Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  However, it soon became apparent that the position was not suitable, and the headquarters was moved one hundred yards further forward.

  One thing the old farmhouse did possess was a walled courtyard, partially roofed, fully intact, and integral, providing a safe location for the soldiers to light a fire, and dry out themselves and their kit.

  Unofficially, it became the area to which off-duty personnel migrated for peace and quiet, or what counted for peace and quiet in an active war zone.

  The American contingent had set up an area intended to provide as many of the creature comforts as possible, and it was inevitable that their British and German counterparts would be attracted to the courtyard and its promise of real fresh coffee, amongst other pleasures.

  Gathered around a modest fire, many of the hierarchy of the Barnstorf defences took their leisure.

  There was something different about this campfire, different from all those that night, and from those from countless nights before.

  Each and every man there had a sense of foreboding; a real feeling that something truly awful was waiting in the wings, ready to descend upon them.

  Each kept his own counsel, or maybe shared his feelings with his closest friend, but, none the less, they could sense it in each other.

  The latest round of scalding hot Columbian was doing the rounds, and the ten officers and NCO’s drank quietly, the hubbub of conversation coming from the other ranks gathered around similar small fires throughout the large courtyard area.

  It fell to the commander of the German 2nd Reserve Company to break the moment.

  “Tis are gut cafe, meine Herren. Welly gut.”

  Captain Strecher had enough English to manage to make himself understood, but was not actually as proficient as he thought he was, which made for some moments when his fellow officers had to work hard to keep a straight face.

  “Aye, that it is, Sir.”

  Murdo Robertson, the RSM of the 7th Black Watch, recently returned from hospital, could only agree, draining the last dregs and looking around for more.

  Ramsey sat quiet, still enjoying his coffee, slowly sipping, not possessing the asbestos throat with which some of the party were obviously equipped. Continuing his silent observations, he moved his gaze from the obviously competent Master-Sergeant Hässler and his shadow Rosenberg, and on to the mountain sat next to them; the man he had seen that very morning.

  At that time, Charley Bluebear had been a sergeant. Now he was sporting the insignia of a Warrant Officer, reward for something achieved on a far-flung field.

  Of particular interest to Ramsey were the tomahawk and battle knife; the stuff of legend to a man whose childhood was littered with tales of the Seventh Cavalry and Apache Indians.

  Much as he was keen to ask, he kept his own council, hoping to find out more at another time.

  He had heard of the confrontation between Bluebear and the idiot Yorke. That exchange was the talk of the town, the few men who had witnessed it spreading the story like wildfire, the men all eager to hear something that could put a smile on their faces.

  Ramsey laughed to himself, the recollection of Robertson’s version making him smile.

  Yorke had rounded on the Indian, demanding that he relinquish the non-standard weapons of his ancestors.

  Robertson’s version had contained a lot more choice language, and was done in the style of an old story-teller. Through the skill and clarity of the RSM’s style, Ramsey had mentally conjured up the scene, seeing quite clearly just how stupid the American officer would have looked, as he hung on grimly to the tomahawk, his feet kicking, some three feet off the ground.

  Apparently, Bluebear had quietly informed Yorke that he could not have them, and that he had express written permission to carry them.

  Argument followed examination of the paperwork, Yorke stating that it was applicable only to the 12th US Armored, which, he sneered, ‘chicken-shit Armored outfit bugged out, and is probably half way to the Atlantic and still running.’

  Bluebear held out the tomahawk, and Yorke had grasped it with both hands, He clearly expected it to be surrendered, and yet had found himself suddenly pulled off his feet, until his face was level with the Red Indian.

  According to observers, the officer dangled there for at least two minutes, looking directly at the Cherokee, their faces merely inches apart.

  No one actually heard the brief conversation. Given the small movements in Bluebear’s jaw, and Yorke’s statue-like immobility, onlookers suspected that it was mainly a one-sided affair.

