Impasse (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  Prioritising his problems, the Italian officer turned his attention to the west, where contact had been lost with his infantry force commander.

  Last reports had a large all-arms Soviet unit pushing that battalion hard.

  Combined with the recent communication from the ‘Robin’ group, the whole thing stank of disaster.

  Two of the three Shermans had been incapacitated, one by a simple track breakage, the other by a more serious engine problem. The third tank, that of the section’s commander, decided to remain in close attendance.

  Aircraft of both nations arrived over the battlefield, expanding the options available to both sides.

  Thunderbolts and Mustangs fell upon the Soviet ground forces, whilst Shturmoviks and PE-2’s similarly attacked the Allied defensive positions, both sides with remarkably little success, considering the amount of ordnance they expended.

  Other aircraft started to arrive, some with stars, some with roundels, all with the intent on blowing up the ground trrops or shooting down the enemy’s machines. A full-blown air battle developed, even as the winter’s evening started to draw in.

  402 Squadron RCAF had been disbanded in July 1945 and was one of those recently reformed and sent to Italy, training to prepare for their New Year move to the German Front.

  Four of their Spitfire Mk XIV-Es arrived over the battlefield, carefully shepherding another four Spitfires, Mark IXs, each with a 500lb bomb aboard.

  The ground controller, until recently decidedly redundant, was trying hard to control the air battle and losing the struggle, as more assets arrived hand in hand with more cries for help from the defenders.

  “Firenze Dieci, Firenze Dieci, Robin Six over.”

  Something in the man’s voice made the radio operator answer his call as a priority.

  It also drew the attention of the GC and Pappalardo.

  His report was a blow to the defenders.

  “Firenze Dieci, tanks and infantry in company strength on Route 111, heading east,” the Robin commander paused as he checked his map and made his best guess, “Approximately one thousand yards east of Nötsch and advancing, Robin Six over.”

  Again, the lack of decent maps did not help the defenders.

  The RAF officer scanned the paperwork he was struggling with and offered up the Mark IX’s.

  Pappalardo gave the operator an order and the harassed man keyed the mike.

  “Robin Six, Robin Six, Firenze Dieci. Can you identify force on Route 111 as enemy, over.”

  The silence suggested that the harassed Sherman commander was attempting to do just that.

  “Firenze Dieci, Robin Six, negative at this time... but they’re not being fired on from Nötsch and have just been overflown by enemy aircraft... without being attacked, over.”

  That could mean only one thing to Pappalardo so he gave the order, even then advising caution and proper identification.

  The RAF controller vectored the Spitfires in on the reported position, using the main map for accuracy and passing on the need for proper recognition of any target before attacking.

  The Folgore Commander switched his attention to the battle growing on the Dog line.

  The flight leader recognised the type instantly, as did the rest of his pilots.

  “Skipper, Blue Two, ain’t they ours?”

  Flight-Lieutenant Pearce had a brother-in-law in the British Guards, and he had heard of the letter that the badly wounded man had written home.

  “Blue Two from lead. Lend-lease... the Red’s have a bundle of them that they used at the start of this shite. Don’t be fooled, Doc.”

  None the less, Pearce strained for the best possible view, but was interrupted by a call from the cover section.

  “Blue leader, enemy fighters, ten plus, three o’clock high, break left under us... break ...break.”

  Blue section’s pilots were all experienced men and the four Mark IX’s reacted like the thoroughbreds they were.

  The cover section drove in hard, knocking two LAGG’s from the sky in one frenzied burst of activity.

  However, there were more.

  “Red Leader from Blue, attacking now.”

  The Red commander’s acknowledgement was brief, his own problems paramount, as three LAGGs singled him out.

  “Blue section, line astern, follow me.”

  Pearce took them away from the battle, slowly turning so that he could come in over Nötsch and see what was happening there.

  Even under pressure, it was obviously full of Soviet soldiers and hardware, a fact reinforced by the numerous tracers that rose from the burning town.

