Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  Zhadov, sat in the back of his M3 scout car, quickly checked the details before speaking.

  “Viktor-zero-zero, confirm Objective Akula taken. Nozh-five forces heavily engaged at Akula-three, request more Vol...” the radio clearly failed, the message lost once more.

  The operator tuned the apparatus, keen to keep his commander happy, nodding and smiling as the signal was restored.

  “...ay again. Understood Akula taken. Say after, Viktor-zero-zero over.”

  Desperate to get the message off before the signal let him down again, Major General Zhadov spoke quickly.

  “Nozh-zero-zero, Nozh-five heavily engaged at Wegberg. Request more Volga, repeat request more Volga, over.”

  At the other end of the exchange, understanding Zhadov’s need for more tanks, Colonel General Kravchenko consulted his map. He ignored the lapse in radio procedure, and assessed the situation at Akula-three before replying.

  “Viktor-zero-zero to Nozh-zero-zero, I am unable to help you. Use Nozh-One, out.”

  He used the codename of 31st Tank Corps, 5th Guards Army’s armoured unit, which Zhadov was clearly trying to preserve for the bigger battles to come, some of its units having already been savaged in the fighting in Wurtemburg.

  The Commander of 5th Guards Army tossed the handset in the general direction of the operator, who deftly caught it, and placed it in its proper position. Her eyes then stayed fixed on the set in front of her.

  Zhadov had expected nothing, and so was not disappointed, although he was annoyed with himself for his small lapse in radio procedure.

  Shaking out the map that recorded his intended advance, he started to dictate orders for the commander of 31st Tanks, the now-moving scout car rocking him gently as he worked.

  0953hrs, Sunday, 21st October 1945, Station X, Bletchley Park, England.

  Happy that the conversation had now ended, Harriet Fraser-Brown completed her notes and called the supervisor.

  The Naval commander, a veteran of the Atlantic convoys, moved forward in that strange ‘dirty pants’ gait that all the listening room staff secretly mocked. Or they had, until the moment that they discovered the man had left his right leg inside his last command, which escort destroyer was lying at the bottom of the Western Approaches, with half its crew still listed as missing.

  “So, what do you have for me today, Harry? Comrade Zhukov’s dining arrangements by chance?”

  “No Sir, but I can fill in another of the blanks on the enemy Westphalia operation.”

  Fraser-Brown rarely attracted a second look from men who were hungry for female company, but she understood that her asset was hidden away, a powerful brain secreted behind a plain face.

  As did her contemporaries and overseers, who understood the beauty of an incisive mind.

  Lieutenant-Commander Trelawny read the rough text of the conversation and grunted by way of thanks, moving over to a board where the ‘listeners’ and those who interpreted the conversations posted their suspicions.

  Encouraging the visitor forward, Trelawny handed him the message and then examined the board.

  “We know that only one important location has been lost this morning, and that is Erkelenz, so that confirms our belief,” he tapped the chalk notation indicating the codeword ‘Akula’.

  His guest passed back the form without comment.

  “Clearly, Akula-Three is within the same district, and the speaker mentions Wegburg, which fits the bill quite nicely I think.”

  The ‘Westphalia’ board was nestled in the middle of a set of nine such displays, each carrying its own set of definites and possibles, all products of the intelligence game.

  Four of the boards had red areas, inside which were items of information that the Allies’ pet spies had told Moscow were known to Allied Intelligence.

  That side operation was one of the main reasons that Sir Roger Marais Dalziel was present in Station X, checking that the game was still being played according to his rules, and those who had been caught still observed the niceties of their position, niceties that kept them from the hangman’s noose.

  One board, that of the group of enemy units suspected of planning to attack southwards into Northern Italy, remained virtually blank.

  That also told them something, as that much military hardware never stays silent without good reason.

  The ‘what’s and where’s’ caused the Allied Intelligence community a great deal of angst.

  None the less, Rear Admiral Dalziel was still buoyed by his previous meeting with the code breakers.

