Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) (51 page)

“Roger that, Sarge.”

“And if we have to skedaddle
, then haul ass fast, and get set up here,” Black extended the map, marking the new location with his finger, “As quickly as possible, ready to support us when we fall back, kapische?”

“Capisco, Sergente.”

Satisfied that the mortars would do their job, Black headed back towards a frontline that suddenly erupted in explosions.

‘Commie artillery. Jesus!’

The journey back to his modest platoon headquarters took much longer, as he constantly dropped into cover, as shell after shell pounded the northeastern area of Sittard.

He also battled against the increasing mud, sucking at his boots
, and clinging to his clothing, as he slipped and slid towards the front positions.

He didn’t recognise the headquarters when he got there, so transformed was it by
the two direct hits.

Cowboy Morris, the whinging Texan, had disappeared, probably evaporated by high-explosive force.

Gillman, the bazooka king, was still there, or at least the two-thirds of him that still bloodily spluttered away the last few moments of life.

There had been six men in the position when he had left, and Gillman represented the largest piece of meat that Black could recognise.

Forward of the mangled site, a .30 cal machine-gun started pumping bullets into the tree line. Black’s eyes focussed on indistinct movement there, the details hidden by a haze, partially smoke, partially small particles of earth and other matter being tossed around by explosive force, the whole vision being through a wall of water coming from the heavens.

‘Commie infantry!’

Momentarily forgetting that the radio and its operator had disappeared, Black looked to send a message to the mortars.

‘
Goddamnit!’

He looked behind him to where the
Soviet barrage had advanced, gauging his chances of getting through to the mortars on foot.

‘Fuck that!’

He took another look at the wood line. The Soviet infantry had stalled there, as the remaining paratroopers hit them with accurate small arms fire.

He spotted the unfamiliar men in US combat uniform, appreciating the shape of the walkie-talkie instantly.

Launching himself forward, he dropped into the shell crater beside the petrified OP team from the 907th Artillery.

The Lieutenant had taken a shell splinter in the face, the right side packed with blood soaked bandages, masking the hole where his jaw,
teeth, and tongue used to be. The man’s stare looked all the way back to America, and Black knew the man was in shock.

The other two Glider artillerymen were firing their carbines at nothing in particular, clearly unhinged by their experiences.

“Hey! Knock it off, you guys!”

To his surprise, both privates stopped immediately
, and slid down the slight bank back into cover, dropping their lower bodies into the water that was filling the hole.

Easing the walkie-talkie from the glassy-eyed officer, he tasked the two soldiers to evacuate the man.

With orders that spelt safety, both artillerymen moved at speed, sweeping up the wounded officer, and heading to the rear.

Dialling the radio in to the right channel, Black tried the set.

“Diamond-one-niner, Diamond-one-niner, this is Diamond-one-four over.”

“One-four from one-niner, I got you
, Blackie. Talk to me.”

“Put it on ‘Chicago’, all you got Milletti, over.”

Screams brought his attention back to the escaping artillerymen, all three struck by a single shell burst. Whichever one of them it was that hung from the tree, briefly screamed a second time before dying. The other two were already dead.

There was no time for the horror of the sight to affect him, as a grenade
exploded a few feet away.

The Russians had pushed forward, the mortar barrage landing uselessly amongst their dead and wounded in the woods
, on the area designated ‘Chicago’.

Black went to roll away
, but he had no strength in his right arm, the muscle ripped and flayed by shrapnel. Similarly, his right thigh was opened to the bone by a large piece of stone, thrown in his direction when the Soviet grenade exploded.

The tears flowed involuntarily, his pain extreme.

None the less, Black grabbed up his carbine just in time, shooting the first man who dropped into the hole.

The wounded man dropped close by him and the sergeant squinted for a better look.

“Oh fuck! Oh god, I’m sorry Clancy. Oh Jesus!”

Clancy Mann had been with the 101st since week one, day one. Black’s bullet had taken him in the right side, breaking a rib and driving the broken bone into his liver.

None the less, Mann put two bullets from his Garand into a Soviet infantryman, who loomed large over the edge of the hole.

The next Russian received the same treatment, even as Black dragged himself painfully over to the paratrooper he had wounded, pulling out a field dressing from Mann’s pouch.

Another enemy infantryman fired blindly into the shell hole, his arms waving the PPSh around, sending bullets everywhere.

Mann was hit seven more times, none immediately fatal, but the combination sufficient to bleed him out in minutes.

Black was hit twice; the first carrying away his left little finger, the second striking him in the head, and bringing instant darkness.

Seven hours later, Sergeant Randolph Black opened his eyes, taking in the sights in silence, his ability to hear taken away by the head wound.

His arm and finger stump had both been bandaged, the pure white linen standing out against his naturally dark flesh. His leg, presently held aloft by a set of wires, was encased in plaster.

His head was pounding, and
generally, he hurt like hell.

