Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  “Comrade Polkovnik, my apologies. I have no excuse.”

  Deniken turned to the senior man, seeking his assurance that the matter had been attended to.

  Yarishlov stepped forward, and took the Serzhant by the shoulders.

  “Comrade Serzhant, your apology is accepted. Accept mine for asking such a stupid question.”

  Durestov looked confused. Yarishlov gripped him harder, and smiled.

  “But don’t make a habit of it with us Polkovniks. We’re unforgiving bastards by nature.”

  “Yes, Comrade Polkovnik.”

  Yarishlov stepped back, and Durestov sprang to attention, saluting both officers.

  As they moved on, Deniken spoke softly.

  “Thank you for making allowances, Comrade Polkovnik. He is a good man; a wonderful soldier.”

  Casting an eye around the mound reinforced his view.

  “Anyone who has survived this bloodbath has been through hell, Comrade Yarishlov.”

  The tank colonel had stopped abruptly.

  A Soviet rifleman stood guard over two enemy soldiers who were busy working on the prone body of a third.

  “Ramsey?”

  The two Scots looked up, confused that the enemy officer knew the name of their commander.

  They turned back quickly, doing their best to save the Major’s life.

  When the charges had exploded, Ramsey had been thrown fifty yards back towards the river.

  His head had struck a tree as he flew through the air, the bloody flap hanging down the side of his skull, contaminated with green lichen, evidence of the unforgiving solid object that had caused his wound.

  The left forearm was clearly snapped in two, his hand almost touching the elbow.

  Both legs were missing below the knees, the tibias and fibulas, stripped of flesh, protruding for a few inches below the awful wounds.

  Squatting beside the man he had met just once before, a lifetime ago, Yarishlov spoke softly to the Corporal who was about to bandage the bloody right stump.

  “Will he live?”

  McEwan did not look up.

  “If ah can get the man tae the infirmary, then mebbe...Sah”, he added after a moment’s reflection.

  His eyes took in the cane balanced in Yarishlov’s hand, again, something not missed by Deniken, stood back from the vignette.

  “What is inn-fer-mary?’

  “A hospital, man! Doctors? Nurses?”

  Yarishlov understood.

  He took in the desperate sight of the battered man, part of his mind recalling their previous meeting, part of his mind wrestling with a problem.

  The tank colonel stood, his sense of purpose affecting the group, Deniken suddenly aware that there was to be action taken.

  “Comrade Deniken, I have need of your personal transport.”

  A silent question passed between the two, but Deniken knew enough of the Colonel to know he would not be about to do what he was about to do, if it wasn’t the right course of action.

  “I can get it no closer than the end of the bridge, Comrade Polkovnik.”

  A simple nod sent Deniken on his way.

  Yarishlov switched to English.

  “Come, soldier. Let us moving Mayor Ramsey to car.”

  The three men lifted Ramsey up, the unconscious man unaware of the journey he was undertaking. On reaching the bridge, the sound of the approaching jeep was welcome indeed.

  The engineer officer considered reporting his closeness to completion, but decided against it. Sparing half an eye to the bloody sight that quickly moved past him.

  Deniken moved forward with one of his men, relieving the Colonel of his burden.

  Watching the wounded man being carefully loaded into the rear of the jeep, Yarishlov pulled out his notepad and penned a brief note, carefully ripping the end product from the book.

  Pausing for a moment, he reopened the notebook and spent slightly longer writing another note.

  Deniken attached a piece of white cloth to the shattered windscreen, one of the prisoners following his lead and doing the same the other side.

  Yarishlov offered McEwan one of the pieces of paper.

  “Show this to any Soviet mens. It is safe passage note.”

  “Thank ye, Sah. Thank ye from ma Major, too.”

  Yarishlov nodded as he wrapped something in the second note and it inside Ramsey’s battledress pocket.

  “And this is not for my friend eye.”

