Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) (77 page)

“Now hold on there, Oscar! You will hold
, and that is a goddamn order, son! I’m sending up some assets. Armor, and extra bodies from 3rd Battalion.”

Clearly,
that had little effect upon the Major’s tirade.

“Well, Major Ramirez. You will goddamn hold that position
, or I will goddamn find someone who will, and I will make it my goddamn mission in life to visit myself upon your fucking sorry ass for the rest of your days. Am we clear, Major?”

Clearly, the response from Ramirez was unsatisfactory.

“Major, you are relieved immediately. Put your second in command on the horn immediately, and consider yourself under arrest.”

“He wants to speak to you, Phil.”

“Jesus, Oscar. You told him to fuck off!”

“He is hanging our asses out to dry for a hunch. Pinning us here with no manoeuvre, all on a fucking guess from some limey.”

The telephone changed hands.

“Captain Oakley.”

He listened, sparing an occasional horrified glance at his friend.

“Are you sure of that situation, Colonel?”

The Captain almost jumped as the storm broke quickly in his ear.

“No, Sir, I am not questioning you, as such.”

Oakley winced.

“Well, Sir, that’s unfortunate. But to fix this unit in position on that basis is just wrong, Sir.”

Suddenly, the jaw grew tenser, teeth set hard against each other in response to some direct words.

“Let me be frank, Colonel. We can give you some time, for sure, and maybe enough time for the engineers to do their job. But if the Red Army comes down that road in force, we haven’t got a hope in hell of stopping a full scale attack, and to stand here and let it roll over us would be suicide, Sir.”

His decision made, Oakley grinned at his ex-commanding officer.

“Well, if that’s the case, Colonel, I believe that you’ll be down to the corporals in no time, cos your order is a cluster fuck.”

He replaced the phone on its cradle.

“So, what now, Oscar?”

The handset flew across the tent.

“Cowards! Fucking useless fucking cowards!”

Pulling out his Colt automatic and dramatically chambering a round, Willoughby rounded on his staff.

“Get my goddamn vehicle out front, now! Macey, with me. I’m going to visit myself upon them yellow sonsofbitches!”

He waited.

The Colonel, his face betraying the strain of command, concentrated on his watch, the steady growl of the T-44’s engine hardly a distraction.

The second hand swept with agonising slowness, finally reaching its zenith.

Patiently, Yarishlov waited, again, time not his friend.

However, when the expected fire arrived, the results were spectacular. No matter how often you saw a Katyusha Regiment put down a barrage, the sight was still an awesome one.

“All
units advance! Driver, forward.”

The T-44 moved gently off, Sergeant Lunin’s skills easing the thirty-five ton beast into motion without so much as a sway.

Ahead of Yarishlov, the entire strength of his 1st Battalion was already edging forward, intent on overrunning the Allied defences on the nearby tributary of the Hunte, along with men from two of the 16th Guards Rifle Division’s shattered regiments, banded together to make a special unit, charged with a single purpose; to cross the Wagenfelder Aue river.

He had switched his own position from the Rail Bridge
, expecting his presence would ensure that the 1st Battalion pressed as hard as it could.

Accompanying Yarishlov’s tanks were all the surviving Guardsmen of the recently reinforced 49th Guards Rifle Regiment, under the command of the newly promoted Lieutenant Colonel Deniken,
and a full battalion of the 77th Engineers waiting to rush forward if things went wrong.

The 49th had taken a hammering over the previous two months, but had been bolstered by the arrival of men from units that were disbanded after receiving heavy casualties, bringing the regiment up to about 75% strength, all being veteran soldiers.

Ahead, the first wave engaged, and the radio waves were filled with the sound of orders and calls for assistance.

The red brick timber mill sat adjacent to the west end of the bridge, its windows sandbagged, indicating its nature as a strongpoint, and the centre of the US bridge defence.

From
each window, at least one weapon was being fired, sometimes as many as four. Carbines to heavy machine-guns, the whole range of automatic weapons available to the defenders of the 116th Infantry was on display.

All along the
riverbank, foxholes and hastily dug trenches held more men, all of which were up and pouring fire into the advancing Soviet infantry and tanks.

The position was completed by wooden strongpoints, created from interlocked tree trunks, four such positions holding heavy machine guns, two containing anti-tank guns, all at the front line and, further back, another eight providing cover for the mortar support.

The Soviet soldiers were knocked over in great numbers, an individual man often struck by four or five bullets at a time, the defending Americans profligate with ammunition to balance their lack of numbers.

One of the anti-tank guns revealed itself,
seeking out a T34, but the shell went wide of its intended target, wiping through a command group from one of the infantry companies. It left only the senior officer unwounded.

The experienced tankers of the 1st Battalion did not miss in their turn, the wooden structure
, and the gun and men it held, disappearing as five HE shells struck home.

A mine claimed the lead tank’s track, an unavoidable problem for the
Soviet armour, given the sodden nature of the surrounding fields that confined them to a narrow approach.

The second vehicle immediately moved up and commenced nudging the disable T34 forward.

Almost immediately, another mine exploded, on the same side as before, sending a pair of heavy road wheels flying.

The tank’s commander emerged from the hatch and waved off the pushing tank.

