Breakthrough (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  Soviet artillery now started to build in its intensity, both George and King companies taking casualties.

  A tank and infantry appeared to the south, driving hard straight at them, following the west bank of the stream at speed.

  “Enemy to front!”

  No order to fire was given but the Airborne started to lash out, Soviet soldiers dropping to cover immediately.

  The tank crew were confused, expecting friendly troops in the farm ahead.

  Beside them, the infantry got a DP28 working, its bullets seeking targets in the nearest windows.

  The bazooka team sprang into action and moved to the stream, hugging the bank in an effort to close with the T34.

  They were spotted by the infantry and both men picked off in short order.

  More Soviet infantry appeared, following in the tanks track marks, coinciding with some of the arrival of the American rearguard elements from Eggenthal.

  The tank, satisfied now that the enemy were ahead, started to pump high-explosive shells into the farmhouse.

  The second shell started a fire on the ground floor, the smoke from which soon pervaded the whole building and made conditions awful for those inside.

  The Airborne battalion’s mortars were directed to hit the new arrivals but their fire was inaccurate, and the burning farmhouse and accurate machine-gun fire prevented any decent sighting and direction.

  Under cover of their DP and the T34, the Soviet infantry, now swollen to about sixty in number, launched a flank attack, utilising the cover of the stream.

  Crisp had anticipated this and had positioned one of his surviving .30 cal’s to guard the route, supported by a squad of troopers.

  The Soviet assault failed, the soldiers pulling back, leaving a dozen dead and wounded men behind.

  As they gathered themselves for another effort, their tank took a telling hit, the engine compartment starting to burn fiercely. A second hit blew the turret off the vehicle and the whole crew perished in an instant.

  Two Pershings from B/702nd had engaged the Soviet tank from behind, and killed it.

  The imminent arrival of tanks and armored infantry in their rear, combined with the stubborn defence of the Airborne to their front, was too much and the Soviet infantry threw down their weapons and started to surrender.

  An officer started to shout and scream, threatening his men with everything the Soviet State could throw at them, but to no avail. He sunk to the ground when he realised his men were done, throwing his pistol into the stream and hiding his head in his arms in shame.

  Crisp, returning from having overseen the repulse of the stream attack, noticed an important omission and screamed at his men.

  “Purple Smoke! Use purple smoke now!”

  An E8 Sherman moving alongside the Pershings, had spotted movement and, even as the airborne men threw their markers, a shell was sent on its way.

  The 76mm high-explosive shell clipped the corner of the farmhouse, deflecting very slightly from its course, zipped across the putrefying corpse of a cow, and into the garage.

  Inside the garage was an aid station, where the wounded of both sides were being given comfort by the 2nd Battalion medics.

  Twenty-one died in the blink of an eye, the highly effective shell exploding against the far wall just below a high window.

  Three men were pulled from the flames, two Russians and one badly wounded Eagle.

  The garage burned steadily, consuming the dead; five Soviet soldiers and thirteen US Paratroopers, along with three medical personnel, including the newly-arrived replacement Battalion Medical Officer.

  Purple smoke wafted around Goodnight Farm, taunting the defenders and the relieving force, reminding the survivors that the damage had already been done.

  Satisfied that nothing more could be done, Major Crisp occupied himself with organising the removal of the remaining wounded and getting his force out intact.

  Soviet artillery was beginning to draw closer to his position, so there was some urgency to his efforts.

  Hawkes and a squad had been detailed to sweep up the surrendered Soviets. Timmins was tasked with getting the men loaded on to the halftracks when they arrived.

  Liaising with his unit commanders by radio, Crisp satisfied himself that all was going well elsewhere, so dedicated his efforts to Easy and the remnants of the rearguard.

  Tanks and vehicles from ‘Petersen’ moved up, ready to get involved if any counter-attack should materialise.

  The E8 remained at distance, the crew knowing only too well that they had fired on their own, albeit accidentally.

