Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  A Sherman tank was struck, its engine belching black smoke as it struggled against the damage.

  For a moment, it seemed like the tank would escape, the driver deliberately accelerating hard to make a small but steep incline ahead.

  The incline won, and the damaged engine gave up the unequal struggle, a small orange glow escaping from the rear compartment.

  By the time the crew had safely climbed aboard a Kangaroo, the Sherman was the brightest light on the battlefield, burning merrily, the shells starting to ‘cook off’ as the temperature inside rose.

  At Berg, the Engineer Major was more than happy to be relieved of overall command, and withdrew to his sandbagged position to take charge of the detonating circuit.

  Thirty minutes before the Eagles were due to escape, a sour-faced bird Colonel had arrived, complete with two companies of armored-infantry, men of the experienced 4th US Infantry Division.

  Three minutes from the moment the first fully-laden M3 half-track started to disgorge fresh troops, a further surprise occurred, this more dramatic, as a number of German self-propelled guns arrived, taking up positions on the western bank of the canal.

  4th Kompagnie of Europa’s Panzer Abteilung had been tasked to provide overwatch on the Berg bridges.

  Unteroffizier Jablinski was not a popular man, despite his impeccable credentials, service with the Fuhrer-Begleit-Brigaden amongst his glittering resume.

  His skills did not seem to measure up to his record, and his performance in training bordered on the inept at times.

  The commander of 4th Kompagnie placed him with a good crew, and the JagdPanther started to do better in unit exercises.

  None the less, the Unteroffizier’s personal performance was still well below that expected of a senior NCO.

  Perhaps unsurprising, as Jablinski really wasn’t Jablinski at all, the present incumbent being a Soviet plant with precious little experience of combat, but with the ideals of communism as his driving force.

  Manoeuvring his tank destroyer into a forward position, Jablinski satisfied himself that his moment of destiny was upon him, and composed himself for the task ahead.

  Across the river, the sounds of combat got nearer and nearer, the relief column clearly closing on the Berg Bridge.

  Mentally rehearsing the short journey and his actions when he arrived, ‘Jablinksi’ ensured his crew were otherwise engaged, quietly watching them as he slipped two hand-grenades from the rack.

  Muttering to the gunner to take charge, he levered himself out of the cupola and onto the cool steel roof.

  As he unscrewed the caps of the stick grenades, he re-checked the distance to the sandbagged position, satisfying himself that he would make it.

  Both grenades rattled on the deck of the fighting compartment of vehicle 414, the silence suddenly punctuated with yells of alarm.

  Jablinski was already halfway across the road as the first head appeared in the hatch.

  When he was four feet from the sandbags, the first grenade exploded, the screams of the injured almost immediately cut short by the second explosion.

  “Partisans!,” he screamed, as he rolled over the top of the position, the US soldiers in it taken by surprise, both by his sudden appearance, and the obvious destruction of one of the German AFV’s.

  The Engineer Major quickly composed himself, and ordered two of his men to post themselves on the same side, eyes peeled for any saboteurs.

  He had other things on his mind, and waited for the order to drop the Berg Bridge, once the airborne column had gone through.

  He strained his eyes to see anything, but was only rewarded with the occasional flash as a large weapon fired.

  Jablinski’s knife slammed into the base of his skull, penetrating his brain, and severing his spinal cord, killing him instantly.

  Holding the cadaver up in an embrace, the Soviet agent moved to one side, placing the dead officer against the sandbags and withdrew the knife, clamping his hand over the mouth of the radio operator, and opening his throat with one vicious and deep cut.

  His eyes were fixed on the other two men as he held the dying radioman upright.

  He needn’t have worried, as the developing fire in the JagdPanther was providing adequate distraction for the two engineers.

  Jablinski slid the radioman’s bayonet from its sheath and, a blade in each hand, he moved quietly to the two men.

  Repeating the proven method of an instant kill, he rammed his knife home, killing the first man, and then repeated the execution with the bayonet, the force of the blow carrying the longer blade through the victim’s head, the point emerging in glossy scarlet from the forehead of the dead man.

