Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6)

by Colin Gee

  Lewis Collier lost control of the command jeep as a .30cal and an SVT40 bullet struck simultaneously, one in each shoulder.

  The jeep turned lazily and the front offside wheel stuck in a rut, rolling the vehicle and throwing the five occupants in all directions.

  Collier’s left leg was snapped as the jeep’s windshield rolled across it, before the vehicle messily came to rest on top of one of the SS Kommandos’ bodies.

  Hanebury, weaponless and in pain, the bones of his considerably shortened left arm protruding through a shattered wrist, rolled for cover as best he could, as Schipper and Zimmerman tried to finish the job the crash had started.

  Raubach, still in possession of his rifle, took a steady aim and put a round into Zimmerman’s chest.

  With a disbelieving look, he dropped to his knees, his chest welling with the vital fluids of life.

  Unable to speak, he lost consciousness and dropped forward onto his face, almost like a man of faith at prayer.

  He was dead before Raubach’s second round threw him to one side.

  Hanebury dragged himself in beside the old German, his face grimacing with pain.

  Acknowledging his presence with a nod, Lucifer sought and found the radio, and quickly determined that it was of no use, its damage clear and very terminal.

  He risked a look at the firefight and grunted with satisfaction as his remaining vehicles took the fight to the enemy.

  A German dragging a makeshift stretcher was hacked down, falling backwards onto the man he was trying to rescue.

  The casualty, undoubtedly the man who needed the medicines Hanebury concluded, tried to drag himself off the litter into cover.

  The halftrack swept through the SS position.

  Hanebury winced as first the heavy wheels and then the tracks flattened the wounded man.

  Jensen did not die.

  But he did scream… and scream… his abdomen and pelvis smashed and crushed by the halftrack’s passing.

  The Horch 1A had dropped off to one side, and its MG42, sounding like the proverbial ripping of cloth, ripped through three men in the tree line, killing each man with a minimum of four bullet hits.

  Jensen’s screams were still the loudest thing on the battlefield and, if anything, grew louder as more feeling returned to his shattered body.

  Hanebury scrabbled around for a weapon he could use with one good hand. He found his Thompson, bent almost at right angles at the magazine port, its wooden stock split, making it unusable.

  A Garand lay invitingly close, but was irretrievable, the weight of the jeep holding it in position.

  One of the Winchester 12 gauge shotguns stuck in the earth like a marker, and Hanebury shuffled across to grab it, clearing the impacted earth from its muzzle to make it fit for purpose.

  As he and Raubach were distracted, the Horch took some heavy hits, killing two of Hanebury’s men, and causing lazy flames to work their way through the engine compartment.

  Lenz moved as quickly as he could, dropping behind a piece of cover here or a corpse there, trying to get close to Jensen, who’s tortured wails were increasing.

  The halftrack’s ma-deuce churned up the ground around his feet, ripping off a boot heel and taking a chunk out of his right calf.

  The Kommando leader fell into an inviting hollow and, head in the earth, examined his options… option… to fight… surrender was not an option.

  Half his men were down, if not more, but the enemy had suffered too.

  The screaming from the destroyed Jensen grew deafening, and Lenz determined to end the soldier’s suffering.

  Sliding up to the edge of the hollow, he gripped his PPSh, steadier on the earth, and fired a short burst, shattering the wounded man’s skull and neck.

  Jensen died instantly.

  Incensed, and close to losing control, Lenz rose up and yelled at his men.

  Almost instantly, the SS soldiers got lucky.

  Art Nave, driving the M3, took a bullet in the head. The ricochet hit the side of the vision slit and ploughed into his right temple. Nave went out like a light and the half-track drove into a tree, sending the occupants flying.

  A Soviet grenade fell into the rear compartment, killing one MP and a German helper, and putting the rest out of the fight.

  Lenz sensed victory, and urged his men forward.

  Weiss, leading the surge, dropped to the ground, his ruined neck spurting blood with every weakening beat of his heart.

