Impasse (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  Barkmann felt the start of some sort of functional control returning, and he tested his belief with an act of great concentration, willing his body to try to sit up.

  The effort failed, but his limbs started to move in some resemblance of the orders they were being sent.

  In front of him, an enemy soldier screamed, a bullet thumping into his lower abdomen, doubling the man over in pain.

  The screams continued, burning further into Barkmann’s recovering senses and, surprisingly, not hindering but helping the process of his mental return.

  He sat up and started to take in the bigger picture.

  There were wounded men from both sides, in and around the position.

  The cries of more wounded and dying men made themselves known as the recovery of his senses accelerated.

  Those same senses announced that he could now hear, but that they also believed that they were now less assaulted with the noises of battle.

  Which was true.

  The firing had stopped.

  0642 hrs, Monday, 2nd December 1945, Mobile command post, five hundred metres west of Hattmatt, Alsace.

  Brigadier-General Pierce was still not happy.

  The position at Dahlem had been taken, but the schedule was all to cock. The resistance had not been so easily swept aside as had been anticipated, the main reasons being the larger number of Soviet troops than had been expected, and the fact that they fought like mad dogs.

  Another factor contributing to his unhappiness were the casualty figures that were filtering through.

  18th Armored Infantry had taken relatively light hits, except, for some reason, the hierarchy was ravaged.

  By all accounts, the brief tenure of the latest commander of the armored infantry was terminated when he was relieved by the Battalion Intelligence Officer. The Captain in question was presently on his way to the rear in a straightjacket, having suffered a mental collapse.

  The Rangers had taken some heavy blows and over a company were either on their way to hospital or awaiting the ministrations of the graves registration units. Again, a lot of the leadership talent had suffered, although not the high level of dead that had ravaged the 18th.

  Offset his own numbers against what was near to a full Red Army battalion removed from the communist’s order of battle, and Pierce should have been happy.

  Pierce and Greiner worked the map and savoured the fresh coffee, perked up with a nip of something that one of the men had produced to ward off the increasingly chill.

  “We can’t afford to hang around here, Ed. We’ve lost time. Should be here?”

  He indicated a position on the map, seeking confirmation of his interpretation of the timetable.

  “Yes, Sir. We can press on immediately. The arty’s already moving up, ready to support.”

  Pierce drained the last dregs of the warming concoction.

  “Excellent. Now, contact 18th and tell ‘em to swiftly manage the prisoners. Get our MP’s moving up a-sap to take ‘em off their hands. But tell the 18th that I want them moving forward on their route of advance within ten minutes and no later.”

  Greiner made the usual notes.

  “The Rangers took the bigger hit, so tell Williams to shake out and expand his ground the other side of the Zinsel, up to Route 59... right flank on the Wullbach... here... left to the 6... here... but not to get involved in anything at Imbsheim yet. Reform his hurt units into something he can use and sort out his prisoners a-sap. We’re not hanging around.”

  The pencil waggled, recording the orders.

  Greiner posed the question.

  “The armor’s nearly up, Sir. You gonna give ‘em their head now?”

  Smiling as his mug was being refilled, Pierce considered the idea.

  “No, I think not. Keep their fuel topped off and let the 18th close Imbsheim. If they ain’t needed there, then we cut them loose. I wanna hold them as long as possible, keep them organised, on line, and raring to go, Ed. Kapische?”

  “Jawohl, Herr General.”

  Pierce spluttered as the involuntary laugh clashed with the process of swallowing the hot liquid.

  “Goddamnit Ed! What’ve I told you about trying to be funny in my presence!”

  “I can’t immediately recall, Sir. Now, I’ll attend to these orders.”

  Barkmann was still groggy, but back on his feet, nodding to a man here and there, slapping a shoulder, or inspecting a small wound as he went from man to man.

  Baker Company had been knocked about but was still in fighting shape.

  Able had been hurt the most.

  Williams, in receipt of Greiner’s orders, quickly organised some lightly wounded Rangers to look after the prisoners, shoehorning a number of Able survivors into Baker Company, and finally creating an extra reserve force for the battalion headquarters.

  The Ranger commander had selected the small hill as a convenient place to hold an orders group, and as he waited for the officers to arrive, he sorted out the tactical orders from Brigade into orders that he could pass to his men.

  Nearby, a pair of medics loaded a bloodied Russian officer onto a stretcher and headed off towards a small hut near the river, where the enemy wounded were being collected.

  The man was crying.

  Not tears of pain, but tears of frustration. Burastov had failed in his mission, and the 424th had been cornered and destroyed.

  Williams did not spare the wounded Russian a second thought, concentrating on his planning.

  Acknowledging Barkmann’s presence, Williams spoke quietly with the young officer now commanding Baker Company and drew him into the next stage of the Ranger’s war. Running his pencil over the map work, Williams was pleased to see that Barkmann seemed up to the task ahead. Sending the Ranger to grab some coffee, Williams moved to his table, a pile of ammo boxes, and starting making notes on the margins, before his concentration was interrupted by firing from the village.

