Impasse (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  The last but one shell had landed inch perfect.

  The Japanese guns had been relocated to the river bridge but some shells were already on their way when the order came.

  Colonel Bloomquist, 343rd Infantry, had left two minutes beforehand, intent on rallying the men and guns to the south.

  The decision spared his life.

  Those of the 343rd’s staff that had remained behind were less fortunate, although none of them suffered.

  The blast had ripped through the headquarters position, and few men escaped without some injury.

  Three of CCA’s personnel were dead, with another five badly wounded, including the Chinese Battalion commander.

  The radios were smashed, and the whole headquarters was a shambles.

  Edgar Painter had sustained a most unusual injury. Not one that overly incapacitated him, but it was painful for sure.

  Halfway between his wrist and elbow, a pair of scissors protruded from his flash. The blast had picked them up from one of the field desks and sent them flying like a knife, striking the Colonel in the right arm.

  It didn’t reduce his movement, but every change in posture brought a stab of excruciating pain, and he had no grip worth a damn.

  Through the fire of his wound, a sound broke through, one new to his experience, but one that registered with him because of stories he had heard from men who had been on the receiving end.

  “Banzai! Banzai! Banzai!”

  In relocating some of his force, Painter had thinned out the men in between him and 2nd Group. Two Chinese platoons had run away as soon as the opportunity presented itself, leaving AT positions, and precious little else, between the CP and the enemy.

  The shell, in destroying his radios, had deprived him of the means to plug the gap.

  Infantry from the 2nd/3rd rose up and charged forward, closing upon a brace of 3” AT weapons and their infantry support.

  “Banzai!”

  Painter had to admit that it was frightening.

  One of the 343rd’s piss-ant 37mm guns, weapons that had been universally mocked when discussed in conjunction with the possibility of enemy Panther and Tiger tanks, spat out a hail of shot, its canister round proving extremely effective at wiping away groups of charging Japanese soldiers.

  “Banzai!”

  A .30cal crew worked feverishly to unjam a weapon that had fired but a single bullet before falling silent; the approaching screaming, the glistening bayonets, the growing covering fire from enemy guns, all combining to reduce their calmness to a nothingness of fear. The gun would not fire again this day.

  “Banzai!”

  The 37mm coughed once more and a dozen enemy soldiers were thrown over in disarray. The screams of the charging men mingled with the screams of the hideously wounded.

  The AT gunners started throwing grenades, and looking to their small arms as the ‘medieval horde’ grew closer.

  “Banzai!”

  The Japanese commander, waving his pistol and sword in encouragement, ran straight onto an exploding grenade, which gave him more forward momentum, but robbed him of his life in an instant.

  Another canister round was fired and more men were wiped away by the stream of steel balls.

  An armoured car dashed forward on the flank and its German machine-gun lashed the 37mm’s servers, silencing the weapon.

  “Banzai!”

  The headquarters officers and soldiers had come into action, picking off men here and there, careful to avoid hitting their own.

  A running Japanese threw aside his rifle and slammed his hand against his helmet, immediately throwing himself into the first anti-tank gun position.

  More experienced soldiers would have realised that the man was arming a grenade by striking the primer on the metal protecting his head.

  The grenade went off, killing or incapacitating the whole gun crew.

  The next three Japanese soldiers into the position used their rifles and bayonets to finish the job.

  “Banzai!”

  The surviving Japanese officer, 2nd Lieutenant Tanji, leapt the shallow trench and dropped beside the two men at the .30cal; both were paralysed with fear.

  Their hands were half raised but the officer’s sword was unforgiving and he swept the blade into them, two blows each.

  Behind Tanji, the rest of his unit was either on or over the defensive line.

  “Banzai!”

  A knot of enemy formed behind some small rocks and started to pick off his soldiers.

  Before he could organise an attack, the friendly armoured car rolled around behind them and removed the threat.

  The other anti-tank gun position was taken and the gunners slaughtered to a man.

  However, the doughboys of the 343rd were proving a sterner test, and Japanese victory was not yet assured.

  He called a small group around him and swept down the trench line from east to west, bringing an advantage to every little fight as the small force moved along the position.

  The Marmon-Herrington was suddenly lashed with machine gun bullets, two M20’s charging out of the town to do battle.

  Tanji spared a moment to take in the unusual sight of warring armoured cars, as his men completed the rout of the defending infantry, a few GIs running back as fast as they could.

  His own men celebrated.

  “Banzai!”

  Tanji realised what the next enemy position was.

  “One more effort! The Emperor demands it of us! There is the enemy commander! There! Follow me!”

  The surviving forty-two soldiers rose up as one and charged.

  “Banzai!”

  Haro and his crew were having a bad time of it with the six-wheeled enemy cars, who were not only faster, but also packed a bigger punch with their .50cal machine guns.

  The MG34 equipped Marmon-Herrington was decidedly outgunned, even before men appeared in the open-topped structures of the M20s, each armoured car introducing a bazooka to the fight.

  The MG34 fell silent as the belt ran out.

