Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) (76 page)

The surviving Black Watch Officers and
NCO’s were shaking the Jocks out, forming a firing line, ready for the Soviet infantry.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, Ramsey yelled a warning.

“Watch for friendlies to the front, boys! There’s still some cousins there, watch out for them!”

As he spoke, another T34 nosed onto the bridge, intent on maintaining the advance.

The Comet had manoeuvred slyly and popped out in prime position, the woods just to the south of the rail bridge giving it quality cover until it was too late for the Russian tank.

Another APDS shot sped across the water and hit down low, passing through the tank and out the other side.

A serious disadvantage of the APDS was that its high penetration often took it through targets, and the modest explosive power of the smaller shell was sometimes insufficient to kill the tank, even if it exploded inside.

This shell lost on all counts.

Griffiths put his head out to check the target, and was surprised to find his immediate location more smokey since his arrival. The smoke was from the Comet’s engine, and it should not have been there.

As he ducked inside, a heavy bullet pinged off his cupola, an AT rifleman on the far bank chancing his arm
, and coming close to ending the Sergeant’s life.

“Check
the engine, Drives. It’s bollockin out smoke!”

Trooper Droves, or ‘Drives’ to his mates, swept his eyes over the gauges, although he knew everything
felt right with ‘Lady Hamilton’. The tank had been named by the previous tank commander, Herbert Nelson, now in hospital in Blighty, where they were hopeful his sight could be saved.

“All’s tickety-boo, Sarge.”

“No it fucking ain’t, Drives. Check again.”

Droves did the full routine again and spotted that the oil reading had changed from a few seconds before.

“Oil levels dropping, Sarge. Must be a leak. Not serious at the moment.”

Griffiths pondered that for a second.

“Massage the engine for a while and keep the revs down. Once the bastards have buggered off, we can have a gander and sort it.”

To some, it would be enough reason to fall back, but Griffiths was made of sterner stuff, and ‘Lady Hamilton’s’ crew accepted his decision without quibble.

Beside the Sergeant, the telephone squawked, announcing some infantry type outside. Fixed to the rear of the Comet was a handset for use by supporting troops.

“Room Service?”

“Maybe later. Major Ramsey of the Black Watch here. To whom do I speak?”

“Sergeant Griffiths, 2nd Derbyshires, Sir.”

“Hot day, Sergeant, and likely to get hotter. Can you see tanks at your one o’clock, through the trees there?”

A pause as the tank commander strained his eyes in that direction.

“No, Sir. All I can see is greenery, and infantry.”

“Well never mind. I assure you they are there, about a dozen of them
, from what we can make out. They will make a surge shortly, so stand ready. We and the Yanks have AT weapons on this side of the bridge, but we need you to even the odds quickly. Keep them at bay if you can. You ok for ammunition?”

“Yes, Sir, provided they only send the one tank battalion, we should be fine.”

Ramsey was unsure whether that was humour, bravado, or pessimism, but decided he would let the man be, as his job was a difficult one.

“Bottom line, Sergeant. We hold where we are. There is no alternative plan. They do not cross the river
, or we are sunk. Clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I’m leaving a squad here to provide you with close protection. They will keep their eyes skinned for tank-hunters. The rest is down to you. Good luck, Griffiths.”

“Thanks, Sir, You too.”

Replacing the receiver, Griffiths took a swift look through the vision block, but could not see the officer.

“Well, you’ll be glad to know that our Jock friends have found a dozen
Soviet tanks for us to play with.”

He ignored the groans.

“We are it, the only tank. Those Red shitehawks don’t get close to the bridge, and that’s the bloody short of it. The Major seems to know his business, and he’s left us some friends to watch our back.”

Droves summed it up quite nicely.

“Bollocks!”

Bullets kicked up at his heels, but the Black Watch officer made it safely to the forward defensive position, as did McEwan, although the latter sported a painful nick to his left calf.

“Master Sergeant Hässler reporting, Sir.”

“One moment..., Sergeant.”

Ramsey wheezed.
The rush over open ground, the acrid smoke coming from the Comet and other sources, all combined to make breathing difficult.

“Let me
... get my... breath.”

Producing a pack of Lucky Strike’s, Hässler took one and passed them on, Rosenberg and another GI
took one a piece. The other US soldier declined the offer.

McEwan eyed the cigarettes with longing.

“Want one, Jock?”

“Aye, that I do, Sarnt. Thank ye.”

A hand signal to the soldier who did not smoke sent the man to the edge of the position, eyes firmly fixed on the approaches.

Breathing now stable, Ramsey grabbed one of his own
cigarettes, raising a hand to stop the Sergeant’s apology.

“What’s your situation, Sergeant?”

“I’m down to half my doughs from forty-eight starters. Managed to evacuate the wounded during the last lull, but that was awhile ago, and the commies ain’t taking time outs anymore.”

Ramsey could never get used to the American way of speaking.

“How about ammunition?”

“Plenty of it
, of all shapes and sizes, but I am down to two bazookas now, Sir.”

Hässler pointed down a small off shoot from his position, the beginnings of a veritable arsenal in view.

“Splendid. Good work, Sergeant. I’ve got my chaps spread in a line behind you at the moment. Fields of fire seem fine, so long as you chaps keep your head down. I’ve also jollied up the tank boys.”

