Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6)

by Colin Gee

  The latter was the very latest effort from the British Tank industry, a revised mark III, armed with the 20-pounder main gun and improvements to the Meteor engine.

  But today, it was all about the gun…

  … or rather, the shell.

  Charles Burney had developed his shell in the 1940s, initially as an anti-concrete shell that was intended to be effective against the legendary German fortifications of the West Wall and Siegfried Line.

  Lieutenant General Sir Sidney Chevalier Kirkman, GOC Southern Command, was the senior military man on parade, supported by a plethora of officers and experts from the Tank Corps and Cavalry regiments, all men who had ridden the steel beasts into battle.

  A handful of politicians were there to be suitably impressed and sign off on the project, if the military men thought it was the resolution to the problems the armoured force was starting to encounter.

  As per the briefing, the Archer kicked off proceedings, speeding an APDS shell downrange.

  The gunners had been picked for their skill, and the shell struck true, penetrating the IS-II.

  This was no surprise to the tankers amongst the observers, the capabilities of the shell being widely understood.

  The Archer next took on the IS-III, successfully hitting the stationary tank three times and, as expected by the veterans, had no effect whatsoever at that range.

  The ISU-152 succumbed first shot, the APDS core easily slicing through its armour.

  Finally, the Archer took on the mystery tank, revealed now as one of the latest T-54 Soviet battle tanks, captured in Poland.

  The shell failed to have any effect.

  Two more hits produced the same result.

  There was a twenty-minute break whilst a small group of tank officers rode out to the targets and quickly inspected them.

  On return, they hastily passed on their findings. The tanks that had been hit and penetrated might not have been knocked out by the small shell, something that was a known problem, and another reason that the 17-pdr was starting to fail to measure up to the modern battlefield.

  The new Centurion Mk III took on the IS-II with its 20-pdr gun… then the IS-III… ISU-152… and finally the T-54.

  One shot each.

  One hit on each.

  The whole group travelled out to the targets.

  The excitement at what they found made normal conversation impossible.

  Each vehicle showed the signs of an external explosion but there was no evidence of penetration.

  Mainly because the armour had not been penetrated.

  However, to a man, the experienced tank officers concluded that each vehicle would have been knocked out of the fight and its crew killed or wounded as a result.

  Burney explained the principle as easily as he could.

  HESH.

  High-explosive squash head.

  The shell struck the armour plate and squashed, spreading wider as it flattened itself.

  The base fuse set off the charge once the shell had spread itself over the target’s defences.

  A simple concept that had been found to work extremely well against all sorts and thicknesses of armour, relying not on penetrative capability, but on shockwaves hammering through the metal and spalding pieces of the tank’s armour off on the inside, sending whirling lethal pieces through the interior, pieces that were particularly unforgiving to soft objects like tank crew.

  Inside each tank, wooden dummies had been placed to perform crew functions.

  No dummy was without severe damage from flying debris, and some were simply matchwood.

  By using a shell already developed and adding a few refinements, Burney had given most British tanks the capacity to kill the latest enemy tanks anywhere they could be found on the modern battlefield.

  HEAT ammunition, a hollow-charge shell using the Monroe Effect, was becoming more commonplace in vehicle ammunition inventories, but the rifled main guns meant that its performance declined, the effect lessened by the spinning effect of the rifling.

  HESH did not suffer any problems with rifled weapons; indeed, it was enhanced as the spin enabled the shell to squash further, and more effectively, increasing the area it affected.

  Burney remained behind with two of his technicians, waiting for the old Bedford truck to arrive.

  Moving down to the eight hundred yard marker, the civilian engineers set up the 3.45” RCL.

  The recoilless rifle went through its paces, although it missed its target twice, earning the firing technician considerable harassment at the hands of his friends.

  Burney and his men knew the weapon worked, but they were there to examine the new changes to the gas venting system, a problem that had delayed the weapons inclusion in matters in the Far East.

  Twenty shots later, eyes examined the breech, precise measurements were taken, and calculations made.

  For Burney, it was a very successful day.

  The value of his HESH shell had been fully appreciated by people who mattered, and his RCL modifications appeared to have overcome the wear issues, which hopefully meant that British infantry would soon have a weapon capable of dealing with the biggest of the enemy’s tanks.

  A very successful day indeed.

  1321 hrs, Sunday, 7th July 1946, the Rathaus, Aachen, Germany.

  The Council of Germany had relocated to Aachen as soon as was practicable, the act of installing the political machinery in a German City considered vital for national pride, and far outweighing the disadvantages of the lesser facilities afforded by the ruined metropolis.

  The connotations and mystique of the ancient Roman city, its links with Emperor Charlemagne, and its history as a crowning place for German Kings, lent further weight to the decision to install the council within Aachen’s town hall. Damaged during the previous war, hasty repairs had made to make the old building tenable enough for move the politicians in.

  That had been fourteen days previously.