  ‘That settles that.’

  “Blue section attacking... armour to front... maintain intervals... acknowledge.”

  Each pilot in turn reported in, making the adjustments to ensure that they were far enough behind the aircraft in front to avoid the blast of its bomb.

  Red section, now ahead of them, lost an aircraft and the screams of the pilot as he nosedived into the ground unsettled everyone, even those who flicked the radio switch before the end.

  Pearce selected the lead tank and drove in hard, releasing his bomb when it was impossible to miss.

  ‘I don’t see any plods.’

  The thought was of little import as all of Pearce’s resources were concentrated on flying.

  Blue Two took the second, Blue Three attacked the fourth, leaving Blue Four to take the rearmost vehicle, and only he failed to destroy his target, the five hundred pounder stubbornly refusing to release.

  The Mark IX’s now became fighters, although Blue Four was greatly hindered by the unwanted load.

  Blue section rose up into the melee just as a flight of US Mustangs attacked from above, ending the dogfight almost instantly, the combination of the growing evening, lack of fuel, and mounting losses forcing the Red fighters off the battlefield.

  1635 hrs, Thursday, 28th November 1945, Route 111, one mile southeast of Nötsch, Austria.

  Pearce’s brother-in-law had seen combat on the first day of the new hostilities, a day when the Red Army employed many of its lend-lease vehicles to fool the defenders.

  Whilst his Guards unit had dealt harshly with the Soviet-manned Churchill IV’s, the effect of the subterfuge was considerable, and the now dead Guards officer had written of it in his letters home.

  142nd RAC was equipped with Churchill VIIs, although the difference, at the height and speed that Blue section was travelling at, would not have been easily noticeable, least of all to a man with a reason to want to kill them.

  A combination of circumstances brought about the attack.

  In the first instance, the cowardly withdrawal of the tanks, leaving the Folgore behind to fight and die. The RAC Sergeant had withdrawn his tanks as soon as the first shells started to fall on Nötsch, with no thought for those he was supposed to support.

  Secondly, the Robin’s report of tanks and infantry on Route 111, heading east, although there were no ‘plods’, as Pearce put it.

  Thirdly, there was no fire from Nötsch aimed at the moving armoured force, brought about by continued resistance from the Folgore infantry, a combination of low ammunition levels, and confusion between the tank unit commander and Kozlov.

  Fourthly, the sudden arrival of a another Soviet fighter unit, which placed extra pressure on Pearce and his men.

  Fate contrived to bring about the circumstances that meant that three of the five RAC tanks were destroyed; destroyed in the complete way that a direct hit from a 500 pound bomb achieves, without fail.

  The remaining two tanks ran into a horrified ‘Robin’ troop, where they were halted and set to face the enemy in Nötsch.

  Whilst the surviving RAC troopers were almost immobilised by shock, Sergeant Massala suffered from no such concerns over the tragic loss of his comrades. Openly, he set his face to the enemy. Inside, he set his mind to devising an escape.

  Red section had lost two, including the leader. Blue left one burning lump of shattered metal
and bone on the west bank of Gailitz, adjacent to the bridge that carried Route 111.

  Six Soviet machines had fallen and others, some smoking, were still being pursued by the eager Mustangs.

  As 402 Squadron returned to their base at Belluno, the unpalatable news of the friendly fire incident was received in Pappalardo’s headquarters.

  Buoyed by the recent arrival of some engineers, already set to work to destroy the Gail bridges, the news of the self-inflicted injury deflated the entire force.

  There would be no recriminations against Pearce. Not that day; not any day.

  Pilots, tired, stressed, returning from their third mission of the day, made an error of judgement on the approach to the Belluno airbase. Perhaps it was the bomb that gave the aircraft different characteristics on the approach.

  Perhaps it was fatigue on both their parts.

  Whatever the cause, the two thoroughbred aircraft started to occupy the same piece of Italian sky. Blue Four’s propeller shredded the tail of Pearce’s Spitfire, causing it to flip into a brief spin that offered no chance to escape the aircraft.

