Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6)

by Colin Gee

  Hanebury got the idea, and waved his men into a skirmish line, expanding outwards to embrace the modest clearing.

  Whilst the men were shaking out, both he and Nave studied the area for booby traps, their torches flicking across the ground in front of them.

  None were apparent but…

  The two moved forward, assessing each step, checking the ground before they lay a foot down, moving apart… just in case…

  Crack…

  Hanebury froze, the faint sound and tremor of something breaking under his foot causing him almost panic with fear.

  Almost… but his training and natural courage rose above the immediacy of his plight.

  “Move away, Arthur, move away.”

  That his Sergeant was stock-still, and clearly tense, was enough for Nave.

  “Where, Top… which foot?”

  “Back away, Arthur.”

  “Not happening, Top. Which one?”

  “Front.”

  Nave crawled gingerly, going flatter the closer he got to Hanebury’s left boot.

  Torch lodged firmly between his teeth, his knife was out and probing the area, seeking out whatever it was that had so spooked his commander.

  Standing still is not normally a particularly draining exercise, but standing still when the slightest movement might send you and one of your men to Valhalla is as draining as it can get, and Hanebury, minute by minute, started to feel the strain.

  His leg wanted to work, the muscle sought to get going, but he fought against it as hard as he could.

  “Arthur, leave it now… my leg’s got a fucking mind of its own here… move out, soldier!”

  Nave hummed a response as he worked closer around the boot, scraping away earth and leaves and…

  The laugh nearly made Hanebury lose it.

  “What the fuck!”

  Nave allowed the torch to fall away so he could talk.

  “Err, Top… you can move your foot… it’s clear.”

  Almost reluctantly, despite the urgent requirements of his aching legs, First Sergeant Jim Hanebury picked up his foot, revealing the cause of the alarm.

  “Make a wish, Top.”

  The broken wishbone of some long since consumed fowl lay taunting Hanebury.

  “Goddamnedsonofafuckingbitch!”

  A couple of the others drifted in close, just to see what the fuss was about.

  Hanebury’s relief did not stop him from slapping Nave on the shoulder.

  “Nice work, Arthur, but next time I give you an order, you better fucking obey it!”

  Neither of them believed the harshness in his voice was anything other than relief.

  Half the men moved through the clearing, whilst the others turned outwards and watched.

  Hanebury was mentally rehearsing his report and citation for Nave’s recommendation; chicken bone or no, the man had shown real guts and deserved his reward.

  The man in question rummaged in a pile of wood nearby, his demeanour drawing Hanebury’s interest.

  “Shit!”

  Nave jerked back, weapon at the ready, and immediately the whole group were primed and alert.

  Nave beckoned the nearest man, and together they pulled some of the undergrowth away.

  By the time Hanebury moved over to the site, enough had been exposed for his torchlight to reveal the last resting place of a group of slaughtered Russian soldiers.

  Twelve… no… fourteen bodies, all bearing all the hallmarks of expert and quiet deaths… signs unfortunately familiar to those who had recently stood at the back of a certain US Army ambulance.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  That question went through a number of minds.

  Nave leant down into the shallow grave and plucked something from the grasp of a large cadaver, whose neck had been sliced through twice, spilling the man’s lifeblood in seconds.

  The material was camouflage, of a type they had all seen before. Hanging from it was a thin strip of cloth, black with silver thread lines and inscription, made red by the product of the Russian’s opened neck.

  After cursory glance, Nave passed it to Hanebury, who examined at more closely.

  “Sonofabitch.”

  Rickard moved closer, keen to see what was causing the commotion.

  Handed the cloth by Lucifer, he spoke the two words aloud.

  “Prince Eugene?”

  Nave snatched it back with mock severity.

  “Prinz Eugen, you illiterate chunk of Pennsylvanian dog’s mess. Prinz Eugen… it’s… it was an SS division. Don’t you know anything?”

  “I know you’re gonna get my boot up your ass pretty soon, farm boy!”

