Breakthrough (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  Steklmakh’s obvious comment died on his lips as the coughing started again. He waited but Onipchenko anticipated the tanker’s objections.

  “More units are coming, Comrade Mladshy Leytenant. We have been sent here to get things moving but there will be more on the ground to come, plus artillery and guards mortars in time.”

  Stelmakh nodded.

  ‘Fair enough’.

  “Nothing tricky here, Comrade. Your tank is our ace if we come across enemy heavy armour, I will have the rest of my battalion and two companies of Tridsat Chetverkas here within ten minutes, but we are not to wait, Comrade.”

  He looked across at the only other tank present, a wornand battered T34 bearing the name of a distant battleground.

  “Our comrades in ‘Polotsk’ can lead the way with the main force until our armoured cars arrive. We will advance quickly, and in close order, until I say otherwise, Comrade.”

  Again, Onipchenko prescribed the route of advance, singling out the separate route he expected the IS-III and its support units to take.

  “Are you ready to move, Comrade?”

  “Immediately, Comrade Kapitan.”

  “Good, then drop in behind the lead elements and let us find the enemy together.”

  A swift salute and the man was gone, shouting at his men, as he headed to the T34 to issue a similar brief.

  Three minutes later the small battle group started to move off in the direction of unoccupied Jork.

  1619 hrs Monday 20th August 1945, An der Chaussee [Heitmanshausen – Jork Road], Germany.

  Both sides hammered away at each other with artillery, causing casualties, yet both sides were unaware that the emphasis had switched to a number of insignificant tracks north of Nottensdorf.

  That was about to change.

  The Sergeant in charge of ‘Polotsk’ was less than happy to be placed at the lead of the column.

  His nerve was placed under more and more pressure, the nearer his tank got to the crossroads at Westerladekop, his jitters transferring to his crew and unsettling them all.

  In fairness, they had been through hell in the last two weeks, subjected to allied air raids, artillery, even shelling from some Allied naval vessels inshore.

  This first taste of ground combat since they had overcome the Germans pushed their resilience to the limit, and in the case of the Sergeant, beyond.

  “Pull off the road and stop! Stop the tank!”

  The driver did as he was ordered, although he was puzzled at the instruction, especially as ‘Polotsk’ was still about a kilometre from the turning.

  “Engine off.”

  Again he obeyed, but now he understood that the Sergeant’s nerve was completely gone now.

  Standing clear in the turret the frightened Sergeant had sufficient composure to wave the following vehicles past, shouting at an enquiring Lieutenant about how the engine had given up.

  The lead elements of the Soviet advance ground past until Stelmakh’s IS-III drew level and dropped off the road in front of the silent T34.

  In an instant, the young officer was out and boarding the other tank, suddenly aware that something was not right.

  The squad of infantrymen remained huddled on the hull of the heavy tank, watching impassively; just thankful that whatever it was would keep them from the maelstrom for a few minutes longer.

  The sounds of whispered voices arguing rose to meet the tank officer as he climbed aboard the T34.

  “Stelmakh here. What’s going on lads?”

  He wasn’t prepared for the response.

  “Fuck off, you child. Go and play with the British.”

  Taking the briefest of moment’s to decide how to proceed, he took the plunge.

  “Starshy Leytenant Stelmakh here. Give me your report. Why have you stopped here?”

  “Tank’s fucked Comrade. We will have a look at it shortly, Sir.”

  “Let us look at it together…now, Comrade?” Vladimir’s tone not betraying his nervousness.

  “Sergeant Chelpanov.”

  “Comrade Sergeant Chelpanov. Now.”

  The Sergeant rose from the turret, straight into the barrel of Stelmakh’s Tokarev automatic.

  “Now, now, Comrade Leytenant, no need for that.”

  “I will decide that, Comrade Sergeant. Now, what appears to be the problem?”

  “Engine gave out, Comrade.”

  “Get the grills open and we shall see.”

  The moment the young officer had produced his pistol, his own crew had sprung into action, and the watching tank riders started to get more interested in events.

