Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  Heading off Bradley’s most obvious questions, Eisenhower paused in the act of lighting his cigarette.

  “This has not yet been discussed with our Allies, Brad. I just wanted you to see it, so you would understand better why I need you to keep going at the moment.”

  Bradley nodded his understanding.

  “I want the commies extended, their supplies exhausted, their men exhausted, and then I’m gonna hit them the hell back to Moscow.”

  Eisenhower’s normally calm exterior had cracked ever so slightly.

  Bradley felt suddenly enthused by his commander’s confidence.

  With controlled humour, he made the obvious enquiry

  “Can you tell me where we will undertake this miracle of modern warfare, General?”

  Eisenhower flicked his lighter.

  “Walt.”

  Bedell-Smith produced a map that, so far, had only seen the light of day in his and Eisenhower’s presence.

  Unrolling the paper gently, he set it before Bradley, placing a fountain pen to hold down one curled edge, as Eisenhower used the weight of his lighter on the other.

  What they were unprepared for was the laughter, uncontrolled, deep, unforced, genuine laughter.

  “Hot dog, but you have a sense of history, Sir.”

  Eisenhower could not help but smile back.

  “It’s going to be on your turf, and will be yours to command.”

  “Yessir,” the smile was welded to Bradley’s face.

  Rechecking the document, looking at the map, returning to the document, more and more questions formed in Bradley’s mind.

  “Some of these assets presently belong to 6th Army Group.”

  The notable arrival in Bradley’s order of battle was US Third Army.

  “Keep that under your hat for now, Brad. General Devers is due here this evening, and I will discuss it with him then. In any case, he will get a lot of extra bodies to keep him happy.”

  The rest of the questions were stowed away. They would keep for now.

  Eisenhower stubbed out his cigarette and recovered his lighter, the rolling up of the map drawing a line under their collective thought processes.

  The senior man could not resist one final moment of fun.

  “Got anyone in mind to lead it, Brad?”

  ‘So that’s why you are giving me the Third, is it?’

  “I have just the man in mind, Ike. He’s been on Jake’s back for some time now, and he hates being hogtied.”

  “A fine choice, General Bradley,” Eisenhower rose and led the others back into the main room, where they could look at more current matters, although each man took some time to erase the mental picture of the hogtied man on General Devers’ back.

  A certain pistol-toting General George Smith Patton.

  As was often the case with Patton, US Third Army was doing all it could to exceed the orders it was given.

  It was elements of 4th Armored and 90th Infantry that had kicked the 10th Guards Rifle Corps out of Lindau, on the shores of Lake Constance.

  It was not tank country, and the American armour started to suffer casualties at the hands of valiant Red Army soldiers armed with every variant of anti-armour weapon that the infantryman had in his arsenal.

  The 4th was withdrawn, leaving the infantry to hold the ground alone.

  Meanwhile, the commander of 10th Guards Rifle Corps, stung by his reverse, directed his units to the west, smashing elements of the 90th Infantry out of their positions at Laimnau, and driving them towards Route 333, where another force from 5th Shock smashed into them and threw them back to the outskirts of Tettnang.

  US 17th Corps’ commander had earlier responded to a Soviet thrust on Ravensburg, creaming off units, and sending them north to bolster the vital defence. An order was misinterpreted, and the entire force guarding the Argen crossing on Route 7776 headed to the sound of the guns, leaving a hole in the line.

  Major General McBride commanding the beleaguered 80th US Infantry Division, a tested and competent officer, realised the error swiftly. He dispatched a small ad hoc infantry force to block the open Route 7776, with orders to hold on the River Argen until the situation was properly assessed. He also contacted the 4th US Armored to get some extra beef in the line.

  Nikolai Berzarin, commanding the 5th Shock Army, had been confused.

  At first, the orders were to hold position. Then more arrived, encouraging him to expand his position on the shores of Lake Constance.

  Even more instructions followed, concerns from above about ammunition stocks, seemingly woven into woolly orders that could be interpreted in many ways.

