Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  “No problem, Sir.”

  Montgomery Hawkes swiftly moved past the relieved General, ordered by Crisp to back up the defenders of the Gats.

  Another group of paratrooper reinforcements followed, and the situation was restored, the surviving Russians withdrawing to think again.

  Artem’yev ordered them forward once more, but this time, his platoons moved through the buildings, manufacturing holes in the brickwork with explosives, spades and bayonets.

  As many of the houses had been damaged, and there were small ways through between the houses in any case, the new Soviet attack made good progress.

  The headquarters personnel, ready and waiting for their General to return, suddenly realised that the firing was in their own building, a small but determined group of Russians at first floor level, battling to take the stairwell.

  Three of the officers moved to investigate, and found a solitary trooper using his BAR to good effect, holding back the enemy force.

  Two fragmentation grenades added to the defence, and drove the Soviet infantrymen further back.

  Outside, Higgins was tossed against the wall of the hotel, a medium artillery shell exploding nearby, the blast picking him up like a piece of chaff.

  Artem’yev was incensed; the order to cease fire on the Markt had been clear and unequivocal, the latest barrage endangering his own men.

  Snatching up the radio, he discovered that his orders had actually been followed to the letter.

  The artillery was American.

  Winded, and bleeding from a broken nose, Higgins had just reached the same conclusion.

  One shell landed squarely in a 6x6 full of wounded, tossing the bodies and bits of bodies over a wide area.

  Higgins strode purposefully back into the headquarters.

  “Find out which fuck is firing at us, and tell him I am going to pull his fucking ass up over his shoulders if he is lucky enough to survive this shit!”

  The normally cool Higgins was clearly raging inside, the combined effects of seeing his men killed by friendly fire, and his own injuries, taking their toll on his mental resilience.

  Even as he stood silently, listening to his officers searching for the guilty US artillery unit, the darkness that was spreading around his eyes, as the bruising made itself known, was shared by the darkness spreading in his mind.

  ‘Pull yourself together, man!’

  He shook his head, and with that, his momentary melancholy departed.

  “Anything from Corps?”

  “No, Sir.”

  ‘Much more of this and there will be nothing left to save General,’ he wondered if he was rehearsing pleading to Maxwell-Taylor, or asking himself if he should make a more difficult decision.

  The answer was not forthcoming, Von der Heydte’s return destroying any chance of resolution.

  “Herr General, we must withdraw. My men cannot hold. Tanks and infantry have cut my force in two.”

  He grabbed the map.

  “Here, Herr General, here they are now.”

  ‘Sweet Jesus!’

  A rough calculation put the mixed enemy force less than a kilometre from Einighausen.

  ‘If you don’t go soon, you ain’t going at all, General.’

  “How long can you hold, Herr Oberstleutnant?”

  Von der Heydte considered his reply.

  “If they come with all their might, then about as long as it takes to smoke a last cigarette, Herr General.”

  “Do your best please, Herr Oberstleutnant. I will try and get you some more men, but it is imperative that we have a corridor of escape for when that order is given.”

  This was clearly understood by the experienced German officer, who saluted, and left without ceremony.

  Before Von der Heydte had returned to his unit, or the handful of reinforcements Higgins had found to give the German were on the move forwards, the Soviet forces came together at Einighausen, totally surrounding the Screaming Eagles.

  0047hrs, Wednesday, 24th October 1945, 18th US Airborne Corps Headquarters, Bree, Holland.

  The two senior officers pored over the map.

  They had been in each in each other’s company for ten minutes, and the last two of them had been spent checking that their decision would work.

  The German was the first to stand back.

  “Ja, Herr General, it is the best way.”

  Maxwell Taylor stole another look back at the basic and risky plan, and concurred.

  “Then it’s a go, Field Marshal Guderian. 0200hrs?”

  “Ja.”

  The order was given.

  The 101st was to be rescued.

  0214hrs, Wednesday, 24th October 1945, Soviet positions, Markt, Sittard, Holland.

