Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  “Poor commie bastard.”

  Master Sergeant Mearns spoke to no one in particular, the sight of the hands urgent scrabbling at the turret ring betraying the struggle going on out of sight.

  The sounds of terror reached their ears, Fusilov breaking down from professional soldier to terrified animal, as horrible death stalked him within the confines of the small tank.

  “Fuck it.”

  The ancient BAR was placed against the wall.

  “Corporal, you’re in charge til I get back, ok son?”

  And without waiting for a reply, Mearns was gone.

  Fusilov had been wounded before. Indeed, he had received burns before, when his T-60 had been knocked out by a mine in the winter of ’43.

  That had been child’s play compared to the pain of being slowly roasted alive.

  He gathered himself for a final effort, willing his legs to bend and find some purchase to aid his escape.

  Squealing with the pain, his left knee moved and found something, he knew not what, but sufficient to give him a small extra lift upwards.

  He repositioned his right arm, the weight of his body perilously supported by his knee.

  His arm took the weight, and he levered himself upwards, bringing his face into the afternoon light, partly brought by the rich sunshine, but also contributed to by the flames from his vehicle.

  The fire surged, licking at his bleeding leg wounds, causing agony at new levels.

  He pushed upwards again, but found no strength and no more leverage, his damaged limbs refusing to function.

  Head above the rim, he could see a soldier, an enemy soldier at that, running in the crouch of a veteran, speeding towards the tank.

  He screamed, waving his hand in joy, dislodging his tenuous hold and slipping back down inside the tank.

  Gratefully, he looked up as the American mounted the burning tank. Holding up his right hand, Fusilov waited to be pulled out.

  Two .45 bullets blew his head apart.

  Mearns, sucking air greedily after his exertions, slid two replacement rounds into his Colt’s magazine, holstered it, and picked up his BAR.

  He looked into the face of the young soldier, whose wide-eyes silently questioned what the Master Sergeant had just done.

  “No-one deserves to die like that, son, no-one, y’hear?”

  The boy said nothing, but his face said everything.

  A shout from the far window cut short the exchange.

  “Sarge, here they come. Lots of infantry, and some fucking big tanks.”

  “Ok people, let’s get ready to bug out. Corporal,” the younger man looked at him, awaiting the direction, “Call it in, and give them some numbers. You have a minute.”

  Whilst the corporal made the radio report, Mearns slapped the angry teenage soldier on the shoulder.

  “Stow it for later, Reynolds. We’ll talk. For now, we gotta get the fuck out of here.”

  1420hrs, Tuesday, 25th September 1945, Soviet mobile command point, Unterwolfertsweiler, Germany.

  On Colonel Antonov’s orders, Soviet mortars had recommenced hitting ‘Panyedelnik’, taking down three of the Master Sergeant’s men.

  Eager hands grabbed the wounded, dragging them painfully clear, as the short platoon withdrew to the main line position.

  Antonov was an experienced and capable no-nonsense officer, and he didn’t like his orders one bit.

  Reading the ground, he tried to put himself in the position of the defending commander.

  A quick conversation with the officers commanding the infantry and support elements, and a change of plan was set in motion.

  Swift notations were made on maps, codenames checked, questions answered, and the command group broke up.

  The orders cascaded down to unit level, and 1st Company, 185th Guards immediately deployed to the left, pushing up through the woods as quietly as possible. 2nd Company of the sappers followed fifty metres behind, ready to assist or exploit, as the situation demanded.

  One light tank had tried to use the Weilandsbach stream as a cover, but found the modest watercourse to be deeper than expected. The recon tankers sat in the water, their engine swamped and useless.

  Another T70 had already penetrated some way into the woods adjacent to the Argen, escaping the potential open killing ground either side of Route 7709.

  The Guards infantry of 3rd Company were soon level with the stationary reconnaissance tank, and the combined force moved slowly forward, intent on reaching their first designated line on the 7707.

  Smoke from the burning farm buildings, recently vacated by Mearns and his troopers, mingled with the richer, sweeter smoke of the burning T70, flowing gently south in the modest breeze, stinging eyes and tickling throats, as the infantry took their positions in the woods.

  As the 3rd Company had been advancing, so too had the 3rd Company of the Engineers, hugging the edge of the river in single file, crawling slowly through the trees and undergrowth that marked the banks of the Argen River.

  Antonov judged the moment.

  Waiting, …waiting, …waiting.

  A final check of his binoculars, quickly sweeping the open area all the way to his target.

  Decision.

  “All units, all units, Drook-one-zero, execute Adin, repeat, execute Adin.”

  1430hrs, Tuesday, 25th September 1945, Soviet assault force, Unterwolfertsweiler, Germany.

  On receipt of the codeword ‘Adin’, the Soviet attack began in earnest.

  Leading off in four columns, the armour of the 92nd Engineer Tanks emerged from UnterWolfhertsweiler, the strange apparatus they pushed creating loud metallic sounds that could not fail to attract the attention of any would-be defender.

  Fig #59 - Soviet developed attack, the Argen River, Germany.

  Two of the PT34 tanks were kept back, ready to move up if one of their comrades was knocked out.