  Jablinski was the only living man in the position, the only other object of note being the plunger for the demolition charges on the bridge.

  ‘Europa’ blew the remaining armour of the 25th Guards Mechanised to pieces; the stationary tanks no match for the experienced Panzer gunners.

  The Soviet infantry melted away in the face of huge casualties.

  As dictated by the plan, the Panzer elements that approached the bridge peeled either side, turning back to provide a funnel down which the transports could move in safety, channelling them over the bridge, and into the waiting arms of their comrades.

  Jablinski briefly toyed with the idea of detonating the charges and then disappearing, but his sense of duty made him stay, the opportunity that fate had presented to him worthy of full exploitation.

  Dawn’s first light gave him enough vision to start seeing distinct shapes, darker shapes in a vista of darkness.

  The first vehicle that he could identify was a large amphibian, the sort capable of carrying a full platoon of men.

  Soon four were in view, driving hard down the road, heading straight for the bridge.

  “What the name of fucking Davy Crockett’s balls is going on here?”

  Jablinski wheeled, his immediate instinct to attack halted by the menacing barrel of the grease gun.

  Momentarily panicking that his sacrifice might now come to nothing, the Soviet agent checked the advancing column, the lead vehicle of which was already on the apron of the bridge.

  Shouting in excited German, he waved desperately at the bodies, slowly edging his way nearer the electronic detonator.

  The moment came, as the American NCO noticed the bayonet sticking out of the back of the dead man’s head.

  A punch knocked the American to the ground, and he threw himself forward.

  The wire was not connected.

  “Govno!”

  His fingers, trembling with excess energy and fear in equal measure, twisted the wire, and made the connection.

  The stunned NCO pushed himself up on his elbows, shaking his head.

  The Soviet agent snatched up the radioman’s Garand and fired twice, both bullets hitting the groggy American.

  Jablinski checked again, the Buffaloes perfectly positioned on the Berg Bridge.

  He twisted the arming lever, and sent a charge of electrical energy to the detonators in the demolition charges.

  Every head in the relief column swivelled in an instant, the huge explosion unmistakeably marking the end of the bridge.

  Those close enough watched fascinated as two fireballs described golden arches in the sky, each one consisting of approximately sixteen and a half tons of metal and containing thirty souls.

  The two Buffaloes crashed to the ground, one on the edge of the canal, the other onto the roof of the house nearest the bridge, killing and burning some of the 4th’s infantrymen stationed there.

  Two other Buffaloes were wrecked, both flipped over on the sides by the shock wave.

  Over one hundred Americans had died in a fraction of a second.

  Jablinski spared himself a moment of celebration before slipping away unseen.

  On the eastern bank of the canal, Oberstleutnant Von Hardegen ripped his eyes away from the bloody mess and consulted his map.

  Despite the excellence of his IR
weapons, the day was nearly upon them, and daylight would be a great leveller, as would the sheer numbers of the enemy.

  A decision was needed, and quickly.

  Such a decision was made and communicated, again the training and expertise of ‘Europa’ showing as the armoured pocket moved southwards.

  Soviet guardsmen in Urmond stood and fought back, one of the Falke halftracks dying messily with its crew.

  Securing their flank on Heksenberg, the relief column moved towards the new crossing point, south of Stein, where one damaged bridge stood waiting for them, also wired for demolition, but, Von Hardegen hoped, not placed in the hands of some lunatic, like at Berg.

  The 3rd Kompagnie, pushing along the western edge of the rail yards, barrelled into an unsuspecting Soviet unit, sat waiting, ready to move up to Stein when summoned.

  The 6th Pontoon Bridge Brigade, a brigade in name only since the USAAF attack on Limburg, lay waiting to back up the advance. If the enemy blew the crossing, the plan was to rapidly deploy its engineer bridge, once the enemy had been pushed away from the river, to permit the heavy tanks of the 2nd Red Banner Central European Front to cross the Maas.

