Opening Moves (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  Ramsey stood back as Sgt MacFarlane went through the roll call, smiling at the humour in McEwan’s voice, sighing with emotion as Young Munro did not reply to his name and imagining the faint sound of the pipes when Sinclair failed to answer the roll.

  Himself included, ‘B’ Company, 7th Battalion, The Black Watch now consisted of forty-six effectives.

  Dismissing the parade, Ramsey turned and looked over the Markt, sensing rather than seeing the heaps of enemy dead, knowing that they had suffered more losses than he had, but finding no consolation in the thought.

  Ramsey wept, silently and stiffly, as only a man battling with his inner self can do.

  For the Russians, the reaper’s bill was higher than could ever have been expected and without success to sweeten the bitterness of so many deaths.

  179th Rifle Division was combat ineffective now. None of the five battalions committed had their commander, four being dead and one missing vital parts of his body, removed by grenades as he led his men forward at the Exchange. The five battalions consisting of one thousand seven hundred men just a few hours ago now mustered less than six hundred and many of those were unfit but refused to go to the aid stations.

  The three battalions of 938th Rifle Regiment had done no better. I Btn had been hammered in their advance up Ballindamm, II Btn savaged as they went to the support of the under-pressure diversionary attack force, III/992nd Rifle Regt. III/938th had been the main force that blundered into the Markt, complete with companies from the 215th Rifles and the sappers of the 28th.

  II Btn 28th Engineer Sappers had been pulled from the Ballindamm attack, preserved for the Markt assault and had suffered the most casualties of any battalion in the field, there being only twenty-four men left from a unit which boasted three hundred and sixty at the start of the day.

  Second to them came the III/215th Rifles, which had been the opponents of Ramsey and the Fallschirmjager during their wild counter-attack. They had started the Battle of Hamburg with two hundred and ninety-nine effectives, ending with forty-seven capable of holding a weapon.

  39th Guards Tanks had worked wonders and now had a total of eight running tanks, its mechanics scrounging from wrecks to make whole. Casualties amongst the crews had been less than the norm, as many had escaped back to their own lines. Their morale was shot away, lowered further by the grievous wounding of their much-loved commander.

  10th Guards Mortar had been badly hit by radar-guided counter-battery fire, and the 64th Gun Artillery Brigade had been dealt with very harshly by allied ground-attack aircraft, appearing unopposed over the Hamburg skies.

  Last on Beloborodov’s list were the 134th Knapsack Flamethrower Company of ninety-four men and one mad disfigured Kapitan. Simply put, there was no one left.

  True to form, Beloborodov blamed the actions of the II/295th’s commander for the whole failure and was, surprisingly, believed.

  He never did get the Guards Rifle Corps and 43rd Army was withdrawn from front-line action to reform.

  2300 hrs Sunday 12th August 1945, Adjacent to the ‘Bride’, Altstad, Hamburg, Germany.

  Llewellyn organised a command group on the quayside near the Bride, a large sandbagged position providing protection from the Soviet artillery fire that had been redirected onto the front line positions shortly after the failure of the attack.

  No lighting was necessary as the burning Rathaus adequately illuminated the entire area.

  As he waited for his officers, an orderly finished tending to the days wounds. A flesh wound to the right side of his belly and the nasty wrist wound which denied him the use of his right hand.

  The two bullets from Scelerov’s pistol had hit nothing vital, and new bandages on calf and arm protected wounds that bled a lot but were not serious.

  First to arrive was Schuster, the competent Fallschirmjager Hauptmann now sporting a head bandage, closely followed by 2nd Lieutenant Maitland of the Manchesters, Captain Jones of RWF’s A Company and CSM Price, the senior man left standing in the savaged D Company.

  Next came Angell, Lieutenant of Yeomanry, his uniform stinking of petrol, his eyes speaking volumes of the horrors he had faced that day, deep in whispered conversation with C Coy’s Captain Anwill, who favoured a wounded leg.

