Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6)

by Colin Gee

  The Corps Commander, Major General Amazasp Babadzhanian, had only just finished agreeing a fire plan with his artillery commander, Major General Mikhail Solukovtsev, when he saw the opportunity presenting itself.

  “Comrades! Comrades!”

  The hubbub in the bunker died away and the harried staff officers all turned to face their boss.

  “Impress upon every officer… every soldier… we have an opportunity here. We can inflict huge losses on the green toads… but only if we attack hard… attack quickly… and do not stop. I’m convinced we can roll these bastards all the way to our first objective,” he tapped the map down the length of the heights between the Saale and the Ilse. “And probably beyond… but we must push… and push hard.”

  Babadzhanian slammed his balled fist into his palm to emphasise his point.

  “We have some air cover, but not enough, so make sure our AA assets stay tight,” he directed his comment generally, but his gaze was fixed on the Colonel in charge of the AA regiment.

  “Now, leave 44th Tanks to overcome the river crossing, and implement the attack plan at,” he paused, looking at his watch, “1220. Move!”

  To the untrained eye, it would have seemed that the command post descended into organised anarchy in seconds, but Babadzhanian understood that all was well, and his powerful corps would soon be crushing the hated Germanski under the tracks of their tanks.

  1215 hrs, Saturday, 20th July 1946, Height 462, near Marienhagen, Germany.

  The Third Battalion was engulfed in a man-made storm of fire and metal, as the Soviet artillery pounded the height with a regimental barrage, with numerous mortars adding their own brand of death to the party.

  Men dug deeper, even as the artillery arrived and, now and again, claimed them and their comrades, the illusion of safety offered by the cool earth occasionally shattered by the explosive force of a Russian howitzer shell.

  The telephone line had been laid, but was already useless, severed by some unseen strike.

  The signallers were out, braving the storm of shells, seeking the break, the radio useless for reasons unknown.

  A Soviet Guards radio unit hidden, west of Bantein, jammed the channels, furthering hampering the German defence.

  Which meant the Von Scharf and the Third were on their own.

  Their supporting artillery had ceased fire, unable to receive fire instructions from the OP group that had arrived, firstly because the radio was jammed, and subsequently because a Soviet fragmentation shell scattered a number of their bodies over the summit of Height 462.

  By running cables through the trench system, the battalion signallers had enabled communication from the companies to the battalion command post, and it proved a godsend almost immediately.

  “Herr Hauptmann. Seven Kompagnie.”

  Scharf grabbed the handset and ducked, all in the same motion, as dust and earth shaken from the ceiling fell around him, the large calibre near-miss enough to shake the sturdy bunker to its core

  “Scharf.”

  “Herr Hauptmann. We have three companies of infantry forming up at the bottom of the slope. I’d say they are about set to charge.”

  A nearby shell made Keller duck instinctively, as pieces of bark dislodged from the reinforcing tree trunks in the ceiling cascaded down like confetti on a bride.

  He missed Scharf’s question.

  “Say again. I can’t hear you.”

  “Do they intend to flank?”

  He was conscious that Keller’s men held the edge of the height, but that their position curled back on itself for the smallest distance before there was no defensive force.

  “Not how they’re set up, Herr Hauptmann, but I‘ll keep watching. Perhaps send two squads to position there, just in case?”

  Von Scharf battled against his instinct to support the Seventh Company.

  “Nein. I need the reserve here, under my command. Ninth Kompagnie has infantry and panzers entering Marienhagen as we speak, and Eighth has a similar force as you to its front. Just watch that flank, Keller. I’m relying on you.”

  There was a pause.

  In the distance, von Scharf could hear the distinctive sound of MG-42s.

  “They’re attacking now. Not flanking at the moment. Direct assault. Signing off.”

  Keller was gone before he could respond, and, in any case, the telephone came to life in his hands as eight and nine companies reported their own problems.

  More defensive machine-guns opened up as the height came under full attack.