  Seeking clarification, Berzarin had flown to 3rd Red Banner’s Headquarters at Haunstetten and spoken directly with Marshal Rokossovsky.

  The trip had been worth it, and Berzarin returned to his own headquarters at Leutkirch im Allgau with clear instructions.

  Fresh orders cascaded down through 5th Shock Army, and the whole force went over to the attack, part of which displaced the American defences at Laimnau.

  The commander of the 60th Guards Rifle Division, a number of his units pressing the retreating force northwards, sought and received permission to test other defences, and took the opportunity to also exceed his orders by sending a large group westwards down Route 7709.

  1349hrs, Tuesday, 25th September 1945, Route 7776 Bridge over the River Argen, Germany.

  Allied forces - Task Force Butcher [remnants of L and H coys of 359th Infantry Regiment and a composite reinforced Platoon from 305th Engineer Combat Battalion], all of 90th Infantry Division, and Task Force Hardegen [elements of 37th Tank Battalion, 53rd Armored Infantry Battalion and 25th Cavalry Squadron], and Composite Battery, 66th Armored Field Artillery Battalion, all of 4th US Armored Division, all of US 17th Corps, of US Third Army, of US 6th Army Group.

  Soviet forces - 1st Battalion, 185th Guards Rifle Regiment, of 60th Guards Rifle Division, of 32nd Rifle Corps, and 2nd & 3rd Companies of 116th Independent Engineer Sapper Battalion, and 379th Guards Rocket Mortar Battalion, and 2nd Company, 1504th Self-Propelled Gun Regiment, and Armoured Group ‘Antonov’ [112th Guards Tank Battalion, 67th Guards Reconnaissance Platoon, 67th Guards SMG Company & 1st Company, 92nd Engineer Tank Battalion], all of 5th Shock Army, of 3rd Red Banner Central European Front.

  Fig #56 - The Argen River Crossings, Germany.

  Major Butcher was in command, and he let everyone know it.

  A recent arrival in the ‘Tough ‘Ombres’, he had seen some combat time with the 8th Division in the Hürtgenwald before being wounded. Other non-combat assignments followed, until the Army could no longer spare him, and he found himself placed at the head of a composite infantry group and rushed to block the Argen river crossings.

  The Armored Force Major was not going to get into a pissing contest with the obnoxious man, so deferred to his command, especially as the dispositions that had been set seemed reasonable.

  Major John Johannes Hardegen was not to know that the acceptable efforts of Task Force Butcher had little to do with their namesake, and were more due to the efforts of a slight Captain from L Company, and a wizened Master Sergeant in H Company.

  Given the dubious honour of point duty, Sergeant Fusilov tentatively ordered his T-70 light tank to advance.

  The ’70 was a two-man reconnaissance tank, in which the driver drove, and the commander did everything else from serve the gun to use the radio.

  At the moment, Fusilov was concerned with only one matter; that of survival

  With binoculars seemingly glued in place, his head swept left to right and back, halting while his eyes examined a clump of bushes here, a stand of trees there.

  Others from the recon unit moved warily on the flanks.

  Fig #57 - Soviet assault on the Argen River, Germany.

  A flash of static warned Fusilov and he ordered his driver forward at the same moment that Lieutenant Gregorov got on his case.

  “Push up, Fusilov, push up quicker. Don’t be an o
ld woman.”

  Removing his eyes from the binoculars for the briefest of moments, the experienced reconnaissance NCO hawked and spat off to one side, his crewman judging it a suitable reply to that asshole of an officer.

  Gregorov was new and keen to impress, regardless of the effect he had on the men around him. He cared solely for the next rank and glory.

  Recon Platoon had already lost two tanks due to his pushing too hard, something that he seemed to neither regret nor remember.

  Emerging from behind a building on the edge of UnterWolfhertsweiler, the T70 moved swiftly around a long right-hand bend.

  Fusilov suddenly tensed.

  “Driver, hard left into the woods.”

  Needing no second invitation, the tank slipped down the gears and did a 90° left, heading up a rough track, and into the apparent safety of thick woods.

  The radio hissed again.

