Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6)

by Colin Gee

  The Soviet attack presented a huge opportunity to break the stalemate in front of Bradley’s Twelfth Army Group, and to do so with limited loss of American lives.

  By sixteen hundred hours, a huge portion of the French First Army was on the move or about to move. The reconnaissance photos and reports supported the notion that Kassel was the hinge, and that crossing the Fulda to the east would bring unprecedented dividends.

  Fig # 189 – Organisation of the Legion Corps D’Assaut, June 1946.

  1209 hrs, Monday, 24th June 1946, Holzhausen, Germany.

  The shell that had chopped Lavalle down had also reaped a full harvest amongst the Normandie officers and headquarters staff that had accompanied him.

  Bittrich, returned to something approaching rude health, had been spared, but every other man from the score or so members of Group Normandie’s headquarters were either dead or wounded.

  Lavalle was not badly hurt, but the blood loss from numerous minor shrapnel wounds was a problem that required attention, so he was loaded on to an ambulance, together with five other casualties, one of whom expired as his litter was slid into place.

  Fig # 190 – The Fulda, Germany.

  The French officer had come to visit the headquarters of Camerone, in order to assess for himself the disaster that had befallen the best unit in his command.

  As the ambulance sped away, the phone rang shrilly.

  The duty officer answered and recoiled at the harsh voice that assaulted his ears.

  “Mon Général… Général Molyneux for Général Lavalle.”

  The telephone changed hands and Knocke spoke calmly and clearly.

  “General Molyneux. Knocke here. I’m afraid that General Lavalle has been wounded and is on his way to hospital.”

  ‘Which makes you in command, or is it that idiot Bittrich. I will send a decent replacement officer as soon as possible. Meanwhile, you will renew the attack at once. Follow the plan and attack again. I want Normandie over the Fulda and defending the crossing point at Hann Münden immediately. You’re already behind schedule!’

  “I regret that’s not possible, General Molyneux. It will take some time to get Alma online, and Camerone has just taken a bad beating because of those damn mortars and anti-tank guns.”

  ‘You have mortars! You have guns! Use them, Général Knocke, or I’ll find someone who will. Now, get your troops moving and get me my bridgehead. The eyes of the world are upon us, man!’

  Knocke surveyed the men around him, who had heard the ranting voice on the phone, and who all listened in disbelief.

  “Herr General, Camerone has just taking a beating. The division’s lead elements sustained over thirty percent casualties in less time than we’ve been on the telephone. We walked into intense minefields we didn’t know about, were shot at by anti-tank guns that apparently don’t exist, and were cut down by shells from mortars the enemy supposedly don’t have any ammunition for.”

  ‘So, a handful of casualties turns you into a frightened sheep. Develop a fucking spine, man! Whoever gave you a French uniform needs their fucking head examined!’

  “I think you need to calm yourself, General. There’s no need to panic. We will cross the Fulda, but it will require more planning and more time.”

  ‘Shut your mouth, Knocke… just shut your useless German mouth and listen to me.’

  The officers of Normandie saw a change in the facial expression of their most illustrious officer, one that they had never seen before, and one that made them see Knocke in a new light.

  “I… am… listening… Herr… General.”

  The controlled fury did not transfer itself into the ears of the Frenchman so intent on carving his own mark on the proceedings.

  ‘I am ordering Group Normandie to renew the attack immediately. Brush aside this resistance and take the river bridge at Wilhelmshausen. Discharge these orders or face courts-martial, Général.’

  The silence seemed to last for a thousand years.

  “No.”

  ‘Repeat that?’

  “I said no.”

  The silence was marked by a buzzing in the Legion officer’s ear.

  ‘Say that again and I’ll have you arrested and shot. Now, repeat your orders immediately.’

  “General Molyneux… I refuse your idiotic order. I will not attack again. It’s suicidal and the order of a man out of touch with the realities of the moment. We’re neither prepared nor organised for such an attack. Come here yourself, if you wish… but I’ll not lose another man to your madness.”