  Trying to sit up, Weiss tried to shout at the men moving towards him, the very effort of turning his head causing his damaged jugular to give way, causing catastrophic blood loss.

  His eyes glazed over and he died, his face still displaying a snarl as it thumped into the ground.

  By the jeep, Raubach had missed the SS man he had selected as a target, and worked the bolt on his weapon, seeking to make sure of his kill with the next shot.

  He ignored the stings as a bullet struck a wooden box from the jeep’s load, sending splinters into his face, neck, and ears.

  He breathed out and made sure the sight was on, and pulled the trigger with the calmness of a man who has seen all that war has to offer.

  Oberscharfuhrer Emmering had just set himself up behind the .30cal as Raubach’s bullet took him in the chest, robbing the SS NCO of his strength in an instant.

  Julius Emmering fell back onto the body of the man he had recently slaughtered and, alone and scared, started the inevitable journey to darkness and the nothingness of what was to come.

  Lenz saw his main man go down, hard on the heels of Weiss’ death, and screamed in anger, putting a burst into the old German soldier, and sending Raubach flying with the heavy impacts.

  Having killed Weiss and two others, Corporal Rickard turned his attentions to the lunatic enemy officer who seemed to be firing at the destroyed jeep.

  The Springfield sniper rifle barked, and Lenz flew backwards with the impact.

  Rickard sought other targets.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the shape and rolled instinctively.

  The vengeful SS soldier responded with equal quickness, and grabbed Rickard’s arm, slashing at the extended flesh with a cruelly sharp knife.

  Rickard screamed as the blade bit and opened his arm almost to the bone.

  The SS soldier rolled to slice at the American’s exposed neck, his head coming to rest against the barrel of Rickard’s Colt, which immediately discharged a single round that sent the German’s grey matter over the earth behind him.

  The dead weight of the body held Rickard in place, and he struggled hard to get back into the action.

  Meanwhile, Lenz had reloaded, the empty magazine tossed carelessly to one side, the new 71 round container in place.

  The six remaining SS Kommando soldiers, moved towards the Horch and halftrack, intent on carrying out Lenz’s orders, namely to kill survivors and quickly grab anything of use.

  Lenz himself went for Hanebury’s command vehicle, the PPSh held one-handed, ready for any threat.

  As Lenz moved behind the jeep, a new force entered the arena, one that swung the balance of firepower in favour of the MP platoon, and one that sealed the SS Kommando’s fate.

  The M8 Greyhound crashed through some modest hedgerow and started firing at the enemy to its front.

  A halftrack quickly followed it, but moved out to the left flank, bringing its own .50cal into use.

  A jeep and another half-track followed, completing the group commanded by Stradley, and effecting the reunion of Lucifer’s platoon.

  Schipper was first to go down, as heavy bullets hammered into his torso, flinging him aside like a rag doll.

  The others quickly followed, with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, they chose death, and death obliged them all.

  Lenz watched as the remainder of his command was destroyed before his eyes, and his anger overcame him.

  The PPSh lashed out at the halftracks, the jeep, and the armoured car.

  Not without success
.

  Stradley took two rounds in the upper back, both of which punched out just below his collarbones. He dropped noiselessly onto the seat of the halftrack as it turned away.

  Three others were hit by bullets from the vengeful Lenz.

  The SS officer ducked behind the overturned jeep, stepping on the wounded Raubach.

  Lenz straight-armed the sub-machine gun’s butt into Raubach’s face, smashing bone and teeth with real savagery.

  Hanebury pulled the trigger, the muzzle of his pump action shotgun no more than eight feet from his target… and missed completely.

  Holding the heavy weapon in one hand was tricky, and the motion of pulling the trigger, along with his fatigue, had been enough.

  Lucifer prepared himself.

  He had seen Stradley go down, and could only imagine how many of his boys had been lost to the piece of shit that now turned on him.

  This was the man that had killed the medics…

  Killed the Russians…

  Set fire to the church…

  Killed the old woodsman…

  Killed how many countless others…

  Lenz screamed at the American sergeant lying by the jeep and brought the PPSh up, aiming it in one simple manoeuvre.

