Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6)

by Colin Gee

  Fighting in Barmbek, Eilbek, Uhlenhorst, and Hamm drained the fighting battalions, although they gave a good account of themselves.

  But it had been St Georg that had proved the costliest of all.

  The 1st Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry had been smashed in an unexpected combination of heavy defence and counter-attack, that left the battalion leaderless and below 40% effective strength.

  The absence of their commander, Lieutenant Colonel Henry Howard, was keenly felt, and Haugh spared a silent moment to wish the badly wounded man well.

  “Right, gentlemen. Thank you for coming. I know you and your men are tired, but we must press on, and Uncle Joe’s boys are equally at their wits end, and without supply and reinforcement.”

  He leant over the map, encouraging the ensemble into the same action.

  “The General wants us to have Altstadt under our control by the morning.”

  “Did he say which morning, Sir, only I have a request in for a spot of leave?”

  The tired laughter gave everyone a lift.

  Rory MacPherson was always a wag, but his humour had been slightly forced and deliberate on this occasion.

  The 1st Battalion, Highland Light Infantry, had taken their own fair share of punishment.

  His tam o’shanter was gone, replaced by a grubby bandage.

  The product of the head wound remained on his only battledress, the rest of his private belongings somewhere in the divisional train outside of the German city.

  His trews showed all the signs of having been trampled by rabid camels, but he was there and fighting fit, if not tired beyond words.

  “Thank you for that, Rory. Alas, I will not have time for leave requests before this show kicks off. Now…”

  Haugh drew a few lines on the map and added unit marks.

  “I’m deliberately not going to use the waterside on this one. You all know why.”

  The last time the brigade had bared a flank to open water, it had cost them dearly, so Haugh was not having any repeat.

  “Rory’s jocks will take and hold this area, but you will anchor yourself on the Zollkanal to the left, and you will take and hold the Grimm Bridge here. No moving over Fischmarkt without orders. That’s phase one. Phase two and you move up to here… and here. These bridges are long gone, but do watch out on the flanks in case. Cremon, up to Reimerstweite, that’s end of phase two. Phase three… well, we’ll call that as we see it, but I suspect that will be for another time. Clear, Rory?”

  MacPherson checked his recall and nodded.

  “Crystal, Sir.”

  “Your unit boundary will be Steinstrasse, and for phase two, Börsenbrucke, for which you also have responsibility.”

  “Terry, your special unit will take this line here, between Steinstrasse and Mönckebergstrasse. You have Mönckebergstrasse. No further forward than this park here for phase one, unless I order it. Phase two, liaise with the Royal Welch on your right, as they may need to manoeuvre, but I want your unit to hold the gap between the Jocks and the Welsh, no further forward than Johannistrasse. Understood?”

  Major Terry Farnsworth was in charge of an ad hoc unit, drawn from the support services of 71st Brigade, and bulked up with two platoons of Ox and Bucks.

  Haugh turned to the Welshman on his right.

  “And you, Tewdyr… you get the prize, the Rathaus… for obvious reasons.”

  He brought the young Colonel in closer.

  “See here. Do try and keep clear of Ballindamm, will you. As you move forward, the natural lie of the land concentrates you, giving you a frontage of less than a hundred and fifty yards when you attack the Rathaus itself… not that I need to tell you eh?”

  Lieutenant Colonel Tewdyr Hedd Llewellyn VC, OC 4th Royal Welch Fusiliers, understood only too well, and for the briefest of moments, his mind went back to August 1945, when the cobbles and rubble had run red with the blood of hundreds of soldiers; German, Scots, Welsh, and Russian.

  He shuddered involuntarily.

  His commanding officer understood and slapped him on the shoulder.

  “Perhaps lay a few ghosts eh, Tewdyr?”

  Llewellyn nodded his agreement, although he actually suspected that he would simply acquire a few more.

  1937 hrs, Monday 17th June 1946, CP, 4th Royal Welch Fusiliers, Hauptbahnhof Nord, Hamburg, Germany.