  Not for the first time that day, Artem’yev was beside himself with rage.

  His guardsmen had achieved miracles, eventually displacing the tough American paratroopers from the north-west edge of the Markt, seizing all the buildings, including the enemy hospital set up in the next-door church. Soviet and American medical personnel worked side by side, keeping alive ‘Boris’ or ‘Chuck’, without any discrimination.

  Despite the sacrifices of his men, the attack had stopped dead, for no other reason than a lack of munitions.

  He had no grenades. Literally. The whole surviving assault force of two hundred or so men did not have one grenade between them, and lightly wounded soldiers were presently scavenging the battlefield for anything of use.

  Many of his men possessed only one magazine, or a partial one, still fixed to their weapon.

  As the Colonel toured his positions, glad that the rain had gone once more, he found many of his men with American weapons, and laden with spare enemy ammunition.

  His guardsmen had already acquired respect for the Garand rifle. It was a prized possession, and one that was rarely traded or given up, once a soldier had ‘liberated’ one of his own.

  The pride that Artem’yev felt in his men’s courage and skill was challenged by the anger that churned him up, as the advantage of their efforts was gradually lost waiting on resupply.

  The 179th’s supply train was not responding to calls, and he promised its commander a hard time when they met.

  The row of trucks was burning fiercely, occasionally illuminated more dramatically by a secondary explosion, a box of grenades here, a stock of mortar shells there.

  The supply column was utterly destroyed, man, horse and vehicle smashed by the lightning surprise attack.

  The Lieutenant Colonel commanding the 59th Guards Rifle Division’s supply column fought against the pain, his moans low, as his mind raced.

  ‘Where did they come from? Where are they going?’

  Through glazed eyes, he saw a strange vehicle illuminated by the fires, its single large ‘eye’ sweeping the area.

  ‘What is that?’

  The question died with him, as the Panzers rolled past towards their first objective.

  0237hrs, Wednesday, 24th October 1945, Berg an der Maas, Holland.

  “Yessir, we are ready.”

  Finally, the engineers had prepared the main bridge at Berg.

  “Not before time, Major, not before time. Standby to drop that sucker, but hold until the 101st gets back over it, clear?”

  “Yessir!”

  “But, if the Soviets arrive in force, you drop that bridge, or there will be hell to pay, clear?”

  “Yes, Sir, that is clear.”

  It was silent in the 18th Corps headquarters, no translation necessary.

  Guderian was enjoying the fresh coffee, and raised his mug in acknowledgement of what he had heard.

  The plan had been communicated to the Eagles, and they were ready to go.

  So now, the two officers just needed to wait.

  0256hrs, Wednesday, 24th October 1945, Allied breakout, Geleen, Holland.

  The Soviet tank commander was confused; how could the enemy tank reach out in the darkness and kill them
with one shot?

  Dropping off the side of his smoking tank, he managed to lean up against the wheels, the darkness of the night hiding the loss of most of the flesh below his left knee.

  The Junior Lieutenant watched with interest, as the column of German vehicles swept by, the Panthers and Panzer IV’s recognisable for the old adversaries they were, the halftracks mounting the large searchlight-like structures unknown to him.

  “Here they come!”

  The cry went up from the paratroopers, who could hear the sound of approaching armour.

  The 101st’s perimeter had shrunk, still holding fast on the eastern edge of the Markt, but spread in an odd ‘in and out’ shape, centred mainly on the precincts of Stadbroek, Lahrhof, and Overhoven.

  It was those in Ophoven, sat astride the road coming from Nieuwstadt, who had first sight of their saviours, although those veterans of the German War felt mixed emotions at the sight of Panzers.

