Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6)

by Colin Gee

  Nazarbayeva nodded, still too in shock to really understand the point.

  Her mind, fuzzy and indistinct, suddenly melted through the haze and focussed on one point.

  “Those responsible, include me, Comrade General Secretary. That is in my report.”

  He looked at the document and nodded like a sage of old.

  “Ah yes, true, Comrade Nazarbayeva. But its author was another, and clearly the initial responsibility was his. His confession under questioning was sufficient.”

  “Sufficient…”

  “Sufficient for prompt action, Comrade Nazarbayeva. Now, let me not keep you. Take two days to recover… there is a suite for you in the Hotel National… enjoy some rest and return to your duties reinvigorated. Organise yourself, and then take some leave with your husband. I will ensure he’s available.”

  She had only really comprehended the initial words.

  “Comrade General Secretary, may I ask what prompt action has been taken?”

  He had never really expected not to tell her everything, so was ready to answer the inevitable question.

  “Polkovnik Poboshkin confessed and was executed this morning.”

  He picked a list out of his second drawer.

  “Of your staff, the following members confessed to deliberately sabotaging intelligence efforts and presenting you with false information, for which treasonable acts they have paid in full… Polkovnik Poboshkin, Mayor Ergotin, Kapitan Guvarin, and Mladshy Leytenant Pinkerova. You were badly served by your staff. Choose your replacements wisely, Comrade Mayor General.”

  Nazarbayeva’s mind was in a whirl and she couldn’t think straight.

  Most of her staff… almost all of her inner sanctum… gutted by the NKVD and the wrath of Beria.

  ‘Andrey… loyal Andrey…’

  In her grieving mind, a happy and smiling face replaced that of her now dead aide.

  ‘Maya… innocent… what a brain…lost… betrayed…’

  Stalin interrupted her melancholy.

  “Comrade Nazarbayeva… Comrade Nazarbayeva!”

  She shook herself free of it all.

  “Apologies, Comrade General Secretary. I… err…”

  “Yes, I know. It must come as a shock to learn of their betrayal… it always does when the closest of your circle fail you, Tatiana.”

  She missed the sarcasm in his voice completely, and Molotov’s muted but nonetheless very real reaction.

  “Comrade Nazarbayeva, I will arrange movement orders and leave for you and your husband at Sochi, and will ensure that my private dacha is made available for your use.”

  Stalin stood and extended an arm towards the door, indicating that the female officer should now depart.

  “Now, Comrade Mayor General… go and rest at the National, then enjoy your leave and return to your headquarters reinvigorated and ready to serve the party and Motherland.”

  “I’ll not let the Motherland down, Comrade General Secretary.”

  She saluted smartly and was gone.

  Stalin looked at the closed door and his eyes narrowed.

  He kept his thoughts to himself.

  Breaking away from them, he turned to Molotov.

  “Right, Vyacheslav, the Italians, and the Greeks?”

  1333 hrs, Sunday, 28th July 1946, south of Neu Matzlow, Parchim, Germany.

  The attack hadn’t so much faltered as simply run out of steam logistically.

  The Red Army had put up heavy resistance, mainly infantry, artillery, and anti-tank guns, and they had been overrun eventually by a combination of British artillery, RAF ground attack aircraft, Guards tanks, and, as normal, the poor bloody infantry.

  The Battlegroup based around the 2nd Battalion, Grenadier Guards had ground to a halt in the rough ground overlooking the ex-Luftwaffe air base at Schwerin-Parchim, just under five hundred metres to the east.

  Fig # 204 - The battleground of Parchim and Spornitz

  Here the Centurions found themselves with no visible enemy to stop them driving on, but with no fuel in their tanks to allow them to take advantage of the situation.

  Additional pressure was unwittingly brought to bear upon the headquarters officers by the presence of Colonel Jacob ‘Bunty’ Hargreaves, recently arrived from divisional headquarters to check on progress and report back on his best view of how the attack could be pushed ahead.