  Molyneux turned white with fury, his knuckles white as he gripped the receiver tight.

  He shouted so loud that every man in the tent could hear his vitriolic outburst quite clearly.

  ‘Merde! Who else is there to receive my orders? Who is there that can fucking soldier and act like an officer in the French Army! Lavalle, give me Lavalle! Give me a French officer immediately!’

  The phone in the Legion headquarters changed hands, Molyneux’s voice carrying loud and clear to the handful of men assembled in the command centre.

  “Mon Général, St. Clair here. Général Lavalle has been wounded and is not on the field. Général Bittri…”

  ‘I don’t want that useless German bastard either. Who is the highest ranking French officer there… right now?’

  He had been going to say that Bittrich had disappeared and could not be located,

  St. Clair looked around him and found he didn’t like the situation he found himself in.

  “I am, mon Général.”

  ‘Right, St. Clair. You will take immediate control of Normandie, and have that SS imbecile Knocke arrested. I want the attack renewed immediately. The plan is sound… follow it to the letter! You will take and you will hold the bridge at Hann Münden, so that the rest of the Corps can move forward. Do you understand your orders, St. Clair?’

  “I understand your orders, mon Général. I regret, but I’m unable to carry them out.”

  Molyneux nearly passed out with rage, his brain so assailed with the thoughts of such incompetence and clear mutiny on the part of his officers that his reason, what little of it he had been able to call on, left completely.

  ‘Cochon putain! Arrest yourself! Arrest everyone! I’m coming immediately! I’ll have you all shot! Merde! Shot I say!’

  The phone went dead.

  At Corps headquarters, Molyneux raged at anyone and everyone, all efforts to calm him down failing badly.

  Assembling a platoon of military policemen, Molyneux delivered a pep talk, emphasising the treachery of the ex-SS officers who they were about to arrest and shoot.

  He climbed aboard his vehicle and the entourage swept out of the Legion Corps headquarters in the cloister of St-Maria-Himmelfahrt, Warburg, speeding up rapidly, intent on consuming the twenty-five kilometres to the frontline as quickly as possible.

  In the Citroen staff car, Molyneux continued to work himself into a frenzy.

  St. Clair handed the receiver back to the duty officer.

  In a tent full of silent and incredulous men, there was a feeling of total shock… almost despair.

  “We are to arrest ourselves. He’s coming forward to take personal command. He’s gone fucking crazy!”

  No one who had heard anything of the heated exchange could argue against St. Clair’s view.

  Knocke, with a face like thunder, moaned as the medical orderly continued to tease at the piece of shrapnel in his forearm.

  “Then we must act immediately.”

  He held out his hand imperiously for the telephone handset.

  “Get me General De Lattre immediately.”

  As Knocke waited for the call to be put through, a damaged Aardvark was towed past the tent, its mesh screening mangled and blackened.

  Knocke doubted that the crew had come away unscathed.

  Close behind the towing vehicle came a battered Wolf, which slithered to a halt and permitted a smoke-blackened figure to dismount.

  Th
e new arrival threw up a casual salute to his commander and made his report.

  “Brigadefuhrer,” Uhlmann had not yet bothered to master the French ranks, “I’ll need two hours to sort my regiment out… ammunition and fuel… spare crews… we took a heavy hit. Here’s my initial report.”

  Uhlmann handed over the hastily prepared document, and then proceeded to recite the basics from memory.

  “I have thirty-six dead, one hundred wounded. That Aardvark,” he pointed at the disappearing trailer, “Is probably the only thing we’ll salvage off the battlefield at the moment. I’ve lost two of the Panthers for now, although mine only lost a track, which is why I borrowed this little beast.”

  The Wolf showed the signs of heavy action, clear silver scrapes where machine gun bullets had pecked away at the armour, and two larger scars where something bigger had come close to ending its life.

  “All four of the aüfklarer Antilopes are gone. Heavy losses amongst the crews.”

