Impasse (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  The gunner of a battered old SU-85, selected for the post solely because he had put himself forward as a gunner, although he was normally a loader, fired his first shot in anger.

  The Panther's shell ejection hatch had been pulled shut but the strike by the 90mm had sprung it open. Not fully, in fact, only slightly, but sufficiently for a solid 85mm shot to pass millimetre perfect through the gap.

  It took the loader in the head, killing him instantly, and ricocheted off the inside of the turret, smashing into the floor ammo panniers.

  The resultant explosion killed the remaining members of the crew.

  The surviving two POW’s, still lashed to the outside of the Panther, experienced all the horrors of being slowly burnt to death as the interior fire consumed the German tank.

  Stepanski screamed in horror as his men died before his eyes.

  Braun and Durand were in big trouble.

  The Soviet mechanised force was perfectly placed on their flank, and looked like being strong enough to overrun them.

  What had seemed like a good idea, utilising the bridge and fascines to flank the enemy defences, had turned sour on them, opening them up to a disaster, unless they could hold long enough for friends to arrive.

  The main attack on Brumath had petered out in the face of stiff resistance, as well as the knowledge that the original plan had failed.

  The plight of the attacking force was known to the Legion's higher command, and the airwaves were full of urgent orders, all designed to save the day.

  Alma redoubled its efforts and pressed hard from the north-west and, although still some distance away, the impending presence of the Legion unit alone caused a shift in Brumath’s defences.

  Knocke, decidedly further forward than he should have been, organised and sent forward a small Kampfgruppe, mainly Camerone, partly Alma and even a few vehicles from Tannenberg, ordered to move up from the forward maintenance facility.

  Aware that Uhlmann’s main tank force was some time away, Knocke committed the scratch armoured company to supporting the endangered units at Brumath.

  He also committed himself.

  1729 hrs, Wednesday, 4th December 1945, the Zorn River, east of Brumath, Alsace.

  Fighting with tanks at night was undesirable, to say the least, but on this night there was no choice.

  Whilst the light from destroyed vehicles, burning vegetation, weapon flashes, and flares, provided some illumination, it was an untrustworthy light, and one that often deceived the eye.

  Braun’s Panthers still clung to the north bank, hanging tight to a semi-circle of land two hundred metres either side of the crossing point.

  Soviet artillery sought them out and one valuable tank had been knocked out by a direct hit.

  Durand’s men had pushed in front of the Panthers, providing a screen to keep the Soviet anti-tank hunters at bay.

  They were extremely effective, so much so that the Soviets had stopped trying to get men close to the tanks.

  Red Army and Legion gunners exchanged shots across a surreal battlefield, the white snow-covered landscape illuminated by the yellows, reds, and oranges of battle, all set against the back drop of a night sky that had once again grown clear and starry, the driving snow now but a memory.

  Even the two British AVRE Churchills were in action, braving fire from tanks they could not kill, their Petard mortars throwing large explosive charges at the enemy infantry.

  A familiar and inspiring voice crackled in Braun’s earpiece and that of a number of listeners on the Camerone radio net.

  “Anton One to all Anton units. Maintain your positions.” Knocke waited whilst the acknowledgements occupied the airwaves, taking the opportunity to clear his throat and rehearse the message for the ad hoc group, “Anton to Valkyrie, execute plan two, execute plan two. Anton One, out.”

  There were only two plans, and a swift look at the battle situation through his binoculars had told him all he needed to know.

  Plan One called for crossing the river and continuing the attack.

  Plan Two was a plan to withdraw the assault force back to the relative safety of the southern bank and hold the river gainst all comers.

  “Anton One to London, move up. Anton One out.”

  A Churchill IV, another of the 79th Armoured’s engineering tanks, pushed on towards the river, seeking out a suitable spot to lay its bridge.

  The relief force fanned out as Knocke briefed both Durand and Braun on the plan.

  Unknown to Knocke and his crew, the command Panther stood out like a sore thumb.