  The Battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Keith, and his staff, were turning the airwaves blue in their quest to find the missing fuel column, with little success.

  A simple map reading error had deprived the Grenadiers of the necessary fluid of armoured warfare.

  Meanwhile, the battalion adjutant was up with ‘B’ Squadron, the point unit, organising the siphoning of fuel from other vehicles in order to keep the drive going.

  Fig # 205 - Limit of initial Allied advance, Parchim, Germany

  Acting Major Heywood passed on the Colonel’s orders to ‘A’ Squadron, who reluctantly gave up half of their petrol, leaving enough for modest manoeuvre, and the rest was greedily consumed by the Centurion IIs of ‘B’ Squadron.

  2nd Grenadiers had taken further hits since the battles around Lützow, and had been withdrawn as soon as the front had been stabilised.

  ‘C’ Squadron, until recently removed from the battalion for recuperation and for training with the new ammunition type, was on the road somewhere to the west, carried on M19 Diamond T transporters.

  The Grenadiers’ Centurion Is had all gone, and Centurion IIs now filled their ranks, as best they could, although insufficient numbers were available because of decidedly avoidable delays. Back in the home country, the decision to commence production of the new but untried Mark III had inadvertently crippled production of the Mark II, and arguments flared, which served neither the war effort nor the manufacturers, stuck in intransigence until Churchill himself stepped into the quarrel.

  Eventually, the Mark II production lines were restarted and the proven vehicle, still equipped with the ubiquitous 17-pdr, started to flow from Britain to the continent in modest numbers, but never enough to satisfy the all-consuming modern battlefield.

  The Mark III production line produced a few vehicles before some defects were detected, specifically with the gun stabiliser and mount, ensuring that the appearance of good numbers of the 84mm bore QF 20-pdr-equipped universal tanks were delayed.

  The first versions, hurried across the English Channel, were greedily accepted into service. On Saturday 26th July, the first Mark III in action, crewed by men of the Irish Guards, destroyed five Soviet tanks outside of Ludwigslust, two of which were knocked out whilst on the move.

  The stabilised 20-pdr, excellent power train, and upgraded armour protection made the Centurion III a formidable adversary.

  There were just not enough of them.

  Fig # 206 - Allied Order of Battle - Parchim, Germany.

  ‘B’ Squadron pushed on, screened by recon troopers from 2nd Welsh Guards, and supported by the mechanised companies of the 5th Battalion Coldstream Guards, leaving a disgruntled ‘A’ Squadron in hull-down positions to their rear.

  Some of the Coldstreams rode on the flank tanks, providing close infantry support, should Soviet infantry try to interfere with the Guards’ advance. Their M3 halftracks had also yielded up the contents of their fuel tanks to keep the Centurions on the move.

  The left flank troop took advantage of the good going offered by Route 9, and moved ahead of the main body, under orders, intent on securing a modest military bridge that aerial reconnaissance photographs had revealed.

  It was set over the River Elde, which formed the northern border of the Battlegroup’s advance, but offered opportunities for opening another line of attack on Parchim itself.

  The engineer bridge also marked the most forward positions of the 10th Guards Army, positions the Red Army had been ordered to hold at all costs.

  Fig # 207 - Renewed advance at Parchim, Germany.

  1413 hrs, Sunday, 28th July 1946, Elde
River crossing, Parchim, Germany.

  As the enemy force approached, the commanding NCO steadied his men.

  “Wait, comrades… wait… the leading one’s nearly to the mark.”

  A seemingly innocent broken road sign marked the location of the mines.

  He pulled the stock of his favourite weapon tighter into his shoulder.

  “Wait, lads…”

  The Staghound armoured car staggered as the ground erupted under its rear wheels, the front set having failed to set off the teller mines concealed in a diamond pattern in the dusty track.

  Pulling the trigger, the Soviet NCO sent a heavy calibre bullet into the body of the officer extracting himself shakily from the turret, the signal for his unit to open fire.

