Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6)

by Colin Gee

  Nothing.

  “Ready?”

  “When you are.”

  “Three… two… one… mark.”

  The engine note changed and Meier put the tank into hard left reverse.

  Köster watched as the displaced plate desperately tried to hang on to the Tiger’s glacis, but the extra angle of the left turn meant that it failed.

  The plate slid free and the ZSU came away, dragging some of the protective mesh with it.

  “We’re free… steady back and let the bastard slide off us.”

  Klaus Meier controlled the ZSU wreck nicely, reversing slowly, and the Russian’s tracks gently came to rest on the ground.

  “Free.”

  “Right. That makes me the loader, but first, I’ll help Hans on the engine deck.”

  “Quick check of the tank, Klaus. I’ll keep an eye open. Once you’re happy, see what you can do for Dolf.””

  Every now and again, Köster spared a look back at the man working on Schultz. He didn’t envy him the task of sorting the loader’s leg out into some sort of shape, but it had to be done, even though they were taking too much time.

  He ducked his head inside and grabbed the MP-40, checking it automatically.

  Köster stuck his head back out of the cupola.

  “We’re going to have to drop him off… first chance we get.”

  Jarome nodded as he finished up tying the shattered leg to the good one.

  “I’ve given him morphine… should take the edge off when he comes round.”

  “Hans, leave him now. Just make sure he isn’t going to roll off. Check out the gun and make sure we’re ready to work.”

  The gunner had been inside the tank for less than a minute.

  “Verdammt! Rudi!”

  The finger pointed out the damage.

  The hydraulic traverse unit, mounted on the turret floor, had taken a few hits from the grenade.

  “Can you rig it?”

  “Nope… it’s fucked. Unit needs replacing.”

  “Hand traverse?”

  The wheel was spun, but Jarome felt it needed more effort than normal. None the less, the turret moved smoothly.

  “Bit stiff, but fine.”

  “Stiff but fine will have to do.”

  “Good. Stay there while we move up to that building,” he pointed at an old barn, “Then we’ll shift Max into it and move off after that Russian bastard.”

  Meier reported he was happy with the tank; he’d packed some of the new silver scars with mud just to make them less noticeable.

  He was less happy with Wintzinger, who was conscious, but not with it.

  An ampoule of morphine sent Adolf Wintzinger back to a quiet and restful place.

  “Move off left… head to that barn… remember Max and Dolf are on the back.”

  The driver dropped into his seat and put the Maybach into gear.

  Lohengrin eased herself forward and made the short trip to the barn.

  Max Schultz was quickly moved into a comfortable spot, whereas Wintzinger required more effort to extricate from the front of the Tiger.

  The two injured men safely hidden away, Köster moved the Tiger back towards the suspected position of the IS-IV.

  The radio simply refused to function, despite no apparent damage, so they were technically blind to the events on the ridge.

  A quick check of the map suggested the most likely route for the Soviet leviathan, the Burgstrasse out of the town being perfect for bringing the enemy tank out on the flank, or even behind the forces defending against the river attack.

  Lohengrin set off as fast as Meier felt comfortable with, until Köster called for a right turn and the Tiger moved off.

  Having swapped sides in the turret, Köster observed through the loader’s hatch, using his binoculars.

  Meier’s voice piped up in his ear.

  “Oberscharfuhrer, if I might ask a question?”

  “As if I could stop you, Comrade Driver.”

  The normal start of an exchange over, Meier posed the question that was on his and Jarome’s minds.

  “Given that there’s just three of us, why in the fucking name of the devil’s drawers are we still going after that big bastard?”

  It was something that Köster himself had been giving some thought.

  Not that he felt his friend deserved a sensible answer.

  “Because we are heroes, Ritterkreuzträger Meier. It is expected of us.”

  Jarome saw the opening.

  “In which case, Oberscharfuhrer, I should be permitted to leave. I don’t have the Ritterkreuz.”

  “You were recommended for one, so you’re in, like it or not.”

  That the statement came from Meier caused the gunner to scoff, and his right foot lashed out, catching Meier’s shoulder sufficiently to display his feigned ‘annoyance’.

  “I’ve been assaulted by a junior rank, Rudi. What sort of fucking tank are you running here?”

  “You deserved it for being disloyal to your only friend. Shitty drivers are all the same… and ten-a-pfennig, so… if you don’t want to be assigned to the petrol column, I suggest you stop annoying our efficient gunner and know your place.”

  The humour died away in an instant.

  “Come right… I want to go up that grassy slope there… I think we can do that… agree?”

  “No problem.”

  The Tiger moved onto the new course and took the grassy route with ease.

  “I’ll give you ten-a-fucking-pfennig drivers. It’s you tank commanders that are cheap and nasty… with your nice Ritterkreuz, all shiny and unspoilt because us drivers do all the work whilst you put brilliantine in your hair and pose for the photographers.”

  Not for the first time, the subject of Köster’s photo shoot was used against him.

  After Hangviller, Köster had been photographed and interviewed by ‘Voir’ magazine. The subsequent edition contained no clue to his former allegiance, but simply talked of the efforts of the French Army and, in particular, the Foreign Legion, in stemming a huge Soviet counter-attack.

