out for you. Good enough, Comrade Mayor?”

  “Good enough, Comrade. We’ll move up on your signal. Good luck.”

  The man moved away at a speed that defied description.

  Stelmakh briefed his men.

  “A section of enemy just slipped across the road, Sergent.”

  Peters had been checking the anti-tank weapon and completely missed the foray.

  “How many?”

  “Six… I think, Sergent.”

  That complicated matters, as Peters had selected an ambush spot that now appeared to be right in the way of the advancing group.

  “Keep your weapon handy and get rid of the Lans tube as soon as you’ve fired it. We may need to defend ourselves against those bastards before we can relocate.”

  “Yes, Sergent.”

  “And wait for my signal before you fire, Patrice.”

  “Yes, Sergent.”

  A growing engine sound marked the closeness of the enemy tank and both men settled into the firing position, ready to send the deadly Lans warheads to deal with the threat.

  “Keep your head down, man!”

  In his keenness, and in his fear, Patrice Evreaux had risen up too far.

  He dropped quickly, cursing himself for his foolishness.

  “Sorry, Sergent.”

  “Minimum exposure… remember… small target… check the area behind… slow breathing… steady trigger finger… remember your training, Patrice.”

  “Sorry… yes,
Sergent.”

  The approaching tank engine stopped abruptly.

  “Really? Call yourself a driver?”

  “I didn’t stall it. The fucking thing just stopped.”

  “Restart the engine.”

  The starter motor turned over but the V-12 diesel stubbornly refused to fire up.

  “You’re fucking shitting me… get it started, Onufriy!”

  Despite the perfect tone of the starter motor, there was no throaty roar in reply.

  Nothing.

  “Right. Let’s get this sorted. Commander and driver out!”

  The two BA-64 commanders were confused.

  Having expected the IS-III to lead the charge, they now found themselves positioned either side of a lame duck.

  With either too much courage, or insufficient wisdom, they pressed ahead.

  The lead armoured car reached the bend and tentatively nosed around it before slipping across the road and in behind a pile of rubble where six guardsmen had secreted themselves.

  The infantry leader spoke briefly with the BA-64’s commander, gesticulating up the road and agreeing a plan.

  Within seconds, the machine-gun on the armoured car was working, spraying bullets all over the place, but concentrating where they had seen an enemy soldier with a panzerfaust.

  The second vehicle joined in as it rounded the bend.

  Evreaux span away screaming as two bullets smashed into his shoulder and neck.

  “Verdammt!”

  Peters ducked as brick particles bit into his face.

  The armoured cars were on the very edge of his range, and he was there for the enemy tank, but he had no choice.

  Peters edged off to one side to give himself a chance and glanced carefully through gap in the rubble.

  The bullets struck all around the hole as the second armoured car rounded the bend and opened fire.

  He moved over to the other side and got the same result, although he glimpsed the enemy infantry group moving in the buildings closer to him.

  He looked at the damaged staircase more closely, having previously rejected the idea.

  Before he thought it through, Peters grabbed the second Lans and was moving up the rickety construction in a crouching crawl cum run.

  ‘Perfect’.

  He settled his breathing and calculated his aiming point.

  The missile sped away and impacted directly on the bottom edge of the driver’s hatch.

  The armoured car kept moving forward and impacted with a pile of rubble, which impact rolled the vehicle onto its side.

  Smoke and flame started to rise immediately and no one got out.

  Before the enemy could recover, Peters had the second Lans up and aimed.

  The BA-64 slipped into reverse and the missile struck the road in front of it.

  But the fates were not kind to the Russian crew.

  The warhead skipped off the roadway and smashed into the lower front, destroying the vehicle just as well as a direct hit.

  The brave commander pulled his wounded driver clear as the vehicle started to lazily burn.

  ‘Now to get the fuck out of here!’

  A grenade sailed into the downstairs area and exploded.

  There was a low rumble and the stairs collapsed.

  “Scheisse!”

  The floor shifted and he almost lost his grip, but it held and he recovered his ST-44.

  The enemy infantry group was one building away and he decided to return the favour.

  A fragmentation grenade brought shouts of consternation from the building and then screams as its metal fragments found refuge in soft flesh.

  He raised himself up for a quick look and fear froze him in place.

  “Firing!”

  The IS-III’s gun sent an HE shell at the target and the explosion sent pieces of brick, wood, and something softer in all directions.

  The tank’s blocked fuel filter had been fixed and Stepanov exonerated, at least in his own eyes.

  On rounding the bend, Stelmakh and Ferensky had spotted the enemy AT position, and witnessed the infantry’s difficulties.

  Pushing the burning BA-64 out of the way, ‘Krasny Suka’ had taken an angled position and targeted the ruined building.

  As the last pieces of rubble bounced away, the small infantry group rose up and charged forward, simultaneously with a surge from the main group to Stelmakh’s right side.

  “Driver, advance.”