  One of the Sturmgeschutz that had been taken from the repair facility had broken down directly behind the Beobachtungspanzer Panther, catching fire as a fuel pipe spilt its contents inside the engine compartment.

  The growing blaze illuminated the command tank, a distinct black shape against a fan of yellow drawing many eyes from across the river.

  No sooner had the briefing finished than the command Panther shuddered as a large round hit the ground beside it.

  Knocke’s tank had no main gun, the extra room providing more radio space. Excellent for control, but no good when heavy metal was being exchanged in a stand up fight. In his normal command tank, a Befehlspanzer with the standard 75mm, he could hold his own on the battlefield, but this replacement vehicle, normally used as a mobile artillery OP, had been selected solely because it was suitable for the extra room it provided, but it was not fit to go in harm's way with a turret armament of just an MG34, mounted in a ball mount. That fact alone normally meant that Beobachtungs vehicles tended to tread lightly on the battlefield, relying on hiding, rather than confrontation.

  Before anyone could react, a second shell struck the Panther on the left sprocket, causing catastrophic damage to the drive train and track.

  Knocke could see two more white streaks on their way across the battlefield and, although they both missed, he knew the Panther’s luck was out.

  “Driver, can we move?”

  “No sir. It’s totally fucked.”

  “Crew, bale out.”

  The radio operator and Knocke gathered up the sensitive documents and exited the vehicle.

  Dropping off the rear of the disabled command tank, the burning Stug almost taunted him, declaring its part in the loss of his vehicle.

  ‘Schiesse.’

  He pointed at one of the American scout cars and issued orders to the tank crew.

  “Once the fire’s out, get Zeppelin up here to fix my tank,” Zeppelin was Camerone’s Werkstatt unit, “But stay away from it ‘til it’s not silhouetted by the fire. That’s how the Reds saw us.”

  The tankers looked at where their leader was pointing, more than one curse illustrating their understanding of the bad luck that could have ended their lives.

  “I have to be in there,” he pointed at the growing battle at the river, “So, I’ll exercise my rank and kick someone out of their cosy vehicle. I’ll send them to you, so keep your eyes open. Alles klar?”

  The four men nodded, suddenly aware that their talisman was leaving them.

  “Take care, Kameraden. Turnips down ‘til I get back. Now, raus.”

  The tank Knocke had set his sights on moved position, labouring by the sound of its engine, and dropped in behind a small but thick stand of trees.

  Selecting his moment, he pushed himself out from behind the disabled command tank and started on the three hundred metre journey, hugging a low line of hedgerow.

  Knocke had heard correctly. The tank had mechanical problems and two of its crew were already on the repair.

  “So, can you fix it or fucking not?”

  The flashlight moved around the V12 engine compartment, indicating concentration.

  “Only if you shut the fuck up and let me get on with it.”

  The two men were head down in the engine bay, having pulled up two of the gratings.

  “Fucking oil everywhere. Have we still got any with us?”

  The junior man, the tank’s driver and
mechanic, hummed a response and then managed a single word.

  “Bin.”

  The senior man, his American tanker’s tunic sporting the odd combination of Legion eagle, Tannenberg armband, German Cross in silver, Iron Cross First and Second class, Black wound badge, and a much newer Croix de Guerre, moved to the back of the turret to check in the crew bin.

  Finding three five-litre containers, he dropped back down behind the cover offered by the turret and lit a cigarette.

  “Fifteen litres s'all we’ve got, Klaus.”

  “That’s all I could lift from the spanner grenadieres.”

  Taking a deep draw on his cigarette, Sergeant Köster, formerly known as SS-Scharfuhrer Köster of the 503rd SS Schwere Panzer Abteilung, spoke to the turret crew, making sure he and his glowing cigarette end stayed firmly behind cover.

  “How’s his shitty hand?”

  The gunner popped his head out of the hatch.