However,
he was alive.

The nurse eyed him
suspiciously, but gently held his head up, so she could administer an oral dose of pain relief.

Black thanked her, and detected a faint buzzing in his
jawbone as he spoke.

Her reply was
mumbled and unintelligible, so he gave her his best smile.

Without returning the gesture, the nurse moved away from the bed, no longer obscuring the young soldier on guard duty.

‘Oh shit!’

The
man wore the uniform of the NKVD.

Within the environs of Sittard, a desperate fight for survival was in full swing, soldiers standing toe to toe, neither side willing to give ground.

It was the recipe for a bloodbath.

For the Soviets, the situation was advantageous.

They had broken through the 101st’s lines at a number of points, breaking up the division into manageable pieces, each of which would be either bypassed and cleared up later, or, as in the case of the defenders of Sittard, reduced by weight of shot and attrition.

The only black mark was the destruction of the Born Bridge over the canal, an error that the commander of the 34th Guards Rifle Corps artillery had paid for swiftly, his body displayed with the normal placard suggesting treachery and sabotage, as it swung from the balcony of the unit headquarters on LindenStraβe, Saeffelen.

For th
e Allied forces, the situation was dire.

Elements of the 501st Parachute Infantry and Fallschirm Regiment ‘Von der Heydte’ provided the main manpower for the defence. Stragglers from the decimated 327th Glider Infantry continued to work their way back into the Dutch town, each soldier a welcome addition to its defence.

Add the remnants of a few smaller units and almost two thousand five hundred men stood in defence, against the might of the relatively intact 5th Soviet Guards Mechanised Corps, still boasting over twelve thousand men and women.

The main
Soviet effort seemed to be to the south of town, undoubtedly aimed at passing on to the Maas beyond, but enough of the Mechanised unit was pressing Sittard directly, for the risk of being surrounded to be very real.

The
Soviet command had also recognised that the assault aimed towards Venlo was failing in the face of heavy resistance, and had redirected some of the 5th Guards Army to a more southerly advance, bringing the 34th Guards Rifle Corps and 40th Rifle Corps into the northern edge of Sittard, adding their battle-weary seven thousand men to the unequal struggle.

At 1332hrs, the worst fears of those in Sittard, and those in the headquarters of the 18th Airborne Corps, were realised.

The 101st was surrounded again, and this time, there was no Patton to come to the rescue.

Brigadier General Joseph Higgins, the 101st’s Chief of Staff, waited for the assembly to come to order.

He had come to Sittard for an ‘eyes-on’ sit-rep, only to become its de facto commander
, as the Soviet forces encircled the Dutch town.

Slowly
, the noise died away, as the unit commanders he had summoned realised that Higgins was ready to speak. The pervading sound of the heavy rain, combined with the constant crash of incoming artillery, and now thunder, combined to provide a suitably Wagnerian backdrop for the military disaster that was unfolding in Eastern Holland.

Fig #60 - The situation at 1400hrs, Sittard-Geleen, Holland.

“Ok, now listen in.”

The officers stiffened.

“We have a Bastogne all over again, and we got ourselves out of that then, without the Third Army, I might add.”

That wasn’t totally true as it happened, but it served Higgins’ purpose.

“This storm will pass, and then we will have Air, but until then, we stand, and we fight.”

More than one of the experienced men in front of him had the thought that there was nowhere to run to in any case.

“We have plenty of supplies, and our men are in top shape, with good morale; very good morale.”

On the bench in front of them was a map of the town, blocks of wood marking the position of each defensive unit.

Deliberately, Higgins started with the section to the south.

“Colonel Heydte, your men are holding well at this time?”

Although the Germans were welcome, few in the 101st could forget that it was the 6th Fallschirmjager Regiment ‘Von der Heydte’ that had fought them to a bloody standstill in Normandy, in hard battles around Carentan.

“Yes
, Herr General. A panzer-grenadiere attack on Munstergeleen was driven off with heavy casualties. We are well provisioned with Panzerfaust, and stopped the first panzer assault here,” his finger pointed out the leading edge of Geleen.

“However, the enemy force shifted to our right flank
, and moved on through Neerbeek, before turning back behind us, and coming to a stop at Urmond.”

Roughly one kilometre south of Berg, Urmond marked the high-water mark of the Mechanised Corps’ advance.

“We stopped them there, with the help of your Flak gunners, and our Belgian friends.”

The
German’s understated report did not fool any of the experienced men present. The Fallschirmjager had paid in blood for successfully halting the enemy drive.

“I am fully committed, except for an alarm Kompagnie, equipped with a few half-tracks, in the centre of Geleen.”

“Thank you, Oberstleutnant,” Higgins deliberately used the German rank.

“And you
, Colonel?”

Verier, the commander of the 5th Belgian Fusiliers
, knew he was in esteemed company, but did not falter, knowing his inexperienced men would have a full part to play in the battle ahead.