  “Reload, you moron!”

  This was no time to lose firepower.

  Both enemy vehicles slowed to give their weapons a better chance to hit, providing Haro with an unexpected opportunity.

  “Right, pull right now and head to the river. Weave, but push quickly.”

  The driver responded instantly and the South African built vehicle bounded, its acceleration making all the difference as two rockets cut through the air near where it had been a moment before hand.

  The MG34 chattered briefly, the slowed M20 nearest presenting a better target than previously.

  Haro noted the pieces fly off the machine gunner. He was also sure that the reloading bazooka man had taken a good hit in the head.

  “Good shooting. Maybe not such a moron after all.”

  The exchange was good-humoured; the gunner had been with Haro for years.

  .50cal bullets struck the rear of the vehicle and more than one passed through the crew compartment. Haro felt the loss of power immediately, which was quite strange as the engine was in the front. The engine picked up again quickly, but the bigger armoured car was gaining.

  However, Haro’s manoeuvre had not really been about making it to the river. He had brought the pursuing M20 into a place where it could clash with an all together different proposition.

  “What’s that fish breath doing?”

  “I nearly killed him, Commander.”

  “Hmm.”

  The Marmon-Herrington had just bounded out of cover, racing at top speed for the river, surprising everyone on Masami.

  Behind it, and following the same path, the M20 emerged, seemingly oblivious to the Panther’s presence.

  “Gunner engage.”

  It was a difficult shot as the enemy vehicle was moving fast. The gunner followed the vehicle, the traverse just about keeping up before settling in because of the decreasing angle change.

  The driver of the M20 made a mistake.

  Turning lef
t to round an obstacle, he presented a moment of advantage to Masami, one the gunner took full benefit of.

  Even then, he only just clipped the armoured car, but its armour offered no resistance and the nearside front was destroyed in an instant.

  “Fakku! Load high explosive!”

  The M20 was a sitting duck and the 75mm HE shell completed the work done by an ordinary armour piercing round.

  The American armoured car died spectacularly.

  Hamuda ordered the Panther forward again and returned the wave from the commander of the strange armoured car, who had obviously deliberately risked himself to draw the enemy vehicle across Masami’s bows.

  ‘The man has courage.’

  1350 hrs, Sunday, 15th December 1945, headquarters, CCA, 20th US Armored Division, Luxuzhen, China.

  The headquarters personnel stood their ground and fired everything they had at the screaming horde.

  To no avail for, although they knocked a number of men down, more than enough made it to the bunker to ensure the Japanese victory.

  “Banzai!”

  Colonel Edgar Painter calmly fired his Colt left-handed, selecting a different target with each shot and, to his surprise, hitting with most.

  His officers and men went down under the surge of bodies, and the screams of dying men invaded every part of his consciousness.

  The 1911A hung open on an empty magazine, and he quickly tried to put another magazine in, his right hand unable to contribute to the process.

  One Japanese soldier saw him and plunged forward, screaming loudly, intent on skewering the American officer.

  Painter side-stepped and the bayonet sailed past his side, ramming into the sandbags.

  The automatic pistol struck the soldier twice across the nose, and the insensible man dropped to the earth, out of the fight.

  Trembling with the shock and the enormity of what was happening, Painter was again unable to slide the new magazine home before he was seen by another enemy rifleman.

  This man fired and the bullet punched into Painter's abdomen, throwing the American commander against the bag that was spilling its sand from the bayonet tear.

  Painter bellowed in pain, as much for the new wound as the sandbag's impact with the scissors still lodged in his right arm.

  The magazine was in the slot, but not home, so he slapped the butt against his thigh and thumbed the slide into place.

  The rifleman was already down, put to death with a triple shot from a Garand.

  Lieutenant Tanji, fresh from ramming his sword into the stomach of a young corporal, kicked the dead man off his blade and turned towards Painter.

  The Colt fired and the .45 bullet smashed Tanji’s left arm just above the elbow joint, almost severing the limb. His pistol fell from useless fingers, but he gave no cry of pain. Only one single word escaped his lips.

  “Banzai!”

  Tanji steadied himself and walked purposefully towards Painter, who shot twice.

  The Japanese officer, knocked backwards by the energy of the bullet clipping his left shoulder, smashed face and chest first into an old tree trunk, used to hold the camo netting roof over the bunker.

  His nose and mouth erupted in streams of blood.

  Inside his body, the savage impact of a protruding piece of tree caused a rupture of some blood vessels in his lungs, and small quantities of red fluid started to enter the damaged lung.

  Shaking his head to clear the mist, Tanji pulled himself up onto his knees, and then struggled to stand up, the obvious spread of blood on his stomach indicating another area of damage, above the right hip.

  Again the pistol barked, but this time the American officer missed, the growing presence of the vengeful swordsman affecting Painter’s aim.

  Tanji had moved forward nearly ten feet before the next two rounds hit him. Actually, only one, the first shot struck his binocular case, deflecting off the metal and narrowly missing his neck as it went on its journey.

