Breakthrough (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  Each aircraft dropped its load, each adding two aerodynamically shaped containers to fall erratically but unerringly to earth amongst the Soviet troops.

  Twelve containers discharged their awful contents and turned the sky yellow in an instant, as fire flew in all directions, consuming everything in its path.

  Napalm.

  The casualties were horrendous; the lucky ones killed instantly, those for whom luck played no saviour’s role ran amongst their comrades screaming, the sticky napalm ensuring that fire destroyed them despite their efforts to escape it.

  It was war at its most horrible.

  The Fleet Air Arm aircraft went on their way, satisfied that their intervention had helped their ground colleagues, and knowing that they had given Ivan a bloody nose.

  In reality, 3rd Battalion of the 66th Engineer-Sapper Brigade was wiped out, save the few men that Onichenko had with him in Jork. The survivors on the road were either wounded or so shocked as to be out of the war for some time to come.

  Surprisingly, four of the 517th’s T34’s were still runners, although their crews were similarly in shock.

  The lone IS-III did not survive; its turret lay blackened some hundred yards from its smashed and twisted hull.

  1658 hrs Monday 20th August 1945, Westerladekop, Germany.

  Stelmakh was distracted by the events to the south, firstly by the explosions, and secondly by the wall of flame that sprang up so awfully.

  He suspected that the reinforcements were having a hard time but had no time to consider it further as he reached the corner at the same time as an M5 Stuart tank of the Polish Mounted Rifles.

  The enemy tank fired first, the range a ridiculous thirty yards at the most.

  The puny 37mm hard shot hit the turret of the IS-III and flew off into an adjacent building, one of the few left undamaged by the passage of the previous war.

  The recon tank threw itself into reverse in an effort to survive, the driver skilfully performing the task without losing a track or fouling the debris lining the road.

  A second shell missed the Soviet leviathan but struck one of the infantry group as they were jumping off their mount.

  The distorted body was thrown back, coming to rest hanging upside down from a small balcony on a ruined house behind the IS-III.

  The 122mm gun boomed out and the Stuart virtually disintegrated as the heavy high-explosive shell detonated on its front plate, killing the whole crew instantly.

  Pulling into cover behind a pile of building debris, Stelmakh keyed his radio, intending to inform Evanin that half the Allied Army was coming down the road towards him. The message was not received as his commander had been forced to evacuate his tank when it was immobilised by enemy fire.

  One of the infantry section sprinted up the side of the road, bent double, in an effort to be as small as possible. He disappeared thru a battered doorway, re-emerging ten seconds later without the satchel charge he had been carrying.

  His sharp-eyed Sergeant had spotted another US light tank hiding behind the building, and sent the soldier on a mission to destroy it.

  An explosion threw a mixed load of debris up and out from behind the building, some of which was clearly identifiable as parts of a vehicle, indicating a successful kill.

  Stelmakh had no time to do anything but fight his tank, his vision filled with a force of enemy tanks strung out on the road in front of him. Approximately five hundred metres to his front the road curved, exposing the side armour of the Allied vehicles, but also permitting more than the front tanks to bring their guns to bear.

  He selected a tank with a bigger looking gun and ordered the killing to start.

  The shell streaked past the stationary vehicle, its own 17-pounder returning fire instantly.

  The APDS shell clipped the side of the turret close by where the first hit had been sustained, again ricocheting off.

  The IS-III fired again and was rewarded with an immediate explosion and fire in the target vehicle, a Sherman Firefly of the Polish Armoured Regiment’s ‘A’ Squadron.

  Flashes from the roadway indicated more enemy shots but none struck the heavy tank, although infantry that had been close by in support decided to exercise discretion, moving further away from the object that was attracting so much attention.

  Selecting another target, Stelmakh yelped with fear as a shell clanged heavily off the turret, again failing to penetrate the thick armour.

