Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) (79 page)

“Some douche bag in supply sent up crates of ‘C’ for the engineer boys. Wrong goddamn size, half pound blocks, instead of full pounds, and then only a part of what was asked for.”

Shaking his head, Ramsey brought up his binoculars, the landscape to his front devoid of any Russians, save the dead and dying, his focus upon the stout rail bridge.

“Sah, I have bad news
the now.”

Although he said nothing, the Black Watch Major’s face spoke volumes.

He accepted the notebook.

“A Yank pilot dropped it t
ae us, Sah.”

Ramsey read the brief message, his face turning to thunder by the time he had finished.

“Gentlemen, our flyer friend informs us that about three miles to the east is a large concentration of enemy forces, oriented this way, estimated at over divisional strength.”

The silence was deafening.

“He also insists that there are two armoured trains sat with them, ready to move.”

1st Lt Fielding snorted in derision.

“Well, anyone who has read the reports knows the Soviet track gauge is different, so that’s a non-starter.”

Ramsey inclined his head and, yet again,
was beaten to it by Bluebear, who went for the less sensitive option.

“The
German had them, so maybe the Russian has the German one’s, Lieutenant.”

He spoke the words in his monotone way, and not as a question.

Fielding ceded the point with his silence.

“So, we can stop the trains by smashing up the rails some, Major, but the Commies will repair the track quick enough, and in this weather
, a rapid advance with them could do us no end of hurt.”

Ramsey’s mind hit upon a solution.

He gathered the assembly close around the map he held, fingering a specific point on the east bank.

“This here looks like an underpass of some sort? Anyone seen it at all?”

No takers.

Ramsey continued.

“If it is, then you have to be able to drop it with what you have available. An underpass won’t be so easy for the Soviets to repair.”

There was a general nod of agreement, but most noticeably
, not from Fielding.

“There is an issue
for you, Lieutenant?”

“You betch
yer goddamn ass there’s a fucking issue, Major.”

Robertson grimaced at the remark
, but held his peace.

“You want my boys to wander over onto the commie side of the river and lay a load of charges? S
ure sounds like a suicide mission to me, Sir.”

“If you were alone, then possibly so
, Lieutenant. However, you won’t be.”

Making his mind up, Ramsey snapped into action.

“Can you carry the explosives with just your unit, Lieutenant?”

“I guess so, Sir,” replied Fielding, tentatively, in case the Limey
had not got the message.

“I will move my
lads over the water, to here,” his finger picked out a small raised area to the south of the supposed underpass.

He drew Hässler and Bluebear in tighter.

“This railway embankment is a natural divide for us, so you will take the left flank.”

They nodded.

“I want your boys to position here,” he indicated a wooded area diametrically opposite the intended Black Watch position.

“How long do you think you
’ll need to drop the underpass, Lieutenant?”

Fielding grabbed his chin in thought, happier now he knew that others were exposing themselves too.

“Based upon what I’ve seen of these things before, I reckon half an hour at the rush, forty minutes to be comfy, Major.”

Others may have dithered, but not Ramsey, and the move was set in motion immediately.

“Right then, gentlemen. Get your troops up and moving immediately. Robertson, you take the first platoon over and secure the other side straight away. We’ll cross on your signal. Clear?”

It was.

“Lieutenant, as soon as the covering force has moved forward, bring your men and equipment over, come up whichever side, but get cracking on that underpass. Clear?”

“
Will do, Major.”

The Captain commanding the recently arrived Gordon
s was last of all.

“Gra
yson, your men will filter into the positions we vacate as soon as we move off. Be careful who you fire at. We may not have time for the niceties when we return. Make sure your lads are clear on that point.”

“Sah.”

Addressing the whole group, Ramsey concluded his brief.

“We’
ll stay, no retreat, as long as the engineers have a job to do. Once their job is done, we’ll retire to a safe distance, on the east bank, for detonation. I assume the end of the bridge will be a suitable firing point, Lieutenant?”

Fielding cast a quick eye at the map scale and nodded.

“Once successful, we’ll fall back over the river, you 116th lads first, my men last. There are no further orders. Any questions?”

It was simple enough in concept, but had all the makings of a hard battle ahead.

“RSM, as soon as you’re ready. We will work off the RSM for our timings. Up and at ‘em, Gentlemen.”

Deniken had no need of any relay from Yarishlov, Obinin’s voice carried very clearly over the radio net.

Obinin had just received a
verbal lashing from those above, and, as usual, the threats cascaded downwards.

“Get your men moving now or you’ll be counting trees, Polkovnik. Now!”

Yarishlov smiled half-heartedly to himself, recalling a conversation not so long ago
, when the same officer had feted him as a hero.

‘The line between success and failure is thin indeed.’

“Moving now, Comrade General. Out.”

Deniken received a whispered verbal report from one of his officers and nodded in response, dismissing the man with a pat on the back.

“Bad, Comrade Deniken?”

“It could’ve been much worse, but I’
ve lost many good men, Comrade Yarishlov.”