  The PT34’s were 76mm gun T34’s with a difference. A metal jib protruded from the bow of each tank, pushing a heavy metal spoked wheel assembly, designed to sink into and chew up the ground ahead of the tank. It was called the Mugalev system, and it killed mines.

  Behind each PT tank came a line of four IS-II’s, their 122mm guns sweeping the area ahead, ready to lash out at any threat. Each IS-II had a grape of infantry from the SMG Company, each man steeled ready to throw himself off and into combat with the enemy.

  Five more IS-II’s, including Antonov’s own vehicle, lay waiting in UnterWolfhertsweiler.

  1431hrs, Tuesday, 25th September 1945, US defensive position at point ‘Vtornik’, west of UnterWolfhertsweiler, Germany.

  Butcher panicked.

  “Hit them, open fire, open fire now!”

  The experienced men around the Major did not react, knowing full well that he had lost it.

  Only Travers followed the order, the young Artillery liaison officer sending the fire order to the waiting 105mm’s of the 66th Artillery.

  Again, Butcher repeated his order, incredulous that no hive of activity had followed, no rumbling thunder, as the guns of his command engaged the enemy.

  “You idiot, Butcher. You fired off too soon. Now we’re for it!”

  Captain Towers, commander of H Company, was furious, the hard work and planning sold down the river in a moment of panic by the inexperienced commander.

  Lieutenant Travers, understanding little, tried to make amends by stopping the 66th’s guns.

  Towers tried to make the best of the bad situation.

  “Keep ‘em going now, goddamnit, keep ‘em going.”

  Grabbing the radio from the operator, Towers brought himself up to his full five foot seven inches and threw a contemptuous look at Butcher as he got through to Hardegen.

  Understandably, the tank man was extremely pissed off.

  Towers nodded as he listened, alternating between a look at the battlefield and a contemptuous glare at Butcher.

  “Yes, I know that! You can imagine what happened here. Over”

  Clear
ly, the tank officer was spot on in his guess.

  “You got it, Major.”

  Pausing as another flight of 105mm shells landed in front of the oncoming enemy, Towers risked a look out of the window.

  Shouting at Travers, Towers focussed the inexperienced officer on getting his shells on target.

  “Advance your fire, Lieutenant, you’re falling short.”

  Turning back to the main radio, he returned to his exchange with Hardegen.

  “I’m keeping the arty on the go. No one else fired, thank god. The enemy infantry in the woods on the right seem static for now.”

  Hardegen clearly interrupted, Towers taking the opportunity to gesture for a canteen.

  The water was cool and refreshing.

  Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he responded.

  “Roger that. Has to be best. Can you deal with those monsters? Over.”

  The tanker’s reply clearly hit the mark, and the small man laughed a big laugh.

  “I hear that, Major. Good luck to you. Over and ou...”

  Butcher snatched the radio from his hand.

  “Hardegen, this is Butcher, I am in command. You will open fire immediately. Over.”

  Onlookers were unclear whether it was the collision with the doorpost that knocked Butcher senseless, or whether it was the flashing impact of Towers’ rock hard fist.

  Either way, the man was down and out for the count.

  The radio was back in competent hands.

  “Small problem, now resolved. We will execute as agreed, Over and out.”

  Hardegen was grinning from ear to ear.

  “I was right. Sounds like Butcher panicked, but Towers has it under control.”

  His gunner grunted, focusing on the job in hand.

  Hardegen’s mind slipped back to his first meeting with Towers, a misnomer for one of such short stature.

  The man clearly knew his business.

  Which was very much an asset for the hairy minutes ahead.

  Mearns burst into the command point.

  “Who in the name of all that is fucking round and sacred ordered that fire?”

  Enough eyes swiveled to an insensible lump in the corner for him to get the full picture in an instant.

  Snorting in disgust, Mearns moved to Towers and threw up a salute.

  “Captain, we bugged out as you see, three wounded, one dead. Took a light tank out before we left. I’ve slotted my platoon in at the end of the track there.”

  Towers nodded, rubbing his bruised right hand, for no other reason than it hurt like hell.

  “OK, Win, you get them settled in there. Just spoke to tanks, and they are still sitting on plan.”

  Towers jerked a thumb at the inert form.

  “That prick lost it and called fire. Now we have to go with that.”

  Another volley of artillery shells punctuated the statement, closer this time, walked forward by Travers.

  Both men checked the approaching enemy, largely obscured by the smoke and flames of the farm buildings, as mortars and tank guns reduced it to rubble.

  “Keep your eyes skinned for the flares, and when they come, move like grease lightning clear?”

  “You got it, Captain.”

  Mearns knew the plan, they all did, but he understood that Towers was going to reinforce the message all he could.

  They exchanged salutes and Mearns left the CP, pausing only to chuckle over the unconscious officer.

  1435hrs, Tuesday, 25th September 1945, Soviet assault force, west of Wolfertsweiler, Germany.

  Antonov had lost two tanks, one of the PT’s and an IS-II, both from the same group, both to direct artillery strikes.

  The enemy artillery started to walk back, dropping just in front of his vehicles.

