Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  As each order came, staff officers took it onboard and actioned their General’s commands.

  It did not take long, as 18th Corps was spread pretty thin, but at least Ridgeway had reacted quickly to the threat to the Maas.

  It was some time before he realised that he was already too late.

  1152hrs, Tuesday, 23rd October 1945, Oligstraβe, Broeksittard, Holland.

  Randolph Black was wide-eyed, despite the rivers of water than ran off him.

  “What the fuck was that?”

  “Fucked if I know, Sarge, but now it’s dead, ain’t it?”

  That could not be denied, as the unknown light tank was wreathed in flames, two bazooka hits having stopped it dead on the road, just before the junction with Aan het Broek.

  The hissing of water turning to steam on the super-heated metal rose above the sound of the torrential rain.

  The Soviet Union had stopped producing light tanks in 1943, but they kept everything, and the T-80 that was presently incinerating its dead crew was a prime example of their habit of using everything they had, and never throwing anything away.

  “Call it in, Cowboy.”

  The corporal radio operator got through to his company headquarters with the contact report.

  The Sergeant doubled back through the undergrowth, finding the mortar platoon, alert and ready for action.

  Slipping into the small bivouac, Black enjoyed a moment out of the driving rain.

  “Milletti, stand by now. They’re coming down the north road from Tüddern. Gimme your map.”

  The junior Sergeant handed it over, and Black satisfied himself that the information tallied with his own.

  “Set up on ‘Philadelphia’ right now. That seems most likely, Milletti.”

  “Roger that, Sarge.”

  “And if we have to skedaddle, then haul ass fast, and get set up here,” Black extended the map, marking the new location with his finger, “As quickly as possible, ready to support us when we fall back, kapische?”

  “Capisco, Sergente.”

  Satisfied that the mortars would do their job, Black headed back towards a frontline that suddenly erupted in explosions.

  ‘Commie artillery. Jesus!’

  The journey back to his modest platoon headquarters took much longer, as he constantly dropped into cover, as shell after shell pounded the northeastern area of Sittard.

  He also battled against the increasing mud, sucking at his boots, and clinging to his clothing, as he slipped and slid towards the front positions.

  He didn’t recognise the headquarters when he got there, so transformed was it by the two direct hits.

  Cowboy Morris, the whinging Texan, had disappeared, probably evaporated by high-explosive force.

  Gillman, the bazooka king, was still there, or at least the two-thirds of him that still bloodily spluttered away the last few moments of life.

  There had been six men in the position when he had left, and Gillman represented the largest piece of meat that Black could recognise.

  Forward of the mangled site, a .30 cal machine-gun started pumping bullets into the tree line. Black’s eyes focussed on indistinct movement there, the details hidden by a haze, partially smoke, partially small particles of earth and other matter being tossed around by explosive force, the whole vision being through a wall of water coming from the heavens.

  ‘Commie infantry!’

  Momentarily forgetting that the radio and its operator had disappeared, Black looked to send a message to the mortars.

  ‘Goddamnit!’

  He looked behind him to where the Soviet barrage had advanced, gauging his chances of getting through to the mortars on foot.

  ‘Fuck that!’

  He took another look at the wood line. The Soviet infantry had stalled there, as the remaining paratroopers hit them with accurate small arms fire.

  He spotted the unfamiliar men in US combat uniform, appreciating the shape of the walkie-talkie instantly.

  Launching himself forward, he dropped into the shell crater beside the petrified OP team from the 907th Artillery.

  The Lieutenant had taken a shell splinter in the face, the right side packed with blood soaked bandages, masking the hole where his jaw, teeth, and tongue used to be. The man’s stare looked all the way back to America, and Black knew the man was in shock.

  The other two Glider artillerymen were firing their carbines at nothing in particular, clearly unhinged by their experiences.

  “Hey! Knock it off, you guys!”

  To his surprise, both privates stopped immediately, and slid down the slight bank back into cover, dropping their lower bodies into the water that was filling the hole.