  The IS-III gunners had stayed in place, watching to their front, in case the enemy decided to interfere, whilst Corporal Stepanov had armed himself with a PPD and moved to support Stelmakh. Three of the infantry squad dropped casually to the earth and moved to back up Stepanov.

  Stood at the front of the tank, but out of the arc of the hull machine gun, Stepanov spoke loudly, so he could be heard by all.

  “Problem, Comrade Starshy Leytenant?”

  “It appears our comrades have an issue with their engine, Comrade Kaporal. We shall help.”

  Stelmakh intended to say more but picked up on a hand signal from his driver.

  Stepanov tapped on the driver’s position, the large hatch folding outwards immediately, exposing the face of a clearly worried tanker.

  “Start your tank, Comrade Driver.”

  The engine turned over without the merest suspicion of firing up.

  “Excellent effort. Now Comrade,” his eyebrows adopted the position of a school teacher making a final attempt to deliver a vital lesson, “Let’s try it with the fuel switches on.”

  The look from the driver confirmed Stepanov’s suspicions, and when the 12 cylinder diesel engine roared into life there was no more to be said.

  The Sergeant and his crew knew their lives were forfeit.

  Stepanov looked at his fellow tanker, maintaining a neutral expression. “These engines can be very temperamental, Comrade Driver. An air lock perhaps? Something lodged in the filter for a moment?”

  A squad of heavily armed engineers drew up alongside, an old and experienced Starshina quickly stepping out.

  “Comrades, can we help?”

  Stelmakh straightened, his rank suddenly apparent, the Starshina saluting impressively, also now aware that the tank officer was holding his automatic.

  “Comrade Mladshy Leytenant. Can we be of any assistance?”

  Stelmakh slipped his pistol back into his pouch as he stared into the eyes of the tank sergeant.

  “No help needed, thank you, Starshina. The Tridsat’s engine died but has now loyally rejoined us, ready for the advance.”

  The Starshina did not relax his grip on the PPSh, his eyes flicking between the pistol and the white face of the tank sergeant.

  As if suddenly realising he was holding a pistol, Stelmakh laughed.

  “I had to threaten it of course, Comrade Starshina.”

  Slipping the Tokarev back into its holster, Stelmakh dropped to the ground.

  The men exchanged further salutes, the Starshina’s look informing Stelmakh that he understood only too well what had come to pass. He climbed back into the captured Opel blitz and accelerated away.

  Chelpanov stepped onto the front hull, sitting on the leading edge of the turret and exchanging a look of relief with his driver.

  The Lieutenant turned and spoke softly to the tank Sergeant.

  “We are all afraid, Comrade, but we must go on.”

  The Sergeant looked shocked, still coming to terms with the fact that he was not going to be summarily shot.

  “I don’t want to die. I’ve done my share, Sir. I just want to go home.”

  Stelmakh looked at his own driver, who could only shrug.

  Turning back to the Sergeant, he could only speak from the heart.

  “We are all soldiers of the Rodina, and she has called us to fight against aggression once more. Many have don
e their share, Comrade, and yet they still go forward. Can you or I hold back and hide when such men continue to do their duty?”

  The sergeant replied with resignation.

  “It is fine for you, brave and unblooded. You have no idea, Comrade, no idea what it is like to be so afraid!”

  Stepanov had been slowly climbing up to the turret but heard the tankman’s words and bounded forward, grabbing the man by the lapels.

  “You useless fucking prick! You think you are the only man who is scared on the battlefield? Fucking idiot!”

  Calming himself, he let the sergeant go and adjusted the slipped strap of his submachine gun.

  “I’ve been in combat since 1941, and I have never felt brave or invulnerable. I always feel scared, as does the Starshy here,” he indicated Stelmakh, climbing back up the side of the tank, who suddenly realised that he had not fooled his crew one iota.

  “But he goes on, through his fear; and he fights!”

  Stepanov answered Stelmakh’s unspoken question with a shrug and a half-smile before turning back to the object of his diatribe.

