Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) (70 page)

There were enough
Seaforths to make up a full battalion, by far the healthiest unit in the Brigade, especially as it possessed a machine-gun company from the Northumberland Fusiliers.

A second battalion was formed, consisting of three short companies of Gordon Highlanders and the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, the two extremely clannish groups tolerating each other in a good-natured way, whilst despising the other two brigades for their inclusions of some sassenachs.

A third battalion was formed around two ravaged companies of the Black Watch. Ramsey’s B Company from 7th Battalion, bolstered by thirty men from the Queen’s Own Cameron Highlanders, men who had been through hell outside of Bremen. A mishmash of survivors from 1st Battalion, The Black Watch, made up two companies that were well down in numbers, and also poorly equipped. There were also two men from 5th Battalion, the rest of the unit cut off somewhere to the north. Two platoons of Royal Engineers made up the numbers, bereft of equipment, to be employed as infantry if needed.

For
artillery support, the 154th Brigade was fortunate to call upon the veterans of the 127th Field Artillery, a 51st Division regiment that had survived reasonably intact.

A handful of armoured cars from 2nd Derbyshire Yeomanry, and anti-tank guns from 61st Royal Artillery completed the Brigade’s order of battle.

Willoughby waited for the British unit to arrive, still hopping mad from the latest supply clusterfuck, when valuable space had been taken up with a large supply of divisional cloth badges and stationery, and the requested maps for his defensive position had not arrived.

He had men working on hand copying from the few maps he possessed, something that grated on him.

‘At least I got the ammo, or I would have been throwing badges and pencils at the commie bastards!’

He snorted at that thought, drawing looks from the surviving officers of the 116th’s headquarters.

Like a number of allied divisions, the 29th had been hit very hard, and Willoughby rose to command the 116th Regiment by filling dead men’s shoes.

The 29th had landed on Omaha, and had stayed in combat throughout the German War, and the price, for them, had been extremely high. The new war was no kinder.

At the last count, the whole division mustered at about seven thousand five hundred men, just over a half of its full strength, and it had been one of the few units that were at peak strength on 6th August.

It was rare that a rear line medical facility
did not contain at least one wounded soldier from the ‘Blue and Grey’ Division.

Blake arrived with his second in command
, assumed overall command, and immediately set to work on a plan to integrate the two forces as best as possible.

Between the two staffs, it was decided to split the forces in two, allowing Willoughby to form a reasonable reserve behind his front line. This entailed handing over responsibility for the main road and rail bridges to the British, integrating the new arrivals in between the 116th US Infantry and the 3rd British Infantry Division
, holding the Hunte river line to the north.

The 116th would then join onto the 154th at the rail bridge, covering southwards through Rechtern and Düste. The main advantage for Willoughby was that he could now find a formation to place in Dreeke, a spot previously only lightly defended.

Kommando Friedrich, it had been decided to retain the name of its now dead commander, was withdrawn, and split into two alarm companies, one positioned at Walsen, the other on the Nagelskamp, to the south-west of Barnstorf.

As the staff officers worked out the details of the defences,
Soviet artillery continued to harass the rear line positions, in line with Bagramyan’s plan of reducing the efficiency of the shadowing Allied reserve force, which continued to move steadily southwards, in line with the Red Army assaults.

The defenders expected two assaults on the 25th, as had happened at each of the attack points earlier. These had been interpreted as a genuine attempt to cross the River, followed by a second, less powerful thrust, more designed to fix some of the reserves in place.

The pattern had been noticed, and was catered for.

The rain relented at two o’clock
, to the second, and the sky cleared shortly afterwards, permitting the stars to illuminate the soldiers below.

The old farmhouse had started as the headquarters of the 3rd Battalion, 154th Infantry Brigade, as designated by its present senior officer, Major John Ramsey.

However, it
soon became apparent that the position was not suitable, and the headquarters was moved one hundred yards further forward.

One thing the old farmhouse did possess was a walled courtyard,
partially roofed, fully intact, and integral, providing a safe location for the soldiers to light a fire, and dry out themselves and their kit.

Unofficially, it became the area to which off-duty personnel migrated for peace and quiet, or what counted for peace and quiet in an active war zone.

The American contingent had set up an area intended to provide as many of the creature comforts as possible, and it was inevitable that their British and German counterparts would be attracted to the courtyard and its promise of real fresh coffee, amongst other pleasures.

Gathered around a modest fire, many of the hierarchy of the Barnstorf defences took their leisure.

There was something different about this campfire, different from all those that night, and from those from countless nights before.

Each and every man there had a sense of foreboding; a real feeling that something truly awful was waiting in the wings, ready to descend upon them.

Each kept his own counsel, or maybe shared his feelings with his closest friend, but, none the less, they could sense it in each other.

The latest round of scalding hot Columbian was doing the rounds, and the ten officers and NCO’s drank quietly, the hubbub of conversation coming from the other ranks gathered around similar small fires throughout the large courtyard area.

It fell to the commander of the German 2nd Reserve Company to break the moment.

“Tis
are gut cafe, meine Herren. Welly gut.”

Captain Strecher had enough English to manage to make himself understood, but was not actually as proficient as he thought he was, which made for some moments when his fellow officers had to work hard to keep a straight face.

“Aye, that it is, Sir.”

Murdo Robertson, the RSM of the 7th Black Watch,
recently returned from hospital, could only agree, draining the last dregs and looking around for more.