  He gratefully accepted a mug of coffee and a cigarette.

  “Three Hyenas are gone, plus my support infantry took a hammering.”

  He remembered something he should have said earlier.

  “Krause is dead. His Felix took two solid hits… burned out.”

  Another old campaigner was gone.

  Uhlmann paused whilst Knocke shook his head and grasped his Panzer commander’s shoulder.

  “Anyway, it’s all in the report. We walked into a fucking firestorm, Brigadefuhrer. What went wrong? Why didn’t we know about what we were facing?”

  Knocke gave a shrug, the telephone still pressed to his ear.

  He covered it with his hand and spoke softly.

  “An intelligence failure,… a reconnaissance failure, Rolf. Someone simply didn’t do their job. We will find out… yes… yes, I want to speak directly to General De Lattre… no… you will get him on this line immediately… that is an order… now!”

  Knocke turned his conversation back to Uhlmann.

  “We will find out in time, but for now, we need to find a weak spot and plan for another attempt. Our beloved Molyneux is on his way up here to lead us to victory, although we’re all under arrest for disobedience of his orders.”

  Rolf choked on his cigarette.

  “What?”

  “He wanted us to attack again… same plan… no reorganisation, just attack again.”

  Uhlmann exchanged looks with St. Clair and the rest of the officers present.

  He opened his mouth to speak but Knocke cut him short.

  “General de Lattre? General Knocke here…. no… I’m afraid not, Herr General. I’m reporting a defeat… we were stopped dead by a large enemy force that we didn’t know about… no… no, not there. No… we didn’t get that far, Sir… Route 3323, one kilometre west of Wilhelmshausen… heavy… roughly forty percent of my lead units and,” Knocke looked at Uhlmann as he examined the report, taking Uhlmann’s shrug as confirmation, “And unusually high casualties amongst the unit commanders. It’ll take some time to get my men back on line for another attack, and we’ll need to revise the plan. Also, General Molyneux has ordered our immediate arrests and is on his way here to ensure matters are carried out to his satisfaction.”

  Knocke listened intently, nodding to a man many kilometres away, occasionally humming a positive response.

  “Yes, Herr General. General Bittrich is out of contact at the moment, but I’ll confirm his temporary position as soon as I contact him. My commanders think it’ll be two hours before we can get back into the fight. We will have a plan by then. You’ll have your bridgehead, General de Lattre… but… th…”

  De Lattre butted into the conversation, understanding the issue that needed to be addressed.

  “Yes, I understand that order, General.”

  Those watching saw a smile declare itself.

  “No, I do not need you to repeat that order, Sir.”

  The smile broadened further.

  “Yes, Herr General. Thank you and goodbye.”

  He handed the telephone back and slapped Rolf on the shoulder.

  “Get your men ready to renew the attack, Rolf. I will get you some decent information, so we know what we are up against here. Now go.”

  Opening his words to the whole group, Knocke continued.

  “We will make our own plans. We’ll commence at 1500, so officers group here at 1400. Find General Bittrich immediately; let him know he has command of Normandie until Lavalle is back in action.”

  He clapped his hands, chivvying his staff along.

  “Now, we must move quickly. I want the latest reconnaissance photos, reports from the last action, everything here, on my desk, before I finish this coffee, kameraden.”

  The officers and men moved in all direction like a bursting star.

  Camerone, wounded and stung, would return to the field.

  1313 hrs, Monday, 24th June 1946, Holzhausen, Germany.

  Bittrich had been found and was in control of Group Normandie, his absence caused by nothing more sinister than a vehicle breakdown that kept him out of the loop during the vital time.

  Hitching a ride on a passing supply truck, Général de Brigade Willi Bittrich, or as he was now, by De Lattre’s recent order, temporary Général de Division arrived ready to apologise for his lateness.

  The loss of Lavalle, albeit temporary, was not something he had anticipated, but the ex-SS officer was up to the task and took up the reins immediately.

