Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6)

by Colin Gee

  Stelmakh returned to scanning the ground ahead of him, his binoculars picking out the advancing enemy tan…

  ‘They’ve stopped… the bastards have stopped…’

  He tightened his grip as he saw another movement, this time slightly off to the right, and behind the leading force.

  ‘Their leader has sensed something.’

  He looked into the sky, seeking answers amongst the whirling Allied aircraft, but found none, so he thought things through.

  ‘They don’t know we’re here… or they’d be attacking us.’

  He picked up the handset to make a report, but checked himself as another of the fighter-bombers took hits from the mechanised units SPAA guns.

  It simply exploded in mid-air less than a hundred feet above the ground, showering his concealed infantry with a deadly mixture of fast moving metal pieces and burning fuel.

  Watching the horror unfold, he made his report.

  “Cherepakha-krasniy-odin, Chorniy-odin, over.”

  The major commanding 6th GIBTR responded immediately.

  “I’ve seen it. Shit happens. Maintain silence. Out.”

  The man had been with the 6th for less than a week, and already they knew that his combat experience was considerably more limited than his decorations indicated, and that the main contributions he brought to the unit were bluster and bullying.

  “Cherepakha-krasniy-odin, Chorniy-odin, urgent situation report over.”

  “Spit it out man, Krasniy-odin, over.”

  “Chorniy-Odin, enemy force heading location Vosem has halted,” he gave the code for Trendelburg itself as he took another quick look at the new movement, “And another enemy force is flanking to the west, heading north to pass close to location Sem,” he swivelled to check the prominent height and seek out its defenders, but there was nothing to be seen.

  And then, suddenly, there was.

  “One moment… enemy force is definitely driving at location Sem… tanks and infantry, possibly battalion strength, Chorniy-Odin over.”

  “Maintain fire discipline. Fire only on my order. Don’t panic, man. Krasniy-Odin, out.”

  If the handset was not a vital piece of his equipment, Stelmakh might well have thrown it in the general direction of his commanding officer.

  “Ukol!”

  The chuckling gunner, Oleg Ferensky exchanged looks with his loader, before commenting on his commander’s language.

  “Young ears, Kapitan, the Comrade Loader is blushing.”

  Stelmakh dropped into the turret and silenced ‘Yuri’ Ferensky with a single look, sparing a second look for the tank’s oldest crewman, who appeared older than any two of them combined.

  Lev Kalinov was a quiet and withdrawn man who claimed to be somewhere around thirty years of age, but who looked closer to fifty, as if life’s experiences had weighed heavily on his face, a face that sometimes seemed strangely familiar to Stelmakh, and a face that remained straight as he offered an observation to his tank commander.

  “I agree, Comrade Kapitan. The man’s a total prick.”

  Ferensky chuckled again, this time from behind his sights as he followed the leading enemy vehicles.

  “Comrade Kapitan.”

  The tone alone was enough, and Stelmakh emerged from the turret with his binoculars already on the way up.

  The enemy were charging at Sem, the height west of Trendelburg.

  ‘Ukol.’

  He had the thought before he picked up the handset once more and spoke to the ‘ukol’ in question. Stelmakh’s report to his commander was often interrupted and broken, as his words were punctuated by medium artillery dropping on Sem and in the valley beneath.

  Taking Height 299, or location Sem as the Soviets called it, had always been part of the plan, which is why two companies of Europa’s panzer-grenadier battalion were set aside to storm it and secure it, backed up by anti-tank guns from the brigade’s panzer-jager company.

  Another part of the plan was the artillery that lashed the height with high-explosives, and that now also dropped smoke along the right flank of the hurrying halftracks, completely obscuring them from Stelmakh’s gaze.

  The small Soviet-held hill, completely stripped of its trees and bushes by man’s combative efforts, was quickly overrun, placing a German force immediately to Stelmakh’s right.

  Von Hardegen split off two platoons from the main body and brought them up to support his small force, holding back the grenadier attack on Height 233 until they could move up and support.

  Soviet mortars were hitting back at Height 299, but there was no sign of any other resistance to the west of the Diemel River.