  His bladder held and he ordered the shot, being rewarded with yet another ‘kill’ as the armour-piercing shell easily bit through the hull armour of a Sherman to their front.

  Smoke started to thicken in his line of sight and he swiftly popped his head out of the open hatch, noting that the Allied troops were either throwing smoke grenades or small calibre mortars were putting down a screen.

  In fact, both things were happening, as Krol tried hard to get his men to keep pushing.

  The smoke was a good idea, as it screened the Poles from the deadly 122mm, but it also did the reverse, and Stelmakh swiftly ordered Stepanov to relocate forward.

  The IS-III slid into the newly selected firing position and waited for the smoke to disperse.

  It didn’t, seeming to continue to grow rather than dissipate.

  An unearthly squeal marked the arrival of artillery shells, hammering the corner of Westerladekop where the IS-III had just moved from.

  The Soviet tank crew appreciated that their youthful commander had acted quickly and saved them from the dangers of the artillery.

  However, the Polish artillery claimed four of the infantry section, one shell bursting within the huddled group and leaving no identifiable trace of their existence.

  Out through the smoke came two Shermans, side by side, charging like Napoleonic lancers.

  Both 75mm’s fired together and their shells landed commendably close to where their gunners intended.

  White phosphorous shells burn but also produce smoke and the two shells landed near the IS-III, one to the front and one to its left side.

  Both tanks disappeared in the new cloud almost immediately.

  “I can’t see!”

  The gunner was strangely calm, perhaps because he was in one of the most heavily armoured tanks of the time, or perhaps because he had faith in his commander.

  “Shift your aim to the bend, right of the smoke, see it?”

  “Yes, Comrade Commander.”

  The turret moved until the long gun was pointed at the spot Stelmakh had selected.

  “If you have a target and can hit it, fire without my command. Clear?”

  No answer came for two seconds, and then the breech flew backwards as the 122m lashed out again.

  One of the Shermans lay askew, its offside running gear in ruins, track in pieces.

  Bravely the crew stayed with the vehicle and got off another WP shell.

  “Are you still sighted, Yuri?”

  The gunner noted the use of his name.

  “Yes, Comrade Commander.”

  “Then kill him.”

  Again the monster gun boomed and a shell streaked off into the smoke, disappearing quickly from view. The other side of the screen of chemical smoke, the heavy shell drove into the base of the tanks turret, killing the commander and gun crew. The hull crew abandoned immediately.

  Off to the right edge of his vision, Stelmakh noticed a small movement.

  “Gunner, machine gun, target right, infantry on foot.”

  “Comrade, the machine gun is useless.”

  In the heat of the moment, Stelmakh had forgotten.

  “Govno! I forgot! Engage any tank you see on the road without my order.”

  He popped his head up through the hatch, exchanging the smoky, propellant tainted air of the interior for the phosphorous smoke outside the tank.

  Grabbing for the machine-gun, he became aware of ‘insects’ buzzing round him, deadly insects fired from a Bren gun supporting the small group of infantry.

  He cocked the 12.7mm machine-g
un, feeling a tug at his collar as a bullet passed close.

  Again he conquered his bladder’s desire, controlling his fear and focussing on the task he had set himself.

  The heavy DShK machine gun hammered out its bullets, throwing up earth and stones as he directed his first burst wide of the target.

  Stelmakh adjusted, but felt the sting of pain before he fired again, a bullet clipping a lump of flesh out of his left forearm.

  His fear left in an instant, replaced by a professional anger and his finger pulled the trigger again.

  The Bren gunner, waiting whilst his number two set a new magazine in place, was the first to die, three of the heavy calibre bullets striking him and claiming his life instantly.

  The loader was struck in the wrist as he placed the new magazine on the machine-gun, both hand and magazine flying away, leaving him screaming in pain.

  Next to die was the radio operator, four bullets making a perfect line across his back as he turned to run.

  The artillery observation officer was next. One bullet was enough.