  The Welshman’s upper body literally flew apart as the 14.5mm round transited it.

  Behind the smoking armoured car, the tanks started to manoeuvre as the Coldstreams deployed into cover and started to fire back.

  The PTRS rifle cracked again, and this time the AP bullet penetrated the hull front, catastrophically wounding the driver as he attempted to lever himself out of the hatch.

  The man barely had time to scream before his heart exhausted the supply of blood.

  Around the Praporshchik, DPs, Mosin, and SKS rifles sought out the deploying infantry; across the river to their backs, two anti-tank guns duelled with the Centurions, and lost.

  Within seconds of each other, the two D-44 85mm guns had succumbed to direct hits, despite their excellent concealment, something that was let down by poor ammunition, the smoke from which marked their hiding place as effectively as a brightly-coloured marker round.

  Their only ‘success’ was to knock a track off one of the Centurions.

  Across the river, a Maxim machine gun started its own contribution and sent a stream of bullets into a running group of Coldstreams, sending nearly half flying under heavy impacts.

  A purple haze started flowing across Praporshchik Yuri Nazarbayev, one that presaged no good whatsoever.

  ‘Fuck. The bastards’ve marked us.’

  “First section back! Over the bridge! Move, Comrades, move!”

  The men needed no second bidding, for they also knew what would follow the purple smoke.

  Twenty men virtually flew back to the water’s edge adjacent to the bridge’s end, and moved quickly across underneath the structure, where a cunning walkway had been concealed.

  None of the First Section was even wounded, and they dropped into prepared positions and commenced firing again.

  The Soviet plan calculated that, if the defenders clung tight to the bridge, then they would be preserved from what usually followed the purple smoke.

  That problem still remained for Yuri Nazarbayev and his remaining guardsmen.

  “Let’s go, Comrades! Back! Back! Quickly!”

  The man next to Nazarbayev rose and immediately fell, his face ruined by something solid.

  Bubbling and squirting blood from a face that was beyond repair, the young guardsman thrashed around in pain and fear.

  Nazarbayev grabbed the man’s straps and dragged the heavy body as best he could.

  A Sergeant joined him, and together they moved the wounded man quicker and ate up the distance to the bridge, and its illusion of safety.

  Fig # 208 - Soviet defensive positions - Parchim, Germany.

  A sound burned through the numerous cracks of tank cannon, bursts of machine gun fire, or the screams of wounded men, a sound known to each and every Soviet soldier… a sound that carried nothing good for them.

  The first aircraft screamed down upon the battlefield, its new noisemakers bringing fear to the hearts of even the most steadfast of enemy. In truth, often to those the aircraft were supporting too.

  The Beaufighter Mark VI gracefully drove itself straight into the ground, killing two nearby Coldstream Guardsmen, and never having fired its guns or loosed off a single rocket.

  The next three aircraft put their ordnance right on the target markers, RP-3 rockets and cannon shells ploughed up the target and transformed the flat ground into a moonscape of whirling earth and stones..

  Second Section were already underneath the bridge, encumbered with three wounded, but none the less, still full of fight.

  Nazarbayev reported to the captain in charge before returning to his men.

  They were old comrades, and there was no ceremony.

  “Comrade Kapitan, Third platoon withdrawn, four casualties.”

  “Keep your head down, Yuri. Wait ‘til I blow it, and then give the Capitalists shit.”

  Guards Captain Nauvintsev took a moment to watch the veteran hobble off, a turned ankle preventing Nazarbayev from striding around the battlefield in the manner for which he was renowned.

  “Comrade Starshy Leytenant, test the circuit.”

  The engineer officer nodded to the designated man, and the circuit was duly checked.

  A nod sufficed as a report that all was well.

  “Comrade Kapitan Nauvintsev, the circuit is…”

  The first of the Coldstreams’ mortar rounds dropped fair and square into the centre of the pit in which they were concealed.