  Spun slightly by the initial impact, the second round slid across the Japanese officer’s chest, gouging the skin and leaving a long and bloody trench in the soft tissue as it passed through.

  Tanji fell to his knees, the pain overcoming him momentarily. Again, he stood up, coughing and spitting blood as more of the bloody broth worked its way from his damaged chest and face into his lungs.

  Painter could see his death approaching, and he tried hard to steady his nerves and make the telling shot.

  ‘The head, the fucking head, go for the fucking head!’

  It was not the best decision, as such shots require better judgement and a cooler head.

  He fired and missed.

  “Banzai!”

  Painter screamed.

  “Nooo!”

  Tanji’s sword stabbed brutally as he summoned his last reserve of strength.

  He drove the katana point first into Painter’s windpipe, penetrating the spinal cord beyond.

  Death was instantaneous, whereas Lieutenant Tanji, totally spent by his final effort, took a few more minutes to travel to his ancestors.

  The few survivors were quickly bound, except for the two wounded Chinese officers, who were bayoneted to death. The senior NCO made the decision to fall back after the tanks and armoured car, leaving only the dead behind.

  The soldiers of Rainbow faded away into the woods, where they dug in and waited for further orders.

  Whilst the mish-mash of the 20th Armored and 343rd Infantry Regiment had completed its mission and halted the Japanese advance, the price it paid was far in excess of what it could afford.

  Had they known it, perhaps it would have been of some solace to the survivors that they had badly damaged the Rainbow Brigade, and whilst the American war machine could guarantee to bring replacement men and vehicles to the fight, few such opportunities were available to the Japanese.

  For they have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind.

  Hosea, Ch8, V7.

  Chapter 123 - THE DACHA

  Happy birthday to you,

  Happy birthday to you,

  Happy birthday, dear Comrade General Secretary,

  Happy birthday to you.

  1006 hrs, Wednesday, 18th December 1945, the Dacha complex, Kuntsevo, USSR.

  [Some content of a sexual nature]

  The first one had been built to order for Stalin, and was designed by the architect Merzhanov.

  During World War Two, Stalin and his entourage had done much of the planning for the victory of the Fascists within its wooden walls.

  An additional storey was added in 1943, and a lift installed for additional access.

  The rest of the hierarchy of the Communist state quickly realized that having their own dacha at Kuntsevo would provide them with opportunities of access unavailable anywhere else, and so other buildings sprang up, carefully designed to afford the full creature comforts, but not to eclipse that of the leader.

  It would have been difficult in any case, as Stalin’s dacha was set inside a double fence system, protected by an array of anti-aircraft guns, and topped off with a three hundred man NKVD security details.

  The dacha had been a hive of activity all day, as reports and briefings went on from breakfast until late afternoon.

  The full extent of the Baltic fiasco was now laid open for all to see, and yet still the General Secretary had not spilt blood on the matter.

  Nazarbayeva had briefed the whole GKO, starting with the loss of her prized RAF asset, whose nonsense message bore every break in code form possible, as well as his distress tag.

  She brought proof, undeniable proof, that the new Army group was a fake, a maskirovka, the same trick the Allies had played on the Nazis in France during 1944.

  Beria let her speak, knowing full well that she was wrong.

  In truth, she had been right, but Comrade Philby had come through, his latest report indicating that the formation would be ‘accidentally’ revealed as false and, when the Soviet High Command had swallowed the bait,
it would be properly constituted in secret.

  It was a thing of beauty as far as Beria was concerned.

  His pleasure in the duplicity of his former allies only overtaken by his complete joy for the embarrassment he inflicted upon Nazarbayeva.

  It was but the first move in a day that would see Stalin’s birthday made special for him in so many ways.

  Nazarbayeva had seemed to take it in her stride but he knew… he knew that he had hurt her pride badly.

  The GRU General continued with an assessment of Allied casualties during the failed offensives, one that, in Beria’s opinion, overstated by nearly 10%.

  When he questioned the woman he found that she still had teeth, and that his own information was incomplete.

  Nazarbayeva finished with an upbeat assessment of the balance of forces, with a GRU assessment that Allied ground forces were incapable of launching any substantial action in the prevalent weather conditions and, in any case, had supply difficulties and personnel problems of their own.

  The Soviet Academic who presented the forecast for Europe, both in the short term and over an extended period, rumbled and coughed his way through his presentation, but was undoubtedly a man who knew his business.

  “So, Comrade Academician, you are telling us that the temperatures could be as low as minus fifty in places?”

  “Yes, Comrade General Secretary.”

  Stalin quickly continued.

  “And that this weather could extend well past the end of January?”

  “That is our middle estimate, Comrade General Secretary.”

  Such a happening would give the Red Army time to rebuild its supply base and rest the exhausted units on the German front.

  Of course, the same would apply to their adversaries,

  The rest of the day moved between reports on production, transport, and manpower availability, and came to a natural end at 3pm exactly.

  The evening was set aside for a celebration of the Leader’s birthday, and most of those present left to prepare.