  Two of the supporting infantry were the last to die, one instantly, one eventually, as he had both femurs smashed by the heavy calibre rounds.

  The remaining three men went to ground and decided to stay there indefinitely.

  Stelmakh ducked back down to grab more ammunition as the main gun barked once more, smashing into a Firefly distant on the bend but flying off acutely, the angle of both the armour and the vehicle positioning defeating the heavy shell.

  Another whoosh, and a metal clang told the crew that one more enemy shell had come close.

  Quickly wrapping a cloth around his bleeding arm, he pulled the ammunition pannier up and rose up once more, only to find the DShK gone, the only sign of its presence being a small sheered metal bracket where it had once stood.

  ‘Govno!’

  “Machine gun has gone,” he announced, matter of factly, as he dropped back down again, a sudden trembling present in his hands.

  The loader finished ramming home a shell.

  “Comrade Commander, we are low on ammunition.”

  The IS-III had been born low on ammunition, being provided with twenty-eight rounds at best.

  “How many, Viss?”

  “Eleven, and only three armour-piercing.”

  ‘Oh fucking hell!’ thought Stelmakh.

  “That’s enough to do the job,” said Stelmakh, portraying a confidence he did not wholly feel.

  The gunner called a warning, and the big gun fired again.

  Another Sherman burned.

  “There are more targets than I have ammunition for, Comrade Starshy Leytenant,” said Yuri the gunner, the edge in h is voice showing that he was also just in control of himself.

  “Maybe, but they don’t know that do they, Yuri?”

  Stelmakh was coming of age.

  “Pile on the pressure, Yuri. Save the armour piercing for the big gun tanks but I’m sure our HE will do the job on their Shermans.”

  “What’s in the gun now?”

  “AP.” The loader had the last AP round ready to load following the next shot.

  “Give me HE from now on, Viss.”

  The loader slid the component parts of an AP shell back into the rack. The 122mm was a powerful beast but had its drawbacks, split ammunition being but one of them.

  “Firing!” came the warning and the IS-III dealt out death once more, although the shell missed it’s intended target it struck a bren gun carrier behind, wounding every man aboard.

  More WP shells arrived bathing the area in a dense cloud of white smoke.

  “Driver, relocate to previous position.”

  The big tank was reversing within two seconds, the skills of Stepanov now apparent as he moved the vehicle backwards using solely his memory, before stopping and driving forward into the prime position again.

  “Nice work, Ovy!”

  The IS-III crew were doing extremely well, products of the training programme that Stelmakh had conducted.

  But, despite intensive training, costly mistakes can still be made and such a mistake nearly cost the loader his life.

  “Firing!” was the warning from the gunner, as he sent another shell on its way.

  The breech crashed back but this time found something soft in its path. Flesh and bone stood no chance against steel propelled by explosive force.

  Mercifully, the impact had also smashed Vissarion Gushko’s head against the wall of the turret, knocking him out at the same time as his shoulder and upper left arm were shattered by the unforgiving breech.

  Stelmakh could only pull the injured man out of the way and stand in his stead, loading the two parts of the HE shell as quickly as he could.

  The gunner had missed his previous shot and was determined to make up for his error.

  He took the track off a Sherman and was pleased to spot the crew abandon immediately, fearful of sitting in an immobilised tank in front of the IS-III’s awesome gun.

  The tank next to it suddenly blossomed into flame as a shell penetrated it and set it alight, roasting the crew alive.

  One of the surviving T34’s had made it up to support, even though the crew were still a little shocked from their near-death experiences.

  Their first two shots had missed, and Stelmakh and crew weren’t even aware that they had help on hand until the T34’s third shell struck home so spectacularly.

  Another HE shell was rammed home and the last light tank in view came apart with the explosive force of the huge shell.

  The fight went out of the Poles and they started to melt away, still laying smoke to cover their withdrawal.

  Soviet artillery had started up a few minutes beforehand, called in by Onipchenko from his positions in Jork.