  Meeting up with Timmins, Crisp noticed that the man was soaked through.

  “Dumped myself in the stream, Boss. Didn’t wanna mess up the infantry’s vehicles.”

  Crisp sniffed the air and discovered that the stream had not removed the whole legacy of the fall onto the cow.

  “Well, JJ, I gotta say, you are a sorry looking, sorry smelling sonofabitch.”

  And that was true. Grubby head bandage, faintly resembling a Japanese head scarf, complete with rising sun marking, this particular circle of red being the product of his head wound.

  A medic had bandaged his side, the whiteness of the dressing noticeable through his rent jacket.

  An additional wound, a split thumb web, dripped blood steadily onto the ground.

  “Jeez, but you must want the Heart so badly, JJ.”

  Marion Crisp referred to the Purple Heart, an award mainly given for combat wounds.

  “If you promise me not to stick your head up again today, I will write you up for it this very evening.”

  “I already got one, Boss,” the young officer grinning from ear to ear, pausing in his discussion to show four fingers at ‘Rocky’ Baldwin, a cue for the senior non-com to move another unit off to safety.

  A diminutive figure approached, clad in the uniform of a US Infantry Major.

  “What the fuck?” The words had barely left Timmins’ mouth than the short, stocky officer was on top of them.

  Too experienced to salute, the new arrival contented himself with a small bow at each man before introducing himself.

  “Takao, 100th Infantry Battalion.”

  Major Chikara Takeo was a challenging sight, businesslike and professional to the eye, every inch a combat soldier. But as always, when he was encountered for the first time, it was the sword that took the eye, even though only the handle could be seen, as it was presently slung across his back.

  Obviously, the two officers were staring.

  “Don’t worry, I save it for the enemy.”

  Takeo was a member of the elite Combat Team 442, of which the ‘One-puka-puka’, 100th [Nisei] Infantry Battalion, was an important part.

  Comprised mainly of Japanese-Americans, most of whom had been interned after Pearl Harbor, CT442 had earned a reputation for steadfastness and bravery in combat, a reputation second to none in the US Army.

  ‘One-puka-puka’ came from its Hawaiian birth, formed from various territorial and national guardsmen.

  Perhaps more surprisingly, CT442 was the most highly decorated Regiment in the history of the US Armed Forces.

  “Crisp, 101st,” and indicating his still unsavoury companion, “Acting Captain Timmins.”

  Hands were shaken and Crisp deliberately ignored the surprised look on his companion’s face, the field promotion dropped into conversation without warning.

  Artillery was creeping closer now, and a direct hit threw a fireball into the darkening sky as a halftrack was struck.

  “We need to get everybody outta here pronto, Major. My boys will hold the line while you fall back. 702nd will remain here with me until I move out.”

  As if to reinforce his words, groups of Japanese-American infantry moved forward, setting up defensively here and there, creating a barrier between the Soviet lines and the exhausted airborne troopers.

  Anticipating Crisp’s protest, Takeo gripped the younger man’s arm.

  “You have d
one enough, Major. See to your men and get them out. Then, I can get mine out too. OK?”

  “OK Major.” Crisp nodded, and to Timmins he continued, “Nothing fancy now, the 100th have the ball. Get everyone up and moving back right now. Quick as you can, JJ.”

  “Sir,” the newly-promoted Captain Timmins scuttling away to put a burr under the ass of any trooper he saw.

  As Crisp had been passing his orders on, Takeo had taken in his surroundings, the sights and the smells of deadly combat. Here, a pile of Russian dead, thrown unceremoniously together, as their medics strove to clear space for new arrivals. There, a neat row of airborne troopers laid out under tarpaulins, silently waiting their turn to evacuate with the rest of their comrades.

  From the still burning garage, the sickly sweet smell of roasting flesh pervaded everything.

  “Looks like you boys have had a hell of a time, Major.”

  Crisp shrugged, his head bandage unravelling as if to illustrate the point.