  “Broken two fingers at least, Rudi. Nasty tear. Dislocated the other two, possibly even sprained his wrist. He’s not loading the fucking gun any time soon, that’s for sure!”

  “Great,” which it obviously wasn’t, “Get it bandaged up and I’ll decide what we’re going to do.”

  The gunner dropped back inside to finish bandaging the loader’s mangled hand.

  When the tank had dropped into a gully obscured by snowfall, the loader had put his hand out to steady himself and inadvertently slipped it into the locking mechanism of the rear hatch.

  Momentum did the rest, as his weight ripped the webbing between middle and fourth finger, the two smaller fingers snapping with gunshot sounds that even Meier the driver had heard.

  Working the problem, Köster noted the approaching figure, and found himself sniggering at the man’s strange crouching run.

  Amusement turned into curiosity.

  Curiosity turned to concern, and he pulled out his Browning Hi-Power 640b.

  He would have no hesitation in letting the strange man have all thirteen rounds if he had to.

  Concern turned into relief as the uniform identified the man as a friend.

  Relief turned into disbelief, and quickly turned into incredulity as the indistinct figure materialised into 'The Legend'.

  He dismounted and shot to attention.

  “Zu befehl, Oberfuhrer. One tank, five men present, one wounded. Vehicle is presently disabled by a mechanical problem. My driver is assessing the issue now, Sir.”

  Knocke had no time to reply as another voice stole the opportunity from him.

  “Oh do shut the fuck up, Rudi. This is no time for your fucking games, you idiot! Now, get me the tool kit. I need a fucking wrench. Something not right here.”

  Knocke nodded, and Köster disappeared to get the tools.

  When he returned, he found his General head down in the engine compartment and in conversation with the driver.

  “I went from Panzer IV’s to Panthers, so this beast is a mystery to me. But surely that much oil didn’t come from just that loose joint?”

  Meier considered his reply.

  “We had a sudden loss of oil pressure. A big near miss... must have shook the shitty thing loose... enough pressure to bollock it out, kamerad. But... maybe you’re right. Hang on.”

  He slid further down.

  “Fuck it. Here, hang on to that and point it down here.”

  The oily torch was thrust into Knocke’s left hand.

  Köster considered the moment, feeling a growing despair, and then offered up the wrench to his commander’s free hand.

  Knocke took it, the light of battle sufficient for his wink to be noticed.

  “Here, Klaus, the wrench.”

  A dirty hand reached up and took the tool, managing to transfer a considerable amount of the sticky black fluid onto his unknown helper.

  Knocke’s mind clicked, recalling a document he had seen over two years before.

  “Bolts, Klaus? I remember there was often an issue with them. Bolts de-threading under pressure, sub-standard workmanship caused by the Allied bombing as I recall. De-threaded by your near miss possibly?”

  From below came the sounds of a man thinking aloud.

  "Hmm. Come to think of it... hang on."

  The wrench worked away, metal tapping on metal as the handle moved within the comfines of the compartment.

  “Yes indeed, Kamerad. Nice spot. You’ll go far in this man’s army with a brain like that.”

  The wrench attacked bolt after bolt, the exertions starting to tell on the tank driver.

  "Seen much action, kamer... can't...keep...calling... you... kamerad... " each individual effort on the wrench gave him a natural pause in his speech.

  "What's your name, son?"

  Köster almost passed out on the spot.

  "Call me Ernst... for now."

  Knocke played the game, mainly because he wanted the man to complete his work, not suddenly come apart because his commander was present, but the humour of the situation wasn't wasted on him and he was perfectly prepared to momentarily become the prankster he had once been known as.

  “Rudi?”

  “Yes, Caporal-Chef Meier?”

  Köster went formal to try and focus his driver on the present ‘unusual’ situation.

  The effort was wasted.

  "Can we keep our kamerad Ernst here? He seems to know his business, unlike you. Maybe he... can... go... in... charge. Right, that's it."

  The laugh was genuine.