  The witnesses certainly agreed that Yorke was not put down until he had given a discernable nod to Bluebear.

  When the officer was returned to ground level, he saluted smartly, spun on his heel, and strode off as fast as he could.

  There had been no further comments made about Bluebear’s private arsenal, and the only witnessed exchange between the two men, since the encounter, had been without problems.

  Quite clearly, the young Indian had made a good impression upon Robertson, a man who suffered fools lightly.

  The two were involved in a soft conversation, punctuated by a few hand gestures, and culminating in the RSM’s examination of Bluebear’s tomahawk, as the Indian took in the feel and balance of Murdo’s dirk.

  ‘Murdo will fill me in on our Indian friend’s story tomorrow.’

  Moving on again, Finlay and Green of the 1st Black Watch were sat together, silently, the strain apparent on both men’s faces.

  1st Black Watch had been very badly handled, culminating in an attack by Soviet flamethrower tanks.

  Captain Finlay and CSM Green were the only two known survivors from the 1st’s A Company. The former, a public schoolboy from an old Scottish family. The latter of full Irish blood, his presence in a Scottish regiment explained by affiliations made in the trenches of the First War, when his father had fought alongside a member of the Scottish nobility, and had moved to Scotland to become his Gillie after the conflict had ended.

  They, and Aitcherson, were of concern to Ramsey, for all three were almost at the end of their tethers with the strain of command and combat against a competent enemy.

  The Right Honourable Iain Alisdair Aitcherson was actually the worst of the three, the Queen’s Own Cameron Highlander sporting a permanent bandage around his head, there to protect a nasty head wound sustained in the defence of Bremen.

  He also possessed the ingrained distant look of a man who had been pushed to the limits of endurance.

  ‘I must watch him closely.’

  Returning to the first two characters, he found the German 2IC, Oberleutnant Dieckhoff, in animated conversation with the newest arrival, 1st Lt Fielding of the US Engineers. Apparently, both men hailed from the same birthplace, and they conversed rapidly in German, bringing forth memory after memory.

  Rosenberg, after some disagreement with Hässler, renewed the contents of each mug there, the new pot seemingly containing something other than coffee.

  Whatever it was, it was welcome, and created a more relaxed atmosphere amongst the group.

  Interrupting Robertson in mid-swipe, Ramsey sought an answer to a vital question.

  “So, how are your legendary powers? Will it rain today, Sarnt-Major?”

  Returning the Tomahawk to Bluebear, impressing the Cherokee with the reverence he displayed towards the ancient weapon, Robertson sniffed the air, taking in the night sky, biding his time before replying.

  “Aye Sir. Not as much rain as yesterday. Only Angels tears, Sir. Enough for us to know that heaven cares about the men that will die here this day.”

  Ramsey nodded, aware of Robertson’s folk status amongst the men, be it for his weather predictions, or his ability to create poetry in an instant, words that could impress even the roughest of soldier’s minds.

  “That’s rather poetic, Sarnt-Major. Time for one of your creations, I think.”

  The group was made more affable by the inclusion of some fiery spirit in the coffee, and t
hey all encouraged the RSM to speak.

  “Go on, man, give us one of your poems.”

  Robertson rose to his feet, the very act attracting everyone’s full attention.

  “Aye, that I will, Sir. But I’ll no be alone tonight. There are more here than me as can bend their minds to the craft, of that I’m sure.”

  He grasped Bluebear’s shoulder, indicating that at least his new friend should be able to contribute.

  They shared a grin.

  “Anyways, I’ll tender ye something appropriate, but not just the now; I will have a moment to mysel first, Sah.”

  Loud enough to be heard, Rosenberg could not resist a comment to his friend.

  “I thought theesh limeysh all talked English. What the fuck wash that he wash shpeaking?”

  Those in earshot laughed, knowing the statement for the baiting it was.

  Robertson duly retaliated.

  “Listen, ye colonial bas. I’m nay English. I’m Scots born and bred, and my daddy’s daddy’s daddy were at Waterloo, with Ewart and the Greys, snatching the Eagle from the Frogs!”