  The picture had been edited, for ‘security purposes’, removing all but clearly French insignia and rank markings, and the accompanying story held little resemblance to the events of that cold January day.

  That did not stop Köster getting stick from anyone who knew anyone who had heard someone tell the story they had heard from someone else.

  Basically, everyone with a pulse and the ability to work their mouth.

  “I sense your next application for leave may fail.”

  “I haven’t asked for any leave.”

  “Excellent.”

  Köster started humming the funeral march.

  “Bastard.”

  Jarome decided to stay well out of it.

  Suddenly, it was back to business.

  “Take her left into that scrub. I want to take a look around.”

  Lohengrin disappeared into the greenery.

  The infantry group had waved Kon and his tank forward, no resistance, no mines, nothing in place to bar the way.

  ‘Almost too good to be true.’

  He reasoned the matter out.

  This was not a set defence, the enemy had only recently arrived.

  No time to do anything much by way of preparing a defence.

  The battle was fluid.

  An organised ambush wasn’t likely.

  More likely was an encounter with something moving up or back…

  ‘Or sideways… or up its own ass…’

  Kon laughed.

  Such was the nature of battle.

  “Right, driver, move up slowly. Stop by that wall and let our infantry comrades remount.”

  The IS-IV moved forward.

  With all the soldiers back on their perches, Kon order the heavy tank to move up the road.

  Jarome and Meier had taken a few moments to check out more of the tank.

  Meier was happier than the gunner, who discovered that the foot p
edal linkage to the coaxial had been neatly severed by a piece of grenade.

  He had also caught his foot in the blast hole in the metal floor, the pain growing by the second.

  His continued assessment of the damage was cut short by the breathless arrival of a red-faced Köster.

  “Bastard’s coming up the road on the other side of this wood.”

  He quickly grabbed the map and ran his finger over it, lifting information from it and forming a plan.

  “We can’t go through the wood… too much noise… skirt it to the right but he may get in position and raise hell before we can intercept. Klaus, move off around the wood to the right… quick as you can.”

  He tucked the map away in one of the clips that had housed the ready use main gun ammunition.

  … which reminded him.

  “Gun is loaded?”

  “Yep. Forty up.”

  Which meant that an AP-40 APCR tungsten-cored shell was in the breech, the best tank-killing round the Tiger possessed.

  Perversely, the AP-40 had been in shorter supply in the previous war than it was now, with few Tiger Is in service, the round could be allocated in greater numbers, mainly from Allied-held dumps of captured ammunition.

  Meier used all his skill to bring the tank up to the required position, as quietly and quickly as he could.

  “This will be no place for your men, Comrade Starshina. Drop off here and watch our tail, just in case someone comes up the hill after us.”

  The infantry grape dismounted and moved back to cover the rear.

  Kon ordered the IS-IV forward.

  Moving up to the edge of the tree line, he looked in front of him and saw what was often labelled as a ‘gunner’s dream’.

  Enemy vehicles and guns, all looking the wrong way.

  Ever the veteran, Kon checked around, sensing a something that worried him, and looked straight down the barrel of a large calibre gun on a very familiar chassis.

  “Driver back! Now! Gunner target right forty!”

  The IS-IV lurched back.

  “FIRE!”

  Köster stood away from the breech, ready with another AP40, although he knew that Jarome would not miss… could not miss.

  Nothing happened.

  “FIRE!”

  “I can’t fire. Something’s wrong.”

  “Back up… for fuck’s sake, back her up now!”

  Lohengrin’s gearbox protested but held, and the Tiger made a sudden lurch backwards.

  A 130mm shell gently kissed the top of the glacis plate and passed close enough to the side of the turret to sear the paintwork with the heat of its travel.

  Köster stuck his head out to check the rear.

  “Back left, hard down, keep up the speed, stand by to hit the woodwork!”

  The rear of Lohengrin swung into the stand of trees, smashing two small trunks flat without a hint of trouble, before coming up against a more worthy and decidedly thicker opponent.

  Meier changed down to a lower ratio reverse and kept up the pressure.

  The tree gave up the fight, and the Tiger tank disappeared into the small wood.

  “Lucky bastard moved just as we fired.”

  “Never mind, Oleg. We have other company. Target, tank, front, right eight degrees.”

  Whatever it was, it died.

  The 130mm shell made a mess of it, sending armour plates and other pieces of wreckage flying in all directions.

  A shell spanged off the turret, small in calibre and of no threat to the IS-IV.

  “Recon vehicle crossing right to left…”

  Kon resisted the challenge.

  “Ignore him… target… tank. Left five degrees.”

  Morozov could not see the target until a flame blossomed from its gun.

  The 128mm APCR struck the gun mantlet and flew off to the left, ploughing through the trees.

  The ATPAU crew knew they had been lucky.

  Morozov had fired back, but his shell had either missed or had no effect. If it was the latter, then they were in even bigger trouble.

  ‘What is that thing?’

  “What the fuck is that thing, Roman?”

