Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) (31 page)

They exchanged salutes and Mearns left the CP, pausing only to chuckle over the unconscious officer.

Antonov had lost two tanks, one of the PT’s and an IS-II, both from the same group, both to direct artillery strikes.

The enemy artillery started to walk back, dropping just in front of his vehicles.

Ordering his men to move slowly he found his attack force approaching the first objective behind a curtain of smoke and earth kindly created by the Allied artillery.

“Time to move forward
, I think. Driver!”

The IS-II moved smoothly through the gears.

The explosion blew off the track.

The young Lieutenant, already a
veteran of a score of battles, cursed his driver.

Eager to push forward, the IS-II had slipped outside the area disturbed by the passage of the Mugalev, and found a mine.

Needing no second invitation, the infantrymen had already dismounted, three of them working to save the life of their Corporal, desperately wounded in the mine’s blast.

Although sympathetic, the Lieutenant had no choice.

“Get him out of the way now. We need room to work here, Comrades.”

The infantry gently removed the heavily bleeding NCO, permitting the tank crew to set to work repairing the track, removing spare links from the rack on the
front of the tank.

As they worked quickly, removing the bent and twisted links, replacing them with spares, a voice called for help.

Two of the infantrymen went to investigate, and returned leading the blinded Gregorov, his uniform more red than brown, the destroyed and empty eye sockets horrifying to all who beheld him.

One of the 67th’s recovery vehicles arrived to assist in the
track work, closely followed by an ambulance, which whisked both Gregorov and the dying Corporal away.

Antonov was pleased, but knew that things could change in an instant.

His lead elements were now up with ‘Vtornik’ and the enemy artillery had stopped.

Reports from the sappers on the
riverbank indicated nothing, save a few enemy soldiers having run from ‘Vtornik’ some while ago.

It all seemed
too good to be true, and being an officer who had survived many encounters with the Germans, Antonov suspected it was.

Nevertheless,
he determined to push it as far as it would go.

“All
units, Drook-one-zero, execute Dva, execute Dva.”

On his order, Katyushas of the 379th opened up, plastering the area to the west of the river, paying particular attention to the high ground that dominated both bridges.

His 120mm mortars, more precise in their targeting, brought every tube to bear on Route 7776 and the buildings to the east.

The 1504th’s SU76’s dropped their HE shells in the woods surrounding the river, south of the Route 467 road bridge, codenamed ‘Pyatnetsa’.

The IS-II’s pushed forward slowly, but with purpose, and the infantry advanced across the whole frontage of the assault.

Crossing the 7707, the 1st Company emerged from the woods, crossed a small brook and advanced
to cut Route 7776, and drive into the flank of the defending force in and around Subota. The 2nd Engineers cut across open land, rounding the small stream, focusing on their objective of the 467 bridge, light fire plucking the life from a man here and there. Defending fire was light, rifles and machine-guns in the main, all originating from the area being flayed by the infantry’s mortars.

3rd Company of the 185th charged from their hiding place, and
was on top of the Weilandbach bridge in an instant.

The S
appers on the river line, 3rd Company, pushed up, staying tight to the river. They ran straight into booby traps and mines, stopping them in their tracks.

2n
d Company of Soviet infantry pushing up behind the advancing tanks, half ran, half walked, moving up the tracks left by the Mugalevs.

“Do it.”

Towers gave a Pfc the word
, and a flare soared lazily into the autumn sky.

His men had brought down fire on the attackers, both the infantry to the south and the tank force to their front, the purpose of which was to announce their presence.

“Don’t forget to bring the Major!”

US infantrymen bolted from their positions, each believing another had undertaken the task, racing back the two hundred yards to the positions set out on the banks of the river.

The Soviet mortars continued to bring down fire, and men were killed and injured as they withdrew.

In the barn that had been the CP, Major Butcher slid himself upright, his vision blurry, his brain not functioning as it should.

Rubbing his face, trying to bring life to his vital senses, he sensed that all was not well.

As his vision slowly returned, he was
greeted neither by the sight of friendly faces, nor by the smell of fresh coffee, nor the sound of American voices.

He was alone.

A shell crashed into the building, producing a red hot wave of tortured air and dust, shifting the already delicate structure from impending collapse to full blown disintegration.

Quickly trying to lever himself up, he found himself overtaken by a deluge of material as the upper storey folded in, compromising the
first floor loading and bringing it and the ceiling down in dramatic fashion.

Butcher screamed in agony.

One large joist fell flat, striking both his knees simultaneously, shattering both, and pinning his legs to the stone floor, Part of a floorboard still attached to the joist, splintered and pointed where it had been ripped away as the heavier piece fell, was driven through his left thigh, smashing the femur into fragments.

He screamed as burning material fell around him, his hands beating ineffectively at the growing flames.

He screamed as the joist shifted, pinning him down harder, dragging the splintered section through his thigh muscle.