  On the east bank, things were different, as the sharp crack of tank cannon revealed.

  Reports indicated that a handful of tanks and anti-tank guns on Stammen heights, overlooking Route 83, had opened fire from concealed positions, causing casualties amongst the leading elements.

  Europa’s commander dismounted from his tank and left his Panther at the bottom of the slop, von Hardegen moved up a shallow trench and took up a position next to a rusting M-16 halftrack, long since stripped of anything remotely of use or value.

  The commander of the grenadier force joined him in surveying the ground ahead of them.

  No smoke screen obscured them now, and they examined the route to Trendelburg. Von Hardegen listened intently to the infantryman’s report that secondary explosions had been seen when the smoke shells descended.

  “Mines?”

  “I think so, Herr Oberst. Not large ones, but large enough to take a tyre or a track, I think.”

  Von Hardegen hummed his response, and switched his attention to the German town that was the object of his attack, wherein, intelligence reported, the commanding officer and staff of the 1st Mechanised Corps were trapped.

  Part of Plan Otto was constructed to ensure the enemy headquarters group remained trapped; the part that was now suppressing the Stammen Heights.

  He could see one Jaguar burning brightly, and what might be a halftrack in a similar state, but apart from that, there seemed little price paid for the Stammen advance so far.

  “We’ll stick to the plan as far as you are concerned, Hauptmann. Once the other kompagnie’s established on Height 299, with some of my tanks as baby sitters, I might reconsider… but for now, we stick with the plan. Klar?”

  “Alles klar, Herr Oberst.”

  The infantryman scuttled away to make sure his defences were organised, and that the AT guns were properly protected.

  A whistle attracted von Hardegen’s attention, accompanied by frantic waving from his Panther turret.

  He half tumbled, half ran back down the slope, and climbed back aboard his command tank.

  “Herr Oberst, Walküre-six, urgent.”

  He pulled on the throat mike and made contact with Fürth.

  “Walküre-six, Wotan-six, come in, over.”

  “Wotan-six, Walküre-six, phase three complete. Request permission to proceed with next phase, over.”

  “Walküre-six, Wotan-six. Walküre-two will remain under my command. Proceed as planned. Wotan will support from 299. I will advise if moving. Confirm. Over.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Fürth acknowledged the change and was gone, already initiating the next artillery barrage planned for ‘Otto’.

  Von Hardegen watched as the elements on the east bank pushed hard up the valley, mirrored by forces to the west, both thrusts surging towards Trendelburg.

  His ears heard more firing to the north and he ordered his command tank repositioned so as to observe the attack on Height 233, where some resistance was being encountered.

  Even as he watched, he observed a handful of old T34s armed with 76mm guns try and fail to halt the advance, the venerable tanks simply swept aside in a volley of 75mm and 88mm high velocity shells.

  1225 hrs, Thursday, 15th August 1946, Astride Route 83, Trendelburg, Germany.

  Stelmakh was silently pondering the command and control problems of a
tank unit with less than half an issue of fuel in their tanks, less than full ammunition stocks, operating under the umbrella of a powerful enemy air force, and overseen by an officer of dubious worth.

  His mind could find no light in the darkness of his thoughts.

  The enemy force that had halted before Trendelburg was now moving again, and more of the bastards were knocking away at the heights on his right.

  He looked, and looked again.

  The enemy forces had exposed flanks, their attempted smoke cover next to useless in the growing breeze.

  ‘We have an opportunity…’

  “Cherepakha-krasniy-odin, Chorniy-Odin, urgent situation report over.”

  “What is it about fucking radio silence that you don’t understand, Stelmakh?”

  ‘What a fucking idiot.’

  “Cherepakha-krasniy-odin, Chorniy-Odin, urgent situation report, enemy flanks exposed to our front, and on location Sem, over.”

  “Get off the radio… now! Don’t reveal our presence or position. Fire discipline. Do not fire, repeat, do not fire. Stay hidden and let them pass. Out.”

  There was silence in the tank, broken by a contemptuous fart from the driver’s position.

