Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

“Well, we have problemsh of our own, Mashter-Shergeant.”

  To their front, occasionally obscured by the renewed downpour, but visible enough to see their intention, Soviet infantry were sneaking forward through the sparse wood.

  Soviet mortars had been falling for a few minutes now, to their rear, and to little effect, as far as Hässler was concerned.

  US artillery was zeroed in on the area either side of the rail track, and 105mm shells were ripping gaps in the loose Soviet formation.

  From the direction of Rechtern came crashes, this time recognisable as tank and anti-tank guns, as more bad news visited itself upon the Allied defences.

  A recent arrival to the field was a composite group of survivors from the 554th AAA Battalion, now boasting eight SP weapons, and just about enough men to make them function.

  The two surviving radars were set up, and immediately went to work mapping out the Soviet mortar positions.

  The Red Army had learned the hard way, and now repositioned constantly, in order to avoid the Allies extremely effective counter-battery fire.

  The Guards Mortar men of the 36th Rifle Corps had been in constant combat since 6th August, and they knew to relocate, doing so after a standard four shells were launched from their 82mm mortars.

  Major Deniken waited in cover with his soldiers, the tired units not yet committed.

  His binoculars swept the immediate battlefield, but the spectacle of the full-scale assault was ruined by the downpour.

  To the right, mortar men from his own regiment redeployed, moving uncomfortably close to the overgrown hill on which his force was concealed, just east of HülsmeyerStraβe, and a full kilometre from the rail bridge.

  He watched as the mortars quickly set up and fired four rounds, relocating again, and becoming lost in the rain as they moved forward into the outskirts of Gothel.

  The rain was a huge problem for the tankers, not the least of whom was Arkady Yarishlov, his ability to effectively command virtually lost in the deluge.

  The ground to the west of Gothel was sodden, and had already claimed some unwary tankers.

  The track known as Hunteholz was suitable, but single file only. Another similar track, Stichweg could be used, but clashed with those forces assaulting the middle bridge.

  Yarishlov had made a decision to risk some of his tanks in an attempt to gain good firing positions and the best cover for his infantry support, and so he had committed two companies of T34’s in column, straight up the railway line. This gained advantage from the harder going, and the height, but at the cost of risking their vulnerable sides to anti-tank weapons, and placing them in a position where they could be more easily seen.

  ‘Such decisions are the privilege of rank.’

  The thought was not a happy one, and he strained through his binoculars to observe how the exposed group was doing.

  He had ordered it to advance at good speed, accepting the loss of immediate infantry support for the bonus of kilometres per hour.

  The lead tank blossomed into a fireball, and he gripped his binoculars tightly, relief sweeping over him as he realised it was just a mine, and only a track had been lost.

  Relief quickly gave way to concern, as the tank seemed to be blocking the route, slewed as it was, almost sideways across the rails.

  Relief came again as the second tank pushed past, risking more mines to follow the orders and keep the advance going.

  Combat engineers from the 36th Guards Rifle Corps moved up, intent on removing as much of the hidden menace as possible.

  Yarishlov switched his attention to the Hunteholz, the combination of rain and trees doing an excellent job at hiding his tankers.

  The infantry were pushing on through the woods, and were clearly involved in a heavy fire fight with the enemy soldiers across the river. The frequent flashes illuminated the grey damp world he was trying so hard to decipher.

  He had chosen to be here, at the rail bridge assault, because of its key nature. However, the assault through Duste and Rechtern could prove to be the battle winner, and a huge part of him wished to be there too.

  That force was led by his 1st Battalion Commander, backed up by a good portion of the 36th Guards Rifle Corps.

  Turning in his turret, Yarishlov checked the squat shapes of the four IS-III’s he had positioned in between two small hillocks, either side of a track known as Sonnenkamp.

  He had been disappointed when the ‘Regiment’ of heavy tanks he had been promised materialised as four battered tanks, commanded by a young Lieutenant, who barely seemed old enough to drink, let alone command the Soviet Union’s best battle tank.