Once the shoving had stopped, the tank crew attempted to evacuate, the driver’s broken leg fatally slowing him down, his body left hanging from the hatchway. The defending machine-guns switched their attention elsewhere.

The shoving started again when another vehicle moved
up, and two more mines exploded as the advance picked up pace.

The second anti-tank gun joined the fight, its solid shot bouncing off the glacis of the abandoned T34.

A volley of tank shells missed the gun position, but the crew, unnerved and already worn down by weeks of fighting, abandoned their gun, and ran from the field.

From his own command bunker, Ramirez observed the slow but inexorable advance of the tanks.

He motioned to Oakley, knowing that he could be sending his friend to his death.

“Captain Oakley, I need that gun in action a-sap. Take three men from the Reserve
platoon; get it up and running yesterday. Clear?”

His delivery was matter-of-fact, cold, impersonal, all designed to hide his anguish.

“You got it, Major.”

Returning to his binoculars, Ramirez could hear the Captain sorting out a small group from the reserve, shaking out men with some AT experience.
Then it was quieter again, the would-be gun crew moving off at speed.

To his front, the tanks had crawled to within one hundred yards of the bridge, their main guns starting to inflic
t casualties upon the defenders. High explosives shells proved particularly useful in pummelling the red brick timber mill, occasionally blasting men out of windows, as another point of resistance was silenced.

As the T34’s drew closer, they spread out in a fan shape, following their orders
, and readying to commence the infantry assault.

A bazooka shell smoked its way over the water, the shot speculative and
ill advised.

Ramirez gripped his binoculars tighter as another of his precious AT weapons was lost, a single HE shell blotting out the gunner and loader in the blink of an eye.

The mortar officer, three yards to his left, redirected the fire, bringing his unit into action against the concentration of tanks at the end of the bridge.

Success was immediate, and one of the tanks started to burn, a direct hit on the engine deck causing a fire, disabling the tank.

The crew decided there was no future in their staying put, and attempted to retreat. Emerging into a hail of bullets, they quickly reassessed that, for now, remaining within the cast metal was the safer option.

The infantry attack rolled over the top of the T34’s, the US mortars ripping holes in the mass of men, holes
that were further widened by the heavy defensive fire.

But still they came, pushing on at the
running crouch, the famous ‘Urrah!’ accompanying their advance.

The attack floundered halfway over the bridge, the new wall of bloodied bodies providing some cover for those whose courage failed them in the face of extreme fire.

A young Lieutenant stood and screamed at his men, most of them old enough to be his father, exhorting them to greater efforts for the Motherland.

He sprang towards the mill building, advancing
only two yards before being struck down by numerous bullets.

Inspired, the survivors
rallied and surged forward again, many suffering the same fate, but a few made it over and broke into the ground floor of the mill, clashing with the defenders there, as the upper floors received the undivided attention of the supporting tanks.

The
Soviet infantry commander launched his second wave immediately and, although many were cut down from positions on the riverbanks, the bulk of his men made it across, fanning out and pushing the 3rd Battalion’s doughboys away from the bridge.

A T34 nosed onto the bridge and quickly
rushed across, no thought for the mangled meat it left in its wake, as it crushed dead and wounded alike.

Immediately turning sharp left, the tank
was engulfed in a shower of sparks, and fire erupted from the turret hatches.

Oakley’s gun crew had scored a direct hit with their first shot.

Other tanks moved over the bridge and spread out as soon as they touched the west bank.

The fourth tank
across was struck as it rammed into the mill house, its engine immediately dying, as a solid shot smashed through the compartment.

The crew were cut down by a .50cal in one of the second line tree trunk positions.

Ramirez jerked his head in the direction of the nearby sound, his eyes catching the aftermath of the direct hit on the anti-tank gun.

Almost lazily, the screaming body tumbled through the air and smashed down across one of the disturbed tree trunks,
destroying the unfortunate’s spine in an instant.

The Major knew who it was and turned away, eyes filled with tears, fed by grief and anger in equal
quantities.

Ramirez stayed silent, his eyes taking in the immolation of his battalion,
with part of his brain screaming at him to make the decision to save what was left, and to hell with Willoughby.

The decision was reinforced immediately,
as a flight of four Soviet aircraft swept over the bridge, immediately attacking the US troops at Rechtern.

“Fucking hell! I thought there was no air!”

It wasn’t said to anyone particular, except maybe to himself, to reinforce his decision to retreat.

Brave men on the Red side of the divide had taken to the air, and the four Shturmoviks were the first to arrive over the crucial battlefield.

Although the air support was haphazard and uncoordinated, it was highly welcome, especially at a time when the Red Army suffered on a daily basis from the Allied superiority in the air.

Yarishlov, in contact with the commander of 1st Battalion, grunted in satisfaction as he received the man’s report.

Looking at his watch, he calculated how long it would take for 1st Battalion to complete its deployment, before issuing his orders.

“Comrade Major, make sure your tanks are in position within seven minutes
, and no later. The enemy force in Duste is engaged, but post men and tanks to watch for a counter-attack. Orient south-west, west, and north-west. I will be passing through your positions to Rechtern. Clear, Comrade?”