  He pulled the trigger.

  A single bullet only, which took Hanebury in the midriff, causing him to moan with pain.

  When Lenz had hammered the gun into Raubach’s face, he had displaced the magazine enough to jam the feed of the next round, thus saving Hanebury’s life.

  Two bullets hit Lenz in the back, and he was thrown at Hanebury, ending up on his face right beside the wounded NCO.

  Raubach had been responsible for the one that had entered Lenz’s anus and burst out through his genitalia, ruining the SS officer for the rest of his tenure on life.

  At the same moment, Rickard had put his own bullet through Lenz’s back, destroying the right lung on its way through to the open air on the other side.

  Hanebury moved himself up onto his elbows, and prodded the babbling German onto his side.

  Lucifer looked at the man, the eyes still glowing with fanaticism and hate, even though death was rapidly approaching.

  Shouts indicated more US troops arriving, as medics and other MPs from the hospital gained the field and started to tend to the wounded and dying.

  A young medic stopped by Hanebury, who shrugged off the ministrations, intimidating the green soldier as much with his injuries as his scowl.

  “Fuck you, Amerikan… fuck…,” Lenz descended into a coughing fit, bringing fresh crimson blood to his lips.

  Bringing his breathing under control, Lenz pushed himself upright, or as best he could, and spat bloody phlegm at Hanebury.

  “Ich schwöre dir, Adolf Hitler, als Führer und Kanzler des Deutschen Reiches…”

  Hanebury looked around, taking in the terrible scenes… of the medics tending to his wounded men… or covering those beyond help…

  “Treue und tapferkeit. Wir geloben dir…”

  Raubach fell back into unconsciousness, his face a bloody mess of flesh, bone and teeth…

  “Und den von dir bestimmten vorgesetzten gehorsam bis in den tod…”

  Lucifer’s face went blank as his decision was made. His hand released its hold on the shotgun, and the Winchester dropped down through his fingers, his hand suddenly shifted from trigger to charger.

  Not taking his eyes off Lenz, Hanebury made a sharp motion with his good hand, chambering a shell.

  The charging of a pump-action shotgun has a very particular sound, one that carries no good news for anyone at the business end of the weapon.

  None the less, there was no fear in Lenz’s voice, or in his eyes… just hate… and malice… and fanaticism.

  “So wahr mir Gott helfe! Seig heil!...”

  Hanebury held the weapon steady as a rock, his hand back on the trigger, the muzzle placed nicely, balanced on the German’s bottom lip and tongue.

  It didn’t make for clear speech, but Lenz still tried.

  “Seeg Heeeiill…”

  “Fuck you!”

  The single report drew many eyes, and the young medic turned, took one look, and violently deposited the contents of his stomach over both the wrecked jeep and the unconscious Collier.

  The muzzle of the Winchester stayed in place, supported by the lower jaw of what had once been a head.

  Hanebury nodded, the gun slipping from his grasp as his strength suddenly sapped and he became light-headed.

  “You’ll kill no more of my fucking boys now, you bastard.”

  He dropped gently to the ground and passed into unconsciousness, his mouth trying to master more words for the destroyed corpse of SS Hauptsturmfuhrer Artur Lenz.

  “Handy hock, you fucking Krauts”

  The medical infantryman practised his recently acquired German.

  The two men in brown looked at him with great concern as they slowly raised their hands.

  “C’mon, you kraut fucks, handy hock!”

  “It’s Hände hoch, you idiot.”

  He looked at the MP Corporal and spat derisorily.

  “Yeah well, what-fucking-ever, corp’ral…handy hock, you sons of bitches.”

  He looked back at the MP to see if his bravado was having an effect, but saw something else written large upon the man’s face.

  “Cover them… don’t shoot them… ok?”

  Not waiting for a reply, the MP was off at the run, returning quickly with a Sergeant from his unit.

  “Reckon you’re right at that, Smitty.”

  The senior NCO strode forward, addressing the taller of the two men.

  “And who the fuck are you then, pal?”