  1716 hrs, Monday 20th August 1945, Nottensdorf, Germany.

  ‘Polotsk’ had survived the encounter intact, albeit scarred by hits and near misses. Six enemy tanks lay in front of their position, testament to their solid defence.

  An engineer Corporal scaled the tank glacis plate to offer shares in his personal vodka stash, so impressed was he with the tanker’s performance.

  Three men from the Maxim crew had become casualties, one of which was fatal.

  In Westerladekop, Stelmakh, Stepanov and Ferensky had pulled their beast back into cover and carefully extricated their wounded comrade, laying him on the engine deck until an ambulance came to take casualties away.

  Stelmakh found himself still unable to make radio contact with anyone, so contented himself by talking with the infantry officer, gleaning as much information as he could about the wider battle.

  Perversely, the Red Army had undoubtedly won the ground exchange, stopping each Polish advance in turn, causing more casualties than they sustained at each point.

  None the less, the advantage gained had been lost by the badly timed arrival of the Royal Naval air squadrons, and the success of their attack.

  It would have been no comfort to the soldiers on the ground to know that the RN aircraft had suffered 30% casualties in their attacks, falling foul of Soviet anti-aircraft guns in numbers.

  Fig #45 - Nottensdorf - relevant locations

  A - Rumyantsev’s last position.

  B- ‘Krasny Suka’ blunts Pomorski’s attack.

  C- Czernin’s tank hits the mine.

  D- ‘Polotsk’ has engine failure?

  E- ‘Polotsk’s’ defensive positions.

  F- ‘Krasny Suka’s’ defensive positions.

  G- Royal Naval air attack on 3rd/66th Engineer and 517th Tanks

  H- Polish artillery observer group’s last position.

  The loss of the engineers and tanks had stopped the intended northern route attack, firm Polish resistance halted the southern force’s progress, and further air attacks and artillery exchanges meant both sides settled down in their start positions, no ground lost or won, save the previously unoccupied Jork now in Soviet hands.

  Losses in senior personnel had been bad for th
e Poles, but much worse for the Soviets. 47th Mechanised Brigade was now under the command of Acting Lieutenant Colonel Pugach, 66th Engineers under Captain Onipchenko and the remaining five IS-III’s of 6th Guards Breakthrough Tank’s were led by Acting Senior Lieutenant Stelmakh.

  Both sides had their ‘investigations’ into the debacle.

  The Soviet one resulted in blame being fixed on the dead, partially because the naval air attack had been unpreventable.

  On the Allied side, the buck stopped at the door of Lieutenant Colonel Micha Krol, who was relieved of his command and sent to less onerous duties.

  Nearly two thousand men had become casualties during a battle that had made no difference whatsoever to the overall military position, save to remove a number of significant formations from the Order of Battle on both sides.

  He who has lost honour can lose nothing more.

  Publius Syrus.

  Chapter 68 - THE PROPOSITION

  0534 hrs Wednesday 22nd August 1945, Rastatt rail sidings, Germany.

  The trains had thundered eastwards and brought the whole of ‘Camerone’ to Rastatt, where men and machines debussed for the short journey to their holding area in and around Muggensturm and Waldprechtsweier, Germany.

  The journey through France had been uneventful, the strangely clad legionnaires hardly raising an eyebrow amongst the few civilians that examined the troops passing through their area. An occasional old soldier made the connection but, in line with the view taken by de Gaulle, his people generally cared only that units of the French Army were on the move and paid no attention to the detail.

  When ‘Camerone’ debussed at Rastatt, things were very different. Whilst no SS insignia were in sight, the very nature of the men who quietly and efficiently disembarked, forming into their combat units with practised ease, was obvious to anyone who had been in Germany in the last decade.

  Despite the seriousness of the situation facing their Fatherland, some of the population were less than enchanted to see the Schutzstaffel marching once more, albeit under the flag of the legendary Legion Etrangere, and more than one passing German gave voice to their fears.