  The two often sparred, but now was neither the time nor place, so Lucifer descended upon them swiftly and mercilessly.

  “Shut up!”

  Control re-established, Hanebury spoke his thoughts aloud.

  “So… this little bunch of bastards are a throwback… Nazis who’ll kill anyone, commies, or us, come what may.”

  In a moment of clarity, Hanebury saw everything.

  “Medical supplies… it’s all about medical supplies. They hit the ambulance for its supplies.”

  His mind focussed… the enemy group had probably moved north… north… Bräunisheim…

  “Shit, they’re after the hospital stores.”

  He beckoned Shufeldt forward with the HT set, dialling straight in to Stradley to issue a warning…

  …that was neither sent nor received.

  “Nothing… it’s not working.”

  Handing the useless set back to Shufeldt, Hanebury worked off a little frustration.

  “Work on it… get me contact with Pennsylvania-six-two pretty damn pronto.”

  Picking up his Thompson from where he had leant it, Hanebury pumped his fist and indicated the route of advance, sending the lead man out at increased pace, understanding that time was probably not his ally in the matter of the hospital and the SS unit.

  0720 hrs, Thursday, 13th June 1946, near Route 7312, half a kilometre southeast of Bräunisheim, Germany.

  The night had not been kind to the SS-Kommando, and Lenz was in a foul mood.

  Whilst on guard duty, one of his men had blundered into an animal hole, hidden by overgrowing greenery.

  His leg had slid into the hole and forward momentum did the rest.

  The snap of the soldier’s femur was like a gunshot, waking every man instantly.

  With iron will, SS-Sturmann Jensen had not made a sound above a low groan, despite the fact that the sharp bone protruded from the back of his thigh like the shaft of a spear.

  The injured man was made comfortable and the two Soviet officer prisoners set to his care.

  In his mind’s eye, Lenz imagined capturing a doctor, and having a proper medic to use the supplies he was intending to liberate.

  With Jensen out of the equation, Lenz now had twenty-one men with which to conduct his raid.

  According to his initial view of the medical encampment, twenty-one would be sufficient for a rapid surprise attack and withdrawal.

  He spent the morning formulating his plan and the afternoon instructing his troopers on how best to carry out the night assault.

  His planning was interrupted by a movement of vehicles, when four heavily armed Military Police vehicles swept into the camp.

  Three pairs of binoculars turned instantly, focussing on the swiftly moving vehicles.

  Their presence alarmed Lenz and his senior men, Emmering and Weiss, but the group soon sped off the way they had come and the medical facility returned to normal.

  Lenz finished off his briefing on a hand drawn map, occasionally pointing towards the hospital to emphasise a point, and he was satisfied that the senior men of the Kommando knew the plan inside out.

  The soldiers, dismissed to catch up on sleep, lay around in the undergrowth, as relaxed as only veterans can be.

  Lenz swept the battleground once more, his binoculars seeking anything that he had missed, and he was s
atisfied that the plan was all in order.

  Throughout the day, the occasional ambulance had arrived, deposited a desperate cargo, and left, all except the last one that had driven straight into the motor pool, where it was quickly abandoned by its driver.

  Lenz took the opportunity offered by the growing sunset, and made himself comfortable, dropping off to sleep in an instant, whilst others watched and waited.

  In Bräunisheim itself, the venerable rifle was once more on show, as its owner was called upon to describe deeds from another conflict, a time some thirty years beforehand.

  The old bar had been destroyed by a combination of blows from the three times the village had changed hands since early 1945. Its replacement had been established in an old barn, across the main road from the village, but close to the US Army facility. The villagers were nothing if not resourceful, as the excellent location attracted off-duty US personnel, both men and women, and meant that American dollars were spent on consuming large quantities of German lager, both by those who were officially stood down, and those who sneaked out of wards without permission.

  Holding centre stage amidst the music and laughter was a man in Imperial German Army uniform, one clearly well cared for and that still fitted him well.