  0651 hrs, Monday, 2nd December 1945, the waste ground, Rue Principale, Hattmatt, Alsace.

  In Hattmatt, the survivors of the 424th, both wounded and unwounded, were herded onto a piece of ground to the south of the Rue Principale.

  Din constantly spat blood as he assisted a wounded comrade into the holding area.

  He had been felled in the close quarter fight; an enemy soldier had rushed him and slammed his helmeted head into his face at speed.

  The resultant broken nose was painful and his eyes resembled those of a Panda as the bruising spread across his face. His lips were shredded by the impact and he had no front teeth worth a damn.

  Din found a small mound and carefully propped the wounded soldier against it, leaving him to the care of others as he moved amongst his men, acknowledging their efforts, and encouraging them to hold their heads high.

  He did not immediately notice the demeanour of the US troops, but when he did, he understood completely.

  He pushed his way to the edge of the mass of men, directly opposite what was clearly the man in charge.

  Hindered by his facial injuries, Din tried to remonstrate, but his English was insufficient for the task, as was the understanding of the American Captain; not that his understanding of Din’s entreaties would have made the slightest difference. After all, he had orders from the General himself.

  The Soviet soldiers began, one by one, to understand what their officer was shouting about and their agitation grew.

  Most stood and faced what was about to happen, resolved to their fate.

  Some saw matters differently.

  Din gave the American officer a look of total hatred and watched as the man’s attention was drawn elsewhere, a surge by a few prisoners trying to give themselves some chance of survival.

  Shouts were followed by shots as the Armored Infantry shot the rushers down, the volume of fire growing as they turned their attention to the mass of prisoners on the waste ground.

  Din screamed, holding up his hands, first to the firing Americans, then turning and trying to calm h
is men.

  A heavy machine gun joined the slaughter, then another, and then there were four such weapons, pouring bullets into the helpless men.

  A single bullet clipped Din’s thigh, its passage and the resultant pain bringing a strange moment of peace to the condemned man.

  He turned for the final time, facing his enemy, hawking and spitting a huge gobbet of bloody phlegm at the criminals who were killing his men, particularly at the man who commanded the slaughter.

  Din launched himself forward, intent on killing the bastard with his bare hands.

  “What the fuck is that?”

  No one could supply Williams with the answer or, at least, no one could state for sure what it was, although most suspected the origins of and reasons for the firing.

  “Lukas, get a squad down there pronto and find out what the fuck’s goin’ on.”

  Barkmann sent his Senior NCO and a squad from Baker Company off to investigate.

  On their return, First Sergeant Ford gave a short but sober report on events near the Rue Principale.

  The orders group concluded, Williams dismissed his officers and found himself alone.

  He gazed off towards Hattmatt, towards an imagined spot containing nearly two hundred slaughtered Red Army soldiers, and he prayed.

  ‘Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of god, rest in peace. Amen.’

  2nd December 1945, Hattmatt; the aftermath.

  Rumours of the massacre spread through the 16th like wildfire, subsequently making their way through the Legion Corps, and all the way to the ears of De Lattre himself.

  Pierce ordered the arrest of the officer responsible for the shootings, but the 18th’s Captain was quickly released.

  Greiner;s orders came under close scrutiny.

  To Williams and the Rangers, the orders had been simple enough to understand.

  To the 18th’s Captain Pallister, catapulted into command by the loss of a number of higher ranks, and clearly suffering from the pressure that was bound to build upon a relatively inexperienced man under those circumstances, they were also simple to understand.

  His interpretation of the order to swiftly manage the prisoners within a ten minute time scale meant only one thing.

  In the end, the whole matter was glossed over and ignored, even omitted from some of the biographies that appeared post-war, although Greiner’s orders were subsequently criticised for being imprecise and open to interpretation.

  Whatever the cause, whatever the reason, wherever blame was to be laid, Hattmatt is accepted as the first of a chain of events that has now entered into history as one of the most unsavoury and brutal episodes in the chronicles of warfare.

  If we are ever in doubt about what to do, it is a good rule to ask ourselves what we shall wish on the morrow that we had done.

  John Lubbock

  Chapter 112 - THE KILLINGS

  1127 hrs, Wednesday, 4th December 1945, outside of the Mairie, Rue Principale, Mittelschaeffolsheim, Alsace.

  The advance of the Legion Corps had, so far, been slow and bloody. Alma had suffered a reverse at Wingersheim, when a Soviet counter-attack caused a temporary withdrawal. It had been a difficult call for St.Clair, but Lavalle saw an opportunity in the manoeuvre and approved the decision.

  The Soviets, eager to show the hated SS their metal, over-extended themselves, and Alma turned on them in terminal fashion.

  Knocke reoriented the Normandie Group just in time to stop a drive into his northern flank, with part of Uhlmann’s tank unit arriving perfectly on the flank of the advancing Soviet units, and putting the survivors to flight.

  There was a time implication for the Allied attack, but the destruction of a whole Soviet brigade was a bonus, especially when the whole point of the plan was to draw down Red Army reserve units, pulling them away from the main thrust to the north.