  ‘Friend? The commie bas is ma man’s friend, is he?’

  “Give this to your top officer.”

  “Aye, I’ll attend to it, Sah.”

  McEwan’s eyes strayed again to the cane, its closeness almost taunting him.

  He was surprised when it grew larger, not realising that Yarishlov had held it out to him.

  “This are Ramsey’s, yes?

  “Yes, Sah, that it is.”

  “Take it.”

  No second invitation was needed.

  “Now go, soldier, and keep my friend live.”

  McEwan snapped to attention, the other Scottish soldier following suit, both men throwing up tremendous salutes as only the British Army could do to total perfection in the very oddest of circumstances.

  Swinging into the driver’s seat, McEwan waited for the other man to be settled next to Ramsey before letting out the clutch, and moving away.

  Deniken stood beside Yarishlov in silence, both men watching the disappearing 4x4. One reciting a silent prayer to a God he didn’t believe in, pleading for the life of a man he barely knew, the other, full of questions over what he had just been party to.

  The prayer remained unfinished, the questions unspoken.

  “Air attack!”

  Experience gave both men wings, and they dropped into a nearby position, the horrible nature of its contents immaterial, its quality of cover paramount.

  A single aircraft slashed in from the south, its cannon churning up the water before lashing the bridge.

  The engineer officer disappeared in a burst of red, chewed up by cannon shells.

  Both men hugged the bottom of the trench, expecting the stack of munitions to yield to the enemy attack.

  Surprisingly, they did not.

  AA weapons started rattling out as the aircraft circled for another attack, joined by anything on the ground that a soldier could point skywards.

  The Typhoon swept in again, this time lower, leaving a vibrating trail in the water, as its turbulent wake and discarded shell casings disturbed the river’s surface.

  Yarishlov, stealing a look over the edge of the trench, could see the pilot clearly, so low and close was the Typhoon.

  He watched fascinated as sprays of blood obscured the enemy flyer, the red Perspex hiding what lay within.

  The pain was excruciating, as was the feeling of failure.

  McKenzie had been hit by two bullets.

  The one that caused his blood to squirt over the inside of the cockpit was the lesser of the two wounds; head wounds always bled profusely.

  The other wound was more serious, a 12.7mm round having entered low through his right side and out the left hand side of his stomach, wrecking the pilot’s bladder, and much else that was less vital as it journeyed through.

  The Hispano cannons had fallen silent before their time, ammunition expended.

  Pulling back on the stick, the young Canadian felt the Typhoon rebel as more strikes caused damage.

  The propeller was now shuddering permanently, and the aircraft needed a permanent right pedal to stop it turning sideways.

  Turning to port again, he felt the aircraft stagger under a hammer blow, a single cannon shell slamming into the side of the fuselage, and into the engine compartment.

  The result was immediate and impressive.

  The Typhoon caught fire, the shell hole emitting a long spectacular orange streak as damaged fuel lines fed an intense fire.

  The same fire swiftly started to eat its way into the cockpit, and McKenzie’s right f
oot was immediately affected, pushed forward, as it was, on the pedal.

  Despite the pain, he kept his boot in position, his mind made up.

  He turned the aircraft and lined up on the rail bridge.

  Deniken was shouting at his men, knowing the aircraft was coming in again.

  Yarishlov watched incredulously as the dying airplane drove onwards, guns silent, its fiery tail growing with every second.

  In the final few seconds, the red smear in the cockpit became visible again, illuminated from inside by the growing fire that was obviously consuming the pilot.

  None the less, the Typhoon held steady and plunged directly into the centre of the rail bridge.

  The explosion was immediate, and devastating.

  The noise was so loud that everything went quiet, those unfortunate to be too close clutched their ears, permanently damaged by the shock wave and intense sound.

  Those who were closer still either clutched their wounds or lay dead.

  Durestov, running away from the river, was transformed into a red smear on the earth, as the bulk of the Typhoon’s Sabre engine briefly occupied the same piece of woodland as he did.