  “Never seen one before, but I know I don’t fucking like it. Driver, back off down the slope. We’ll try another way.”

  The IS-IV reversed.

  The deadly Einhorn waited for it to reappear.

  Jarome found the severed electrical cable quite quickly, and rigged a workable repair.

  “It’ll keep, just don’t catch it when you’re loading.”

  “Good work, Hans.”

  Köster returned to thinking through the problem.

  “It’s not coming. That other gun was a one-twenty-eight… either a Pak or the Einhorn… he’ll have fucked off.”

  Köster was not canvassing opinions, merely talking aloud.

  “If he’s the steely type he seems to be… well, he won’t be running… he’ll be trying to do the job…”

  The map revealed a track through the woods they were hiding in.

  “He’ll need to stay below the ridgeline… he’ll move to the north… and try to come up this side of that lane… right, Klaus… take her out and right… follow the tree line until you find a track on the right… turn down it and make best speed… got that?”

  “Jawohl, Oberscharfuhrer!”

  Köster laughed.

  “Ten-a-Pfennig drivers, I shit ‘em!”

  Lohengrin lurched forward and out of cover.

  Köster was technically correct in his reasoning, but incorrect overall, as he didn’t understand the full nature of the circumstances.

  Kon would have taken the fight on further, but his brief was already exceeded, and the safety of the experimental IS-IV was of greater concern to him.

  His map was an old German military one, which was far superior to the ones his own leadership expected him to fight with.

  “There’s a track… through the woods… we’ll use that… signal the grape to get back on the tank.”

  Morozov stuck his head out the turret and waved at the infantry NCO. The soldiers bolted back towards the IS-IV, keen to leave what was clearly a tank-rich environment.

  Kon spoke into the intercom.

  “Leonid, as soon as the infantry are back on, we’ll move off… head towards the woods down this road… when you get to the trees, turn left and follow the tree line… the track will be on the right… about sixty metres or so… straight in and out, as quickly as we can… downhill and to the right… I’ll reassess then.”

  The track was overgrown, and visibility was not great, hardly enough to remain on the track as far as Klaus Meier and Leonid Kartsev were concerned.

  The two tanks entered different ends of the one hundred and fifty metre long track at almost precisely the same moment.

  What happened would, much later, be described as a replication of a joust of old, with two armoured knights charging each other, flat out, with lances raised.

  The foliage receded, permitting both tanks to see each other.

  The gap gave little time for anything but a snap shot.

  The IS-IV shot first, Morozov firing purely on instinct.

  The muzzle flash from the 88mm overwhelmed his vision, and the immense clang on the ISs turret indicated a hit.

  The screams from outside indicated that things had gone badly for the infantry clinging to the heavy tank.

  The 130mm had screamed inches over the top of the Tiger’s turret.

  Kon and Köster now shared half a second for a decision on a matter of life and death.

  They both decided on the same course of action.

  “Ram!”

  Kartsev and Meier were mirror images, huddling in their driving positions as they accelerated towards the other steel beast, conscious that nothing good was going to come of the collision.

  “Hang on!”

  The gun tubes rubbed briefly as the distance closed and the tanks smashed into each other, nose to nose… but not quite.

&n
bsp; The track was uneven, and the piece of dirt on which the Tiger raced raised itself slightly, whereas, under the IS-IV it fell away, creating a difference of roughly a foot or so, but a foot was enough to give Lohengrin the advantage; that, and the Russian tank’s angled bow.

  The height difference allowed the Tiger to rise up on the front of the IS, its momentum driving the fifty-six tons of metal underneath the huge 130mm barrel, causing it to deflect and bend, and rendering it useless.

  The impact was less jarring than that with the ZSU in many ways; certainly less destructive on Lohengrin’s crew.

  The same could not be said for the IS-IV and her servers.

  Hero of the Soviet Union Sergeant David Kolesnikov, experienced a nano-second of abject terror before the heavy breech of the 130mm was displaced, mashing his torso against the steel turret wall.

  Death was instant.

  Sergeant Oleg Morozov had no such luck.

  The displacing trunnions sent metal work flying in all directions, and one piece smashed into his forehead, opening up the skull and revealing its contents.

  His screams echoed through the huge tank and he clawed at Kon, covering him with blood and other less savoury matter.

  Kartsev, closest to the point of impact, was unharmed, but reduced to tears by the sound of Morozov’s suffering.

  “Kill him… for the love of God… kill him…”

  He became almost unhinged by the screaming, the animal-like squeals of suffering.

  Morozov was flailing around now, his sightless eyes betraying him as he clashed with the internals of the tank.

  The snap of his arm as he smashed it against the breech was like a gunshot.

  Kon, his dislocated shoulder preventing him from reaching for his revolver, could not help the dying man.

  Metal started to squeal, adding its awful sound to the pitiful Morozov’s, and Kon tried to clear his head, realising it had to be the enemy tank moving off.

  He had nothing to fight it with, but he would ram it again if he had to.

  The screaming ceased in an instant.

  The wounded gunner had dashed his head against the turret side and driven a small bracket into the exposed soft tissue.