  Easing the walkie-talkie from the glassy-eyed officer, he tasked the two soldiers to evacuate the man.

  With orders that spelt safety, both artillerymen moved at speed, sweeping up the wounded officer, and heading to the rear.

  Dialling the radio in to the right channel, Black tried the set.

  “Diamond-one-niner, Diamond-one-niner, this is Diamond-one-four over.”

  “One-four from one-niner, I got you, Blackie. Talk to me.”

  “Put it on ‘Chicago’, all you got Milletti, over.”

  Screams brought his attention back to the escaping artillerymen, all three struck by a single shell burst. Whichever one of them it was that hung from the tree, briefly screamed a second time before dying. The other two were already dead.

  There was no time for the horror of the sight to affect him, as a grenade exploded a few feet away.

  The Russians had pushed forward, the mortar barrage landing uselessly amongst their dead and wounded in the woods, on the area designated ‘Chicago’.

  Black went to roll away, but he had no strength in his right arm, the muscle ripped and flayed by shrapnel. Similarly, his right thigh was opened to the bone by a large piece of stone, thrown in his direction when the Soviet grenade exploded.

  The tears flowed involuntarily, his pain extreme.

  None the less, Black grabbed up his carbine just in time, shooting the first man who dropped into the hole.

  The wounded man dropped close by him and the sergeant squinted for a better look.

  “Oh fuck! Oh god, I’m sorry Clancy. Oh Jesus!”

  Clancy Mann had been with the 101st since week one, day one. Black’s bullet had taken him in the right side, breaking a rib and driving the broken bone into his liver.

  None the less, Mann put two bullets from his Garand into a Soviet infantryman, who loomed large over the edge of the hole.

  The next Russian received the same treatment, even as Black dragged himself painfully over to the paratrooper he had wounded, pulling out a field dressing from Mann’s pouch.

  Another enemy infantryman fired blindly into the shell hole, his arms waving the PPSh around, sending bullets everywhere.

  Mann was hit seven more times, none immediately fatal, but the combination sufficient to bleed him out in minutes.

  Black was hit twice; the first carrying away his left little finger, the second striking him in the head, and bringing instant darkness.

  Seven hours later, Sergeant Randolph Black opened his eyes, taking in the sights in silence, his ability to hear taken away by the head wound.

  His arm and finger stump had both been bandaged, the pure white linen standing out against his naturally dark flesh. His leg, presently held aloft by a set of wires, was encased in plaster.

  His head was pounding, and generally, he hurt like hell.

  However, he was alive.

  The nurse eyed him suspiciously, but gently held his head up, so she could administer an oral dose of pain relief.

  Black thanked her, and detected a faint buzzing in his jawbone as he spoke.

  Her reply was mumbled and unintelligible, so he gave her his best smile.

  Without returning the gesture, the nurse moved away from the bed, no longer obscuring the young soldier on guard duty.

  ‘Oh shit!’
/>   The man wore the uniform of the NKVD.

  1332hrs, Tuesday, 23rd October 1945, Sittard, Holland.

  Within the environs of Sittard, a desperate fight for survival was in full swing, soldiers standing toe to toe, neither side willing to give ground.

  It was the recipe for a bloodbath.

  For the Soviets, the situation was advantageous.

  They had broken through the 101st’s lines at a number of points, breaking up the division into manageable pieces, each of which would be either bypassed and cleared up later, or, as in the case of the defenders of Sittard, reduced by weight of shot and attrition.

  The only black mark was the destruction of the Born Bridge over the canal, an error that the commander of the 34th Guards Rifle Corps artillery had paid for swiftly, his body displayed with the normal placard suggesting treachery and sabotage, as it swung from the balcony of the unit headquarters on LindenStraβe, Saeffelen.

  For the Allied forces, the situation was dire.

  Elements of the 501st Parachute Infantry and Fallschirm Regiment ‘Von der Heydte’ provided the main manpower for the defence. Stragglers from the decimated 327th Glider Infantry continued to work their way back into the Dutch town, each soldier a welcome addition to its defence.