  With his death, the Battle of Barnstorf ended, and to draw a fitting line under the battle, Mother Nature brought down her heaviest rain, and most violent thunderstorm.

  Barnstorf.

  A battle the Allies had most certainly lost.

  A battle the Soviets had apparently won.

  Except for the fact that no suitable bridge remained over the Hunte.

  Except for the fact that thousands of their men lay dead upon the field.

  And except for what would come next.

  The allocation of blame often has more to do with your availability than your culpability.

  Chris Coling

  Chapter 101 - THE AFTERMATH

  2207hrs, Thursday, 25th October 1945, Headquarters of SHAEF, Trianon Palace Hotel, Versailles, France.

  Eisenhower gripped the telephone, unable to grasp what McCreery had just said.

  “Incredible. Really incredible. Our troops have done magnificently this week. Pass on a well done to your men, General.”

  Ike’s face lost much of its pleasure as the commander of 21st Army Group relayed the butcher’s bill.

  Bedell-Smith, Hood and Rossiter had sat back, already satisfied with the events of the last few days, expecting McCreery’s report to substantiate the original communications, confirming that the Soviet Baltic Front had been stopped.

  Quite clearly, Eisenhower’s body language and grim expression spoke of issues not previously communicated.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, General, truly I am.”

  Only Rossiter had noticed Ike making notations as he listened.

  “I will do what I can, and I expect I may well be able to give you some quality units soon. In the meantime, hold the line, General, and thank you again.”

  Eisenhower replaced the receiver and took a moment to reflect.

  “Gentlemen, as we heard earlier, the Baltic Front assault along the Hunte River has been stopped,” a natural pause as the commander licked his lips, “But only at great cost.”

  Consulting the note he had made, Ike passed on the grim news.

  “The British 3rd Division was badly damaged, so too the 5th Guards Armored Brigade. Both the 29th Infantry and the 51st Highlanders have been wiped out, and in the case of the Scottish, that leaves just a few artillery and support elements. The rest of the unit died on the Hunte River and beyond.”

  A respectful silence was observed before he continued.

  “On the up side, it seems that they dealt the Communists a heavy blow. On the conservative side, the Reds lost over three hundred tanks and fifty thousand men in their whole operation.”

  Another look at the note and he could continue with confidence.

  “Reports say that three British squadrons, two Royal Navy, and another from the RAF, were able to perform ground attacks against packed ground targets, with spectacular results.”

  It wasn’t totally accurate information, but as good as he was going to get for some time.

  Taking a cigarette from his pack, Eisenhower flicked open his lighter and drew deeply on the resulting rich smoke.

  “Well then, it seems we have finally stopped the bastards.”

  His statement encompassed so much, from the incredible efforts of the ground and air forces, the Soviets own supply issues, and the continued intervention of partisan and Kommando units throughout Europe.

  Such was the impact of the week’s events, and McCreery’s call, that no one noticed the unusual profanity from their Supreme Commander.

  Raising his coffee mug, Eisenhower offered a toast.

  “To all those men who have laid down their lives so far.”

  The four men drank quietly.

  “Tomorrow, we will start the process of rolling them back.”

  He caught the enquiring look from Rossiter, and knew what was on the man’s mind.

  “Yes Sam, to the Polish border and beyond.”

  The human cost of stopping the Soviet attack on the Hunte went beyond the removal of some markers from the battle map; thousands of men were dead, and thousands more were hideously injured.

  Ramsey survived his evacuation, his wounds dictating that he could no longer serve with his beloved Jocks. His removal from the front probably granted him survival, and an extended life way beyond the end of hostilities.

  Hall survived a very ropey landing, his aircraft virtually folding in half as it came to rest. The Flight Lieutenant never flew operationally again, his partial blindness keeping him grounded and ensuring he survived the war.