  Using the Gewehr-98 he had carried throughout World War One, Heinrich Raubach demonstrated the savagery of Verdun and the bitterness of the Argonne, the Pour-le-Mérite jumping at his throat with every mock thrust.

  Three other WW1 veterans joined in, occasionally using the old rifle to illustrate their own suggestions on the finer points of bayonet and butt use.

  Some of the American soldiers were fascinated by the old men’s tales; others moved to enjoy peace and quiet away from such reminders of combat.

  Raubach had fought with the elite Herwarth von Bittenfeld Regiment, part of the 13th Division of the Imperial German Army.

  A man of great personal courage, he had been wounded on four separate occasions, and was one of only four men in 13th Division to hold the Blue Max.

  On the occasion he had earned the award, Raubach had been field promoted and was an acting Leutnant, commanding the remnants of a company in the HvB Regiment.

  Technically, as his substantive rank was Stabsfeldwebel and Spiess, he probably should not have received the prestigious medal, but it was 31st October 1918, and both the criteria and actualities of his award were lost in the German surrender.

  The citation was made out for Offizier-Stellvertreter Raubach, and so the Pour-le-Mérite was awarded and immediately ignored by a nation cowed and quick to turn away from its military heroes.

  Amongst his other qualities, Raubach was also a man with a keen eye and the ability to keep his mouth shut, and those qualities, married to his uncanny senses, had suggested that this night would be different to those that had gone before.

  The things he had seen in and out of the hospital late on that summer’s evening made him return to his house and pocket four strips of ammunition.

  If his senses were correct… well… he intended to be prepared.

  2320 hrs, Thursday, 13th June 1946, 74th Surgical Hospital, Bräunisheim, Germany.

  Using infrared binoculars, Stradley surveyed the ground between the woods and the hospital site.

  From within the complex, modestly illuminated, and busy with surgical shifts still working, other eyes, similarly equipped, were scanning the hills to the south, where smudges of heat had occasionally betrayed the presence of men.

  Hanebury, once out of the ambulance, had made himself known to the 74th’s commanding officer.

  After a short conference, Lieutenant Colonel Brinkley agreed to the MPs riding shotgun over his unit until reinforcements arrived, and assigned some of his men to create a number of rifle squads.

  Brinkley was very specific with his orders, forbidding any offensive action, and requiring Hanebury to act only in defence of the facility.

  The hospital head of dentistry, Major Lewis Imerman, was de facto in charge of the overall defensive force, but no one, most of all the Major himself, felt otherwise than that Lucifer held the reins.

  Hanebury’s hardest job was persuading some of his new troops to go about their daily business without a care in the world.

  He selected a large detail of men who knew their way around a Garand, and kept them close, sending the other ‘less reliable’ types to other parts of the perimeter.

  With the dozen men that had arrived secretly in the ambulance, plus the rifle unit of belligerent medics, Hanebury had thirty men spread along the southern edge of the camp, some hidden, some revealed but seemingly inattentive to military matters.

  He checked his watch as Shufeldt did the thirty-minute radio check with Pennsylvania-six-two, the faulty radio now working again.

  Stradley’s force was ready and raring to go.

  Hanebury had discussed the likely tactical options, and each had a single code word that, once sent, would bring the heavily armed vehicles down on whoever it was that was sat on the heights above 74th Surgical Hospital.

  2330 hrs, Thursday, 13th June 1946, near Route 7312, half a kilometre southeast of Bräunisheim, Germany.

  SS-Kommando Lenz had survived longer than any other Werewolf unit; indeed, it was the only remaining unit of its type, filled with Nazi fanatics, still intent on taking the fight to any and all enemies of the Reich.

  The Kommando had lost men along the way, and gained some too, but the unit was built around the granite core of its commander and two senior NCOs.

  The same three-man group surveyed the camp, relying on moonlight and its own modest illumination to check the last details.