  The IS-III moved slowly forward, remaining slightly behind the infantrymen.

  “Driver, halt. Gunner, target, building, right two, green and yellow shutters, fire when on.”

  The turret traversed slightly and the gun flew backwards as Ferensky put lead on target.

  It only needed one shell and the whole structure imploded.

  The infantrymen rose up and charged the still collapsing rubble, confident the enemy defenders were in no state to resist.

  They were wrong, and two of their number fell as a burst of automatic fire came from one relatively intact corner.

  Vengeful men closed in on the firer and a brief struggle ensued before he was beaten down and killed.

  “Driver, advance.”

  Stepanov accelerated forward, moving quicker than before as the infantry gained distance.

  Inside, Kalinov served the weapon and struggled with the new shell as the vehicle bumped over the masonry and obstructions, and he alone was spared the sight that froze the blood in the others’ veins.

  “Holy Mother!”

  “Fire!”

  The 88mm shell covered the one hundred and fifty metres in the blink of an eye and hammered into the hull adjacent to the track guard.

  The IS-III returned fire and also hit its target, but the Tiger had been angled perfectly and the HE shell flew off the front glacis leaving a silver reminder of its passage.

  Even when it found refuge in the side of a shop, the dud shell failed to explode.

  Lohengrin’s own shell had not penetrated the thick angled armour, but had destroyed much of the nearside front track and wheel assembly.

  Köster went for a second shot.

  “Hit him again! Driver, standby to reverse!”

  The Tiger commander was counting on the legendary slow reload speed and his driver’s skill to avoid a second hit on his tank.

  He was right on both counts.

  Jarome spent an extra half a second with his aim and put his AP shell into the gap between the mantlet and the hull top.

  The Tiger jerked back immediately and out of sight, denying the enemy tank the opportunity to return the shot.

  Not that it could.

  The Tiger’s shell had wrought great damage without actually knocking out the IS-III.

  The blow on the mantlet had sent a shockwave through the whole gun mount, which disrupted the optical system and, much to Ferensky’s discomfort, gave him a depressed fracture of the orbit where he had been pressed firmly up against the gun sight.

  “Blyad… that fucking hurts… I think the gun’s fucked, Comrade Mayor.”

  “Check it… fuck, you alright, Oleg?”

  “It hurts but I can see.”

  “Lev?”

  Kalinov held up his hand, examining it himself for the first time.

  The dislocated fingers and torn webbing were apparent, both to him and to Stelmakh.

  Numerous electrical items had felt the shock and smoke wafted gently through the interior. Even the fume extractor added more smoke than it removed as its out-of-line motor protested.

  “Onufriy?”

  The smoke caught in Stelmakh’s throat and he spluttered his words.

  “Onu…friy?”

  ‘The intercom must be out.’

  Stelmakh leant forward and shouted into the front of the tank.

  “Onufriy! Stepanov, you fucking goat shagger!”

  After deflecting downwards, the shell had penetrated the driver’s hatch and stuck fast, with six inches protruding into the space below.

&n
bsp; The gap between the hatch and Stepanov’s head was two inches.

  Stelmakh knew his tank was crippled and ordered his crew to evacuate.

  Leaning forward, he pushed himself forward to get as close to his driver as he could.

  It was dark, all the lights having shorted out.

  Grabbing the torch, he flicked the switch and immediately vomited.

  The 88mm shell protruded through the hatch and into Stepanov’s head.

  He had been killed instantly.

  Stelmakh wiped his mouth and slipped out of the turret down to the front of the tank, knowing he was exposing himself, but not prepared to abandon a man who he considered a friend as well as a comrade.

  The hatch would not shift and he knew he would not yet be able to recover the dead man.

  Returning to the tank. Stelmakh resolved to man the machine-gun until such times as efforts could successfully be made to extract the corpse and get the tank back in the fight.

  “We didn’t kill the bastard.”

  Köster could only agree with Jarome’s statement.

  “No room for us to manoeuvre worth the name. The Oberführer told us to stick here, so here we stick.”

  “Bastard’ll be waiting for us if we poke our snout back round.”

  Dripping with sarcasm, Meier’s voice entered the conversation.

  “Well thank you, Ober-fucking-Gruppen-fucking-führer-Jarome, our resident tactical genius.”

  “That’ll do, kameraden.”

  Köster smiled in spite of himself.

  “We’ll try the next street up. See if we can flank them. If that’s alright with you, Herr Feldmarschal Meier.”

  The crew laughed in response to the goad, which Meier seized upon instantly.

  “I approve of your plan, Sturmscharführer. You’ll make a decent tank commander yet.”

  “Arschloch! Now, left turn… that’s the arm with your watch on… up to the next junction.”

  The Tiger moved off, but was waved down by a hurrying senior NCO.

  Köster stuck his head out of the turret.

  “What gives, Hässelbach?”

  He scaled the front of the tank and spoke in gasps, having run to find the Tiger commander.