  Bluebear and Hässler stayed in the water, the incessant rain masking their progress to safety, eventually reaching the forward positions of the 3rd British Division.

  Unwounded but both scarred by the brutal fight, they were returned to combat within the week.

  McEwan, unharmed, and as dour as ever, joined the new formation of the Highland Division. He had no chance to tell Ramsey about the Russian officer, but remembered to hand over the man’s note to an appropriate senior officer.

  RSM Robertson and CSM Green were taken prisoner, and ended up in a Special Work Camp, deep in the USSR.

  Flight Sergeant Wallace Gordon was badly beaten by his captors, but eventually made it to a Soviet prison camp, where he died in mysterious circumstances before the War’s end.

  Pilot Officer McKenzie failed to return from his mission and nothing was known of the manner of his death for some years.

  The German officers, Strecher and Dieckhoff, were both wounded during the fighting, along with most of their men. Strecher was captured by the Soviets, and summarily executed. Kommando Friedrich ceased to exist.

  Aitcherson survived the battle, and went on to join McEwan in the newly forming Highland Division.

  Griffiths and his tank crew also survived the battle, and went on to greater glory on the North German Plain.

  Rosenberg disappeared without trace.

  Lieutenant Commander Steele lived for two days more. He was crushed by a fuel bowser as he lay snoozing on a grass bank outside his Squadron’s dispersal building.

  On the other side, the losses were worse and keenly felt, despite the capacity of the Soviet war machine to absorb death on a grand scale and still function.

  The initial assault formations fared very badly, with both the 128th Tank Brigade and 31st Guards Rifle Division reduced to a handful of men and damaged vehicles.

  Stelmakh’s 6th Guards Heavy Tanks had not fired a shot in the battle, and yet consisted of only two vehicles and eleven men by the end of the battle.

  The valuable 77th Engineer’s and the 36th Guards Rifle Corps were both removed from the Soviet order of battle.

  4th Guards Tank Brigade, Yarishlov’s command, ceased to exist, its handful of survivors and running vehicles moved to fill in the gaps in other parts of 2nd Guards Tank Corps.

  A large portion
of the 3rd Guards Mechanised Corps was badly handled, a noticeable, but lesser level of damage inflicted upon the 22nd Guards Rifle Corps. Both units remained combat effective in numerical, if not mental, terms.

  No Soviet aircraft made it back to base that day, and no pilots were recovered, the only survivors swept up and into Allied POW camps for the rest of hostilities.

  Major-General Obinin received a visit from the NKVD, one that ended in suicide, his body being dumped in a roadside ditch.

  Colonel Yarishlov was arrested, along with Lieutenant Colonel Deniken, the two taken away to Christyakov’s headquarters to ascertain their culpability over the defeat.

  Along the battle lines of the 1st Baltic Front, the red machine ground to a halt, exhausted, bloodied, and lacking many vital supplies.

  The surviving formations held their collective breath.

  Waiting, because experience told them that more was to come.

  2208hrs, Thursday, 25th October 1945, Office of the General Secretary of the Communist Party, the Kremlin, Moscow, USSR.

  “Disaster, after disaster, after fucking disaster!”

  Beria was away in the East, so it was Molotov and Bulganin who had to endure the tirade.

  “Our Soviet people, the glorious workers, have given these bastards everything they have asked for, and still they fail!”

  He stood, slamming his palms on the old desk, making both men jump.

  “Our Marshals and Generals fail continuously, our intelligence services fail continuously, our soldier’s and worker’s efforts wasted by the shortcomings of a few!”

  Neither man could or would disagree; the floor belonged to Stalin.

  “And this! What am I to make of this?”

  Stalin picked up a folder containing a recently arrived report, sent by Beria using his personal code, product of his investigations into the Production issues.

  The report detailed additional information on the recent liquidation of certain undesirable elements within one major chemical facility, liquidation that encompassed family members of all ages.