  The soldiers of the Second and Third Battalions, 27th Guards Motor Rifle Brigade, were less than enamoured with their allocated task. Trained to ride into battle alongside their armoured comrades, they were now committed to footslog up a hill manned by their traditional enemy, well-armed with automatic weapons.

  None the less, they were Soviet Guardsmen, and they charged forward.

  Babadzhanian accepted that he would lose some of his supporting infantry whilst he overcame any resistance on the hill, but he could not move forward with it in enemy hands, and felt the risk of waiting for an ordinary infantry unit to arrive was one he was not prepared to take.

  His motorised infantrymen started to pay the price for his decision, the machine-guns of the 899th Grenadieres cutting down men half a dozen at a time.

  Von Scharf, with limited mortar ammunition, held his fire until he could decide where the greatest threat was, and ended up not firing them at all, as the Soviet attack ran out of steam halfway up the slope.

  “What’s happening, Aschmann?”

  “They’ve gone to ground, Herr Hauptmann… well… mainly so. My left flank reports that the enemy attacking them have dropped all the way back to the valley. Centrally, we’ve stopped them cold, about a third of the way up. They found it more difficult to come up from Marienhagen, but the bastards are still clinging to the slope there.”

  “Casualties?”

  “A few hundred of them for sure, my own presently unknown, and very few from the infantry attack. It’s the damned artillery and mortars that’s hurting us. I had nineteen casualties before the attack. I’ll tell you the firm figure as soon as I know, Herr Hauptmann.”

  Von Scharf wondered if he had been wrong to mistrust Aschmann. He sounded in control.

  “Keep me informed, and keep up the good work, Oberleutnant. This hill is ours, and I intend to stay here, come what may. Alles klar?”

  Half of his conversation had not arrived with Aschmann, as a mortar shell severed the cable precisely halfway between the two posts.

  “Aschmann?... Aschmann?...”

  He tossed the handset to his signalman.

  “Verdammt… repair party!”

  The two remaining signallers looked at each other, having only just returned from a dangerous spell outside looking for a break in the line to Eight Company.

  “Somewhere between here and nine, menschen. Keep your heads down, but get it fixed quickly. It’s very important and I’m depending on you.”

  He patted each on the shoulder as they gathered up their kit and, without a word, disappeared off into the barrage.

  Von Scharf dropped onto the sawn-off tree trunk that served as a stool and lit a cigarette from the butt of his radio operator’s hand-rolled offering.

  He dispensed with the cigarette holder, given the circumstances.

  “Scheisse!”

  They both gave voice to the word, as a shell landed adjacent to their position, bringing down more stone and earth, and shaking everything around them.

  Drawing on the comforting smoke, von Scharf looked at his watch.

  ‘1243…scheisse! Is it only 1243?’

  The field telephone announced itself through his thoughts.

  “Bataillon… ja… ja… Herr Hauptmann, Stabsfeldwebel Keller.”

  The receiver changed hands.

  “Scharf.”

  “Herr Hauptmann, the enemy are gathering for a second attempt. A large panzer formation drove past us, with panzer-gr
enadieres and… I’m not totally sure, to be honest… but it seems to have progressed beyond Salzhemmendorf and almost to Heights 397 and 420.”

  Von Scharf consulted the battalion situation map before replying.

  “What’s that you say? Are you sure, Hermann? There was a full bataillon of the 897th moving through there, with armoured support.”

  “No, I’m not sure, Herr Hauptmann, but I do know that it certainly looks like there’s fighting going on to the west of Salzhemmendorf.”

  “Are they coming round your flank yet?”

  “No, Herr Hauptmann. That’s another reason why I think they’ve gone straight over the river. Nothing is developing to the south of Salzhemmendorf, which it would do if they had been stopped, don’t you think.”

  “Ja, sound thinking. All right. Get me better information as quick as you can. Anything else?”

  “Nein. We’ll hold, Herr Hauptmann.”

  “Get me more information, Hermann. Out.”

  Lighting another cigarette, he contemplated sending some of his reserve to the left flank of Keller’s company, but held himself in check.