He screamed as his hands blistered and his hair caught on fire.

‘Not like this, I don’t want to die like this!’

“Jesus!”

And then he screamed no more.

Towers was furious.

Not with the plan, that was working well
, so it seemed. The Soviets were doing what had been hoped, and committing forward.

The Gods of War had finally seen fit to give him a painful token of battle.

The last few yards to the river positions had been a nightmare for him, a lump of mortar shell embedded in his left buttock.

Mearns slipped easily into the small hollow and took in the sight of the Captain
, his trousers round his ankles, the medic probing in a small bloody hole in the man’s backside.

Towers had a sense of humour failure.

“One word out of you, Win, and I will shoot you myself, clear?”

“My lips are sealed Captain.”

One look at the Master Sergeant’s face was enough.

“Yes
, it hurts OK?”

“Don’t they all Captain, don’t they all.”

“Are your boys ready for this now?”

A nod was sufficient.

“Casualties seem light.”

It was posed as a statement, but had all the hallmarks of a question.

“Reckon so, Captain. One of the 57’s is down, hit over the river, crew all dead. Some doughs gone too, but light, really light, considering.”

“
Goddamnit Doc!”

The medic mumbled an apology and dropped the small fragment into the empty cigarette packet
that he had provided for the purpose.

“Here you go
, Sir. Souvenir for ya. Just gonna fix it up now, and it’ll be good as new.”

Towers slipped the packet into his pocket, very much doubting his ass would be ‘good as new’ for some time to come.

Mearns had slipped up to take a look at the field, and dropped back into the hollow again.

“Soon
, Captain.”

Unable to resist a parting shot, Mearns made much play of checking the magazine in his BAR.

“Avoid the can ‘til after the battle, Captain. With two assholes to choose from, an officer type, such as yourself, could be in there all day, deciding which to shit from.”

The laughter was universal, a light moment in a sea of hurt.

The moment passed as high-velocity guns started their deadly work.

The Soviets had codenamed the area ‘Subota’, as it was important, sitting on the left flank of their main advance.

Although it was apparently unoccupied, Antonov had ordered the 1st Infantry to move forward quickly and form a block.

The experienced Soviet Colonel returned to pushing the main assault forward, unaware that two problems were about to surface.

Firstly, the infantry fell foul of a small stream, the boggy ground slowing their forward momentum to a crawl.

Secondly, the defenders had recognized the significance of ‘Subota’, and it was occupied by an officer who knew his trade.

They ran straight into the waiting armored-infantry of the 53rd, set for precisely such a threat.

1st Company dropped into the marshy ground, their advance halted.

“Mohawk-Six, all Fox units, on my command,” he tapped the gunner and received a low uh-huh to indicate he was on target, “Fire!”

Positioned in camouflaged positions either side of Route 7776, the six M4A3E8 Shermans engaged the flanks of the lead IS-II’s.

In three incidences, the results were spectacular, a trio of the leviathans exploding in bright orange flame as vehicle and crew died together.

Two other ground to a halt, penetrating rounds wreaking havoc.

One heavy tank shrugged off the strike and turned to place its thicker frontal armour to the enemy.

Three shells hit it simultaneously, smashing wheels and tracks from its offside, the 57mm anti-tank guns of the 359th Infantry positioned across the river hitting in unison.

A PT76 suddenly realized it was a small f
ish in a big fish world, and jettisoned its Mugalev, turning in towards the farm buildings, seeking cover. It died instantly, transformed into an oily hearse by a high velocity 76mm shell.

“Nice shot
, DeMarco.”

The gunner, light on words as ever, merely grunted and went about his business.

Antonov responded immediately.

H
e ordered the 1st Infantry to close up and distract whatever it was that was killing his tanks, ignoring the excuses and protestation of the commander on the ground, reporting the wet ground and new contact with dug-in infantry on the left flank of his position.

“Just get you
r men up there, Comrade Kapitan. Unless you want to command a penal mine detail!”

He shifted his
heavy mortars to the river line, bringing down smoke to protect his flank, and swung part of his armour south towards the 7776 to take the enemy head-on.

The remainder of his force he halted level with the same route
, with orders to engage any target to their front.

He moved his own reserve group up to the junction of the 7709 and 7707.

The 379th was held back, their next salvo saved until he knew exactly what was happening. The SU-76’s of the 1504th were given orders to move up closer to the action.

One of the
defending M4’s took a hit. The 122mm shell was not a precision instrument like the scalpel of a surgeon; more the blunt sledgehammer of the labourer.

This sledgehammer removed the turret with ease, propelling it backwards over one hundred yards.

Hardegen, angry at the loss of one of his senior NCO’s, put one right on the money, but the shell speared into the sky, bouncing off the thick armour of the IS tank.

The
Soviet vehicle moved forward and disappeared behind a small rise in the ground.

The radio crackled
, and the high-pitched voice of Captain Clayton penetrated the sounds of battle.