  Blue Four performed a brief fiery cartwheel across the Italian fields, punctuated by the detonation of its bomb.

  The two surviving pilots landed their planes, eyes heavy with silent tears.

  Back on the Gail River, the situation was dire.

  1735 hrs, Thursday, 28th November 1945, Defensive line Edward, one kilometre east of Arnoldstein, Austria.

  Dog line had been overwhelmed, but Haines had withdrawn his force in good order and now occupied Edward, the last tenable position before Arnoldstein.

  The Italians had taken heavy casualties on the heights but, or so it seemed anyway, had stopped the Soviet infantry’s outflanking move in its tracks.

  The aircraft of both sides had quit the battlefield, banished by the darkness that fell so swiftly.

  Ambrose Force’s dwindling supply of flares was being carefully husbanded, the defenders more reliant on the flashes of explosions for advance warning of any more enemy attacks.

  Pappalardo finished up a brief radio exchange with Haines, during which both men agreed that the Russians would come again, and come soon.

  Poring over the map, the Italian officer found himself faced with an unpalatable decision.

  Sliding a cheroot into his ivory holder, he weighed the situation carefully.

  His concentration was disturbed by a noisy exchange between two officers and then by one of them, his aide, striding purposefully to his side.

  “Colonnello, the engineers are ready now.”

  The Major consulted his notepad and placed his finger on the relevant locations; the Route 111 bridge at Kraftoolstraβe, the Route 83 bridge at Kartnerstraβe, and the temporary structure at Greuth.

  “One, two, three. The Primo Capitano asks for ten minutes to get back to his position. Then he can fire one and two on command, Colonnello. Three is a separate matter, for when we have all fallen back, of course.”

  Pappalardo nodded and drew his cheroot down heavily, filling his lungs with the comforting smoke, making the tip glowing red enough to add more illumination to the map.

  “Anything from 2nd Battalion and Maggiore Lastanza?”

  “Nothing, Sir, although the nearest troops report that a fight’s still going in Nötsch.”

  “Keep trying to get through to them. Let me know immediately.”

  The Aide moved off to the radio, leaving Pappalardo to make a crucial decision.

  ‘Withdraw now?’

  With the arrival of the Soviet force at Nötsch, Route 111 was compromised, the defence was compromised, as 111 was one of the key requirements of the Arnoldstein defence.

  The defences at Tarvisio were not yet ready but were, at least, partially occupied by fresh forces.

  ‘What good will we do here?’

  The sound of a renewed enemy artillery barrage broke the relative silence of the early evening.

  ‘If I pull back now and they attack at the same time?’

  If that happened and the Soviets caught his inferior force on the move, the result would be massacre.

  It was a difficult decision.

  One that Pappalardo was about to make until everything changed.

  The staff Major interrupted his Colonel’s thoughts.

  “Colonnello, we’ve got through to Lastanza... he’s falling back, still in heavy contact. Primo Capitano ‘Aines reports enemy tanks and infantry attacking his position in regimental strength.”

  Pappalardo smiled a smile that held no humour.

  He spoke, more to himself than the waiting officer.

  “So, it is decided then.”

  “Colonnello?”

  “Tell Lastanza to pull back, with all possible speed, over the bridge... here,” he indicated the one wired for demolition at Kraftoolstraβe, “Pull the rest of the covering force back over it now and,” he confirmed the details his memory had summoned up, “Get them to form a barrier, facing west... on Route 27 here... to the other side of Hohenthurn.”

  The Major made the necessary note, understanding that his commander was concerned about a Soviet advance from Nötsch through Feistritz.

  Pappalardo took a deep breath.

  “Order Capitano Haines to hold and not, repeat, not disengage until the enemy’s beaten back. Then he must withdraw immediately over the Kartnerstraβe Bridge, which will then be blown.”

  ‘Just in case.’

  “Maggiore, I’ll write these orders up quickly. I intend to do a fighting withdrawal down Route 55 onto the Tarvisio position. Clear?”