  Today, the comings and goings of politicians and military men had been interrupted by the physical collapse of Franz von Papen.

  Almost a week to the day after Donitz had succumbed to a serious gastric problem, resulting in some complicated and extended surgery, Von Papen had fallen down the Rathaus stairs, having suddenly complained of feeling dizzy and nauseous.

  Whatever his internal issues were, the broken leg and deep head wound would have been enough by themselves to remove the aging politician from office for some time to come.

  In the White Hall, the former Mayoral office, the convened Council of Germany, or what was left of it, had just made a decision.

  That the decision was made without any consultation with the Allied powers was a matter of unease for some, a pre-requirement for others.

  The result was that Germany would have a new leader and his appointment would be presented to the other allies as a fait-accompli.

  The newly elected head of the German Republic stood.

  “Kameraden, I thank you for this privilege, and for giving me the chance to lead our country forward into better times. We will continue to support our new allies, and restore Germany’s lost honour, through the blood of our soldiers and the sweat of our people.”

  Inside, the latest German Chancellor felt elation that months of planning had finally come to fruition, that ideas and concepts had finally become a reality, and that he and his closest associates were now in a position to bring forward the agenda of unfinished business; one of restoring Germany to her rightful place on the world stage, and of destroying communism.

  “I pledge myself to the pursuit of victory by the quickest and most practical route, and in restoring peace to our great nation. Thank you.”

  Acknowledging the polite applause, Albert Speer resumed his seat and enjoyed the moment.

  1812 hrs, Sunday, 7th July 1946, Versailles, France.

  “Sons of bitches… goddamned sons of bitches!”

  Patton said what was on all of their minds.

  What was suppo
sed to be a gently paced meeting and dinner had turned into a frantic exercise to get a radio, and the grabbing of an interpreter so they could understand the words of the new German Chancellor.

  Eisenhower sat with his finger steepled, pressing the tips to his lips, failing to mask a face like thunder.

  Bradley and McCreery were struck dumb.

  Alexander had excused himself for a moment, and was probably ranting into the mirror in the well-appointed rest room.

  Eisenhower finally broke his silence.

  “I’m not clear what the President will think of this, but one thing’s for sure… it isn’t what he signed up for.”

  He silently sought a view from McCreery.

  “The Prime Minister certainly won’t be happy, Sir.”

  Bradley put it all into a few words.

  “Doesn’t matter, does it? They’ve railroaded the lot of us. The Krauts’ve presented us with a situation, and we can’t back out of it. They know… heck, we all know, we need them more than ever now.”

  Whilst the casualty figures were better, the US forces were still taking the lion’s share of hits from the Red Army.

  Ike’s eyes narrowed.

  “They agree to take on more of the front line, releasing our forces, and in so doing actually increase their importance to the Allies. Then, within days, this happens…Brad?”

  The Twelfth Army Group commander clearly had something to say.

  “Sir… Donitz went too, remember? Suddenly… without warning… there and then gone… and he was Von Papen’s natural successor…”

  Bradley’s voice trailed off as his mind went deeper into what he was suggesting.

  All the heads nodded, wondering if there was something they weren’t seeing here, a something that looked and smelt rotten.

  Alexander walked in with a worrying thought in his mind, his own concerns having been reinforced by the last few words he had overheard.

  “General, if Papen had gone first, and then Donitz, the successor, had followed, it would have looked rather bad… but this way round, the move from chancellor to chancellor is… well… less questionable at first sight and… err… somewhat smoother and…”

  “Hold on one cotton-picking minute… are you seriously suggesting that the chancellor and his deputy have been removed by something other than coincidence?”

  Alexander held Ike’s stern gaze and gave his reply a moment’s further thought.

  “General Eisenhower, sir … I think that puts it rather well.”

  The commander of the Allied Armies sought the feelings of his commanders and, to a man, they all felt something was not right.

  Before Eisenhower spoke to members of the darker arts, in order to establish what was known of the personal and political rivalries within the German Council, he posed a question that no-one could really answer.

  “Why?”

  That question travelled to all the political centres aligned to the Allied cause, and remained unanswered, the suspicions of conspiracy purely guessed at, and with no proof of any type unveiled.

  Churchill and Truman growled down the phone at each other, but found no comfort in their discussion.

  Both subsequently rang Speer to offer their congratulations and support, whilst each, in their own way, sounded out the man who had been thrust upon the Allied cause as leader of the increasingly important former enemy.

  2301 hrs, Sunday, 7th July 1946, Sankt Georgen an der Gusen, Austria.

  NKVD Colonel General Ivan Aleksandrovich Serov was a man on a mission, empowered by those at the very summit of the state apparatus, and therefore not a man easily brushed aside.

  Objections and objectors had come and gone, his authority supreme in the face of all-comers.

  No matter what, his mission had priority, and it was the inventory of special items that were carefully and secretly loaded on nondescript vehicles, ready for the long journey back to the Motherland, regardless of the other plans for use of the transport network.