  Add the remnants of a few smaller units and almost two thousand five hundred men stood in defence, against the might of the relatively intact 5th Soviet Guards Mechanised Corps, still boasting over twelve thousand men and women.

  The main Soviet effort seemed to be to the south of town, undoubtedly aimed at passing on to the Maas beyond, but enough of the Mechanised unit was pressing Sittard directly, for the risk of being surrounded to be very real.

  The Soviet command had also recognised that the assault aimed towards Venlo was failing in the face of heavy resistance, and had redirected some of the 5th Guards Army to a more southerly advance, bringing the 34th Guards Rifle Corps and 40th Rifle Corps into the northern edge of Sittard, adding their battle-weary seven thousand men to the unequal struggle.

  At 1332hrs, the worst fears of those in Sittard, and those in the headquarters of the 18th Airborne Corps, were realised.

  The 101st was surrounded again, and this time, there was no Patton to come to the rescue.

  1400hrs, Tuesday, 23rd October 1945, Hotel Limbourg, Markt, Sittard, Holland.

  Brigadier General Joseph Higgins, the 101st’s Chief of Staff, waited for the assembly to come to order.

  He had come to Sittard for an ‘eyes-on’ sit-rep, only to become its de facto commander, as the Soviet forces encircled the Dutch town.

  Slowly, the noise died away, as the unit commanders he had summoned realised that Higgins was ready to speak. The pervading sound of the heavy rain, combined with the constant crash of incoming artillery, and now thunder, combined to provide a suitably Wagnerian backdrop for the military disaster that was unfolding in Eastern Holland.

  Fig #60 - The situation at 1400hrs, Sittard-Geleen, Holland.

  “Ok, now listen in.”

  The officers stiffened.

  “We have a Bastogne all over again, and we got ourselves out of that then, without the Third Army, I might add.”

  That wasn’t totally true as it happened, but it served Higgins’ purpose.

  “This storm will pass, and then we will have Air, but until then, we stand, and we fight.”

  More than one of the experienced men in front of him had the thought that there was nowhere to run to in any case.

  “We have plenty of supplies, and our men are in top shape, with good morale; very good morale.”

  On the bench in front of them was a map of the town, blocks of wood marking the position of each defensive unit.

  Deliberately, Higgins started with the section to the south.

  “Colonel Heydte, your men are holding well at this time?”

  Although the Germans were welcome, few in the 101st could forget that it was the 6th Fallschirmjager Regiment ‘Von der Heydte’ that had fought them to a bloody standstill in Normandy, in hard battles around Carentan.

  “Yes, Herr General. A panzer-grenadiere attack on Munstergeleen was driven off with heavy casualties. We are well provisioned with Panzerfaust, and stopped the first panzer assault here,” his finger pointed out the leading edge of Geleen.

  “However, the enemy force shifted to our right flank, and moved on through Neerbeek, before turning back behind us, and coming to a stop at Urmond.”

  Roughly one kilometre south of Berg, Urmond marked the high-water mark of the Mechanised Corps’ advance.

  “We stopped them there, with the help of your Flak gunners, and our Belgian friends.”

  The German’s understated report did not fool any of the experienced men present. The Fallschirmjager had paid in blood for successfully halting the enemy drive.

  “I am fully committed, except for an alarm Kompagnie, equipped with a few half-tracks, in the centre of Geleen.”

  “Thank you, Oberstleutnant,” Higgins deliberately used the German rank.

  “And you, Colonel?”

  Verier, the commander of the 5th Belgian Fusiliers, knew he was in esteemed company, but did not falter, knowing his inexperienced men would have a full part to play in the battle ahead.

  “Mon Général, two of my companies are on the river at Urmond. I have one at Heksenberg, adjacent to Route 294, behind the Von der Heydte positions.”

  Wiping an imaginary speck of dust off the map in front of him, Verier concluded.

  “My remaining unit is around Einighausen, guarding the medical and supply facilities, Sir.”