  “That’s my fucking comment on that load of shit. The man’s an idiot, Comrade Kapitan. Look at that target… look at it, for fuck’s sake! We’ve got them on fucking toast, and he wants to hide.”

  “Thank you, General Stepanov.”

  The growing tension in ‘Krasniy Suka’ dissuaded the others from any comment or contribution.

  Vladimir Stelmakh thought hard, knowing his time for such activity was extremely limited.

  He then acted, switching over to his own unit’s frequency, and pressed the transmit button.

  “All units Cherepakha-Chorniy, Cherepakha-Chorniy. Stand by to engage targets moving to your front.”

  He unkeyed the mike.

  “Yuri… get ready to fire on my order.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The turret moved slightly in response.

  “All units Cherepakha-Chorniy, ready…. Ready… fire!”

  Five 122mm guns sent their deadly projectiles down range.

  “Achtu…”

  Someone shouted into the radio, an unknown tank commander who perished within milli-seconds, as three of the massive shells struck home, easily penetrating the side armour of the Panthers and Jaguars leading the drive into the west edge of Trendelburg.

  Von Hardegen saw the smoke marks from the enemy positions, but such was the quality of their camouflage that he still could not see where exactly they were, or what they were.

  “Gunner, engage… distract them if you can.”

  “Jawohl.”

  The Panther’s turret swung and the gunner found a drifting smudge of smoke. Another immediately declared itself, as the enemy fired once more.

  Five of Third Company’s tanks now lay smashed on the valley floor, and no enemy had been successfully engaged.

  The 75mm spat an AP shell towards the smoke spot, uselessly, as nothing but earth and stone was damaged by its passage.

  Europa’s commander checked the tanks of his third company and immediately saw that Walküre-three-six was now amongst the casualties.

  ‘Another of the old comrades.’

  Third Company had reoriented and were trying to strike back, the powerful 88mm’s lashing out at anything that looked remotely like it could be a threat.

  An anti-tank gun fired from across the Diemel, striking, but not killing, the nearest Jaguar.

  Seemingly with disdain, the turret swung, the driver re-angled the tank, and the anti-tank gun was blotted out in an instant.

  The Jaguar commander ordered a purple smoke shell placed on the same location, and the circling attack aircraft swooped down to bathe the area in rockets and napalm.

  Walküre-three-six’s last act had been to do the same, but the IS-IIIs held fast, knowing that of they moved out of their bunkers, they would be easy meat for the vengeful DRL airmen. However, other Soviet vehicles moving in the open to the north attracted them away from the purple smoke marker, and the remnants of the mechanised unit, plus both of the 6th’s T34s, were quickly butchered.

  “Chorniy-Odin, Seeniy-odin, over.”

  Stelmakh directed his gunner to engage a new target before answering.

  “Seeniy-odin, Chorniy-Odin, receiving, over.”

  “Chorniy-Odin, our glorious leader just fireballed. You’re in charge. Say the word. Over.”

  Stelmakh felt the smile start, but resisted celebrating the man’s death, even if he was a liability.

  “Seeniy-odin, situation report. Engaging company of enemy heavy tanks to my front. Under air attack. Holding. Do you have the other enemy force in sight? Over.”

  “Chorniy-Odin, yes. Heading north towards objective Shest. Clear shots. We can engage immediately. Over.”

  “Seeniy-odin. Engage immediately. Do not move out of your bunkers whilst enemy aircraft are here. We relocate only when they are gone. Understood? Over.”

  The commander of the Seeniy group responded, but Stelmakh heard not a bit of it, his hearing lost to the immense clang of a shell striking his gun mantlet.

  “Gunner! Get the bastard quick!”

  Ferensky was on the case and sought out the enemy tank.

  “Firing!”

  The breech hurtled back into the turret as a HEAT shell went from muzzle to target in the blink of an eye.

  The front of the Panther went orange and white but, when the bright lights disappeared, the vehicle stood defiant.

  But it was silent, a small hole betraying the penetration point where the particle stream overcame the tank’s armour.