  “What now, Fusilov? I need you pushing forward, not hiding.”

  Keying the microphone, Fusilov spoke in the soft tones of men used to spending their time in close proximity to the enemy.

  “Comrade Leytenant. The fields on the right show signs of recent vehicle movement. I have taken cover to assess before reporting. Over and out.”

  Not quite proper radio procedure, but good enough for the moment.

  Fusilov had an itch he couldn’t scratch, and it wasn’t just the bent grass and damaged hedges.

  The binoculars swept the ground, seeking further clues to his unease.

  The remainder of the recon platoon had gone to ground, with the exception of Lieutenant Gregorov, who felt the eyes of Berzarin himself upon him, and acted accordingly.

  Spitting again, the incredulous NCO watched as his commander’s jeep bounced up the road and moved left, onto the same track he had followed. It slid to a halt next to his T70.

  “Serzhant Fusilov, what the fuck do you think you are doing?”

  Discarding his first thoughts, Fusilov prepared a properly respectful response.

  Unnecessarily, as it happened.

  “Serzhant, get your fucking vehicle up that road now. You’re supposed to fucking scout! So fucking scout, not lie around in the shade while better men do the work!”

  Not trusting himself to speak, the NCO saluted and dropped into the turret, ordering the driver to take the light tank forward as slowly as he could manage, staying within the apron of the wood.

  The jeep raced away, taking Gregorov off to harangue another of his tank commanders. Just south of the river, the T70 he had been similarly encouraging, had slipped into a small stand of trees on the riverbank.

  By chance, Fusilov cast a glance at the jeep at the moment of detonation.

  The yellow light came first, swiftly followed by the hard crump of an explosion.

  ‘Mines!’

  The jeep was flipped onto its top, and was already well alight. The driver, at least Fusilov thought it was the driver, was struggling to escape, pinned under the weight of the wrecked vehicle.

  Dropping his glasses to his chest, he used his wider vision to detect the other body, even now struggling to its feet, some yards away from the site of the mine’s detonation.

  ‘Gregorov. You damn fool!’

  The screams of the trapped driver reached the Sergeant’s ears, and he sought some kind of recognition in his officer’s face; some sign that he would respond to the petrified man.

  There was none.

  Nor could there have been.

  Gregorov was deaf and blind, the former temporary, the latter permanent.

  Fig #58 - Argen River Assault - Soviet location codenames.

  “Malinky-two-two, this is Drook-one-zero, report, over.”

  The deep voice of Antonov, the 112th Guards Tank Battalion commander, was unmistakable. He had seen the event from his position in UnterWolfhertsweiler.

  “Drook-one-zero, Malinky-two-zero has struck a mine and is out of action. Two-two now in command. Mines to north of main road. Signs of enemy movement in same area, over.”

  “Is ‘Voskrenseny’ occupied?”

  Both Antonov and Fusilov looked at the ruined old farm, considered indefensible in their planning. It had also been disregarded by the US defenders.

  “Drook-one-zero, Malinky-two-two, no sign of any defenders. Position is open from my position, over.”

  “Received two-two. Is the road clear, over?”

  Guards Lieutenant Colonel Antonov was not standing on ceremony.

  “Drook-one-zero, Malinky-two-two. Unknown,” from memory Fusilov summoned the correct map code, “Am moving up to point ‘Panyedelnik’ immediately. Will report, over and out.”

  Knowing the rest of the recon unit had heard, Fusilov concentrated on fighting his own vehicle.

  Addressing the driver, the NCO talked through his intended route.

  “Right then Comrade, bring her forward, stay in the woods until that hedge line, then hard right at speed and tuck in behind the buildings on that junction there,” he indicated the red brick farm buildings at the junction of the 7709 and 7707, despite the fact that the driver could not see him.

  The light tank surged forward before the driver brought his charge under full control, nervous of taking the thinly armoured tank into what he considered harm’s way.

  The radio crackled into life.

  “All units, Drook-one-zero. Strike called on ‘Vtornik’. Do not approach. Out.”