  Preceded by two eight-wheel armoured cars, the German tanks moved quickly through the paratroopers lines, closely followed by a range of other vehicles, numerous M4 Kangaroos, once of the disbanded 49th Armoured Personnel Carrier Regiment, eight LVT4’s of the 1st Northamptonshire Yeomanry, all shepherded by the newly formed, but under strength, 52nd Royal Tank Regiment. The British unit combined qualified volunteers from amongst the returned POW’s, and Sherman tanks relinquished by the Czech Armoured Brigade before they were repatriated.

  Artem’yev first knew of the recent arrivals when HE shells started hammering into his positions in Markt.

  There was no future in his units staying put, so he ordered the bulk of his men to move back fifty yards, leaving a few brave souls to observe, and warn of any counter-attack.

  The glider infantry and paratroopers were ready, and started to move units back to the relief force, preparing to collapse their defensive perimeter faster than the enemy would be able to react.

  The German officer leading the armoured force dismounted from his Panther tank, and approached the small command group of American officers, gathered to oversee the hastily arranged withdrawal.

  Crisp recognised the man instantly.

  Oberstleutnant Kuno Von Hardegen, late of Symposium Biarritz, now commander of the tank battalion in Panzer Brigaden ‘Europa’, paused to issue a quiet order to an enquiring subordinate.

  “Colonel Von Hardegen.”

  Hands were extended and clasped, the recognition mutual.

  To save on time, Crisp did the introductions, the nod exchanged between Von der Heydte and the Panzer officer understandably warmer, the two having fought side by side on other occasions.

  Von Hardegen got straight down to business, producing an annotated map.

  Fig #62 - Sittard-Geleen. The Breakout.

  “Meine Herren, when I last checked in, the Deutsche Fallschirmjager were still holding here,” he indicated the northern edge of Geleen.

  “That is so, Kuno. There are enemy tanks, T34’s mainly, and lots of infantry, but they have halted their attack for the moment.”

  “Sehr gut, Friedrich. Herr General, now is the time I think. Berg is ready, and won’t wait for long.”

  Higgins made his calculations, looking around at his men, either loading up into Kangaroos, or finding a niche onboard one of Hardegen’s panzers.

  Out of sight, the LVT’s received the wounded, the open deck space more suitable for stretchers.

  Artem’yev had requested artillery but, surprisingly, none was forthcoming. Instead, he turned to his regimental support units, and soon Soviet mortar shells started to fall, not on the Markt, but beyond it, where the relief force was gathered.

  Men started to fall instantly.

  Higgins made his decision.

  “We go now. Send it.”

  The headquarters radio operator had already been primed for the task, and his voice spoke rapidly on the open net, passing on the codeword inspired by the US army camp where the 101st was activated in 1942.

  “All units, all units, Claiborne, all units, Claiborne.”

  The hastily conceived plan envisaged each of the units withdrawing their manpower quickly, but maintaining a presence in the front line, until it was safe to pull out the rearguard out as well.

  It required skill, and some units lacked the leaders with the necessary tools. Platoons of both the glider and airborne troops got it wrong, and the guardsmen, sensing something was happening, pressed home and overran a few squads.

  But, as a testament to the professionalism and skills of most of the soldiers, the column started to move off within six minutes, tanks protecting the core of transport containing the 101st and Von der Heydte’s Fallschirmjager.

  Moreover, the enemy mortar fire slackened, radar sets from the 31st AAA Brigade seeking out the point of origin and passing the details to waiting gunners, who brought down swift retribution.

  At the point of the column was Von Hardegen’s 1st Kompagnie, its Panthers especially suited for the night combat to come.

  Alongside them came the specially equipped halftracks, their huge infra red lights sweeping the battlefield.

  Used with success during his defence of the Kustrin Road, at the end of the German War, Von Hardegen understood well how to use his infrared night fighting capability to best advantage.

  Russian tanks, immobile and vulnerable, highlighted to the commanders of the specially equipped Panthers, the cupola fitted with an infra-red sighting system that turned night into day and betrayed the position of virtually every Soviet soldier and vehicle.

  ‘Europa’s’ crews started to kill; clinically and professionally.