  Operation Venona, based mainly in the States, had presented Bletchley Park with a morsel of information, a snippet of enemy code that was recognisable, and on which the machines had worked incessantly.

  Today, in the breaking dawn, the Colossus machines had presented the Allies with the ability to read much of the new NKVD code.

  As soon as he had completed his business in Bletchley, Dalziel had a date with a transport aircraft for a ride to Versailles.

  1002hrs, Monday, 22nd October 1945, Headquarters of SHAEF, Trianon Palace Hotel, Versailles, France.

  “You come at a bad time, Sir Roger.”

  Even to a man more used to naval engagements, that fact had been obvious from the moment he alighted from his staff car.

  SHAEF staff were running in all directions, some obviously charged with important business, others seemingly milling in panic.

  Eisenhower turned back to the map, not waiting for a response, exchanging urgent whispers with Bedell-Smith.

  The situation map reflected a Soviet surge, the front spectacularly sundered in four places and folding badly in two others.

  Bedell-Smith hurried away, ready to carry out the decisions that Eisenhower had just passed on.

  Ike resorted to his standard psychological prop, the smoke stinging the eyes of the non-smoking Englishman.

  “Is it as bad as it looks, Sir?” the question came from a man who had witnessed the first days on ‘The Bulge’, so he had seen chaos recorded on a map before.

  “Actually, I don’t think so, Sir Roger. Sure, they have hurt us, and we will be going back some, but we have new formations, experienced men, formed ready to go. They still have a supply problem, and you can bet your hat that the Air force will mess that up some more.”

  Dalziel nodded his understanding.

  “So, I can give you a few minutes. What brings you here, Sir Roger?”

  “This, Sir.”

  The Naval Intelligence Officer handed over a report heavy with the symbolism of extreme secrecy, some of which Eisenhower had seen only a handful of times previously.

  “What sort of dynamite have you got here, Sir Roger?”

  “The extremely useful kind, Sir.”

  Opening the folder, Eisenhower’s first impression was one of disorganisation, the Cyrillic text made more meaningless by being clumped in groups of three to five letters.

  The next page was better presented, the same Cyrillics overmarked and grouped, with roman text bracketed above each code set.

  “Damn. Is this for real, Sir Roger?”

  “Absolutely, Sir, the machines made the breakthrough yesterday. We have back-checked, and our decryption works across the board.”

  Leaning forward and lowering his voice, the British Admiral’s sense of the dramatic lent weight to the document in Ike’s hands.

  “Sir, we now possess the means to read all NKVD radio messages across the range of their departments. Specifically, the reports in that folder cover many of the Railroad protection units in the Ukraine, complete with schedules and provisions for defence.”

  No further information was needed; Eisenhower understood perfectly.

  “Sir, if I may,” Dalziel fished in the back of the folder and produced a double-sided sheet of paper.

  “Sir, this is a message from the Senior NKVD officer in the 2nd Red Banner Army, firstly detailing the assignment of the prisoner Amanin to a penal unit.”

  The enthusiastic noddin
g spurred Dalziel on.

  “It then details the security units that will protect the extremely important shipment for 2nd Red Banner Army,” Dalziel paused as Eisenhower’s eyes rose to the situation board, his memory confirmed by the large sign on the map.

  “Damn!”

  “Anne-Marie!”, the nearby Major moved quickly to her commander’s side.

  “Please get Marshal Tedder, Generals Vietinghoff, Bedell-Smith, and Robertson. Tell them I want to see them immediately in my office.”

  The Canadian Women’s Army Corps officer saluted and sped away on her mission.

  “Can this information be consistently presented in time for us to act on it?”

  “Sir, we can set up a radio system at best. Failing that, messages can be on your desk less than two hours from when the Soviets sent it.”

  Eisenhower held out a steady hand, directing the Naval officer to somewhere quieter.

  “Shall we, Sir Roger?”

  The two disappeared into the private office, joined, within four minutes, by the chosen men.