  Despite an influx of manpower, mainly former POW’s, the 6th was still only at two-thirds strength. The engineer unit had received some new equipment straight from the Motherland, but lacked much of the heavy bridging equipment it needed, and was low on transport.

  3rd Kompagnie swept through the engineer’s deployment area, the Panzer IV crews enjoying the opportunity to slaughter lined up vehicles and machine-gun helpless men in the open expanse of the large rail yard.

  The eight-minute action saw the 6th sustain 60% casualties, lose the vast majority of their best equipment, and all of their remaining barges.

  As Von Hardegen had ordered, the two Puma armoured cars pressed ahead and crossed the Stein Bridge, accompanied by a jeep containing Bud Harper and four of his men.

  With little explanation, the Glider Colonel and his boys took post with the Engineer officer, backed up by the impressive looking Puma’s, their sole purpose to ensure that there was no repeat of the Berg debacle.

  Again leading the way, the Buffaloes of the Northamptonshire Yeomanry, blazed over the bridge, this time achieving the relative safety of the west bank, and Belgian soil.

  A German Pioniere officer, attached to ‘Europa’, had arrived at Stein shortly after Harper, his experienced eye there to examine the damaged structure and report the problems back to Von Hardegen.

  A quick discussion with the British liaison officer from the 52nd RTR established the weights of the different vehicles in the relief column, and the kangaroos were halted, to permit the lighter vehicles to cross first.

  After each crossing, the Pioniere officer gave an update on the bridge condition.

  A small force of IS-II’s appeared, pushing up from Beek, and it clashed with the Panthers of 2nd Kompagnie.

  This time, the Soviet tankers were on a more even footing, and they left three destroyed German tanks behind them before withdrawing from the field, an equal number of their own now smoking and quiet.

  The ‘Europa’s’ sole recovery tank, an original field conversion from a Panther D, moved forward to recover the one vehicle that had not been smashed apart by the heavy 122mm shells. The BergePanther crew worked quickly, connecting towropes, dragging the heavily damaged vehicle with them, and into the relative safety of the buildings of Elsloo.

  Soviet artillery started to fall, lending speed to the evacuation efforts.

  The fact that the bursts stayed well clear of the Stein bridges was not wasted on the Allied troopers, so vehicles and men pressed closer to the river, avoiding most of the high-explosive.

  The last 6x6 lorry had crossed, and the Kangaroos were now moving, carrying the exhausted 101st troopers to safety.

  A Soviet infantry assault struck Elsloo, threatening the southern flank.

  Marion Crisp had not yet crossed the canal, and organised a rapid counter-attack, a mixed force of German and US paratroopers throwing the Russian Guardsmen back, and away from the bridge.

  In Stein itself, the 52nd RTR had little problem bringing up the rear, as the Soviet forces seemingly lacked the will to pursue the relief force.

  Suddenly, the situation changed, as an M4 Sherman was wreathed in flames from numerous Molotov cocktails.

  The British unit stalled as more petrol bombs were launched from the surrounding buildings, Guardsmen from the 25th Mechanised’s Engineer company surrounding the main route of escape.

  Again, the Vampir troopers, supported by some Fallschirmjager and Belgian fusiliers, counter-attacked.

  In the early morning light, made brighter by the flames of buildings and tanks, the Belgians were halted by fierce resistance based around two DP’s firing from a bakery.

  A platoon of the Vampir troopers moved right, flanking the bakery, but were held up by another similar block of engineers.

  Von der Heydte moved his force to the left, and drove into the flank of the Soviet engineers, opening up an alternate route down Bosweg, avoiding the danger zone.

  Not without cost, as a dozen more of his Fallschirmjager fell in the action.

  Running beside the paratrooper officer, Bosicki gasped as the rifle bullet slammed into him, sending him flying into a shell hole on the junction of Daggeweide and Bosweg.

  Von der Heydte stopped to check the NCO.

  The man had something he needed to say.

  “Sorry, Herr Oberstleutnant.”