  “Beg your pardon, Sir, but who came up with this fucking nightmare?”

  Captain Gareth Anwill had also been present at the defence of the Rathaus all those months ago, and had a healthy respect for the area’s defensive qualities.

  “Well, Gareth, someone’s gotta do it, and if you can think of anyone better qualified, then I’m all ears, trust me.”

  He let the statement hang in a quiet broken only by the occasional mortar round being slung at the enemy defences.

  It had been sometime since the Red Army had replied, as their ammunition stocks were running low.

  “Is there some reason we can’t just sit them out, Sir?”

  The other officer who had seen action on those fateful days made a fair point.

  “Short answer is no. I put it to the Colonel myself, and got short shrift. We need this port up and running, and as quickly as possible. They might take weeks to jack it in, and the brass simply can’t wait. Sorry, Malcolm, good idea, but non-starter.”

  Captain Reece withdrew into his shell.

  Llewellyn detailed the general plan and then made his own mark on the orders, assigning routes, units, fire plans, support options, until everything that could be covered had been covered.

  “We go at 2300 hrs. Any questions?”

  Fig # 186 - Hamburg, Germany - unit dispositions.

  2007 hrs, Monday 17th June 1946, CP, Special Group Mogris, the Rathaus, Hamburg, Germany.

  In reality, the Red Army units opposing the 71st Brigade were a shadow of their former selves, undernourished, tired and low on everything, including hope; nowhere near as strong as Brigadier Haugh had been led to believe.

  The Soviet defenders were on their last legs, drinking dirty water from the canal system and finding food wherever nature provided it, although it had been a long time since any self-respecting seagull or rat had come within killing distance.

  In essence, they were dying, not as quickly as those who succumbed to artillery or bullets, but just as certainly.

  Anton Mogris, once of 31st Guards Rifle Division, the Major who gave his name to the desperate groups of soldiers assigned to resist in this section of the crumbling defences, was out on his feet.

  He washed himself in the seated position, his ragged uniform tunic set aside as he splashed water over his emaciated body, bones protruding and stretching white skin where any healthy man would have displayed pink flesh and nothing else.

  “Report.”

  The runner had waited dutifully whilst his commander wiped the rivulets from his torso.

  “Comrade Mayor, Comrade Kapitan Taraseva reports activity on her front. She suggests it’s preparations for an attack down Rosenstrasse. She has ordered her unit to readiness and…err…”

  “Spit it out, Comrade.”

  “Comrade Mayor, Comrade Kapitan Taraseva also asks if there is any ammunition or food available.”

  Even though the situation was dire, Mogris could not help but laugh aloud.

  “Unfortunately, there is no food available to send forward. However, good news, Comrade Runner…” and Mogris leant across to a crate, extracting some items.

  “I can give you these. Now, tell Comrade Taraseva that she is to hold her position at all costs, and send me word on any change. Is that clear, Comrade runner?”

  The two grenades and four clips of rifle ammunition changed hands, and the runner left.

  Mogris continued his ablutions calmly, understanding that his luck would run out today.

  Having first served in the siege of Leningrad, he had seen combat constantly since then to the German defeat, and once again when the whole affair start
ed over again.

  His body carried the scars of a dozen wounds.

  He dried himself fully and stood up, dressing in the tatty tunic jacket.

  Pulling it into place, he ran his eyes over the awards that covered his breast, marks of a grateful nation, each one reminding him of the sacrifice of a hundred souls for places few had ever heard of.

  ‘Enough.’

  He tested his resolve.

  “Enough!”

  His mind was set and he strode out of the rubble and into the evening light, heading for his old friend’s positions at St Jacobi’s Church, his two-man security section falling in behind him without a word.

  2100 hrs, Monday 17th June 1946, CP, 2nd Company, 79th Motorcycle Battalion, Special Group Mogris, St Jacobi, Hamburg, Germany.

  “No matter what, Roman.”

  “They’ll shoot you, Anton. You can’t do this.”