  Antonov had decided to flush the game, his heavily armoured IS-II’s already shaking out on the outskirts of UnterWolfhertsweiler.

  In under a minute, 120mm mortar shells were falling in and around point ‘Vtornik’.

  1412hrs, Tuesday, 25th September 1945, US defensive position at point ‘Panyedelnik’, west of UnterWolfhertsweiler, Germany.

  The building shook all around them, waterfalls of dust cascading over frightened men.

  “Steady guys, steady. They’re just chucking shells. They don’t know we’re here. Just keep your heads down.”

  H Company’s senior non-com was one of the oldest in the US Army, having served with Pershing in World War One and now, with Patton, in World War Two and again in…

  ‘Whatever the goddamn hell this goddamn latest fuck up is called!’

  Winchester Mearns did not have a spare ounce of fat on his five foot ten body, but he had more wrinkles than was considered acceptable for any three men.

  His eyes seemed permanently closed, his facial skin collapsed in around them.

  Even when using his beloved BAR, there was barely a crack between the flesh through which to see.

  Nevertheless, he rarely missed, and there was little that evaded his gaze.

  “Bazooka team, front and centre!”

  The T70 seemed intent on closing his position, and Mearns was intent on ensuring its silence.

  Slapping the bazooka man on the shoulder, Mearns picked out a position.

  “Haul your ass over the road to the pile,” he indicated a stand of felled trunks, some creative infantryman already having constructed an all-round position much like a frontiersman’s cabin without the roof.

  “Take him as soon as, but make sure you get the sonofabitch. First shot ok?”

  A nod was all he got, the two-man team already steeling themselves to run the gauntlet of mortar shells.

  Mearns clicked his fingers at two riflemen.

  “Stand ready as back up if I holler.”

  Again, Mearns received no reply, his men trained up to the hilt and confident in their senior man.

  Checking on the T70, and noting it had slowed, he gave the word.

  “Move out.”

  The bazooka team slipped swiftly out of the ruined front door, and was safely hidden in the wooden redoubt within seconds.

  The tank moved from right to left as Mearns watched, turning just a few yards short of the road, and facing the red brick farmhouse in which the US troops were posted.

  “All units, Druck-zero-one, cease fire on ‘Panyedelnik’. Out.”

>   ‘I swear I saw movement.’

  “Do you see anything?”

  The driver’s response was immediate.

  “No, Comrade Serzhant, nothing.”

  Not satisfied, Fusilov considered sending a couple of shells into the ruined farmhouse.

  The radio blared loudly in his ear, a stiff reminder of his mission from Antonov dissuading him.

  The T70 moved slowly forward.

  A slap on the gunner’s back indicated that the loader had connected up the rocket grenade, and the bazooka was ready to fire.

  The M9 fired a 2.39” diameter M6A3 hollow-charge shell, capable of penetrating anything up to 102mm of armour.

  The front armour of the T70 was 60mm at best, and that on the front of the turret only.

  Coolly following the track of his target, the gunner aimed for the spot immediately below the driver’s hatch, where the armour was thinner.

  The driver died instantly.

  Fusilov felt the wave of pain as pieces of the tank and driver were propelled into him, bone and metal fragments penetrating his lower limbs in a hundred places.

  He keyed the radio as he triggered the machine-gun, his tracers reaching out and into the little pile of wood he had so stupidly failed to spot.

  Both men and bazooka were struck, the DT machine-gun fatally defeating the cover as the two men hugged the earth.

  “Malinky-two-two, enemy infantry in ‘Voskresenye’, strength unknown. Am knocked out and abandoning. Out.”

  As if to emphasise his words, flames started to lick out of the drivers hatch, blown open by the blast. The heat build up inside the stricken light tank gave Fusilov all the encouragement he needed.

  Fusilov grabbed the edge of the turret and pulled, but his legs were unable to push upwards.

  Panic started to seize him, and small animal like sounds accompanied each exertion, sounds that grew in their intensity, urgency, and pitch. His strength left him, as each effort drained him of more of his reserves, and the blood flowed freely from ruined legs.