  The value of the new intelligence was grasped quickly, and the group broke up, each man understanding that the Allies had been handed an excellent opportunity to hurt the enemy, and how much depended on their ability to use it quickly and effectively.

  Our greatest glory is not in never failing, but in rising up every time we fail.

  Ralph Waldo Emerson

  Chapter 92 - THE EAGLES

  2ND RED BANNER ARMY OF SOVIET EUROPE - MARSHAL KONEV

  1119hrs, Tuesday, 23rd October 1945, 18th US Airborne Corps Headquarters, Bree, Holland.

  Around him, the headquarters buzzed with low voices, but the Corps Commander’s attention was elsewhere.

  Lieutenant General Matthew Ridgeway examined the situation map, his battered corps reflected in the coloured markings spread across eastern Holland.

  The only formation available to plug the gap had been the 18th Airborne Corps, so, though it pained him beyond measure, Eisenhower had sent the Paratroopers into the fight, immersing them in a battle for which they were not designed.

  Ridgeway ran his fingers over the maps contours, the rivers, the roads, and the villages, his face steady as his mind worked the problems raised by the Soviet breakthroughs.

  All three major formations had suffered heavy losses as they struggled, and failed, to hold back the advance of Konev’s soldiers.

  17th US Airborne Division had been knocked back towards the Maas, and was hanging onto a line from Margraten, through Valkenburg to Beek, whilst also managing to maintain contact with the neighbouring 101st Airborne at Spaubeek.

  The ‘Screaming Eagles’ troopers had fought hard, but even they had given ground under the huge stream-rolling assaults.

  The battered division held a front of nearly twenty miles, from their tenuous contact with the 17th at Beek, curving eastwards through Hegge, Merkelbeek and Gangelt, before turning back west through Saeffelen and terminating at Sint Odilienberg, secured on the banks of the River Rur.

  North from the Rur River, the defences of the 6th Airborne Division, bolstered by numerous smaller armoured and anti-tank units, held the line firmly against firm, but substantially less pressure.

  The 35th British Armoured Brigade, assigned from 21st Army Group, was reformed enough to provide armoured support to the Red Berets, new tanks and crewmen filling out its ranks to nearly three-quarters strength.

  Early on, ‘Fallschirm Regiment Von der Heydte’ had been transferred into the rear of the 101st, to act as a reserve, and more small independent units, some of them fully armoured, were sent forward to bolster the lightly-armed airborne soldiers,.

  Four Belgian Fusilier Battalions were sent to pad out the 17th Airborne’s front line, a fifth dispatched to the 101st’s area.

  Elements of the 31st US AAA Brigade were at Ridgeway’s disposal, the light flak guns perfect for dealing with infantry attacks, the heavier weapons tasked with keeping the Red tanks at bay.

  The 4th US Infantry Division had recently arrived from the States, and was slated for his command, once it had disembarked, a task made more difficult by the fact that Antwerp was still not fully functional since the Germans had damaged it. Occasional acts of sabotage there testified to the continued presence of communist sympathisers, but did little to affect the steady flow of troops, equipment, and supplies.

  A heavy rumble of thunder drew his attention.

  ‘Or is it artillery?’

  Standing upright and easing his back, Ridgeway looked out of the window, watching with interest, as a smoke cloud developed in the driving rain, a downpour that was keeping aircraft on the ground, both sides of the front line.

  ‘Not thunder then. Artillery.’

  He pulled himself away from the sight and returned to the map, sparing a quick thought for whatever asset he had just lost.

  A startled voice cut through the general hubbub.

  “Are you sure? That can’t be right!”

  Ridgeway ran his hand carefully over his shoulder, conscious of the wounds still healing, a German grenade coming close to terminating his life during Operation Varsity in March 1945.

  “Well, you goddamn better firm that up, Lieutenant.”

  Tossing the handset down, the staff Captain suddenly became aware that he was the centre of attention in a silent room.

  Ridgeway raised a questioning eyebrow.