  Still, Kriks had chatted to some of the old lags in the 6th Heavy Tanks, and it seemed their faith in the young man was unshakeable.

  Yarishlov was broken from his reverie by the crash of artillery, US 155mm’s hammering the road from Brockmannshausen, hoping to catch support and supply elements in the open.

  The shells destroyed grass and wood; nothing more.

  He looked back to the railway line again, and was encouraged by what he saw. His tanks had moved on, and none seemed affected by the defensive fire, which increased in volume as he watched.

  Ramsey replaced the receiver, puzzled, but none the less in receipt of a direct order.

  Blake was nowhere to be seen, believed dead, and the 2IC sounded like he was coming apart at the seams.

  None the less, he had ordered Ramsey’s Highlanders to go to the support of the rail bridge defence, an area that he was not supposed to be involved with in any of the discussed defence options.

  None the less, the order was there, and had to be obeyed.

  “Sarnt-Major, get them up and ready to move immediately. We are off to the railway bridge.”

  Robertson was on the case immediately.

  “Iain, I want you to take fourth platoon, and bring up all the ammunition you can manage, clear?”

  Aitcherson seemed fine, his melancholy shaken off by the presence of the enemy.

  “Absolutely, Sir. Shall I take some of the half-tracks?”

  Ramsey thought about that.

  “Yes, do, but do not bring them up into the combat zone. Load them up, by all means. Drive them forward, but stop short. Move the ammo in by hand, as it will be too risky otherwise.”

  A swift look at the map provided him with firmer thoughts.

  “Here, Iain, bring your tracks in here,” his finger ran down the length of ‘Immenzaun’, terminating in some railway land, some three hundred metres from the bridge.

  “Make the dump there. I want you and Fourth Platoon to be my mobile reserve. Stand ready, keep on the radio, and move when I call, clear?”

  “Perfectly, Sir.”

  The QOCH officer saluted and went to leave.

  Ramsey added one other thing.

  “The RSM will accompany you, Iain. He can organise and supervise an ammo chain, leaving you free to command the essentials. Take good care of him, will you?”

  Aitcherson understood that Robertson was there to watch him, and stand in if he was not up to the job, and Ramsey knew that he knew it. However, the younger man welcomed the support, as much as he welcomed the sensitive way the Black Watch officer had provided it.

  Two minutes later, 7th Black Watch was on its way to the rail bridge.

  1023hrs, Thursday, 25th October 1945, the Rail Bridge, Hunte River, Barnstorf.

  The rain stopped abruptly, the grey gloom almost immediately lost in sunshine.

  The colours were magnificent, and men from both sides wondered at the rainbow in all its glory, the end seeming to terminate on the eastern side of the bridge.

  However, the combatants did not permit one of nature’s finest displays to restrict the battle, and dozens of men died, or were wounded, under its wondrous arch.

  Hässler was under pressure, now the de facto commander of the ad hoc infantry unit called Yorke Force, and he was no longer had time to fire his weapon, his method of destruction being the radio.

&
nbsp; His latest messages had called the Yeomanry reserve forward, three Staghound Mk III Armoured cars, and a Comet tank, soon to add their firepower to a growing fight.

  Two of the Allies’ 3” anti-tank guns were destroyed in short order, their shells seemingly ineffective against the angled hull armour of the T34’s, whereas the Soviet HE shells were more than up to the job of subduing the AT defence, allowing the Soviet tanks to move closer all the time.

  The ad hoc company was firing at a phenomenal rate, encouraged to expend ammunition, now that more and more targets appeared in the clear autumn morning.

  The lead T34 was on the approach now, moving inexorably towards the bridge, some fifty metres to its front.

  A small smoke trail reached out, hit, and the rocket projectile bounced off, failing to explode.

  Accompanying Soviet guardsmen hacked down the bazooka crew before they could get off a second shot, a grenade finishing both men off and wrecking the weapon for good measure.

