Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6) (12 page)

The sound of heavy machine guns ended and a single heavier thump was the last sound of battle from across the river.

Efforts to raise Sunflower-seven were fruitless, and Hamuda correctly surmised that Haro and his men were dead, or worse, prisoners.

Thoughts of his comrades were swiftly brushed aside as enemy tanks and soldiers spilled out into the countryside across the river, the numbers growing every second he watched.

Snatching up the radio, Hamuda took in the situation, understanding that the final act was upon them.

He hesitated, the radio unused in his hand.

‘Why am I waiting?’

The leading American tanks opened fire on the move, their shells arriving on the north bank in an instant, throwing up gouts of earth and vegetation.

“Buffalo calling, Masami, Ashita, acknowledge.”

“Masami, over.”

“Ashita, over.”

“Buffalo calling, all units hold fire, except for Masami and Ashita, engage immediately, out.”

The two 75mm shells flew over the battlefield and sought out an enemy tank.

Masami’s round missed high, but Ashita’s struck the turret of the lead vehicle.

The Pershing shrugged off the hit with no apparent effect.

An exchange of rounds followed, as the US tanks opened up on their now revealed enemy.

Behind them, the other Pershings, the remainder of the tank battalion, had drawn up on the edge of some raised ground, using the defile to conceal their presence and intentions.

Firing from fixed positions, their rounds flew straight and true.

The ‘beauty’ that was Masami came apart under numerous impacts, the German armour succumbing to the heavy 90mm strikes.

Hirohata was blasted out from the turret by the first impact, rising into the air like a faulty firework, his battered body falling into soft undergrowth, preventing further damage from being added to his several new injuries.

His crew died inside the smashed Panther.

Shells continued to strike Masami, as she refused to catch alight and reveal her death.

Eventually, one struck home and set her afire, but even then, the fire was gentle, almost as if the battle-scarred tank still fought to retain her dignity.

On the eastern end of the line, shells had chewed up the ground around Ashita, and three had struck her cleanly, but none had penetrated or caused her major harm.

Sergeant Major Kagamutsu engaged the tank battalion to his front, now supported by the T34, which Hamuda had called forward.

Hamuda saw the wave of leading tanks drop down behind a small rise the other side of the river.

They did not reappear.

He understood immediately.

“Buffalo, all units, all units. Relocate immediately, relocate immediately!”

His understanding was punctuated by the sharp crack of tank guns, and immediately reinforced by the bursting of smoke shells in and around all his defensive positions.

The rush had been a simple ruse, one he had fallen for… had no alternative but to fall for…

A machine gun nearby chattered, the desperation of the gunner marked by an increased wailing as his target drew closer, and closer.

Voices were raised, fear and indignation carried in the words.

“Aircraft! Yankee aircraft!”

‘… fakku!’

“Buffalo, all units, Air attack!”

In answer to the calls from the commander of CCB, 20th US Armored Division, two squadrons of Marine aviators were detached from the waiting queue of support aircraft, part of the Commanding General’s plan to limit risk and reduce casualties when dealing with the last fanatical pockets of Japanese resistance.

Leading the way were VMF-312, a Marine fighter squadron riding FG-1 Corsairs, decked out with the distinctive checkerboard markings of their unit.

Three minutes behind them were the F8F-1 Bearcats of VF-191, working from a shore base whilst their carrier, USS Antietam, was away getting her bow welded back on after an encounter with an enemy mine.

The Corsairs attacked in line, not column, a deadly line that was three aircraft wide.

Sweeping in from over the top of the US ground force, the leading element selected one target each.

The T34, the Shinhoto, and ‘Ashita’.

Each aircraft discharged six 5” HVARs, deadly high velocity rockets, universally known as ‘Holy Moses.’

Not one struck its target, although in the case of the Shinhoto Chi-ha, two were close enough to kill it and its crew.

The machine-gun near Hamuda rattled out its final rounds, and to good effect.

The right wingman knew he was in trouble, and he struggled to get some height, pulling his damaged aircraft up and around to bail out over friendly ground.