  The men inside had perished instantly.

  Third Company had now lost eight tanks, and not one IS-III had been knocked out in return. Now their air cover was leaving, short on fuel, and simply nothing was going right.

  Von Hardegen knew his force was in big trouble, particularly as the group attacking Height 233 had been taken under fire by another concealed enemy.

  “All units Walküre, All units Walküre, Wotan-six, smoke the target areas, repeat, smoke the target areas, keep it in place until air arrive. Out.”

  He switched channel immediately.

  “Mime-two, Mime-two, Wotan-six, over.”

  “Wotan-six, Mime-two, go ahead, over.”

  “Mime-two, limettensaft, limettensaft, Acknowledge. Over.”

  “Wotan -six, Mime-two. Order is limettensaft. Understood. Over.”

  Von Hardegen didn’t bother to speak to the DRL officer again. Having ordered his own desperate limejuice air strike, he went back on the radio to order a platoon from First Company back to assist Third Company.

  A sharp crack on his left hand side summoned him from his thoughts and he risked a quick look.

  One of the 88mm Pak 43s had joined the fight, and with good effect.

  From its raised position, it had fired at an angle that brought its shell into contact with the open driver’s hatch of its target.

  The heavy shell passed easily through the flesh and bone and destroyed everything in its path before finally angling upwards and slamming into the underside of the turret roof, when it dislocated the IS-III’s heavy metal frying pan shape from its mount.

  The growing purple haze prevented the AT crew from putting another shell into the target, just to make sure.

  As the smoke started to disperse, another smoke shell was added, maintaining a marker for when the aircraft summoned by the limettensaft order arrived.

  Which was reasonably quickly, for it seemed no more than a minute since the message had been sent than a flight of Hs-129s from 13th Sturzkampfstaffel arrived on the scene.

  They were eminently unsuited to the work, being better employed against open targets, rather than aircraft hidden in bunkers.

  None the less, the DRL pilots tried to make a difference, but the best that they managed was to knock apart the camouflaged bunker surroundi
ng one of the enemy tanks, revealing the nature of their enemy at last.

  ‘Scheisse!’

  A common thought amongst the German panzer crew who spotted the low shape of the deadly IS-III.

  ‘Blyad… our bunker’s fucked!’

  “Driver reverse!”

  Stelmakh had no choice, his hidden position savaged by the exploding 30mm shells from the Henschel 129-B-2 aircraft.

  The IS-III virtually flew backwards out of the bunker position, and avoided a further attack completely, as the aircraft’s shells chewed up the vacant ground and woodwork.

  Looking back towards the rear, Stelmakh directed Stepanov to reverse into a nearby stand of trees, near where their secondary position was located.

  Two 30mm shells hit the side of the tank, inches apart.

  Whilst not a killing hit, the blast wave took hold of Stelmakh’s exposed head and dashed it against the cupola. The unconscious officer dropped like a stone to the turret floor, his face a bloody mess, and his mouth smashed; blood and broken teeth created an awful looking injury.

  In the driver’s position, Stepanov had a similar experience, the back of his head thrown back against the unyielding metal, splitting his skin and knocking him unconscious with his foot on the accelerator.

  ‘Krasniy Suka’ started to lose speed as the tree trunks resisted her, eventually stalling as a stout beech proved too much of an obstacle.

  Kalinov, ignoring the dislocated finger that had resulted from trying to steady himself, acted swiftly, grabbed a smoke grenade and dropped it onto the engine grille.

  “What you doing, Leo?”

  Ferensky spoke like a drunk, clearly not totally with it.

  “Only chance is if they think we’re already fucked. Help me with the Kapitan.”

  They pulled Stelmakh into an upright position, and Kalinov started to clear away the detritus of his teeth and gums.

  As he worked he called to Stepanov.

  “Oi! You lazy bastard! Bloody driver!”

  He counted eleven smashed teeth in the commander’s mouth.

  “How’s he doing, Leo?”

  “Well, it’s going to fucking ache a bit, that’s for sure, and soup’ll be his favourite food for a while.”