  Having considerable experience with such things, especially with his overseeing of the removal of the German uranium ore from Oranienberg, he knew not to rush matters, but applied calm urgency.

  The heavy metal caskets containing the radioactive material came in for extra special handling.

  Serov’s authority had also brought forth numerous Red Air Force night fighters, circling four distinct separate areas, three as a maskirovka.

  In the dark skies above Austria, aircrew from many nations stalked and killed each other, unaware of what was happening under the hills beneath them.

  At great cost, the Red Air Force kept the Allied efforts away from Sankt Georgen an der Gusen and by morning, Serov was gone, and the continuing recovery effort was left to junior ranks.

  Such victories for the Soviet pilots were hard won, and rarely won a second time.

  On a rugged outcrop above the site, a small group of silent soldiers had spent the previous day observing the goings-on, and they had reported back all they knew to their Allied commanders.

  Their report ensured that the following day and night brought forth the power of the Allied air forces, as waves of bombers struck numerous targets in the hills around the Gusen River, many specifically guided in by the SAS team operating behind the lines, men who had first come to understand that something important was happening in the valleys.

  Much of the recently discovered German equipment was destroyed, either on transport vehicles, or as they lay waiting to be removed to safety.

  Live V2 warheads added to the damage with their secondary explosions.

  Marshal Chuikov, with overall responsibility for removing the treasures from the huge network of caves, sought a different way to rescue the remaining assets, especially the high-octane fuels that were stored in large quantities.

  The removal work ceased temporarily.

  1203 hrs, Monday, 8th July 1946, the Rathaus, Aachen, Germany.

  “Thank you, General von Vietinghoff.”

  Having passed on everything of the previous day’s meeting, von Vietinghoff saluted and left the room.

  Speer exchanged glances with Guderian.

  “They are showing weakness, when all that is needed is strength.”

  Guderian nodded sagely, but held his tongue, allowing the new Chancellor his head.

  “We must accelerate our plans, bring matters forward, in case their weakness drops to unimaginable levels, Feldmarschal.”

  “We are doing everything quickly, Herr Kanzler, but it takes time to assemble an army, especially when our former enemies are the ones supplying much of the resources.”

  “Yes, I do know that, Feldmarschal. Our output of tanks and guns is rising steadily, now that we’re receiving the minerals of war, and the French are contributing decent numbers too… albeit unwittingly… but I do understand that you’ll not have all that you need quite yet.”

  Speer went to the window and observed the everyday life of Aacheners in the square outside his window.

  “We must be careful not to alarm our friends.”

  “They’ll need us to be strong, Herr Kanzler.”

  “Yes they will, and we’ll be strong, not for them, but for us.”

  Speer moved swiftly back to his desk.

  “I want you to implement this plan immediately.”

  Guderian knew which file Speer held out to him.

  “We don’t have enough tanks and guns for the men we have, Herr Kanzler, so why bring these men into our thinking right now?”

  Speer laughed.

  “Well, for one thing, they are good at what they do.”

  Guderian could only concede that point.

  “Secondly, why on earth would we let the useless French have them?”

  The second point was conceded in turn.

  “Herr Kanzler, you are sure you want to name them in this way?”

  “Feldmarschal, I’m told by a number of your generals that these men are not Heer, but other forces, so we’ll grant them the distincti
on of being a force that has its own identity, and is not Heer, eh? In fact, much like it was before.”

  Guderian accepted the file and slid it into his briefcase.

  “Good day, Herr Kanzler.”

  The Field Marshal clicked to attention, and left the modest office, with orders to harvest as many ex-Waffen SS soldiers as possible, and bring them together under the control of the newly-formed ‘German Legion’.

  He knew exactly where he would start.

  1303 hrs, Tuesday, 9th July 1946, Camp 1001, Akhtubinsk, USSR.

  The Red Cross inspection was in full swing, and the chief inspector left no stone unturned.

  “Colonel Skryabin, it is against the convention to have military facilities within the environs of a prisoner of war camp.”

  The NKVD officer choked back his contemptuous reply and opted for one more studied and placatory, just as his orders dictated.

  “Inspector Deviani, this facility is not for military production of any kind, but for humanitarian purposes. We intend to install equipment to produce bandages and dressings, nothing more. Prisoners must not be idle, but we understand your requirements, even though we are not signatories.”

  The status of the USSR with the Geneva and Hague conventions had been a matter of contention since Germany marched her troops into the Motherland at the start of Operation Barbarossa.

  None the less, the Soviet Union had suddenly permitted widespread access to its prisoner of war camps and hospitals, where Red Cross officials uniformly reported barely adequate nutritional provision but generally adequate accommodation in the former, and excellent standards of care in the latter.

  Inspector Deviani had chosen his team with care, and no little direction from his own GRU masters, ensuring that two of his group had affiliations with Allied intelligence groups, and would report back on exactly what they saw at the vast new camp on the Volga, that being exactly what the Soviets wanted them to see.