  When the Fusiliers had first been assigned, not one officer in the 101st felt they could be trusted, despite their previous good efforts during ‘The Bulge’, but Verier’s unit had shown fighting spirit and, with the addition of some heavy machine-guns and bazookas, was proving to be stubborn in defence.

  “Thank you, Colonel. Lieutenant Colonel?”

  The recently promoted Marion Crisp stepped forward and adjusted the position of two of the wooden blocks.

  “I pulled back from this position outside of Wehr. Soviet infantry had taken Broeksittard and had some of my units outflanked.”

  No criticism was forthcoming, as it was the only possible move.

  “That actually freed up Fox Company, and we put in a counter-attack, pushing up the Tüddernderweg, and we halted the advance here,” he moved the Fox marker to a position one kilometre short of Tüddern.

  “Easy Company is here. Lieutenant Colonel Heydte’s defence of Munstergeleen deflected the Soviets our way, but Easy stopped them dead, and we hold this zone solidly.”

  “The rest of 2nd Battalion is strung out to the north of Munstergeleen to the Wehr road. 1st Battalion takes over on the road, and round to Limbricht,” he indicated a small hamlet to the north-west of Sittard.

  “3rd Battalion has suffered badly.”

  He picked up the marker for King Company and, respectfully, placed it off to one side.

  The whole company had fallen in the defence of Nieuwstadt and Isenbruch in the early stages, the extent of the loss only recently apparent to the temporary commander of the 501st Regiment.

  “Part of the 3rd is outside the pocket, here at Born, and they are holding. I suspect the commies ain’t interested in it any more, since they took the bridge down themselves yesterday.”

  To the others, that seemed a fair conclusion.

  “I’ve managed to form a group from the remnants of 3rd, and they are holding from the canal here, at Graetheide,” his finger ran southeast, one and a bit kilometres to Guttecoven, “To here, where they link up with 1st Battalion.”

  “The route over the canal at Berg is still open, but the Soviets are constantly artillerying the approaches, although they are careful not to drop near the bridges themselves.”

  As an after-though, he added.

  “My frontline is sound, but I have no real reserve until I recover Fox. At this time, I have a group of approximately sixty men,
postmen, bakers, musicians, and signallers uncommitted. They have tracks and the Chaffee,” he referred to an M24 light tank, which had mysteriously come into the possession of George Company, the day beforehand.

  Marion Crisp stepped back.

  “Thank you. And now, the Air Force. Major?”

  The USAAF officer looked dejected, his contribution to the proceedings little more than confirming the obvious.

  “Sir, Air is unavailable until this storm moves on.”

  The statement was punctuated emphatically by the smash of a lightning bolt striking nearby.

  “According to met reports, this could be set in all day. Some indications are that we may also have problems tomorrow, Sir.”

  Above the sound of the storm, the screech of a vehicle was heard outside. The door flew open, permitting a disgruntled and extremely wet Colonel to enter.

  “Hot damn, but you’re a sight for sore eyes, Bud!”

  Joseph H. Harper, Colonel of the 327th Glider Infantry, was not pleasantly disposed, but still managed a dry comment.

  “Well don’t get too excited, Joe, it’s pretty much only me that’s here.”

  The Colonel threw off his wet jacket, and accepted a towel offered by one of the staff officers hovering on the fringes of the briefing.

  Higgins quickly brought Harper up to speed.

  “So, where are you, and what have you got Bud?”

  Moving around to the northern edge of the map, Harper dripped water as he illustrated his words with movements over the map.

  “I’ve brought two companies and some heavy weapons platoons with me, presently inside the 501st’s lines, here at the woods,” the position was west of Tüddern, and on the flank of the area attacked by Fox Company earlier.

  “The rest of my Regiment is either at Born, Holtum, or Echt, outside the encirclement.”

  “Thank you, Bud. What sort of shape you in?”

  “Mad as hell, General. The boys are spoiling for a brawl, and that’s no error.”

  Higgins pondered for a moment, and then went with his gut decision.