Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) (73 page)

Not without cost, as the bazooka teams themselves took heavy casualties in order to keep the tanks at bay.

The courage of the attacking Russians was impressive, the infantry rising up again
, shouting their ‘Urrahs’, and throwing themselves forward, the human wave coming to a high water mark only four yards from the end of the bridge. Its terminus was marked by a pile of bloody bodies, men smashed into the ground by the soldiers of Yorke Force.

As the surviving
Soviet guardsmen started to give ground, Yorke stood up and called to his men.

“Up and at ‘em, men! Charge!”

Some of the younger soldiers started to rise, only to be dragged back into cover by older hands.

Yorke
charged forward, his Thompson spitting at the backs of distant men.

Not one
soldier followed.

E
ach man kept his own thoughts on the fool who disappeared into the rain to their front.

Brigadier Blake was in good form, doing the rounds of his battered, but unbowed, infantry, the sights of the enemy dead in front of the river impressing him greatly.

Ever the stickler for the military niceties, he formally saluted the hallowed piece of ribbon.

Major John Ramsey, 7th Black Watch, returned the salute, and reported on the state of his unit.

“Jolly good work, Ramsey. Tell your boys, a big well done from me.

Old though he may be, with his best soldiering years behind him, you could not help but like the affable old man.

“That I will, Sir. Now, may I offer you tea?”

Again, Blake was impressed, the seemingly empty position suddenly yielding strong hot tea, just as he liked it.

“Thank you, Corporal,” he grinned at the NCO who thrust the mug into his hands, the look fading slightly as he took in the strange angle of the man’s index finger.

Ramsey beat him to it.

“I will get it sorted directly, Sir. Just leaving him be for the moment, but I will sort it.”

The tea was divine, and Blake hated to spoil the moment, but he had made a decision.

“Ramsey, we have about an hour or so before the next phase, if they play the game according to form.”

Plucking a tatty map from his pouch, Blake showed the infantry officer his intentions.

“I want you to wait here until relieved by the Argyles,”

‘That is music to my ears,’

“And set your
company up here, at Nagelskamp.”

‘Couldn’t be more perfect,’

“And be ready to act as my reserve force when I call,”

‘Sod it!’

“Just the job for you, eh Ramsey?”

The slight delay was deliberate.

“Delighted, Sir, really.”

“That’s the spirit, old chap!”

“Now, I have arranged for the Argyles to leave enough of their transport there,” he indicated the agreed position, “So you can have mobility in your role.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Command of the 3rd Battalion will now pass to Major Cound of the Argyles, who I have detached from 2nd Battalion, so all you need to worry about is being in the right place at the right time.”

“Now,” he drained the last of his tea, returning the
mug to the magically reappeared Corporal, who had clearly been listening from a concealed position, “Get yourself and your men back into reserve, and be ready when I call, and not before I call if you please, there’s a good fellow.”

Throwing up a magnificent salute, Blake was gone in the blink of an eye.

Robertson emerged from the same hidey-hole that had spat out McEwan a moment before.

“
Och! Oot of the fucking frying pan, intae the fucking fire, Sah.”

“I think that puts it rather well, Sarnt-Major!”

Ramsey finished his own tea, pressing the mug into McEwan’s reluctant hand.

“Get the men ready to move
, once the Argyle’s get here, if you please, Sarnt-Major.”

“Sah!”

Despite the fact that intelligence had briefed them on the probability of a follow-up attack, the defenders were nearly taken off-guard.

The Argyle’s CO,
Beattie, an old Major, whose experience, it was humorously rumoured, went back to Balaclava and beyond, had a sudden seizure.

The sight of their commander thrashing around on the floor, frothing at the mouth, eyes rolling in his head, unnerved some,
and distracted all.

Inadvertently, the
Soviet commander had put in his attack five minutes before schedule, for no other reason than the Artillery’s need to move on with the main body quickly.

Attention strayed from the fitting man to the
eastern approaches, once again full of charging enemy infantry.

The Argyles rose to the challenge, and put up a terrific defence, stopping the assault cold, forcing the enemy to again seek the advantage of shelter in the ruins of Barnstorf.

Despite being without a head, the 2nd Battalion still functioned well.

In the flooded fields
, west of Gothel, bogged down tanks from the first attack lent their firepower to the second assault, but to no avail, the defences proving too strong. The American and British soldiers recognised the difference between the second half-hearted attack, and the all-out assault of the first wave.

None the less, the action cost the 116th Infantry two of its company commanders, one dead, the other wishing he
were, his triple amputation promising a mundane life of care, above the few functions he would be able to perform with his remaining leg.

The plan seemed to be working, although the heavy rain made verification more difficult.

Best information put the enemy shadowing force off to the south, following the units of the 11th Guards
, as they rolled the attack further away from Barnstorf.

The heavy rain was a double-edged sword, providing good cover for the ground operations
, and keeping the potent enemy air force out of the sky, offsetting the loss of visibility, the reduced effectiveness of his artillery support, and the restriction of movement caused by flooding.