  “We are all scared, always scared. What it is important is that our courage overcomes and we do what we can, for the Motherland and our comrades, those we know by name and those we have never heard of.”

  The silence was broken by artillery falling to their south, far enough away not to cause concern but close enough to remind all of the trial ahead.

  The Sergeant sighed.

  “You are right of course. I am sorry. I ordered my crew to do what they did, and they are not to blame. What would you have me do, Comrade Leytenant?”

  Stelmakh smiled genuinely, and slapped the man on the shoulder.

  “Remember what this man just said, and look after your comrades. Now, I believe you are supposed to be up there?” he indicated the distant houses.

  “Thank you, Comrade Starshy Leytenant.”

  “Oh, and Serzhant. We will say no more about this unfortunate...?”

  He looked at Stepanov, seeking the words.

  “Filter blockage, comrade Starshy Leytenant. I have no doubt that on next maintenance, the driver will be able to produce evidence of a blockage.”

  That message was received by the man in the front of the T34.

  “We will say no more of this blockage, Comrade Serzhant. Good luck.”

  The Sergeant saluted and dropped into the turret, deciding to get his tank moving before the officer changed his mind.

  The two riders dropped off the tank and watched as it sped away.

  “Nice speech, Comrade Driver.”

  “Thank you Sir. Sorry about…well… you know.”

  “No problem, Stepanov. True words.”

  They reached the IS-III and mounted.

  “Mind you, Comrade Starshy Leytenant, I have heard a rumour that half of all medals are won by someone retreating in the wrong direction.”

  The turret crew heard the laughter but missed the joke, both driver and commander settling in to their places with smiles on their faces.

  Stelmakh’s smile disappeared as a thought overcame the humour of the moment.

  ‘Was it a joke?’

  He put it from his mind to concentrate on the job ahead.

  “Tank, forward.”

  The battleground was narrow and flat, with next to no room to manoeuvre, so much of the surrounding ground sodden and impassable, or full of irrigation ditches.

  Firepower would rule, unless some other intervention could turn the day

  Fig #44 - Flanking attack at Jork.

  1645 hrs Monday 20th August 1945, Jork, Germany.

  ‘Polotsk’ caught up with the lead elements, or more accurately, found the lead elements gone to ground on the western edge of Jork.

  Chelpanov ordered the T34 to pull over, where an infantry officer was waving to get his attention.

  The Sergeant dropped down from the turret and the Engineer Captain immediately took the tank commander to a gap between two houses.

  No field glasses were needed to see that a sizeable enemy force was declaring itself on the road to their front, slowly pushing towards their current position.

  “One of the bastard’s hit a mine some distance back and it’s slowed them up. You need to slow them up more, Comrade Serzhant. I will keep the infantry off you, but you have to stop the tanks.”

  “I will do what I can, Comrade Kapitan.”

  The Engineer officer coughed violently but heard and acknowledged the reply.

  Quickly peering over the fence, Chelpanov immediately spotted what he was looking for.

  “That’s my prime position, Comrade Kapitan. Get your men out of the way of it and I will fight from there at first.”

  “It is done. Good luck Comrade.”

  Captain Onipchenko moved off towards the position Chelpanov had selected, shouting and waving his arms at a group based around a Maxim heavy machine gun.

  Returning to his tank, Chelpanov quickly briefed his men and the T34 moved out from its position into a small hollow behind a pile of blackened bricks that was once the country retreat of a member of the local Gauleiter’s staff.

  The move was seen by the lead M5 Stuart, which broadcast the contact report immediately.

  However, Route 140 was a narrow road and the ground either side not suited to armoured vehicles, restricting movement and escape options, vital to the survival of light tanks.

  The Soviet 85mm spoke first, the solid shell tearing virtually straight up the road and missing the US light tank by a coat of paint.

  The Stuart could do nothing to harm the T34, even if it had stopped to fire accurately, its armour piercing capability insignificant. Neither did it possess a smoke shell to create some sort of cover. What it did possess was engine power, and the twin Cadillac engines gave the Stuart an excellent top speed. In this case, all they did was drive the vehicle closer to its end.