  A Staghound swept forward, the odd looking armoured car a hybrid, the lower half all T17 Chevrolet Armoured Car, the upper half, a Crusader III gun turret sporting a six-pounder gun.

  The armoured car came apart as two 85mm shells struck simultaneously, both HE, and both possessing sufficient power to utterly destroy the vehicle.

  The third T34 in line stopped abruptly, a large mine, having been narrowly missed by the lead two tanks, claiming its offside track.

  Ramsey’s Black Watch arrived just as the Comet deployed and got off its first shot, a solid AP shell, which deflected off the mantlet of the lead Soviet medium tank.

  Neville Griffiths had joined the Derbyshire Yeomanry in an age of horses, but armoured warfare had come as second nature to him.

  During the advances in 1944-45, he had been credited with no less than seventeen Panzer kills, including three Panthers in one hectic day, the previous February.

  Thrice mentioned in dispatches, sporting the Military Medal and Bar, Sergeant Griffiths should have been an officer, except for his quick temper and fists to match.

  He had been up and down the NCO ratings more often than, in his own words, ‘a busy whore’s knickers’, and his recent step up to Sergeant had been opposed by Captain ‘Knobber’ Lensh, the squadron adjutant. The officer had once felt Griffiths’ fist on his nose, but now felt nothing at all, as most of him was buried outside of Bremen.

  He was sober and angry, a combination that transformed him into an excellent tank commander, and he relocated just before a flurry of rifle grenades landed where the Comet had fired from.

  Popping back up, the British tank missed its second shot completely, staying put, and relying on its faster rate of fire to give it the edge.

  The 77mm gun spat out a sabot round before the Soviet tank crew had even found the enemy tank.

  The fast-moving core penetrated the hull of the tank, precisely at the ball mount of the hull machine gun.

  Smaller in diameter than the gun it had been fired from, the projectile was more of a dart, the increased power of penetration pushing it rapidly through everything in its path.

  In this instance, it first traversed the machine-gunner before finding the shell in the hands of the loader.

  The effect was immediate and catastrophic, the turret and hull parting company in the blink of an eye, as the internal explosion destroyed the tank, one of those recently acquired from the Poles.

  Two shells streaked past the retreating Comet, testimony to the fighting spirit of the 4th Guards Tank Brigade.

  The battle was getting desperate.

  At Rechtern, matters were even worse, the 116th’s infantry having taken heavy casualties, as a result of a Soviet error of judgement.

  The support artillery had been accidentally dropped on the defence line, risking the bridge’s integrity, but catching the men exposed, so used were they to the Soviets avoiding strikes on bridges.

  For the Red Army assault force, it could not have worked out better. There was no damage to the bridge and dozens of US infantry were out the fight.

  Only one serviceable 3” anti-tank gun remained, and it got off one telling shot before it was swept aside by a direct hit, as the T34’s closed in.

  Lieutenant Colonel Willoughby, desperately trying to piece together what was happening to his command, and without decent information from the temporary commander of the 154th Brigade, did all he could, as well as he could.

  Orders went to the Adhoc tank unit, seven vehicles of varying types and battle worthiness, sending them down Route 48 to stiffen the defence of Rechtern, the position he saw as most under threat.

  With them went one platoon of the Royal Engineers, hanging on tight, as the venerable tanks moved off at speed.

  The 3rd Battalion, more of a short company in reality, sent two of its platoons down the river line to bolster the northern edge of Rechtern, removing half the firepower from a point directly opposite the few Soviet engineer inflatables.

  His last but one act withdrew half of the mortar support allocated to the rail bridge, sending that south in the wake of the tanks.

  By the time that Willoughby had all the information he needed, it was too late, and the rail bridge was left vulnerable.

  Willoughby’s final act was to ensure his signals troops screamed for assistance to any Allied unit that had ears, pleading with them to come to Barnstorf, where a disaster was in the making.

  1029hrs, Thursday, 25th October 1945, The Hunte River rail bridge, Barnstorf.

  Major Ramsey had arrived into a scene from Armageddon itself, the now bright sunlight picking out death and destruction on a grand scale.