The Pratt and Whitney power plant decided otherwise, and fuel lines let go, bathing the hot engine with rich fuel.

In a second, the nose fireballed and the wave of heat blistered 1st Lieutenant Cowpens’ face.

Canopy back, he rolled the aircraft and fell out, his parachute grabbing at the air in an attempt to slow him sufficiently before impact with the ground.

Many in his squadron watched as the chute blossomed only moments before the screaming burden it carried hit the ground hard.

The anger that the pilots of VMF312 felt was all put into the attacks they made, the remaining aircraft repeating the line abreast attack, the fifteen aircraft making a total of five passes.

Impotent, Major Nomuri Hamuda watched as the T34 simply came apart under a number of hammer blows.

Miraculously, he saw a figure emerge from the wreckage, only to be consumed by a hail of high explosive as the next aircraft put his HVARs on the money.

The air attack coordinator, safely ensconced in his half-track, not far from Haro’s original observation position above the village of Zhaigongshan, knew his trade.

In his own way, he was an artist, but a very deadly one.

The simple notations on his map, made during the initial contact, were all he needed to steer the two Marine squadrons into an accurate killing frenzy.

His only error was in assuming that the wreck on his right flank, trackless and smoking, had been knocked out.

Relaying his vectoring and attack orders to VF-191, he sat back smugly to await the destruction of the Japanese infantry element.

His ordered approach brought the F8F Bearcats up the river line, using the water to orientate themselves.

Three Pershings had already bathed the area in red smoke, as per his orders.

Fourteen Bearcats swooped on the smoke, each depositing a single M29 cluster bomb in turn.

The red smoke was replaced by a wall of sound, coloured yellow, white, and orange, as one thousand, two hundred and sixty 4-pound charges exploded in an area of three football pitches.

Hamuda’s infantry were destroyed.

Many men died, ripped apart by high explosives or rapidly moving metal pieces.

A few men lived, spared by some fickle finger of fate, as the men around them were thrown in all directions like rag dolls, or simply destroyed in place.

A handful more lived, but wished it otherwise, their bodies and limbs torn apart.

More than one hideously wounded man took his own life, the desperate calls for help falling either on ears permanently or temporarily deaf, or those belonging to the dead.

Hamuda arrived, out of breath, his sprint from the command post punctuated by threatening but impotent gestures from his sword, trying to cut the enemy aircraft from the sky in his mind.

Since the US committed fully to the Chinese conflict, Hamuda had seen much of what the technology of the enemy could do to soft flesh, but he was still unprepared for what the charnel house that used to be his infantry position would throw before him.

In a daze, he moved through the unrecognisable pieces of his command, occasionally silently acknowledging a piece of a body that bore some resemblance to a man he had shared rice with, or an NCO he had given orders to in battle.

He knelt beside the shattered body of a corporal, the man’s face wiped away by one of the deadly bomblets, the same charge opening up his stomach and spreading the man’s intestines around the hole like some macabre bunting.

The smashed chest rose and fell rapidly, the exposed heart and lungs damaged but still functioning.

The soft sound that emerged from the dying body was hideous, its animal-like tone leaving no doubt that what used to be a man was in the extremes of suffering.

Without a thought, Hamuda slotted his Katana into the man’s chest, spearing the heart with a single thrust, turning his wrist immediately to open the wound.

The heart stilled instantly, and the man, such as he was, knew no more pain.

Hamuda rose and continued his walk amongst the misery.

A handful of men walked dazed, most zombie-like, their minds melted in a maelstrom of explosions, some moving with no purpose other than to move for movement’s sake, others to reassure themselves that they still retained the ability.

One or two moved with purpose, seeking the living to offer assistance.

One such man found his Captain.

Yamagiri was quiet, his head bleeding from mouth and nostrils, injuries caused by blast concealed within his almost intact tunic jacket.

The sleeves hang tattily, absent material from the elbow down… absent flesh from the elbow down.