  ‘Polotsk’s’ gunner did not miss a second time, although the shell killed neither the tank nor the inexperienced crew inside, smashing into the front offside, removing the drive sprocket as neatly as a surgeon with a scapel, and sending pieces of the track flying.

  The crew debussed rapidly, before the T34 could fire another shot.

  The Maxim crew, still annoyed at being turfed out of their lovely firing position, vented their rage on the American tankers, 7.62mm bullets sending them to ground in search of whatever cover the bare soil could provide.

  ‘Polotsk’ sought and found a new target. It was dispatched with a single shell, a second Stuart tank burning readily along with most of its crew.

  Other Stuarts were moving back, their commanders and gunners tossing smoke grenades out of their hatches, desperate to cover their withdrawal.

  They were replaced by three Shermans from a troop of ‘A’ Squadron, one of which was a deadly Firefly.

  Lieutenant-Colonel Krol was already raging, the slowness of his recon advance the first cause, losses in light tanks the second.

  Ordering one squadron of his Shermans forward, he immediately switched his axis of advance southwards from the crossroads, intending to bypass Jork to the south, using route 38 through Westerladekop before rejoining the ‘26’ to drive down to Cuxhavener Straβe and into the rear of the Soviet defences.

  Unfortunately for him, as he made his decision, forty-five tons of Soviet tank was already driving hard up Westerladekop, heading westwards.

  Behind ‘Krasny Suka’, another IS-III, as promised by Evanin, drove hard to reinforce the Soviet effort, pushed along the road by the impending presence of two T34 tank companies and a battalion of lorried engineers.

  Unfortunately for the Soviet forces, two events then took over and delivered a disaster.

  In the first instance, the IS-III was straining hard to avoid holding up the faster moving troops behind it, and the strain told as the engine noisily ripped itself apart, the smoking and crippled tank coming to rest in the middle of the road, with the column behind closing fast.

&nbs
p; In the second instance, the tanks and lorries started to bunch up on a straight road, which coincided with the passing of aircraft from the two light carriers, HMS Argus and HMS Queen, steaming off the coast of northern Holland, sending their Naval aircraft out in support of ground operations.

  The former had recently been recommissioned and sent to sea, carrying 822 and 853 Royal Naval Air Squadron’s, Fairey Firefly I’s and Vought Corsair Mk IV’s respectively.

  The latter brought the experienced Seafire F/VX’s of 802 Squadron RN, along with 848 Squadron RN’s Mark III Grumman Avengers.

  The Seafires of 802 were leading the mission, seeking out enemy fighter responses to the Fleet Air Arm excursion.

  Intent on bombing the railway line north of Scharnebeck, the new target was bypassed by 802 and 848.

  822 and 853 were to support the attack, but were permitted to attack targets of opportunity, and it was the considered opinion of Lieutenant-Commander Steele, officer commanding 822’s Fireflies, that fifteen enemy tanks and well over twenty-five trucks were suitable for their undivided attention.

  A solitary ZSU-37, in the rear of the tank column, put up its shells in an effort to ward off the attacking aircraft, failing to even damage one before it became a victim.

  Sending Yellow and White sections into the attack, Steele remained with the rest of his squadron, half watching the attack, half seeking out threats in the unfriendly air space.

  Six Fireflies swept down and discharged their weapons, each aircraft capable of firing a salvo of sixteen RP-3 rockets, twice the normal payload of Allied ground attack aircraft.

  Aiming at the stalled column of seventeen tanks was child’s play, and each attack was greeted with explosions and secondary explosions as the two Soviet tank companies were ripped to pieces, as well as massive casualties inflicted on the lead elements of the engineer battalion.

  Behind them came Red section of 853, backed up by another two Corsairs from the reserve section.

  No organised fire opposed them as they swept over the sky above the remaining lorries, from which tumbled scores of bewildered Soviet combat engineers.