  The Captain moved swiftly to the map, drawing Ridgeway’s eyes to the location in question.

  “Sir, confused reports from one of our units on Route 56. Positioned just outside Süsterseel, they report seeing Soviet tanks and infantry on a broad front ranging from the north-east to south-east, coming from Gangelt.”

  “Gangelt?”

  “Yessir, so he says.”

  “Which unit are you talking about, Captain?”

  “Divisional Band, Sir.”

  Ridgeway silenced the sniggers from a number of junior officers with an unwavering glare.

  “The Divisional Band?”

  “Yessir, Captain Jarrold commanding, although I just spoke with a Lieutenant Jones, as Jarrold has gone missing.”

  “Get that firmed up right now,” Ridgeway jerked a finger at the staff captain.

  Another swift appreciation of the map and the commander asked, of no one in particular, “Who do we got at Gangelt?”

  “George Company, 2nd of the 327th, 101st, Sir.”

  ‘The glider boys.’

  “Get them on the horn immediately!”

  Another Captain stepped forward.

  “Sir, we can’t get hold of them, Sir.”

  Realising his voice had displayed the stress of the moment, the officer took a deep breath and spoke in a lower more controlled tone.

  “Sir, Colonel Harper’s been trying to get them for twenty minutes now.”

  ‘Bud is on the case already.’

  The command phone rang, its noisy jangling all invasive, seemingly louder than the sound of the other phones that started to ring, or the radios that started to burst into frantic life around the headquarters.

  “Ridgeway.”

  It wasn’t necessary to listen in to what was being said to know that it was bad news.

  Ridgeway’s face went suddenly dark.

  The man at the other end stopped to receive another report, before updating his Corps commander.

  Adjusting the map on his desk, Ridgeway married the spoken word to the printed paper, developing more understanding of the precarious position that was unfolding.

  “What can you do about it, Max?”

  Ridgeway grimaced, partially at the reply he received from the commander of the 101st, and partially at the growing number of officers waiting to relay information.

  “I agree. Look Max, all hell seems to have broken loose at the moment, and I need time to see the whole picture. For now, stop them before the river, but get the bridges ready, understand?”

  The commander’s eyes narrowed and he looked more clo
sely at the map.

  “Süsterseel? Apparently you have your damn band there, Max?”

  A cough from one of his officers drew Ridgeway’s attention.

  “One moment, Max.”

  “Sir, I can’t get Lieutenant Jones back on the radio.”

  ‘Spit it out man!’

  “And what else?”

  “There are reports from the 907th Artillery, placing Russian tanks at Tüddern, Sir.”

  Acknowledging with the slightest of nods, Ridgeway remembered that Tüddern was west of Süsterseel. Taking a deep breath, he faced the inevitability of the situation head-on.

  “Ok then, Max. Süsterseel is probably gone already and the Commies are at Tüddern, according to unconfirmed reports. You will hold Sittard-Geleen at all costs. I want those bridges ready to blow, but you must retain control of the roads. Hold them there at all costs. I will get everything that I have that’s spare to you, as soon as I can get it in the saddle.”

  Ridgeway started shaking his head.

  “No. You must stand, Max.”

  The momentary flash of anger that crossed Ridgeway’s face went undetected.

  “Yes, Max, and if it becomes another Bastogne then so be it. The 101st will hold until relieved.”

  The moment passed.

  “Good luck to you, Max.”

  Replacing the receiver, Ridgeway could understand Maxwell Taylor’s reluctance to risk his division having to endure another encirclement, particularly when the Allies did not possess the ready resources that were available in the winter of 1944.

  Part of him offered the observation that, at least, the Eagle’s commander would be involved this time, as General Taylor had missed the deployment of the Screaming Eagles during ‘The Bulge’.

  Officers waited expectantly for orders, orders that immediately started to flow.

  “Get the Heydte unit up there pronto.”

  The staff officer looked at the point indicated and went off to get the German paratrooper unit on the road.