  Ordering his men to move slowly he found his attack force approaching the first objective behind a curtain of smoke and earth kindly created by the Allied artillery.

  “Time to move forward, I think. Driver!”

  The IS-II moved smoothly through the gears.

  The explosion blew off the track.

  The young Lieutenant, already a veteran of a score of battles, cursed his driver.

  Eager to push forward, the IS-II had slipped outside the area disturbed by the passage of the Mugalev, and found a mine.

  Needing no second invitation, the infantrymen had already dismounted, three of them working to save the life of their Corporal, desperately wounded in the mine’s blast.

  Although sympathetic, the Lieutenant had no choice.

  “Get him out of the way now. We need room to work here, Comrades.”

  The infantry gently removed the heavily bleeding NCO, permitting the tank crew to set to work repairing the track, removing spare links from the rack on the front of the tank.

  As they worked quickly, removing the bent and twisted links, replacing them with spares, a voice called for help.

  Two of the infantrymen went to investigate, and returned leading the blinded Gregorov, his uniform more red than brown, the destroyed and empty eye sockets horrifying to all who beheld him.

  One of the 67th’s recovery vehicles arrived to assist in the track work, closely followed by an ambulance, which whisked both Gregorov and the dying Corporal away.

  Antonov was pleased, but knew that things could change in an instant.

  His lead elements were now up with ‘Vtornik’ and the enemy artillery had stopped.

  Reports from the sappers on the riverbank indicated nothing, save a few enemy soldiers having run from ‘Vtornik’ some while ago.

  It all seemed too good to be true, and being an officer who had survived many encounters with the Germans, Antonov suspected it was.

  Nevertheless, he determined to push it as far as it would go.

  “All units, Drook-one-zero, execute Dva, execute Dva.”

  On his order, Katyushas of the 379th opened up, plastering the area to the west of the river, paying particular attention to the high ground that dominated both bridges.

  His 120mm mortars, more precise in their targeting, brought every tube to bear on Route 7776 and the buildings to the east.

  The 1504th’s SU76’s dropped their HE shells in the woods surrounding the river, south of the Route 467 road bridge, codenamed ‘Pyatnetsa’.

  The IS-II’s pushed forward slowly, but with purpose, and the infantry advanced across the whole frontage of the assault.

  Crossing the 7707, the 1st Company emerged from the woods, crossed a small brook and advanced to cut Route 7776, and drive into the flank of the defending force in and around Subota. The 2nd Engineers cut across open land, rounding the small stream, focusing on their objective of the 467 bridge, light fire plucking the life from a man here and there. Defending fire was light, rifles and machine-guns in the main, all originating from the area being flayed by the infantry’s mortars.

  3rd Company of the 185th charged from their hiding place, and was on top of the Weilandbach bridge in an instant.

  The Sappers on the river line, 3rd Company, pushed up, staying tight to the river. They ran straight into booby traps and mines, stopping them in their tracks.

  2nd Company of Soviet infantry pushing up behind the advancing tanks, half ran, half walked, moving up the tracks left by the Mugalevs.

  1431hrs, Tuesday, 25th September 1945, US defensive position at point ‘Vtornik’, west of UnterWolfhertsweiler, Germany.

  “Do it.”

  Towers gave a Pfc the word, and a flare soared lazily into the autumn sky.

  His men had brought down fire on the attackers, both the infantry to the south and the tank force to their front, the purpose of which was to announce their presence.

  “Don’t forget to bring the Major!”

  US infantrymen bolted from their positions, each believing another had undertaken the task, racing back the two hundred yards to the positions set out on the banks of the river.

  The Soviet mortars continued to bring down fire, and men were killed and inju
red as they withdrew.

  In the barn that had been the CP, Major Butcher slid himself upright, his vision blurry, his brain not functioning as it should.

  Rubbing his face, trying to bring life to his vital senses, he sensed that all was not well.

  As his vision slowly returned, he was greeted neither by the sight of friendly faces, nor by the smell of fresh coffee, nor the sound of American voices.

  He was alone.

  A shell crashed into the building, producing a red hot wave of tortured air and dust, shifting the already delicate structure from impending collapse to full blown disintegration.

  Quickly trying to lever himself up, he found himself overtaken by a deluge of material as the upper storey folded in, compromising the first floor loading and bringing it and the ceiling down in dramatic fashion.

  Butcher screamed in agony.

  One large joist fell flat, striking both his knees simultaneously, shattering both, and pinning his legs to the stone floor, Part of a floorboard still attached to the joist, splintered and pointed where it had been ripped away as the heavier piece fell, was driven through his left thigh, smashing the femur into fragments.

  He screamed as burning material fell around him, his hands beating ineffectively at the growing flames.

  He screamed as the joist shifted, pinning him down harder, dragging the splintered section through his thigh muscle.

  He screamed as his hands blistered and his hair caught on fire.

  ‘Not like this, I don’t want to die like this!’

  “Jesus!”

  And then he screamed no more.

  1439hrs, Tuesday, 25th September 1945, US defensive position at Point ‘Sreda’, Argen River, Germany.