Ramsey sat quiet, still enjoying his coffee, slowly sipping, not possessing the asbestos throat with which some of the party were obviously equipped.
Continuing his silent observations, he moved his gaze from the obviously competent Master-Sergeant Hässler and his shadow Rosenberg, and on to the mountain sat next to them; the man he had seen that very morning.

At that time
, Charley Bluebear had been a sergeant. Now he was sporting the insignia of a Warrant Officer, reward for something achieved on a far-flung field.

Of particular interest to Ramsey were the tomahawk and
battle knife; the stuff of legend to a man whose childhood was littered with tales of the Seventh Cavalry and Apache Indians.

Much as he was keen to ask, he kept his own council, hoping to find out more at another time.

He had heard of the confrontation between Bluebear and the idiot Yorke. That exchange was the talk of the town, the few men who had witnessed it spreading the story like wildfire, the men all eager to hear something that could put a smile on their faces.

Ramsey laughed to himself, the recollection of Robertson’s version making him smile.

Yorke had rounded on the Indian, demanding that he relinquish the non-standard weapons of his ancestors.

Robertson’s version had contained a lot more choice language, and was done in t
he style of an old story-teller. Through the skill and clarity of the RSM’s style, Ramsey had mentally conjured up the scene, seeing quite clearly just how stupid the American officer would have looked, as he hung on grimly to the tomahawk, his feet kicking, some three feet off the ground.

Apparently, Bluebear had quietly informed Yorke that he could not have them
, and that he had express written permission to carry them.

Argument
followed examination of the paperwork, Yorke stating that it was applicable only to the 12th US Armored, which, he sneered,
‘chicken-shit Armored outfit bugged out, and is probably half way to the Atlantic and still running.’

Bluebear held out the tomahawk
, and Yorke had grasped it with both hands, He clearly expected it to be surrendered, and yet had found himself suddenly pulled off his feet, until his face was level with the Red Indian.

According to observers, the officer dangled there for at least two minutes, looking directly at the Cherokee, their faces merely inches apart.

No one actually heard the brief conversation. Given the small movements in Bluebear’s jaw, and Yorke’s statue-like immobility, onlookers suspected that it was mainly a one-sided affair.

The witnesses certainly agreed that Yorke was not put down until he had given a discernable nod to Bluebear.

When the officer was returned to ground level, he saluted smartly, spun on his heel, and strode off as fast as he could.

There had been no further comments made about Bluebear’s private arsenal, and the only witnessed exchange between the two men, since the encounter, had been without problems.

Quite clearly, the young Indian had made a good impression upon Robertson, a man who suffered fools lightly.

The two were
involved in a soft conversation, punctuated by a few hand gestures, and culminating in the RSM’s examination of Bluebear’s tomahawk, as the Indian took in the feel and balance of Murdo’s dirk.

‘Murdo will fill me in on our Indian friend’s story tomorrow.’

Moving on again, Finlay and Green of the 1st Black Watch were sat together, silently, the strain apparent on both men’s faces.

1st Black Watch had been very badly handled, culminating in an attack by
Soviet flamethrower tanks.

Captain Finlay and CSM Green were the only two known sur
vivors from the 1st’s A Company. The former, a public schoolboy from an old Scottish family. The latter of full Irish blood, his presence in a Scottish regiment explained by affiliations made in the trenches of the First War, when his father had fought alongside a member of the Scottish nobility, and had moved to Scotland to become his Gillie after the conflict had ended.

They
, and Aitcherson, were of concern to Ramsey, for all three were almost at the end of their tethers with the strain of command and combat against a competent enemy.

The Right Honourable Iain Alisdair Aitcherson was actually the worst of the three, the Queen’s Own Cameron Highlander sporting a permanent bandage around his head
, there to protect a nasty head wound sustained in the defence of Bremen.

He also possessed the ingrained distant look of a man who had been pushed to the limits of endurance.

‘I must watch him closely.’

Returning to the first two characters, he found the
German 2IC, Oberleutnant Dieckhoff, in animated conversation with the newest arrival, 1st Lt Fielding of the US Engineers. Apparently, both men hailed from the same birthplace, and they conversed rapidly in German, bringing forth memory after memory.

Rosenberg, after some disagreement with Hässler, renewed the contents of each mug there, the new pot seemingly containing something other than coffee.

Whatever it was, it was welcome, and created a more relaxed atmosphere amongst the group.

Interrupting Robertson in mid-swipe, Ramsey sought an answer to a vital question.

“So, how are your legendary powers? Will it rain today, Sarnt-Major?”

Returning the Tomahawk to Bluebear, impressing the Cherokee with the reverence he displayed towards the ancient weapon, Robertson sniffed the air, taking in the night sky, biding his time before replying.

“Aye Sir. Not as much rain as yesterday. Only Angels tears, Sir. Enough for us to know that heaven cares about the men that will die here this day.”

Ramsey nodded, aware of Robertson’s folk status amongst the men, be it for his weather predictions
, or his ability to create poetry in an instant, words that could impress even the roughest of soldier’s minds.

“That’s rather poetic
, Sarnt-Major. Time for one of your creations, I think.”

The group was
made more affable by the inclusion of some fiery spirit in the coffee, and they all encouraged the RSM to speak.

“Go on
, man, give us one of your poems.”

Robertson rose to his feet, the very act attracting everyone’s full attention.