  “It was a tough fight. These Russians are hard bastards for sure.”

  His eye had only recently started to ache and water, the swelling of the impact beginning to make itself known as it became more agitated by the smoke and fumes.

  “Looks like you need a medic, Major Crisp?”

  The exhausted paratrooper could only shrug.

  “All in good time Takao, all in good time. For now, I must see to my men.”

  Crisp extended his hand and grasped that of the Hawaiian.

  “Thank you and your men, Major. Good night and good luck.”

  “Just to satisfy my curiosity, Major. What was that shit on your man’s battledress?”

  Crisp laughed wearily.

  “Matured cow,” he paused for thought.

  “Very matured cow.”

  Takao understood perfectly, releasing the handshake, and nodding at the exhausted airborne officer.

  “Safe journey to you and your men, Major Crisp.”

  “Take care, Major Takao.”

  Crisp walked off, slinging his Thompson over his shoulder.

  Waiting for him was a group of six of his men, three from his command group plus Baldwin, Hawkes and Timmins.

  A halftrack driver gunned his engine, keen to let the passengers know he was ready and willing to depart.

  Crisp stopped short of the group.

  “A hard day, troops.”

  He got no argument on that score.

  “Right, let’s mount up and get the hell outta here.”

  The six climbed aboard and turned to help their Major up.

  Crisp turned to the farmhouse and saluted formally.

  The GuteNacht Bauernhof was a wreck, a burning wreck, but it would become part of the folklore of the 101st from that day forward.

  A wry look set on his face.

  “Good night.”

  The irony was not wasted on anyone.

  And with that, they were away, leaving behind them a steadily growing fight, marked by the pronounced flashes from guns of all types firing in the rapidly growing darkness

  All units of Crisp’s command successfully escaped the pocket, although the Soviets did not properly reinforce their forces, assisting both the escapers and relieving forces greatly.

  The Nisei infantry and 702nd tankers withdrew after repulsing one heavy attack, inflicting crippling casualties on the Soviet infantry who were so profligate with their lives.

  The crew of the E8 were formally absolved of any blame for their part on the accidental deaths of the airborne wounded, although the finding could not assuage the grief and guilt they all felt at the friendly kills.

  They all died two weeks later, when the 702nd was attacked by Soviet ground attack aircraft. Their Sherman was blown off a riverbank by a near-miss and propelled into the water, drowning the entire crew.

  Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.

  Book of Proverbs

  Chapter 71 - THE ANSWER

  1200 hrs, Monday, 27th August 1945, Deployment Area of 1st Legion Brigade de Chars D’Assault ‘Camerone’, Waldprechtsweier, Germany.

  Passing the last of the checkpoints, the Polish officer dismounted from his jeep outside the main building.

  His intelligence brain took in the military aspects as he stretched himself, hands in the small of his back, noting a Panther under a flat roof to one side, and two anti-aircraft weapons on rooftops, covering the headquarters.

  Further study revealed soldiers going about their business, clad in a variety of uniforms that often betrayed their military roots, as well as indicated their present service in the Legion Etrangere.

  Resplendent in full Legion uniform, a French Général de Brigade was in animated conversation with one of the new German Legion members. A senior one as far as Kowalski could make out, certainly an officer, given the jacket he wore.

  Curiosity got the better of him, and he studied the pair a moment longer.

  He suddenly realised that the two men were now walking in his direction, so he busied himself with retrieving his briefcase from the back of the 4x4.

  He turned back as the two were almost upon him, his heart racing for a reason he couldn’t quite understand.

  A German voice cut through his doubts.

  “Maior Kowalski?”

  The German had spoken with pleasantness and the tone brought instant relief.

  “Yes, I am Kowalski.”

  Salutes were exchanged between the three men and introductions made.

  “Lavalle, Legion Corps D’Assault.”

  “Von Arnesen, Panzer Grenadiere Commander, 1st Camerone Brigade.”