  The slow advance of the Legion had already persuaded Eisenhower to check the main attack and, back in Versailles, the SHAEF commander watched the developments in Alsace, waiting and judging his moment.

  The Legion advance continued and, for the second time, units of Camerone entered Mittelschaeffolsheim.

  Braun surveyed the scene.

  He and his running mate, another Panther, had dropped into position on the junction of Routes 30 and 228, Braun covering north-eastwards, and the other tank watching the south-east approaches.

  Legionnaires from the 1st RDM were pushing up through the wrecked buildings, steadily ensuring each building was clear before progressing onwards.

  The retaking of Mittelscaeffolsheim had been a brief affair, but not without cost.

  The first attack had cost the tank unit two precious vehicles, both Panzer IV’s. In the second sortie, one of the Panthers had spectacularly succumbed to a direct artillery strike, and with it, another group of Kameraden from the old days had perished in the blink of an eye.

  The 1st RDM put in a ferocious assault and the Russians defences melted away.

  Braun, leading the tank’s point unit, had seen no reason to believe that all the enemy had gone and, until Speer got his act organised, Corps standing orders were that Panthers were far too precious to be risked up front in town fighting, unless an extraordinary situation existed.

  The barrel of Braun’s Panther moved gently from side to side, the gunner following each surge of infantry, moving from cover to cover.

  There was no firing, no resistance.

  Nothing.

  The 1st’s legionnaires started to move more quickly, and a feeling of relaxation spread throughout the assault force.

  After briefing his crew, Braun emerged from the Panther’s turret, dropping to the ground at the front of the tank. He quickly moved off to the left to consult with the 2nd Company commander, Capitaine Durand.

  After his excellent conduct in the assault on the ‘Leningrad’ position, during the relief of Stuttgart, Durand had been fully accepted by the ex-Waffen-SS soldiers, and he had done nothing but reinforce their high opinion of him since.

  He greeted Braun with a smile and the offer of a cigarette.

  “Danke, Capitaine. I take it we are clear? Your men seem to think so.”

  He gestured up the road at what had been a relaxed scene.

  It was now anything but.

  A group of men had gathered outside a large building, and they were clearly extremely agitated.

  The radio crackled into life and Durand took a report in total silence, the words spoken by the officer up the road burning into the hearts of everyone present in an instant.

  “I’m coming up. Out.”

  In a controlled fashion, Durand placed the handset down on the low brick wall.

  He braced himself against the brickwork, screwing his eyes tight in an effort to compose himself.

  Durand turned to Braun, his voice failing to disguise both the horror and the anger that had started to burn his insides.

  “You don’t have to come, Major...” somehow, the RSM rank did not seem appropriate in the circumstances. He placed a hand on the tanker’s shoulder.

  “Johannes, don’t come.”

  “But I must.”

  Signalling for his tank to move up the road behind them, Braun and Durand took the short walk to the place where an old comrade and friend had met his end.

  Most of the men who were stood around the awful apparition had seen service on the Eastern Front, and should have been used to the excesses that often marked that awful campaign.

  Despite that, more than one was in tears, and more than one had spilled the contents of his stomach.

  All had approached and exceeded the normal extremes of anger.

  The small body had experienced the very highest levels of pain and suffering; that was wholly obvious to the eye. The pieces that had been removed lay around the site of what could only be described as a place of sadistic torture.

  Cyrille Jaoa da Silva Vernais, Leg
ion RSM, veteran of countless battles, and credited by Knocke with much of the responsibility for the successful integration of Legionnaires and ex-SS, was very messily dead.

  Even the inexperienced eye could detect that he had died in the extremes of pain, his face still holding an expression of a man fighting back his surrender to the awfulness that had been visited upon him.

  His tunic had been ripped open and his chest and stomach skin had been cut off, as had his fingers.

  His ears and his nose had also been taken and they were pinned or nailed to the wood around his head, as in some macabre joke.

  Braun, his eyes full of tears, could detect that nails had been driven through legs and arms, pinning Vernais to the wooden door of the Mairie, which, in themselves, must have caused the most excruciating pain.

  The senior NCO’s trousers had been removed and his manhood had suffered a few thrusts from a knife or bayonet but was, perhaps surprisingly, still attached.

  Beneath his feet, a small fire still smouldered. It had probably not amounted to much at its peak, but had been more than sufficient to roast the Legionnaire past the ankles.

  A piece of paper was sticking from Vernais’ mouth but the onlookers had not removed it. One of the German legionnaires sought silent permission from Durand and removed it with reverence.

  “It’s in German... well... sort of.”

  He looked at it, and then passed it on to the next man.

  The note finally reached Durand, who shared the text with Braun.

  ‘Your friend die crying like a baby. So will die all you SS bastards!’

  Braun looked back at the corpse of the man he considered a good friend, and wished that the old NCO had stayed behind in camp. Vernais had returned from Sassy only a week beforehand, bringing new men with him. He had sought out a return to Camerone, and to the 1st RDM, and they had welcomed him with open arms.