  “I can and I must. These boys have sacrificed enough. If we had the bullets, the food, if we had fucking anything except bricks… but we don’t.”

  He kicked out viciously at a brick that begged for his attention.

  “I gave Taraseva the last two grenades… the last two grenades… and twenty rounds of rifle ammunition, Roman. How can we fucking fight against the capitalists with two grenade and twenty fucking bullets, eh? They have everything they need… we have nothing but our hearts and love of the Rodina… and I’ll not see more boys sacrificed to this war… this… losing cause…”

  Roman Sostievev held out his hands to calm his friend, and at the same time looked around, fearing a rush of NKVD troops to arrest them both.

  “Don’t talk like that, Anton… you’ve never talked like that.”

  Mogris shook his head slowly.

  “That’s because we would always win. Now, we can only lose, Comrade. We’ve no chance… and you know it… the Polkovnik knows it… hell, even Comrade fucking Stalin knows it!”

  “You’re set on this path then?”

  “Yes, I must, Roman.”

  “What if I arrest you… here… right now?”

  Sostievev fumbled for his revolver and made a play of threatening his friend with it.

  “Then I’d resist arrest, Comrade Kapitan.”

  “Please, Anton, please. Do the memories of our comrades mean nothing to you?”

  Mogris whirled and grabbed his friend by the lapels.

  “They mean everything to me! Everything!”

  He dropped his hands and opened the palms in a gesture of apology.

  “Sorry old friend… yes, they mean everything to me… and I led them into battles when we had a chance to achieve… an opportunity for victory… and they followed me because they knew I loved them and would do all I could to keep them alive!”

  Picking up his battered old Mosin rifle, Mogris smiled at the comrade he had fought beside for so many years.

  “I’ll do what I can to keep them alive now.”

  Sostievev knew he could do no more.

  They embraced and kissed and, in silence, said goodbye.

  If Mogris was successful, then Sostievev would spread the word and ensure the defenders surrendered.

  2158 hrs, Monday 17th June 1946, frontline positions of 1st Battalion, Highland Light Infantry, Springelwiete, Hamburg, Germany.

  “I’m telling you, I heard summat.”

  The urgent whispered exchange stopped immediately, the sound of rubble shifting focussing the two men.

  A voice drifted to them, carrying words they didn’t understand.

  “Ne strelyat... ya podchinyayus'… ne strelyat'.”

  The white rag that came into view was more understandable, although neither of the Highland soldiers were relaxed as it grew a hand, then an arm, and developed into a Soviet soldier.

  “Don, get the corp up here, bleedin’ pronto.”

  Responding to the Londoner’s words, the other man slipped back to summon the corporal from his slumber.

  “Stop there, my old china, stop right there.”

  Mogris didn’t understand, so kept moving.

  Fusilier Kent increased the menace in his voice, and this time Mogris got the message.

  He remained still, holding the pillowcase aloft, until the Corporal arrived and took over.

  The Soviet officer was quickly reeled in and frisked, losing his watch in the process.

  2222 hrs, Monday 17th June 1946, CP, 1st Battalion, Highland Light Infantry, Steinstrasse, Hamburg, Germany.

  “Sir… yes, sorry, sir, but this is important. I have a Soviet officer here who’s surrendered to us of his own accord… I think he’s the commander of the units facing us and he wishes to surrender his command.”

  The reaction at the other end of the field telephone clearly perturbed MacPherson.

  “Yes, sir. He’s a Major… a Major…Mogreece… looks like a veteran officer… yes, sir…”

  In response to the question, the HLI commander reappraised the man stood opposite him.

  “He looks the part, sir. My smattering of Russian helped, of course. Personally, I think he’s genuine.”

  Rory MacPherson listened intently, continuing his examination of the prisoner, seeking some extra clue, some additional item that would decide his recommendation when the moment came.

  The moment came far too quickly.

  “In my view, he’s the real ticket, sir.”

  Based on MacPherson’s report, Haugh decided to risk accepting Mogris at face value.