  ‘I need facts… what’s going on… what the fuck is going on…’

  It was then he realised that he had two cigarettes in his grasp.

  He laughed inwardly and hoped that the other occupants of the bunker hadn’t noticed.

  ‘I’m getting far too old for this shitty mess.’

  Fig # 202 - Soviet Order of Battle - Height 426, Marienhagen, Germany.

  Lieutenant Colonel Vesnin knew exactly what was going on, and he held his leading platoons in check whilst his plan was put into place.

  Resisting the standard shouts and threats from his Brigade Commander, he had withdrawn the units on his right flank, and sent them to move quickly around the base of his position, in order to extend and strengthen his left flank.

  Careful examination of the heights, through a convenient shell hole in the roof of the west tower of Marienhagen’s evangelical church, led Vesnin to believe he had spotted the end of the enemy defensive line.

  Lacking men to exploit his discovery, he did the next best thing by holding back his second attack, and allowing the withdrawn units to concentrate where he felt the enemy line no longer existed.,

  Even as his supporting artillery and mortars redoubled their efforts to wear down the defenders, he could hear the sounds of small arms fire from elsewhere on the height, indicating that the other battalions were already into their own attacks.

  Tanks of the 45th Guards Tank Brigade assigned to bolster his force, opened direct fire on the German defenders.

  ‘Hurry up, Dushkin… hurry up, man!’

  No sooner had he thought the words than, as agreed, Major Dushkin sent a single blue flare skywards, which initiated a full-scale attack by all of Vesnin’s force.

  He checked his watch.

  ‘1257.’

  Fig # 203 - Soviet second assault, Height 426, Marienhagen, Germany.

  “Send a message to the Polkovnik. I’m attacking and expect to turn the enemies flank. Route 240 will be open shortly.”

  His aide scurried away, leaving Vesnin to ponder the scene developing in front of him.

  1300 hrs, Saturday, 20th July 1946, Height 462, near Marienhagen, Germany.

  “Scharf.”

  “Herr Hauptmann, I need reinforcements. The enemy’s attacked again, but on a broader front. They’re nearly around my right flank, and will get between you and me if they’re not stopped.”

  “Calm down, man.”

  Von Scharf didn’t wait to see if there was more.

  “Where are the lead elements now?”

  “Nearing the trench lines… not quite in grenade range… I need more men, Herr Ha…”

  “Spread your men to the right, Aschmann. Don’t let them get round you.”

  “I can’t, Sir… I simply can’t. I’ve nearly a Bataillon to my front. If I spread out further, I’ll be overrun.”

  Von Scharf made a snap decision.

  “Hold your positions, Aschmann. That’s an order. Help’s on its way.”

  Within two minutes, Hauptmann von Scharf had gathered a group of twenty-two men and placed them under the command of Janjowski, who was dispatched towards Aschmann’s right flank.

  As he watched the group dash off, he recognised the two signallers returning, one favouring a leg that had been clipped by shrapnel.

  “All done, leute?”

  “Yes, Herr Hauptmann. Three breaks in all.”

  “Good effort, damn good effort, Kameraden,” he slapped each man enthusiastically on the shoulder, “Damn good effort. You’re hurt, Finze. Bad?”

  Gefreiter Finze shook his head.

  “Just a clip, Herr Hauptmann. Nothing to trouble the sani with. A decent coffee’ll make it go away.”

  Von Scharf poured two.

  “Catch your breath, Kameraden. Thank you again.”

  He held out his cigarettes, which the two exhausted signallers accepted gratefully.

  He turned to the operator.

  “Get me Keller.”

  Von Scharf stood over the situation map and waited for the handset to arrive in his hand.

  “Keller, this is Scharf. I’ve just sent some men to bolster Aschmann’s right flank. It seems the enemy has moved around and threatened to roll around him. I suggest you watch out for the same.”

  “Already on it, Herr Hauptmann. I sent a small group to the west as soon as I had some spare men… but the bastards are coming again.”