  Meier emerged and started using a piece of waste linen to clean up, failing to notice much about the man next to him.

  “I’ve done the fucking best I can for now. Suggest we keep the revs down 'til I can get new bolts. Five are stripped badly, well fucked. Precious little thread to tighten on.”

  "Good knowledge there, Ernst," he turned to his helper, his mouth automatically speaking the words he intended before he realised that Köster was not being the playful arse he had thought earlier, “Can I trade you in for this useless piece of... oh scheisse!”

  His mouth fell open, but his automatic reactions took over.

  Springing to attention, an oily hand marked his forehead in a salute.

  “Zu befehl, Oberfuhrer. Temporary repair has been completed. Tank will be ready for combat once the oil level has been restored, Sir.”

  As Knocke received his report, his thoughts grabbed at the memories of what he had said in the last few minutes and whether a firing squad was out of the question.

  Knocke slapped Meier on the shoulder.

  “Then get it done, kamerad, and let’s start killing some Russians.”

  Meier, anxious to avoid Knocke’s further attention, swung into immediate action.

  Knocke found himself staring at the man, searching his memory for information but his excellent memory presently deserted him, failing to recall anything of note. He would speak to Köster later. Very few drivers or corporals were so honoured, so there had to be a good story behind why the dirty man with the grubby ripped panzer overall sported the Knight’s Cross at his neck.

  Addressing Köster, the commander of Camerone was more formal.

  “I need your radio and your tank, in that order, Sergeant.”

  Köster dropped inside the tank and brought out the headset.

  He waited for Knocke to establish contact with Braun and Durand before informing his commander of the full nature of the crew problem.

  “You can load then, Köster. Get your man back to the aid post. My crew are up by my disabled command tank, Send him up there and they will sort him out. Now, if our driver has finished, let’s go and rescue our Kameraden.”

  The loader slipped off the tank and made his way towards the disabled command vehicle. He paused to watch the Tiger I move out from behind the stand of trees, take position behind a wall, and start to work the battlefield.

  For a moment, he wished he was safely tucked up inside the huge metal box but a shell clanging off the turret mantlet told him he was safer where he w
as going, so he set off, reversing the route Knocke had used.

  He was never seen again.

  1809 hrs, Wednesday, 4th December 1945, east of Brumath, Alsace.

  The fight had halted for a moment, the Soviets drawing back, leaving a number of their vehicles and men on the field.

  The legionnaires north of the river had been savaged, but had clung on.

  Braun had four Panthers and one Panzer IV still intact, whilst Durand had lost forty good men keeping the Soviet infantry away from the tanks.

  Both AVREs had succumbed, as had ‘London’, the Churchill IV, but not before its bridge was properly in place.

  Knocke judged that the moment was right to withdraw the trapped force but paused, sensing an alternative.

  He swept the battlefield with his binoculars.

  What was it?

  ‘Something is happening here.’

  “Switch channels. Command please.”

  Once on the main command channel, Knocke got a surprise.

  His previous attempt to get hold of Alma had failed, his communications confined to other members of the relief force, and those across the water.

  His ears deciphered the messages of the lead Alma units and Uhlmann’s tanks organising themselves for the assault on the north-western edge of Brumath.

  ‘I knew it.’

  He waited for a gap in transmissions, drinking in the details of what Alma and Uhlmann intended.

  “Anton One, Anton One to all units on this channel. Proceed as you have just stated. I’ll move in support. Watch for friendlies to your front advancing from the river line. Do not move out of objective zweiundzwanzig. Acknowledge. Anton One over.”

  He moved on to brief his small force, Braun and Durand, realising that fate had placed an opportunity in front of him.

  Plan Two had become Plan One.

  He transmitted a brief message.

  “Anton One to all units. Initiate Plan One, Initiate Plan One. Vorwärts.”

  1815 hrs, Wednesday, 4th December 1945, Brumath, Alsace.

  Alma, supported by Uhlmann’s armour, threw themselves upon Brumath.