  His orders were clear on the matter, and left Rory no room for manoeuvre.

  “Yes, sir, will do, sir. I will take a radio and report to you how it goes… immediately, sir… no time to lose, as you say. Goodbye, sir.”

  Within minutes of the receiver hitting the cradle, MacPherson and a handful of picked men were back at the frontline with a relieved Mogris in tow.

  2340 hrs, Monday 17th June 1946, frontline positions, 2nd Company, 79th MC Battalion, Special Group Mogris, Hamburg, Germany.

  “Let them approach… but be careful of tricks, Comrades!”

  The small group, led by a beaming Mogris, moved closer to the Soviet positions.

  Sostievev was ready to do his part, his fittest men ready to dispatch to all parts of the defence with orders to lay down their arms.

  He concentrated on his friend and commander, the smile of relief broadcasting his relief loud and clear.

  A wave of emotion washed over Sostievev, the feeling that they had done right by their men now stronger than the one that they were deserting their Motherland in her hour of need.

  He raised himself up, revealing his position, and causing the handful of British to grip their weapons more tightly.

  Mogris came to a halt and saluted his friend, who snapped to attention and returned the gesture.

  “Comrade Kapitan Sostievev, do you have your men ready to deliver the message?”

  “Yes, Comrade Mayor.”

  “Send them immediately. No firing, lay down your arms, accept the Allied soldiers will advance.”

  On cue, an HLI Sergeant ordered two privates forward with large sacks.

  The contents represented more food than Mogris’ unit had eaten in a week.

  Mogris accepted the sacks with a nod and held them out to the nearest Soviet soldiers.

  “Here, comrades, food. We will have food, and we will live to see the Rodina again!”

  The cheer was strangled in the rush for the sacks, and the coherent frontline position disappeared into a feeding frenzy.

  “Have your men spread the word, Comrade Kapitan.”

  The two formally saluted and Sostievev dispatched his runners.

  MacPherson spoke into the radio.

  “Yarrow-six, Yarrow-six, Wellington-six, over.”

  “Wellington-six, Yarrow-six, go ahead, over.”

  “Yarrow-six, Wellington-six, Singapore…say again… Singapore, over.”

  With that message, MacPherson set in motion a different sort of advance to the one that had been planned, one
that would save lives, rather than take them.

  2351 hrs, Monday 17th June 1946, frontline positions, 1st Company, Special Group Mogris, Hamburg, Germany.

  Captain Malvina Ivana Taraseva listened impassively to the report of the exhausted man.

  His heavy breathing replaced the sound of his words, but still Taraseva did not respond.

  Her mind processed the information and elected to respond by way of action.

  The knife was out and slid into the man’s chest before he could offer a protest.

  “You traitorous dog! All of you, traitorous dogs who deserve death!”

  The runner was long past hearing, his eyes glassy, and his ears unreceptive to Taraseva’s rage.

  She yanked the blade free, permitting the dead man to fall.

  “Comrade Starshina, get them ready. The Allies are coming!”

  2352 hrs, Monday 17th June 1946, frontline positions, 4th Royal Welch Fusiliers, Brandsende, Hamburg, Germany.

  “Listen you fucking monkeys… and listen good. If I ever… ever… find out who took a dump in my rucksack, I’ll have his bollocks off in a jiffy.”

  The sniggering left Corporal Keith May in no doubt that the perpetrator was present.

  A spent force, his bullying ways no good in present company, he tried to ponce a fag from the nearest smoker.

  “Here, six-six, give us a fag will yer?”

  It was a Welsh regiment, and there were so many Jones’, Davies’, and Jenkins’ that each man had a number, which rapidly became his standard name.

  Lance-Corporal Ian Jones, the six-six in question, shrugged his shoulders.

  “I’m out, Corp.”

  It was a lie, but he didn’t care.

  “Simmo, cough one up now, there’s a mate.”

  “This is me last one, Corp.”

  “Fucking hell, will someone one spring me a smoke… please?”