Hässler could never get used to the British way of speaking.

For once, Rosenberg stayed silent, a painfully bruised elbow keeping his mind occupied.

The
Master Sergeant stubbed his cigarette out and grabbed his canteen.

“So, Sir, what happens next? We have stopped the
big red machine, but it ain’t broke yet.”

“True enough, Sergeant. If I’m any judge, our Red friends are gathering themselves for something more complicated.”

He took the offered canteen, and was surprised to find it contained water.

A quizzical look drew a response.

“We lost our supply of quality booze when we were sent to hospital. Haven’t managed to find time to replace it yet, Major.”

Ramsey
could not help but like the man, so he nodded to McEwan, whose hand was suddenly filled with a full canteen.

“Have a
wee dram of that, Sarnt. That’ll put hairs on ye chest, so it will.”

The brandy was the very best
quality, found amongst the abandoned vehicles of some unknown Allied General’s headquarters.

“Wow!”

McEwan waved the canteen on, and it was passed to the unhappy Rosenberg.

A sudden burst of firing made everyone instinctively duck
, and a body came tumbling into the position.

“Oi vay, Chief! Don’t you Shergeants ever knock?”

Charley Bluebear unrolled himself and brushed his uniform into place, experienced enough not to salute in the front line, despite Ramsey’s seniority.

“I am Warrant Officer, Corporal Rosenberg.”

The Jew smiled disarmingly, testing his painful elbow by extending the canteen to the big man.

“Thank you, Corporal Rosenberg.”

A quick swig and the canteen found its way back to the rightful owner, the dour Scot looking somewhat overwrought at the reduced contents.

“So what’s cooking, Chief?”

Hässler and Bluebear had come to an accommodation over the nickname. If the Master Sergeant used it sparingly, and not in a derogatory fashion, then Bluebear wouldn’t break all his fingers.

So far, the agreement was holding.

“Lots of men crawling up as close as they can get over there. Over two companies, maybe even a battalion. Good cover if they stay down low, Master Sergeant.”

Hässler hummed a response, his mind working the problem.

Ramsey wondered why the senior man, Bluebear, was deferring to Hässler, a lower rank. He decided that they must have made another accommodation, and it wasn’t his place to interfere.

The American-German NCO thought
aloud.

“We’ve got a good position
, and they still have to come the one way.”

Looking at Ramsey, he went on.

“Yeah, they’ve got armor, but we can mess that up enough to hold them.”

The Black Watch Major
pursed his lips, his mind also caught up in matters other than those directly in front of him.

Bluebear, conscious that minds were working, posed a simple question.

“So?”

Hässler remained quiet, looking at the English officer.

Ramsey believed he knew what the NCO was thinking, and nodded his agreement to the Master Sergeant.

“So, they are not coming here. This is a diversion.”

He liberated the map from his pouch, and opened it up, placing it on the ammo box that Bluebear slid into place with ease.

The answer was as clear as day.

“Here, at Rechtern and Düste.”

Even Rosenberg nodded, despite the fact that such matters were beyond his comprehension.

“Sho they will be past ush then. Should we bug out?”

The three faces looked at Rosenberg
, as if he had been caught with his hand in the poor box.

“Nope. The fuckers will be coming here
after that, my little friend.”

“Why? They don’t need thish town do they? They are past ush!”

Ramsey prepared to explain diplomatically, but was beaten to it by the slightly less sensitive Indian.

“It’s the bridge, you stupid corporal.”

Rosenberg looked from face to face, seeking further explanation.

Ramsey supplied it.

“It’s a rail bridge. Heavy load. Stands to reason the Soviets want it, and I will warrant that there is no other such bridge for miles in either direction.”

In that, Ramsey was absolutely correct.

“Sho why haven’t we blown the fucking thing up...err...pardon me... Shir?”

Hässler supplied the answer this time.

“No explosives, you dumb fuck! Are all your people so stupid?”

Unusually, Rosenberg bristled at the comment.

“Only thosh of ush who have to put up with you fucking Krauts.”

Ramsey went on, eyeing both men as he spoke.

“So, we need to reorganise a little.”

The resources were thin, but Hässler and Bluebear could jiggle things a little.

“You gonna dial it in to the man, Major?”

Quickly decoding the Master Sergeant
’s words, Ramsey nodded.

“You first, Sergeant. Get him in the picture now. I will nip off back to my boys, get them
reoriented to the south, and then give my report to the Colonel.”

Without standing on ceremony, Ramsey quickly checked the lie of the land
, and then was up and gone, McEwan following in his wake, determined never to bring best brandy near the Yanks again.

Willoughby was already making some changes, but the additional call from the competent sounding limey had made him tweak them some more.

“Get me Ramirez at 2n
d.”

The handset made its way over as the Commanding
Officer of the grandly named 2nd Battalion came on line.

“Major, I just got off the line with a British officer who has firmed up the
Intel. Best guess is the commies will definitely come straight at you with everything they got. You must hold, Oscar.”

Quite clearly, Major Oscar Ramirez was unhappy with that decision.

“If they get through you, they will have options, Major. But we think they are after the rail bridge, so I am trying to locate some explosives, to at least drop the bridge at Rechtern as quickly as possible.”

Willoughby had enough time to drink half a cup of coffee
as the Spanish-American officer vented his spleen down the field telephone.