  “Different attack?”

  “No, Herr Hauptmann, still coming straight up the slope, as before… slower, and using the cover better. They’ll get closer this time, of course.”

  “But you’ll stop them, of course. Anything else from Salzhemmendorf?”

  “Not yet, Herr Hauptmann. Too much smoke and dust, but the enemy artillery’s pounding the high ground, which would support my thoughts.”

  “I’ve had no runner… the radio’s not working… for all I know we’ve been ordered off this hill already.”

  Keller said nothing, whilst von Scharf silently debated his options.

  It didn’t take long.

  “Unless I hear otherwise, we’re staying on this damned hill, klar?”

  “Alles klar, Herr Hauptmann.”

  “Keep an eye on your flank, and whatever’s going on at Salzhemmendorf. Let me know if there is any change. Hermann… you can hold, yes?”

  The chuckle was almost masked by exploding artillery shells, but it was none the less there.

  “Zu befehl, Herr Hauptmann.”

  Janjowski’s small unit arrived at the perfect time and in the perfect place.

  They crashed straight into the back of the Guardsmen preparing to storm along Aschmann’s trench line, intent on rolling it up from one end to the other.

  Leading the way, Janjowski used his Gewehr 43 to good effect, dropping three men with bullets before he slammed the butt into the throat of a confused NCO.

  The rest of his men crashed into the backs of the Soviet troopers, dealing out death and wounds without reply.

  Major Dushkin, caught in the act of writing a message for his commander, was knocked to the ground by a falling body, and then pinned to it by two bayonets.

  He screamed his life away until his lungs filled with blood and he screamed no more.

  It took less than five minutes for Janjowski’s force to rout the Soviet flankers, five minutes in which Aschmann’s line waivered, bent, and suffered, but held fast.

  Grenades flew in both directions, and the sharp cracks of the deadly little missiles were often accompanied by cries of anguish from wounded men.

  Janjowski established a part of his force and moved on, intent on finding Aschmann and understanding what was going on.

  He found the Oberleutnant in the centre of his line, surrounded by dead and wounded enemy, issuing orders, and occasionally pausing to shoot a target that presented itself amongst the retreating enemy, an
d doing so in a way that immediately impressed the headquarters officer.

  “Aschmann! Thank God you’re alive! What happened here?” he gestured at the pile of Soviet dead, at least a score of which had penetrated the large depression in which Aschmann had established his forward command post.

  “It was fucking close I can tell you!”

  Although clearly pumped up and running on adrenalin, Aschmann retained enough composure to quietly chat with the men around him, asking after a wound here, offering encouragement there.

  “Are you ok?”

  Aschmann patted himself down, seeking a wound.

  “Seems so, though God only knows how, Kasper. It was only Feldwebel Spatz, my signaller, and myself in here when these bastards charged in.”

  Aschmann bent over and touched the shoulder of the dead NCO, lying face down in a huge puddle of his own blood.

  “God, but Spatz fought like a mad dog… so did Fischer… I swear he bit one man’s throat open.”

  There was such a wound on one corpse, but Fischer was long past confessing to inflicting it.

  “And you, Hubert?”

  “They are untermensch… vermin… so I treated them as same…”

  At Aschmann’s feet was an MP-40 and its spent casings.

  In his right hand was a Luger, and in his left, a Hitler Youth dagger.

  Both had a smattering of blood and matted hair smeared over them.

  He realised what Janjowski was looking at, and examined the contents of his hands.

  “I killed my share of the bastards, Kasper.”

  Suddenly, Aschmann started to shudder and shake, as shock set in and dropped him to his knees as instantly as a rifle bullet.

  Jankowski sent his Corporal to check further along the line, squatted next to Aschmann and lit a cigarette, forcing it between the shaking man’s quivering lips.

  Nearby, one of his men started rummaging through the Soviet bodies, throwing items of military interest onto a growing pile, until he found what he was looking for, and handed it across to Janjowski.