  The Aide saluted and left Pappalardo to his thoughts once more.

  The enemy artillery was dropping in intensity, partially because of orders limiting speculative fire and partially because an Allied night fighter had called in an artillery strike that caught part of the 124th Guards Artillery Regiment redeploying.

  He strode to the radio in time to hear Haines’ acknowledgement.

  “Are you done, Maggiore?”

  “Yes, Sir, as you directed.”

  “Good. Now, prepare to relocate.”

  “Hold? Fucking hold?”

  Haines felt like punching the radio.

  “ON!”

  “FIRE! We’ll be fucking lucky to survive this shit!”

  The Sherman rocked back as the 76mm removed another tank from the enemy’s order of battle.

  “Nellie, you’re on your own at the mo, ok?”

  “Roger that, boss.”

  The turret smoothly traversed as Oliphant went about his trade efficiently, no after effects of his head wound apparent.

  Haines, his testicles reminding him of their ordeal with every little movement, stuck his head out of the turret to take in the battlefield.

  The Edward line was alive with tracers and explosions. Whilst he could see little detail, the line seemed to be holding.

  And then, it wasn’t.

  In the light of a big explosion, the Lancer officer spotted a large group of Soviet infantry pushing through on the left of his tank.

  “Enemy infantry left, one-fifty yards. I’m on the fifty.”

  He spoke into the radio first, seeking out his small infantry reserve and calling them in to block the gap.

  Two platoons of the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers moved forward quickly.

  Haines grabbed the large .50 calibre machine-gun mounted on his turret and rotated the cupola to his left, bringing the weapon to bear.

  The M2 Browning was equipped with API ammo, with an APIT tracer every fifth round for targeting.

  The heavy bullets started to chew away at the enemy soldiers, who went to ground as one. Not lacking in courage, a number of the infantrymen began to take shots back at the Sherman, and more than one twanged off the turret or hull side of ‘Biffo’s Bus’.

  Although Haines had only hit six or seven men, he distracted the force sufficiently for the first Irish platoon to rush forward and engulf the Russians in a storm of hand grenades.


  The Royal Inniskillings’ second platoon moved around the fighting and sealed the breach in the lines, immediately pushing back a larger group of enemy intent on following their comrades through the hole.

  The tank officer was impressed, having had lesser expectations of the exhausted Irishmen.

  Haines ceased fire as the rampant Fusiliers mopped up the Soviet incursion.

  He half considered intervening as flashes from exploding shells illuminated bayonets working on helpless wounded Russians.

  A whoosh focussed his mind on other matters as an enemy solid shot missed the Sherman by a matter of feet.

  Dropping back into the turret, Haines got reacquainted with his own vehicle’s situation.

  “ON!”

  The breech recoiled and the gun spat another HVAP shell across the snow.

  “Bugger it!”

  The shell had missed by a country mile.

  “Up!”

  “ON!”

  Again, the gun boomed.

  “Hit!”

  Haines looked and saw the aftermath of the strike.

  “It’s not dead, Nellie. I’m back now, ok?”

  Clair put another one up the spout.

  “Up!”

  “ON!”

  “FIRE!”

  A miss.

  “For fuck’s sake, Nellie!”

  Haines snatched a look at his gunner and noticed the yellow fluid seeping from Oliphant’s left ear.

  “Up!”

  “ON!”

  “FIRE!”

  Almost at the same instant that the 76mm was fired, an 85mm shell arrived and thumped into the hull machine gun position.

  Over in the positions now occupied by the Royal Inniskilling Fusilier’s first platoon, the desperate plight of the Sherman was spotted, and two men ran to the stricken tank to help.

  Patrick Walshe was first up on the rear deck of the smoking Sherman, where he was confronted with the head of an obviously unconscious man emerging from the hatch.

  The loader’s hatch opened and a blackened tanker slipped out and started to pull up on the insensible body as another pushed from below.