  Lieutenant Reece arrived, his uniform immaculate by comparison with the others, his mortar unit not having sustained a single casualty thus far, having joined in with the defeat of the Ballindamm assault and added to the misery of those slaughtered in the Markt from a distance only. Accompanying him was the less than pristine Ames, who had taken up a rifle in the Rathaus resistance, closing with an enemy face to face for the first time. Blackened by soot and with smoke-reddened eyes, he hoped never to repeat the experience.

  Last to join the group was Ramsey, stiff and aching from his exertions.

  Welcoming everyone and permitting smoking, Llewellyn swung into organising the defence for that night and the following day, formally and efficiently discharging his function, not referring to the horrors of the day.

  As he wound up proceedings, a panting Lance-Corporal runner arrived bearing orders from the Brigadier, disappearing as soon as Llewellyn acknowledged that he understood and would comply, a process that took slightly longer as he had to open the envelope one-handed.

  Staring at the back of the runner, the Welshman composed himself.

  “I’m sure you can imagine what this is?” holding the message pad out towards his officers.

  “Attack orders?” quipped Ramsey with a lightness he did not feel, his comment drawing weary chuckles from the assembly.

  “Forget all I just said gentlemen, we are pulling back to the other side of the canal. The Brigadier doesn’t want us cut off. Nice of him really. Just a little late.”

  It was a sensible order to a man some miles away but the impact of paying so high a price to defend ground and then to retreat was galling to every officer present.

  Unfolding his map once more, Llewellyn drew his commanders closer and under the flickering light they planned.

  Smearing the map with a combination of blood, sweat, and ash, he ran his finger over the positions, illustrating his words. “Hauptmann, part of your unit will evacuate back over the Bride, positioning opposite the breach here. You will be first to move your men at,” looking at his watch and making a quick decision, “2330 hrs.”

  Schuster checked his own timepiece and nodded.

  “The first group should be able to resite within thirty minutes?”

  This time the Hauptmann smiled wearily.

  “Twenty minutes Herr Maior. No more than that.”

  Llewellyn appreciated the man’s enthusiasm and national pride but there was something vital that needed to be said.

  “We will allow thirty minutes Captain. The Bride is a flimsy lady and we mustn’t rush her.”

  Schuster could not help but concede that point.

  “At the same time A Coy will start evacuating over the remains of the Stadthausbrücke, same procedure, covering force behind, force over the water and set for defence.”

  And Llewellyn went piece by piece through the withdrawal, allowing a few minutes here and there as a safety margin until he got to the end. Firing orders for the mortars and artillery were confirmed, Reece and Ames taking notes, the artilleryman’s constantly shaking hands drawing more than one sympathetic look.

  “Black Watch will be next at 0120 and will set up right opposite the Bride, covering the rearguard sections of D Company.”

  Llewellyn stood upright, almost challenging his officers to disagree.

  “D Company will move over the Bride commencing at 0140 and I shall be last to cross.”

  There was no dissent. The young Major had without question earned the right.

  The moment had arrived and Llewellyn took it head on with all the emotion of his celtic race.

  “Today we have lost many a good man. Friends have fallen,” the slight crackle in his voice betraying the exhausted man’s angst.

 
; “I can only say that it was a privilege to fight with all of you on this day, for we have done our duty to the fullest degree.”

  In a remarkable moment of leadership, he repeated the phrase, his eyes boring into the disconsolate Reece, words spoken for him and his predicament, “To the fullest degree.”

  The young Welshman tightened his jaw and accepted the gift his Major offered. Honour was satisfied.

  “Thank you all and please pass on my admiration and thanks to every man under your commands.”

  Bringing himself back from the emotional edge, Llewellyn looked across the assembly.

  “I will not expect your written reports until after we have relocated.”

  The look on his face carried the intended humour and the comment was well received.

  “If there are no further questions gentlemen?”

  There were none and the group broke up.

  A meaningful look from the Welshman had stayed Ramsey’s departure and, once again, the two found themselves alone.