  Rosenberg feigned shock and horror.

  “Oi Vey Shergeant Major! Eaglesh? Frogsh? Did your family run a zoo?”

  Robertson set his jaw and bent over, bringing his face level with the diminutive Jew.

  “It’s called tradition, ye mouthy dwarf, something of which ye know little, unless ye are talking docking your cocks.”

  The little soldier looked mournful.

  “I had mine done for medical reasons, Shergeant Major.”

  Hässler snorted.

  Robertson waited, grinning widely.

  Rosenberg continued.

  “Parshially because the docsh shaid that the extra shtrain on my heart was too much of a rishk,” laughter erupted from the group, “And Parshially becaush the Rabbi ordered me to shpare the female of the shpecies and redushe it to more of a normal shize.”

  Robertson’s retort was lost in loud and uncontrolled baying, amusement that doubled when Dieckhoff tried to translate the lines for Strecher, and failed to finish the job, coming apart long before he had made sense.

  Honours roughly even, Robertson sat himself down and produced a small pad, his pencil quickly going to work.

  As he completed his work, small raindrops started to fall, complying with his earlier prediction.

  He nodded at Ramsey who rose to his feet.

  “Gentlemen, I pray silence for the Bard of Black Watch, Murdo Robertson.”

  Ramsey’s gentle call brought a stillness to the group.

  The RSM adopted the mournful Scots style of delivery.

  “Aye well, here is ma wee offering to the day ahead.”

  The start was delayed by a small flash in the night sky, a brief light that rallied and grew, marking the return to earth of an aircraft that had died violently in the darkness above.

  Robertson read his poem.

  “Is that rain upon my face this day?

  Or angels tears from heaven, to say,

  We feel for ye, Oh sons of men,

  Prepared to do your work again.

  Though such a price was ne’er fore asked,

  Or so brave a group, so heavy tasked,

  So feel our tears upon your face, and know,

  We care about you, down below.”

  A gentle clapping commenced, the words so quickly penned making an impact upon those who had listened.

  Rosenberg took his time and spoke as clearly as he could.

  “For shertain, you ain’t English, Shergeant-Major. Ain’t one of ‘em could shtring together wordsh like that,” he caught Ramsey’s eye, “Preshent company exshcluded of coursh!”

  Bluebear rose, silently encouraged by Robertson. His voice was soft and firm, and he made no attempt at rhyme or balance, but his words seemed to take poetic form naturally.

  “I am a warrior of my people, of a warrior race,

  Traced back through the line of our ancestors.

  I am Tsali Sagonegi Yona of the Aniyunwiya,

  Brought forth upon this land to kill,

  And if I am worthy, then tomorrow,

  And for a thousand years to come,

  The Aniyunwiya will know of my name.

  I am Tsali Sagonegi Yona,

  And tomorrow, and for the days to come,

  I will fight alongside fellow braves.”

  The Indian resumed his seat to the sound of approving voices, shaking the extended hands of both Robertson and Hässler.

  “Excellent, excellent.”

  Ramsey’s approval was genuine.

  Checking his watch, he was about to announce his departure, when he noticed Aitcherson standing quietly, just waiting to be recognised.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen. I’m afraid that I must depart, time is pressing now, but, before I go, I believe our comrade from the Cameron Highlanders wishes to contribute.”

  “Aye, that I do, Sir. If I may.”

  Silence fell on the group, not even the sound of a distant barrage or a waking bird, even the remainder of the courtyard was silent, men either asleep or withdrawn into their own thoughts.

  Aitcherson rehearsed his presentation, his lips moving silently before he spoke.

  “The old folk speak of glory and honour,

  Won on the bloody fields of yore,

  Names that have long since passed into legend,

  Such as Balaclava, Plassey, Quebec, Agincourt.