  For all his professionalism and fanaticism, Lenz was a soldier first and foremost, and knew better than to ignore his gut instinct and the advice of senior men.

  “Go on, Oberscharfuhrer.”

  Emmering had voiced concerns, unsupported by fact, without substance, but none the less very real.

  “Can’t put my finger on it, Hauptsturmfuhrer… it looks right… simple operation… but something feels very wrong.”

  Lenz concentrated harder, seeking something through his lenses to either confirm or deny the feelings of his senior NCO.

  Feelings he shared.

  “Unterscharfuhrer?”

  Weiss was a man who had survived the worst the Soviet partisans could throw at him, and definitely a man to be listened to.

  “He’s right. Something doesn’t sit right, Hauptsturmfuhrer.”

  He dropped his binoculars and leaned in closer to his commander, Emmering mirroring his closeness on Lenz’s other side.

  “Everything seems normal, but there is a tension there. I can feel it.”

  Emmering nodded his agreement and added his supporting view.

  “It’s there, Hauptsturmfuhrer. It seems different to the last time we observed… there’s a tension there… something’s not right.”

  He lowered his voice even more.

  “They seem to be doing the same routines that we have seen… I even think there’s less people wandering around… village is quiet… the bar shut early… maybe that’s a sign, Hauptsturmfuhrer.”

  The sound of an engine drew the three of them back to their observations.

  An ambulance graunched its gears as it slowed to enter the north gate. The vehicle delivered its awful cargo and disappeared back off into the night.

  A light went off in Lenz’s brain.

  “The ambulance.”

  His NCOs waited for further explanation.

  “It’s that fucking ambulance. The one that just drove in… didn’t bring wounded… just parked up.”

  Emmering’s brain lit up in response.

  “And it came in from the south-east there… and…” his mind brought up something he had seen and not understood, “And the others… the ones that actually dropped off wounded, came in from the north-east and up the 7313… only the north-east and the 7313.”

  Weiss gave voice to his mind’s immediate sugges
tion.

  “The one we found?”

  Lenz nodded, although Weiss didn’t really see the acknowledgement of his question.

  “It’s a trap, has to be.”

  Both NCOs tensed ready for the inevitable string of orders.

  Lenz, his heart set on the supplies and the possibility of a medic, dwelt on the matter for a moment longer, until his head took over and imposed ordered thinking.

  ‘Too much of a risk. Verdamnt!’

  He scrambled backwards, followed by the two NCOs, halting well below the ridgeline.

  Dragging the zeltbahn over their heads, Lenz switched his torch on, applying a low light to the map he held.

  “Right. We move away, and quickly. Unterscharfuhrer, organise your group and take the lead. Head…,” he consulted the map and swiftly decided upon a destination, “South, staying within the woods. I want us to be here… between Holzkirch and Lonsee… before the sun comes up. Klar?”

  “Zu befehl, Hauptsturmfuhrer”

  “Go.”

  Weiss slipped out from under the zeltbahn and was already lost in the darkness before Emmering got his orders.

  “Rearguard… yourself and of your three men… the rest come with me… you relocate to here…observe the camp for an hour… then, or before, if you see movement… sit on this junction here,” he jabbed at the map, indicating a small crossroads in the woods.

  Emmering understood his task.

  “Wait one hour there and then follow up quickly.”

  Lenz stifled a yawn, one of nervousness, not lack of sleep.

  “We’ll meet here, overlooking this valley. If you’re being pursued, move through the valley… be noisy if you can… and we’ll spring something on your hounds. Klar?”

  “Alles klar, Hauptsturmfuhrer.”

  No further words were spoken, and SS-Kommando Lenz melted back into the dark forest.

  0007 hrs, Friday, 14th June 1946, 74th Surgical Hospital, Bräunisheim, Germany.

  “Anything at all, Pennsylvania-six, over.”

  Hanebury strained to hear the reply, as Stradley tried to keep his voice low on the radio.