“It’
s up to us to make sure our men haven’t died uselessly, so we’ll move forward immediately, as the General demands.”

Deniken’s map was to hand, so the two pored quickly over the terrain they were about to traverse.

Yarsihlov spoke with conviction.

“Your platoons th
at crossed the river downstream; they can advance along the river to here?”

Deniken nodded his agreement.

“Good,” and quickly moving across the map, Yarishlov found Route 48.

“We have a single road
, and I will use it wisely. Get some of your men on board my tanks, and we will drive like hell into their rear, here.”

He indicated the west end of the rail bridge position.

Pressing his finger against the area to the west and south-west, Yarishlov was less forceful.

“I have ordered most of the remaining forces of the 128th Tanks and 31st Guards Infantry up to here, providing us with a secure base
, and sparing them any more suffering for now.”

He indicated the area to the west of the Wagenfelder Bridge.

“That will release my first battalion and SMG Company to probe westwards here, where your men ran into that little hornet’s nest.”

He referred to the Dreeke road positions
, recently stiffened by the 1st Composite Battalion, 116th Infantry.

As if to reinforce his next point, sounds of sawing and hammering reached both men
’s ears.

“Our comrades from the 77th are working
to make good the damage to this bridge, but I intend to take as many of them with us, in case the Amerikanski damage our prime objective.”

Deniken’s eyes were drawn to the map, despite his full knowledge of what the tank colonel was pointing at.

Yarishlov continued.

“Our comrades of the 3rd Guards Mechanised Corps and 22nd Guards Rifle Corps are already preparing to move up, the two armoured trains will do so
, the moment we report contact to the rear of the Allied positions, and that the track is clear.”

Yarishlov folded his map quickly, finishing the brief in a conspiratorial tone.

“At the same time, we will order our surprise package forward, against the eastern end of the bridge.”

Deniken understood
, and made a final notation on his pad.

“Comrade
PodPolkovnik.”

Yarishlov extended his hand.

“Comrade Polkovnik.”

The two shook hands and went their separate ways.

Before the Second World War, Soesterberg had been a military airfield for the Dutch Air Force. During their time as residence, the Luftwaffe had created a much larger facility, but it was still very tight for the squadrons from all arms of the RAF that found themselves shoehorned in, as the Soviets advanced, and airfields were lost.

Blue Flight, 182 Squadron RAF, gathered around the door to the Wing Commander’s office, straining to hear the conversation above the panting, all three out of breath having sprinted from the main radio room, once they understood Hall’s purpose.

“Absolutely not, John. They’d have my guts for garters if I let you go!”

“Sir, I respectfully request permission to try.”

“No, John, that’s final.”

“Sir, we have to give it a try, we simply have to. Those boys need us.”

“No, John, no, no and thrice, no.”

“Sir, the weather has a window, a small one. Old Runes says so,” he referred to the Station
Meteorological Officer by his nickname, “And he’s never wrong, is he? Never wrong.”

The Wing Commander stood up abruptly, eyes flashing with anger, controlled, but only just.

“Flight Lieutenant Hall, you will not, repeat, not be given permission to fly. I have my orders, so there it is.”

The silence that followed was an opportunity for both men’s frustrations to become apparent.

Hall’s, because he wanted to get his aircraft up and into the battle. The Wingco’s because he did too, for he had been a pilot. He understood what made such men tick, but rank and responsibility made him take a different course.

Hall tried one last time.

“Sir?”

The one word carried much in it, the tone, the inflection, the absolute dejection of a man who saw his duty clearly.

The pilot in him struggled with the leader, and won.

‘Fuck it!’

The thought occurred, and the expression on the Wing Commander’s face changed almost imperceptibly.

Almost.

“John, understand me clearly. I cannot, and will not, grant you permission to fly. If I see you on the apron, I will have you confined to quarters. If I see you near an aircraft without my express permission, I will have you thrown in the guardhouse. Is that clear enough?”

“Yes, Sir.”

‘Understand me, son, please, understand me!’

“Now, let’
s hear no more of it. I’m off to my quarters for some well-deserved kip, and I do not intend to rouse myself before dinner. Flight Lieutenant.”

The salute was returned and Hall found
himself staring at an open door. Wing Commander Smith, the notoriously heavy sleeper, was already on his way to his quarters, some distance from the runway apron, having knowingly cast an eye over the three men who seem too preoccupied with a poster outside the office to bother with a salute.

Hall’s
grin was genuine.

Wing Commander Smith lay on his bunk,
wide-awake, his ears straining at every sound, his tension increasing at the noise of Sabre engines dragging aircraft into the watery skies, rose above the sound of the rain on the tin roof of his hut.

Looking at the greyness outside his window, he spoke quietly, sincerely, longingly.

“I wish I could be with you, boys.”

Fielding was excited, and out of breath.

Ramsey waited, taking the extra time to survey the hast
ily scraped positions that his Highlanders were occupying on the small wooded mound.