  Nauvintsev was catapulted into the sky as just over two pounds of high explosive killed every other man in the pit.

  The veteran Captain dropped from the sky.

  His scream carried across the battlefield as his battered body fell on hard ground, breaking more of his bones.

  Another 2” mortar round sought him out, picked him up, and threw him at the small bridge, where he was transfixed by the guardrail. The modest diameter timber poked out from his chest and held him upright on his knees, his broken legs at awkward angles to his front and side.

  Nauvintsev could make no noise, not move an arm or leg. All he could do was kneel exposed on the battlefield as his lifeblood ebbed away from numerous wounds, none more hideous than the penetrative wound, where the solid timber had pushed bone and lung out of the ragged exit would.

  But he stayed conscious, his mouth working, trying to form a word, a scream… a something.

  The agony subsided, as if some unseen doctor had filled him with pain relieving chemicals, and the dying officer found himself becoming aware of the battlefield.

  Behind him, not that he could turn and professionally examine the work of the enemy, the British tanks and infantry were closing down on the bridge as the surviving three Beaufighters circled over friendly territory, ready to return to avenge their leader.

  In front of him, his own guardsmen fired steadfastly, despite the growing casualties caused by the nasty little British mortars and direct fire from the assault force.

  A stray bullet clipped his left elbow, its passage a matter of indifference to him.

  He felt no pain whatsoever.

  Almost clinically, he watched his men die one by one, a rifle bullet here, a tank shell there.

  His mouth worked but no sound came out.

  ‘The bridge, Yuri… blow the fucking bridge.’

  On cue, the Praporshchik rose up and was immediately felled.

  Incapable of even a gasp, Nauvintsev willed his man to rise again.

  Nazarbayev staggered to his feet and started to move towards the shattered pit.

  Nauvintsev watched fascinated, as his predicament enabled him to observe a battle in a way he had never been able to before.

  Relieved of his own duties by his wounds, the Captain could see how his men fought and died, the bravery of some, the cowardice of others, his whole military career set out in one microcosm of combat in an unimportant corner of Germany.

  ‘Blow the fucking bridge, man!’

  Something whacked into Nazarbayev’s shoulder and spun him around, and probably saved his life, as tracer bullets split the air he had been running through a fraction of a second later.

  Again, the NCO rose, albeit slower and with more care, his right shoulder bloody and rent.

  He covered the remaining short distance in a half roll, half
crouching effort that kept him safe from further harm.

  That he dropped into the messy remains of the Engineer officer was unfortunate, but he had no time to rid himself of the unfortunate man’s organs and entrails.

  The detonator was intact, but one of the wires was clearly broken.

  “Job tvoju mat!”

  Setting the detonator straight, Nazarbayev looked for the other end of the wire.

  A bursting shell threw a load of earth and stone over him, and caused him to shrink onto the bottom of the hole.

  Up again, he risked a look over the parapet and saw that the British were closer than he had anticipated, and…

  “Mudaks!”

  His officer… his veteran commander…

  “Mudaks!”

  The virtual corpse’s eyes burned into his, issuing orders without words so that, even at distance, the iron will of Guards Captain Nauvintsev made itself known.

  Nazarbayev managed a nod and, had he not returned to the task of finding the broken wire, he would have seen the nearest thing possible to a smile form on the broken face of his leader.

  He followed the intact wire up to the edge of the pit, and over it, attracting a burst of fire from the nearest Centurion.

  He ducked down, gripped the detonator in his good hand, counted to three, and propelled himself up and over the edge, dropping into a piece of dead ground on the side away from the enemy.

  Working his way round, the shoulder wound increasingly inhibiting him, Nazarbayev found what he was looking for, but the broken wire end lay in plain sight, in an area exposed to enemy fire.

  Without a thought, the NCO threw himself forward and grabbed at the end with his wounded arm, the pain of the impact with the earth almost enough to push him into unconsciousness.

  He landed badly and smashed his face into the detonator, and opened up his top lip virtually to his nostril.