  His question was greeted with a blank expression, as Nikki could speak no English.

  The sergeant turned his attention on the other man, conscious of something about the ragged uniforms that he couldn’t quite work out.

  “What’s your name then, eh?”

  Mikki, slowly dropped his hands, watched every millimetre of the way by a growing number of American onlookers.

  “I are Mayor General Mikhail Gordeevich Sakhno.”

  He nodded towards Nikki.

  “You am Polkovnik Nikanor Klimentovich Davydov.”

  Lenz had kept the two Soviet officers alive since the ambush in Ainau Woods, all those months previously, although they had expected death every single day.

  The two were swept up in the move back to the hospital, where the wounded received the best of care, and the two former senior commanders of the 10th Tank Corps ate their first decent meal since August the previous year.

  Army intelligence personnel arrived, and the two Soviet officers were quickly whisked away to another place, where impatient men waited with important questions.

  [Author’s note - The exploits of SS Kommando Lenz exceeded the efforts of any other Werewolf unit, or, as is often suggested, all other Werewolf units put together.

  Without a doubt, the feat of keeping the unit active and fighting-fit was unique in Werewolf history, and SS Kommando Lenz proved a major thorn in the side of the Soviet forces in occupation.

  However, true to his oath and mission, Lenz opposed all foreigners on his soil and, unlike a number of other clandestine units, waged war on Allied and Soviet soldiers equally.

  Their war ended on 15th June 1946.

  Only Emmering and Schipper survived the battle, although Emmering did not survive the night, dying of his wounds on the stroke of midnight, despite the best efforts of the hospital surgery team.

  Schipper regained sufficient health to be tried for his membership of the SS Kommando. He was hanged as a war criminal on 24th December 1947 for his part in the murder of Bruno Weber, as witnessed by the man’s son and heir, and for his collective responsibility for the slaying of ambulance personnel on the road to Bräunisheim.

  Lenz and the rest of his men lie somewhere in the valley to the southwest of Bräunisheim, buried in an unmarked communal grave on t
he final day of their resistance.

  The debate on honouring him and his troopers has now faded away, bringing no positive result for the family and friends of the fallen members of SS Kommando Lenz. A temporary effort, built near Ainau, was heavily vandalised within a week of its erection.

  In the end, it would appear that their countrymen would prefer to forget the efforts of Lenz and his men.

  The 2nd Special Platoon, 16th Armored Military Police Battalion, 16th US Armored Division was not reconstituted, and the surviving personnel found themselves distributed between the remaining units in the 16th Division.

  Hanebury, Collier, Shufeldt, and Nave were all evacuated stateside, and none would ever actively soldier again, although Nave remained in service until the war’s end, and Hanebury went on to a career in US law enforcement, achieving the position of Chief of Police before retiring.

  In 2016, the surviving members of the unit will gather in the village of Bräunisheim for what will probably be their last reunion.

  Corporal Arthur Nave [93], First Sergeant Richard Shufeldt [96], and Captain Rodger Stradley [96] are the last survivors of Lucifer’s platoon.

  Hateful to me as are the gates of hell, is he who, hiding one thing in his heart, utters another.

  Homer

  Chapter 157 – THE MASKIROVKA

  1212 hrs, Monday 17th June 1946, the Black Sea, between Novorossiysk and Divnomorskoye, USSR.

  The engineer looked smug and questioned the naval officer once more.

  “Satisfied now, Comrade Kapitan?”

  Captain Second Rank Mikhail Stepanovich Kalinin was partially satisfied that the site was clearly fit for purpose, and partially annoyed that he had not been able to wipe the constant smug look off the abominable civilian’s face by finding it.

  “It’s well hidden, I’ll give you that, comrade.”

  The obnoxious man chuckled and gave the order to put in to shore.

  “We shall impress you even more when we get inside, Comrade Kapitan.”

  The launch moved close into the land, but Kalinin maintained his close watch, occasionally raising his binoculars to examine a straight line, or a curved one, anything that could give the base some form to prying eyes.