  Behind them came the ‘UHU’s’, the SDKFZ 251’s equipped with 60cm Infra-red searchlights that illuminated the battlefield, solely for Europa’s benefit.

  Soviet soldiers started to die, their nemesis unseen in the dark, reaching out with incredible accuracy.

  2nd Kompagnie, partially equipped with the same FG1250 sights, peeled off on cue, smashing into a Soviet infantry unit at rest, sending it flying in a whirl of bullets and unforgiving tracks.

  Von der Heydte, riding on the back of the company commander’s Panther G, watched fascinated as the infrared equipment gave the armoured group total command of the battlefield.

  Behind the Panthers and Uhu’s came four Falke, half-tracks carrying support troops equipped with Vampir ST44’s, and behind them more Kangaroos, empty this time.

  The Vampir panzer-grenadieres debussed, quickly clearing a channel through the dazed Soviets, permitting the small column to press on unmolested, and into the survivors of the other part of Von der Heydte’s command.

  The Paratrooper officer watched with pride as his men swiftly mounted the unfamiliar Kangaroos, his pride tinged with sadness at their greatly reduced numbers.

  A single Buffalo waited in vain for the stretcher cases and followed on empty, the last but one vehicle to exit Geleen’s northern suburb.

  Having drained most of his tanks dry, Colonel Danskin, the 25th Guards Mechanised Brigade’s commander, had filled six tanks with enough fuel to support the night attack on the bridges at Berg.

  As his wristwatch clicked inexorably to the 0400 deadline, the sound of fighting increased to his rear.

  The radio had been full of sounds of consternation, of reports of phantoms, even German tanks with red eyes.

  For all he cared, it could be Lucifer himself behind him. If he failed to reach the Maas today, he would never see another sunrise.

  The Soviet attack commenced, or rather, it tried to, but failed immediately.

  From out of the eastern darkness emerged death, dark undecipherable shapes spitting out shells and bullets in all directions.

  Danskin watched helplessly as his immobilised armour fought back, the vital factor of manoeuvre absent, and contributing to the slaughter that ensued.

  Two enemy vehicles moved past a burning shop, the fire providing sufficient illumination for Danskin to recognise the hated Panthers.

  Ahead, confuse
d by contradictory orders, the infantry of the 25th’s 2nd Battalion pushed ahead, running forward, the six supporting tanks turning about, and coming back towards Geleen to help their comrades.

  The axis of advance for both T34’s and Panthers was the Bergerweg, a modest avenue, running straight for the three kilometres between Berg and the edge of Geleen.

  ‘Europa’ filled the three kilometres with corpses, their IR sights giving them so much advantage over the Soviet tanks that no hits were received in return, all six running T34’s killed with their crews.

  As the relief column gathered itself in the area south of Einighausen, American artillery started to drop behind the rearguard, formed by Sherman tanks of the inexperienced 52nd RTR.

  The plan now required the Panzers to turn back eastwards, forming the sides of a defensive corridor, through which the rest could pass.

  ‘Europa’ accomplished this tricky manoeuvre well, the Panzer IV’s of 3rd Kompagnie taking the lead.

  Soviet anti-tank guns, the standard Zis-3 76.2mm type, deployed at Heksenberg, south of the Bergerweg, waited patiently for their chance and took it at the first opportunity.

  Two Panzer IV’s were struck, the lead tank fatally, the surrounding area rapidly transformed from night into day by the ferocity of the blaze.

  The IR Panthers sought out their foe, and killed each in turn, but not without cost.

  2nd Kompagnie’s commander died, exposed outside the turret hatch, whilst using the IR equipment.

  A Soviet maxim machine gun lashed out, normally useless against such leviathans, the burst fired more in anger than expectation of success.

  The dead Hauptmann slithered onto the floor of the Panther’s turret like a rag doll, face and chest destroyed by Russian bullets.

  The machine-gunners escaped retribution, the German tanks sticking to plan and folding back on the end of the column.