  The younger man struggled for his words.

  “I know lad,” the soothing voice of the Black Watch Major cutting through the silence.

  “You did extremely well today, extremely well.”

  Coming from the legend, Llewellyn could accept that as praise indeed.

  “Thank you Major Ramsey. Everyone did well today I think.”

  A brief moment’s pause, during which the RWF officer’s stance softened, his face reflecting how his mind was dragging up the day’s demons.

  “They came on and on, they didn’t stop.”

  “No one said they aren’t brave soldiers did they?”

  “No, and they are very brave; very, very brave.”

  “Valour knows no national boundaries Major Llewellyn.”

  The tired Welshman nodded wearily.

  “Many a brave man died here today and that’s a fact Major Ramsey.”

  To bring an end to the maudlin moment the Black Watch officer brought himself to the attention.

  “Major Llewellyn, it has been a privilege to serve with you.”

  He saluted the younger man, and went to take his leave.

  He stopped, considering something, and turned back again.

  “One day when all this is over, someone will write a book about today Lieutenant Chard.”

  The reference to the commander of Rourke’s Drift brought a dry laugh from the Welshman.

  Affecting a posh English accent, he quipped back, feeling a lot better than he had done for some time.

  “See you on the other side of the water Bromhead old chap.”

  0040 Monday 13th August 1945, Altona, Hamburg, Germany.

  Llewellyn Force successfully completed its relocation as planned and without major incident, reforming the defensive line, a line that still spread unbroken across the whole of the city, which good news Radio Hamburg hammered out to a frightened population.

  Reece and Ames put down their covering fire, as much to create noise as to disrupt any enemy moves.

  Ames, with the uncanny ability to sense the right action, altered his fire plan and ordered a three round battery shoot on the area around St Jacobi that the Soviets had used to gather for the attack that afternoon.

  1st Company, 106th Pontoon Engineers had sustained no casualties that day, being held back ready for when the infantry did their job.

  Under cover of darkness, they were moving their equipment up ready for the assault the following day. The command group was being briefed by the shocked General whose 1st Rifle Corps had bled out in the attack.

  Twelve rounds of HE landed in a tight area, testament to the skills of the British gunners.

  The screams of the dying were mixed with the shouts of rescuers who rushed forward as the fire shifted to other areas.

  Many of the 106th’s personnel lay broken and bleeding with their equipment wrecked beyond use.

  The engineer command group and that of the 1st Rifle Corps were unidentifiable, two shells having landed a few feet either side of them as they worked.

  They were the final casualties of a bloody day.

  In 1879, at the Battle of Rourke’s Drift in Natal, South Africa, the defenders were awarded eleven Victoria Crosses and numerous other awards, two of the VC’s falling to Lieutenants Chard and Bromhead, the officers commanding.

  In 1945, Llewellyn submitted a long list of recommendations for his men, all of whom deserved an award many times over.

  In 1879, the British Government had been keen to reduce the impact of the disastrous Isandhlwana battle and played up the defence of Rourke’s Drift, hence its place in British Military history and the numerous awards of medals for such a small action.

  In 1945, Llewellyn Force and its stand in Hamburg was historic because of the huge losses the modest British and German Force inflicted on the enemy.

  It was also historic because it was the first battle of the new war in which two Victoria Crosses were awarded.

  Llewellyn’s report laid over forty names before his commanding officer and only three were downgraded from the original recommendations of the proud Welshman. Ranging from a Military Medal for CSM Price to a DSO for Maior Perlmann of the Fallschirmjager, a bar to the Military Cross for the dead Frederick Brown to a DSO for Captain Daffyd Jones of A Company.

  Last on Llewellyn’s list was the recommendation for the award of a Victoria Cross to a young fusilier who had sacrificed his life so that others could live, fulfilling the promise he made over the boys corpse in the burning Rathaus.