  He, Knocke, and senior staff officers were poring over the map and latest reports when Molyneux’s entourage swept into the site, changing the atmosphere from one of confident preparation to that of suspicion and threat.

  The Frenchman strode into the command tent and stopped at the table, his face dark and malevolent, silently waiting for some recognition of his status and presence.

  Bittrich obliged by calling the assembly to attention, throwing up a salute, and starting into a formal report, one that was cut short with malice.

  “Herr General Molyneux, I have taken command of Normandie and…”

  “Shut your mouth! Just shut your mouth right now! I’ll deal with you later!”

  Molyneux slammed his hand on the table, sending pens and documents into the air.

  His hand shot out, a single gloved finger holding a magnificent polished ebony cane, trimmed with elegant silver settings, pointing out the two main targets for his malice.

  “You, you… you… fucking useless German bastard!”

  Knocke stood silently and expressionless.

  “And you, you traitorous pig!”

  St. Clair blanched and his face showed his anger and contempt.

  “Why are you still here? I ordered your arrest! Capitaine!”

  The officer commanding Molyneux’s troops stepped forward, ready to do his General’s bidding.

  “Capitaine, detain that… and that,” he pointed at the two Legion officers with all the contempt he could muster, “And if they resist, you may shoot them out of hand.”

  Captain Maillard relished his instructions more than anyone realised, except Molyneux, who had selected him purposefully and, perhaps, Plummer, who knew everything there was to know about anyone in the Corps headquarters.

  Maillard’s extended family had suffered huge loss at the hands of the Waffen-SS in the atrocity at Oradour-sur-Glane in 1944.

  That no one present had been anywhere near the massacre was of no consequence.

  To him, all SS were to be hated and exterminated.

  Plummer was not present to enact De Lattre’s long-standing instructions, having already absented himself due to the death of a family member.

  Had he been there, what came to pass might never have occurred.

  The atmosphere in the command post went from suspicion and threat to one of extreme danger for all concerned.

  The four men positioned behind Maillard tightened their grips on their Mulhouse manufactured ST-45s*.

  It said a lot about Molyneux that he ha
d allocated the modest supply of the excellent new assault rifles to his rear headquarters before sending any to the front.

  The muzzles of the ST-45s present in the tent moved from side to side, menacing the assembled legion officers.

  Three people entered the command post, aware that something of importance was happening.

  The leading officer, De Walle, quickly assessed what was happening and moved to interject, but a head gesture from Molyneux ensured that one of the ST-45s was focused purely on the ‘Deux’ General.

  “Keep very quiet, Général de Walle, and you may well come out of this with your rank intact.”

  Molyneux returned his attention to those around the table.

  St. Clair was extremely agitated, and the sadistic Frenchman derived great satisfaction from the sight of the decorated officer, albeit clearly a coward and traitor and not worthy of his awards, visibly cowed by his presence and under his thumb.

  He derived much less pleasure from the sight of Knocke.

  Stood erect at parade ease, face set in a passionless mask, the useless German bastard had not moved a muscle.

  “Capitaine, I believe that one needs some encouragement.”

  Maillard stepped forward and, in one easy movement, slammed the butt of his assault rifle into Knocke’s midriff.

  Hard.

  The veteran soldier folded instantly, firing liquid from his mouth as his stomach rebelled at the treatment.

  Bittrich protested, his shouts stopping any further harm to the gasping Knocke.

  “Molyneux! What the hell do you think you’re doing, man?”

  Molyneux’s face betrayed his total pleasure at the circumstances he presently found himself in.

  “Clearing out this nest of vermin… cleansing this formation so that it consists solely of those who will fight for France… removing traitors…”

  He walked slowly round the table until he was next to the collapsed Camerone commander.

  “This piece of shit disobeyed my direct orders, and he should think himself lucky that I don’t have him shot right here… right now!”

  He released the stick from under his arm and slid the black ebony shaft under Knocke’s chin, pulling the distressed man upright.