Major General Obinin decided
, on balance, to accept its presence as a positive.

“All units, attack. Artillery, standby.”

The order was relayed, and the assault group moved forward as one, intent on forcing the Hunte, and opening the way for the 6th Guards Army.

Silently, the lead units moved forward, the rain, if anything, growing in its strength and fury, visibility at a hundred and fifty yards at best.

‘Perfect! Keep raining!’

Blake was drinking more tea, wishing his batman had the skills of the unknown Scottish corporal who had conjured such delights from god knows where.

None the less, he was determined to enjoy the brew.

‘Warm and wet, that’s all a man ever needs.’

Blake had never heard of atheroma.

He stifled a belch.

‘Indigestion.’

He rubbed his chest, convinced the stewed tea had affected him adversely.

Another piece of atheroma, this one larger, joined the first, starting on its own short journey.

The first piece lodged in a coronary artery, diameter reduced by the build-up of fatty material, complimented by years of bodily abuse, the effects moving quickly beyond simple indigestion in a blink of an eye.

His left arm suddenly became incapable of holding the mug, and it dropped to the ground
, smashing noisily. His jaw set firmly, the pain in it causing him to freeze all movement therein.

The second piece of atheroma, a detached piece of fatty deposit from the inside of an artery, came up against the first
blockage, and caused a near-perfect seal, resistant to the pressure of blood trying to go on its way.

The pain was
intense, cutting through every sensation, every sense, until it was all-pervasive.

Blake slid to the floor, his arms heavy and useless.

Behind the blockage, a long-standing weakness in the coronary artery decided that its time had come, and the artery gave way under the pressure build-up caused by the pumping of the heart itself.

The commander of the 154th Brigade was dead before he could blink.

“Stand to! St
and to! ‘Undreds of the bas!”

The Argyle and Sutherland Highlanders were caught unawares, but quickly recovered, although the
Soviet rush had made it to within one hundred yards, the volume of fire quickly stopped them in their tracks, dropping men to the sodden roads and pavements, never to rise again.

The Argyle’s Major was on the way to the rear, destined never to fight again, command of the ad hoc company now in the hands of a young Captain, whose heaviest responsibility
before this bloody day had been organising the battalion boxing competition.

None the less, Brian Jesmond came from soldier stock, and was up to the task.

Within seconds, he had organised a mortar barrage on the lead elements, and a minute after that, artillery started to fall on the echelons behind.

As dictated by the
Soviet battle plan, contact meant that their own artillery and mortars commenced firing, falling behind the river, restricting the movement of the local reserves.

To the north,
Soviet forces were rushing the river line from Eydelstadt, the survivors of the 31st Guards Rifle Division, intent on pinning the defenders in place at least, although men of the 77th Engineers followed closely behind, in case opportunity arose.

The British 154th Brigade was under greater pressure than before, as much by the surprise of the assault
, as its severity.

Back at the courtyard on the Nagelskamp, Ramsey heard the growing sounds of fighting and, along with his men, grew restless, not knowing that Brigadier Blake was unable to issue instructions.

Blake’s 2IC was struggling to control the battle already, thoughts of self-preservation more paramount in his mind.

Without thinking, he had dispatched one of the reserve companies of his 2nd Battalion, directing the men of the 5th/7th Gordon Highlanders to the defences at Walsen, passing them through the local reserve force of the reduced C Company, 2nd Seaforths.

Whilst the fight at Walsen was intense, the commander on the ground was content that he could hold, the assaulting troops being kept at a suitable distance from the water.

All of a sudden, he had an embarrassment of riches
, and was able to report confidently that the line would hold.

Kommando Friedrich’s 1st Alarm Kompagnie had shifted north, mirroring a
Soviet move, pushing up to a line between Rödenbeck and Aldorf, slotting in beside the other Seaforths, mainly members of the old 2nd Battalion.

Spurred on by the example of some
Red Army NCO’s and officers, a handful of brave men tried to swim across and were machine-gunned in the water, Brens, Stens, and Enfields turning the water maroon with blood.

There was no room for mercy on the Hunte that day.

However, there was opportunity for error, and the petrified acting Brigade commander made more gaffs, as he struggled with his inner demons.

The remaining company of
2nd Battalion, more Gordon Highlanders, was sent forward into the mill, at the main road bridge, compacting the defenders, bringing problems as enemy mortar fire started to yield three or four casualties a shell, rather than the one or two had the units been properly spaced.

Junior officers and NCO’s tried to sort out the problems, some of them joining the ranks of the fallen
, as they bravely exposed themselves in the effort.

At the bridge itself,
Soviet infantry swarmed forward, accepting terrible losses for speed of advance, a brave rush bringing the survivors to the ruins next to the east bank.

Grenades flew one way
, and then the other, casualties screaming as flesh was sliced by hot metal.

As if to try and mask the sounds of suffering, the rain redoubled its efforts, the noise drowning out screams and gunfire to all those but th
ose closest.

Five hundred yards upstream, the fight for the middle bridge was intense, the assault force being backed up by some tanks, including those still bogged down from earlier attacks.