  The commanding officer of 43rd Welch Division also received a report submitted by a British Officer not of his division, and counter-signed by all but one of the leadership of Llewellyn Force. This document put forward another name for the highest award, a report given much weight by bearing the signatures of a number of experienced and decorated officers, not the least of which was Major J Ramsey VC, DSO and 2 Bars, MC and Bar, The Black Watch.

  Which meant that, on 3rd January 1946, Major/Acting Lieutenant Colonel Tewdwr Llewellyn stood in the Throne room of Buckingham Palace, alongside the proud sister of Private Euan Jenkins, both to receive Victoria Crosses from a grateful King and Country.

  2045 hrs Sunday 12th August 1945, Curau River Bridge, south-west of Heiligenthal, Germany.

  Nazarbayeva had once again come very close to death and she knew it, allied aircraft the offenders this time, in the shape of Thunderbolts intent on mischief. Her driver and security officer were poring over the GAZ, trying to mend the radiator damage resulting from the crash, which itself had been caused by hard manoeuvrings as they avoided the attentions of the fighters attacking the bridge she was just about to cross.

  She checked her watch.

  It was precisely 8.45pm on a lovely summer’s eve and she immediately decided that a Lieutenant Colonel’s rank had to have some privileges

  Looking around her, she decided against the ruined watermill as a starting point, instead looking north towards the meadow.

  Leaving the vehicle and would-be mechanics to the job, she decided to go for a walk, as this was the first time she had stretched her legs since leaving the military hospital at Kirchgellersen where she had interrogated a severely wounded British Intelligence Colonel. Pekunin’s decision to send her personally had been the correct one as the man had died this very evening, but not before Tatiana had garnered some interesting and important information.

  As she walked, Nazarbayeva watched the small unit of bridging engineers who had already placed out barriers preventing anyone from using their bridge while they set to repairing the damage from the air attack.

  Nazarbayeva paused to watch them at work, assessing the time they would take. Moving on, she walked past the stubs of a larger wooden bridge that had been knocked down during the fighting a few days beforehand.

  All around her the detritus of war was still randomly spread, plainly marking the location as one on which blood had been prodigiously spilt.

  Rough graves interring Sovie
t soldiers lay close to those where the enemy were obviously buried, all committed near to where they fell.

  A blackened hull of a destroyed T34 tank stood silent guarding the watercourse, a ruined burnt-out jeep pushed into the nearby bushes.

  The other side of the river stood a number of large trucks, smashed and rent, each with its own crop of markers depicting the unfortunates who had died.

  All around the site the ground had been scarred by high-explosives, the fields seemingly despoiled by the work of huge moles.

  Tatiana walked along the bank of the river, walking around the shell holes, trying to read the battlefield.

  She followed the bend around, finding ammunition, belts and helmets in large quantities.

  In a large shell hole were the obvious signs of a temporary aid post, with blood stained bandages and torn clothing in thick piles.

  A shattered rifle, obviously American, lay sundered on the rim.

  She followed the river round to where the visible indications of multiple grenade bursts covered the ground.

  A very obvious corpse lay in the bushes on the other side, a cloud of flies rising and descending, feeding on the decaying flesh. The uniform was that of the Red Army. She promised herself that she would order the engineers to remedy the situation and bury this unknown hero of the Motherland once back to the bridge.

  She stopped and looked around her, recognising the shallow depressions as filled-in trenches and foxholes. She concluded that this was an American defensive position, and decided to walk it with a professional eye.

  As she strode past the first foxhole, her good foot connected with a stone in the grass. She bent down to pick it up, intending to send it into the water.

  However, this ‘stone’ was manufactured in the US of A, as it was a Mk II Fragmentation grenade, placed ready for use beside the foxhole by the former American occupant.

  Inspecting the grenade, Tatiana could see no problems with it and slipped it into her pocket as a deadly souvenir.

  She continued her walk, professionally assessing the signs of intense combat, interpreting the marks of violence, imagining a rush of feet here and a last stand there until her reverie was broken by shouting from her security officer, beckoning her to return to the vehicle.