  A thousand years, and a thousand battles,

  Yet mainly the olds boast of Waterloo,

  But after this day, a legend’ll be born,

  For they’ll all speak of Bloody Barnstorf too.”

  The Cameron’s officer spoke the words with great meaning, his voice of perfect tone for the delivery.

  “Bravo old chap, bravo. However, I do hope that you are incorrect, Aitcherson. To be frank, I rather hope that no-one will remember the name of Barnstorf in a week!”

  He got no disagreement, and whilst the ensemble appreciated Aitcherson’s efforts, they all preferred to hope that battle would pass them by that day.

  Strecher received the last of the translation, and nodded his approval.

  Patrick Green decided to throw in his two-penneth.

  “Right, well here’s mine, with no bloody apologies.”

  He coughed to clear his throat and then ran the words out in record time.

  “I’m here fighting for the fookin English,

  As my dadda did afore me.

  When we will ever learn,

  To leave it to the fookin English,

  To fight their own fookin wars.”

  Green’s skills were probably better adapted to the battlefield, but his contribution brought polite responses none the less.

  “And something more from our American cousins?”

  Ramsey laid down the gauntlet, and Hässler picked it up immediately.

  “I’m American, so I guess my style is more direct and to the point than you old world types, Sir.”

  “You have the floor, Master Sergeant.”

  “OK, well, here goes.”

  He winked at Rosenberg.

  “Barnstorf, a boil on the arse of humanity. Fuck it!”

  Even Strecher laughed, without the need of translation from Dieckhoff.

  Ramsey choked lightly, regaining his poise before speaking.

  “Thank you for that pearl of wisdom, Master Sergeant, and I daresay we all agree with you!”

  A bout of rapid exchange in German followed, preventing the group from breaking up.

  Dieckhoff stood to explain.

  “Herr Hauptmann Strecher has ask me to quote something for him as his contribution, Kameraden. Before the war, Strecher is scholar of Ancient Greece, and he has ask me to speak his words at you.”

  Unusually, Strecher had, for once, decided that his English was not up to the job.

  Strecher took his cue and spoke slowly, permitting Dieckhoff to deliver his words precisely.

  “In 480BC,
a small number of Greeks fights a huge army of Persia, using the ground to help resist the invasion. A small force, only few thousand Greeks, from a number of States, held back the power of,” Dieckhoff confirmed the pronunciation before continuing, “Xerxes, a king with an army totalling a million men.”

  Strecher finished speaking his next portion and leant back to savour his coffee.

  “At the end of the battle, monuments are erected in their honour, and this words comes from one such monument.”

  Dieckhoff listened as his Captain repeated the text twice, fixing it in his mind.

  “Go tell the Spartans, stranger who passes by, that here, obedient to their laws, we lie.”

  A modest ripple of acknowledging applause rose briefly, the occasional mug tilted to toast the words from ancient times.

  As one, they rose. Handshakes were exchanged, and they went forth to whatever the day held.

  Back in their position, Hässler was unusually quiet.

  “They might not attack ush. It might all be bullshith.”

  The mumbled reply told Rosenberg that his friend was troubled.

  “Hey Rish, it’ll be fine. What’sh got you sho blue?”

  “Gotta bad feeling about this battle, Rosie, a real bad feeling.”

  Rosenberg stayed silent, and an awkwardness filled the foxhole.

  Hässler shook himself out of the melancholy, and sought to brighten the moment.

  “So, brain box, that Spartan thing. What happened to them?”

  “Shergeant, are you telling me that you Gentilesh weren’t taught hishtory?”

  “What I’m telling you is that this fucking soldier wasn’t taught that bit of history, ok?”

  “Whoa, Mashter Shergeant,” Rosenberg realising quickly that there was no humour in his friend’s words.

  “OK, OK, Isaac. I just wanna know, that’s all.”

  The use of his first name indicated just how rattled Hässler was.

  “They were killed to a man, Mashter Shergeant.”

  “Well, that’s just fucking dandy!”