  Pressing a field dressing to the probably fatal wound, Von der Heydte shrugged his shoulders.

  “It is done, Oberfeldwebel. It should not have been,” he grunted with the effort of tying off the ends, “But it is done.”

  “My brothers. Both of them. Executed by those red bastards,” the pain started to affect the wounded man’s speech.

  “I am sorry, Oberfeldwebel. Now, stay still. I’ll be back when I can.”

  Touching the NCO on the shoulder, Von der Heydte emerged from the shell hole, straight into the blast from a stick grenade, dispatched from the hand of one of his own.

  The blast knocked the Fallschirmjager commander unconscious, and he was carried from the field on the shoulders of the horrified grenadier.

  Bosicki lay in the hole, unseen, and unmissed.

  The British rearguard moved out of Stein, leaving behind a vacuum swiftly filled by Soviet troops.

  The surviving Engineers from the 25th emerged from their hiding places, their company shattered by the joint efforts of the British Shermans, the Vampir soldiers, and the Fallschirmjager.

  One shocked Soviet Corporal stood over a shell hole, its single occupant wearing the uniform of the enemy that had just killed both his cousin and best friend.

  He locked eyes with the wounded German, understanding the man’s fear.

  The corporal lit his cigarette, rough cut Russian tobacco rolled in the page of a book he had ‘liberated’ some days ago, flicking open his lighter, also liberated, this time from the dead body of a US paratrooper.

  The flame remained, the petrol lighter steady in the hands of a man resolved to revenge.

  Lighting the Molotov cocktail, he enjoyed the look of panic on the German’s face, and grinned as the man tried to move out of the hole.

  He tossed the bottle, and was rewarded with the sound of breaking glass, immediately followed by animal-like screaming.

  Standing on the edge of the hole, he watched, enjoying the immolation of the German soldier, taking it all in, as if he was watching a silent movie in the theatre.

  Except it wasn’t silent, the hideous screaming rising above every sound of battle.

  The petrol burned away, leaving small flames where a piece of clothing had yet to totally yield, or where flesh was still capable of sustaining fire.

  Yet the man still lived, and the screams went on.

  On and on.

  The Corporal watched as the sounds of suffering started to curtail and shock set in. H
e felt satisfied that the man had paid for the deaths of his cousin and friend.

  The Engineer company regrouped and moved away.

  Bosicki was dead before the rats started to gnaw on his burnt flesh.

  1100hrs, Wednesday, 24th October 1945, Stein, Holland.

  At approximately the same time that Colonel Danskin, late of the 25th Guards Mechanised Brigade, was shot by the NKVD, a group of weary officers assembled in a large tent on the outskirts of Dilsen, Belgium.

  Even Von der Heydte was there, groggy, and sporting his own black eyes, brought on by his contact with the road when he was felled by the grenade.

  He and Higgins went together like bookends, and the pair earned more than one grin from their comrades.

  Crisp and Harper were holding their own miniature de-briefing, both poring over the map of their last battles, trying to find out what could have been done better, or been done differently.

  It would be some time before the full situation was clarified, but it seemed likely that the 101st had less than 50% of its manpower on the right side of the Maas, and that officially put the division out of the war for some time to come.

  Maxwell-Taylor was on the phone, dealing with the plethora of matters that accompany such a defeat, or, as some called it, a victory.

  ‘That will be left to the historians to sort out.’

  The Corps commander’s lips curled at that thought, safe in the knowledge that his men had done all they could, regardless of what history would reflect from the comfort of its armchair when the firing had stopped.

  The last man to arrive, did so with a flourish, two SDKFZ 251 halftrack’s rattling up at full speed and sliding to a halt, adjacent to the tent.

  Von Hardegen, his face like thunder, alighted, followed by a group of men who were with him for a very specific purpose.

  Maxwell-Taylor had rehearsed the moment in his mind, but was beaten to it by the swift movement of Higgins, who reached out for the hand of the Panzer officer.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Von Hardegen, thank you, from myself, and my men. Without you, we would have been lost. Thank you, Sir.”