He sat on the stumps where once his legs had been, surprisingly little blood spilling from his wounds, the swollen ends partially sealing the awful wounds, twin tourniquets fashioned from webbing doing the rest of the life-saving work.

Hamuda squatted beside the destroyed man and held his shoulder.

Yamagiri smiled, the small act allowing a renewed surge of blood and detritus from his mouth.

“So, Major Hamuda… this is the end eh?”

Both listeners were incredulous that the man could speak at all, let alone coherently, and almost without any indication that he had been mortally wounded.

The young private wiped his captain’s mouth clear of blood.

“Thank you, Saisho.”

The soldier bowed his head respectfully.

Yamagiri made a study of examining himself, his eyes flitting from wound to wound.

“Major, it would appear that I’ll not be making the last charge with you. So sorry.”

“Rest, Hideyo, rest now.”

The dying man laughed, clearly and crisply.

“No, I think not, Major. It’s time to meet my ancestors.”

Yamagiri looked at the bloody stumps of his arms, and turned his gaze back to Hamuda.

No words were needed, his mute request well understood.

Hamuda’s silent reflection was interrupted by the sounds of approaching vehicles, the screech of tank tracks mixing with the revving of heavy engines, as Pershings and half-tracks moved towards the river crossing.

He stood and bowed deeply to the dead Yamagiri, using a piece of paper to wipe the remaining blood from his sword.

A number of survivors, nine in total, had gravitated towards their leader, arming themselves with whatever they could find, ready to offer a final act of resistance.

Two of the men were so wounded as to be unable to support a weapon of any kind, but they were determined to be in the charge.

The men organised themselves with the help of a Corporal, himself wounded and dripping blood as he walked the line.

Hamuda looked upon them; the last of the Rainbow Brigade.

The corporal brought the group to some semblance of attention, saluted Hamuda, and adopted the very best ‘attention’ position he could manage.

Something changed in his mind.

He would not die this day, nor would his men die in some grand gesture of fealty to the Emperor.

‘Enough… we have all done enough.’

“Men… we have done our duty to the Emperor and our country… we have always done our duty… and done it well.”

Hamuda turned and levelled his sword at the advancing armada of power.

“Our duty is clear…”

The sword swept savagely through the air as he turned back to his waiting soldiers.

“Our Emperor has today informed us of it, and you have all heard it.”

The katana slid back in its scabbard. With additional drama, Hamuda extracted his Nambu pistol and tossed it on the ground in front of him.

“Our Emperor requires us now to endure the unendurable and limit any outbursts of emotion.”

One or two of the battle-hardened soldiers wept openly as their commander gave them their lives back.

“We are commanded to devote our strength to the future of our country… and we will, men, we will.”

Hamuda pointed at the pistol.

“With honour, and with my thanks, that of the Emperor and the Empire, place your weapons there… now… so that we may unite in the cause of our country and its people…”

One soldier looked near panic, the desire to immolate himself for the Emperor battling with the orders of his commander.

“Kitarane… Private Kitarane!”

The man snapped out of his trance.

“Lay down your rifle, private… our Emperor commands that you preserve your life for the good of and future of the Empire.”

Kitarane dropped his rifle immediately.

“Well done… well done…”

Hamuda gripped the man’s shoulder, the act bringing forth tears from both of them.

The rest of the weapons lay on the ground, the heavy atmosphere occasional punctured by a metallic sound as a grenade or a piece of ammunition joined the growing pile.

The military bearing had improved and the line was straight and more upright.

“Men… soldiers……… comrades… you are the finest troops I ever commanded… so… let us march with our heads held high… undefeated… ready to do what we must… endure what we must… and we will soon see Mount Fuji and our homes again!”

Spontaneously, the men threw their working arms skywards in unison.

“Banzai! Banzai! Banzai!”

A pair of eyes on the northern slopes on Height 404 was naturally drawn towards the sound.

“Here they come!”

Three half-tracks were over the bridge and they had fanned out swiftly, permitting men on foot to move up to support them.

“Sir?”