  “Kowalski, Polish Liaison at First Army, formerly of 1st Polish Armoured Division.”

  The pleasantries over with, Von Arnesen took the lead.

  “Unfortunately, Colonel Knocke has been detained for a short time and he has asked me to look after you until he is free.”

  ‘What’s this?’

  Kowalski’s doubts, so recently stirred into action, then allayed, rose again for the briefest of moments.

  “Thank you, Commandant,” finding it natural to use the French rank.

  “I will take my leave of you. Adieu, gentlemen.” Lavalle offered a brief salute and disappeared inside the Rathaus that presently served as the headquarters building for ‘Camerone’.

  Checking his watch, Von Arnesen grinned.

  “Perhaps, given the hour, I can offer you some food and a drink in our mess, Maior Kowalski?”

  Part of him yearned to get close to Knocke immediately, but another part, the professional agent part, sensed that some time spent in the mess might yield some useful information.

  “Lead on, Commandant, lead on.”

  The cooks of ‘Camerone’ produced great meals, especially when they could rely on foodstuffs from local producers sympathetic to the cause.

  Both men had eaten heartily of a ham and onion stew, heavily dressed with potatoes and cabbage.

  Whilst engaging Von Arnesen and his fellows in harmless conversation, the GRU agent discovered that Camerone was soon to be moved up to assist in the defence of Augsburg, before the rest of the Corps committed to the field for an offensive operation.

  Coffee and sweet pastries opened mouths even wider and by the time lunch had drawn to a natural close, Kowalski had gleaned much worth reporting to his GRU superiors.

  One question burned brightly; not one for his hidden agent side, but one purely of professional curiosity.

  “Commandant, I simply must ask. This mess. There are common soldiers here, eating with the officers. I don’t understand. Why?”

  Those sat around stopped what they were doing, anxious to hear Von Arnesen respond.

  “Not conventional, we understand this, but it was the SS way, Maior Kowalski. I shall explain.”

  Von Arnesen looked around for a suitable example.

  “Ah yes. There, Maior.”

  He pointed out a group of six men sat three by three on a bench table, on
e a Captain, one a Lieutenant, the others two and two, NCO’s and privates.

  “Shall we?”

  The legion officer rose, picking up the water jug and a stack of glasses, and invited Kowalski to follow him, moving to the spare seats on either side and sitting down with the six men, indicating that they should not rise, but continue as they were.

  The first thing the Polish officer noticed was that none of the men were fazed by the presence of the senior man. They seemed to accept his appearance as quite natural, and their conversation flowed as freely as it had done before.

  Von Arnesen split the stack of glasses and carefully poured, passing a full glass to each man in turn, deliberately starting with the private soldier to his immediate right.

  “All that talking must be making you thirsty, Walter!”

  The laughter was soft but not put on, and certainly not done to impress.

  “Walter is always thirsty, Sturmbannfuhrer. His throat is the driest in the company.”

  “I confess, I enjoy a occasional pils, Sturmbannfuhrer.”

  Looking directly at his tormentor, Walter raised his eyebrows in admonishment, confiding in Von Arnesen in such a way that everyone within ten metres could hear.

  “Whereas Dietmar is never dry of throat, but he does like a bath to sit in, because he talks out of his arse!”

  Some playful punches were exchanged, and more genuine laughter accompanied it.

  That Dietmar was old enough to be Walter’s father, and a senior NCO, was not wasted on the visitor.

  Von Arnesen then engaged every man in conversation, the first names slipping easily off his tongue.

  He then went on to make his point, asking one man how another man’s son was doing in kindergarten, or how his comrade’s wife was enjoying her new job at the bank.

  The men didn’t understand what was going on but went with whatever their senior officer was trying to do.

  Von Arnesen looked at Kowalski, and then returned his gaze to the young Walter.

  “So, Walter, now that the Hauptsturmfuhrer’s father has his new leg, is he able to walk the dog again?”