  Two Staghounds were burning, the survivor manoeuvring as best it could on three wheels, trying to find somewhere safe to lick its wounds.

  The US infantry holding the rail bridge were under pressure, two Soviet tanks on the bridge, their turrets sweeping from side to side, scouring the defensive positions, claiming a life here and there, and effectively keeping Allied heads down along the line.

  Behind them, Soviet infantry were running, converging on the structure that would get them across the river and onto dry land.

  “Quickly lads, quickly.”

  Directing a Vickers gun into position, he made sure the crew understood his purpose.

  “Not one of those bloody swine crosses that bridge, Hamilton, not one. Clear?”

  The man grinned at the unusually colourful language of their beloved officer, revealing an absence of teeth, not suffered in combat, but caused by his love of the barley sugar sticks made by his confectioner father.

  “Not one bloody swine, aye Sir!”

  A slap on the man’s back and Ramsey was gone.

  Next, the PIAT section got their orders, the two weapons directed to the task of destroying the lead T34’s on the bridge.

  The task became easier as somewhere to the Black Watch’s front, a bazooka put a shell into the side of one of the tanks, knocking the vehicle out of the fight as the crew bolted for safety.

  More firing erupted as the defending GI’s took advantage of the slackened fire to mow down their tormentors. The whole crew were killed or wounded within seconds, the open bridge providing no cover as they ran.

  The surviving Black Watch Officers and NCO’s were shaking the Jocks out, forming a firing line, ready for the Soviet infantry.

  Cupping his hands around his mouth, Ramsey yelled a warning.

  “Watch for friendlies to the front, boys! There’s still some cousins there, watch out for them!”

  As he spoke, another T34 nosed onto the bridge, intent on maintaining the advance.

  The Comet had manoeuvred slyly and popped out in prime position, the woods just to the south of the rail bridge giving it quality cover until it was too late for the Russian tank.

  Another APDS shot sped across the water and hit down low, passing through the tank and out the other side.

  A serious disadvantage of the APDS was that its high penetration often took it through targets, an
d the modest explosive power of the smaller shell was sometimes insufficient to kill the tank, even if it exploded inside.

  This shell lost on all counts.

  Griffiths put his head out to check the target, and was surprised to find his immediate location more smokey since his arrival. The smoke was from the Comet’s engine, and it should not have been there.

  As he ducked inside, a heavy bullet pinged off his cupola, an AT rifleman on the far bank chancing his arm, and coming close to ending the Sergeant’s life.

  “Check the engine, Drives. It’s bollockin out smoke!”

  Trooper Droves, or ‘Drives’ to his mates, swept his eyes over the gauges, although he knew everything felt right with ‘Lady Hamilton’. The tank had been named by the previous tank commander, Herbert Nelson, now in hospital in Blighty, where they were hopeful his sight could be saved.

  “All’s tickety-boo, Sarge.”

  “No it fucking ain’t, Drives. Check again.”

  Droves did the full routine again and spotted that the oil reading had changed from a few seconds before.

  “Oil levels dropping, Sarge. Must be a leak. Not serious at the moment.”

  Griffiths pondered that for a second.

  “Massage the engine for a while and keep the revs down. Once the bastards have buggered off, we can have a gander and sort it.”

  To some, it would be enough reason to fall back, but Griffiths was made of sterner stuff, and ‘Lady Hamilton’s’ crew accepted his decision without quibble.

  Beside the Sergeant, the telephone squawked, announcing some infantry type outside. Fixed to the rear of the Comet was a handset for use by supporting troops.

  “Room Service?”

  “Maybe later. Major Ramsey of the Black Watch here. To whom do I speak?”

  “Sergeant Griffiths, 2nd Derbyshires, Sir.”

  “Hot day, Sergeant, and likely to get hotter. Can you see tanks at your one o’clock, through the trees there?”

  A pause as the tank commander strained his eyes in that direction.

  “No, Sir. All I can see is greenery, and infantry.”