Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) (82 page)

              Gun mounts from the 554th AAA, quadruple .50 cals in Maxson turrets, mounted on M20 trailers, did great damage. However, they were vulnerable to counter fire, as the crews exposed themselves when re-ammunitioning the weapons. Similarly, the three 40mm Bofors that hammered the approaching masses with HE shells were vulnerable, their servants all exposed to the lightest of fire.

The weapons which drew the admiration of ‘Lady Hamilton’s’ crew were T33 Motor Gun Carriages, sporting 37mm guns,
weapons more effective in the previous decade but thrown into the fight here, instead of languishing in a run-down depot on Salisbury Plain.

As anti-tan
k guns they were obsolete, but in the role needed that the day, they ruled supreme.

At short range, the 37mm’s M2 canister shells were like shotguns, producing a widening stream of 122 steel balls, each one capable of taking a man’s life.

Whole squads were wiped away, chopped to pieces by streams of metal, all reminiscent of a battlefield, another continent, and century away, when a place called Cemetery Ridge ran with the blood of brave men.

It was a slaughter that shocked both
sides, those involved, and those watching.

Yarishlov shouted into his radio.

“Pull them back, in the name of the Motherland, pull them back, Deniken!”

Command and control was lost, but Deniken was already doing what he could to rescue his command.

The assault from Rechtern had been stopped.

It had all gone wrong.

Soviet
infantry had moved into the vacuum created by the withdrawal of Bluebear and Hässler, and the veteran soldiers were already bringing the east end of the bridge under close fire, albeit carefully, understanding the nature of the ominous pile in the centre of the single span.

Yet more
Soviet infantry were in the west entrance to the underpass, although understandably lacking in a desire to rush into an area containing munitions dressed with explosives and detonating cord.

Ramsey’s unit was virtually surrounded, the enemy troopers
across the river finding better positions, and returning fire on the covering 2nd Platoon.

Picking up the field telephone, he spoke quickly with
Grayson.

“Captain, get Fielding to set the charg
es on the bridge now. Keep the Reds off him while he works. We have to blow that bridge. Clear?”

“Fielding isn’t here, Sir. His sergeant is in charge and work is nearly complete. Hang on, Sir.”

Ramsey risked a look at the west bank and saw Grayson shouting towards the pile of shells. He then rushed back to his main position.

Grayson’s excited voice could be heard in the background, getting a quick heads-up from his man.

He took the telephone handset.

“Sir,
give him four minutes. Then he can blow it. Just four minutes.”

“Are all the 116th boys back over the bridge now, Grayson?”

“No, Sir, not all. Still some of the yanks hanging on at the east end, giving the engineers some breathing space.”

Ramsey ducked instinctively, a mortar shell striking the ground to the left of his hole, showering him with earth and bits of vegetation.

“And what’s your situation, Captain?”

“Holding, Sir. The
main force was stopped south of town. Very messy, so I’m told. Aitcherson’s on the spot and waiting to see what they do next.”

Increased firing betrayed another attempt by the Guards infantry on the mound, the defensive fire slacker than before.

“Right. The underpass goes in two and a half minutes, got that?”

“Yes, Sir, good lu...”

Ramsey was picked up and turned over in mid-air, the force of the explosion removing both his boots, before returning him to virtually the same position.

The
Sten was gone, thrown out of sight by the blast, which had also severed the cable on the field telephone, and tossed the set almost to the water’s edge.

Testing his legs, Ramsey brought himself up into a crouch position, filling his right hand with his Webley revolver, and the left with his cane.

Picking his destination carefully, he sprinted forward, dropping in behind the tree stump he had considered wide enough to give him decent cover.

“
Lads! Lads, listen in!”

Some men turned to their officer, others continued to pour fire into the attackers.

“We have to hold here. I will blow that railway in two and a half minutes. Keep your heads down. It will be an almighty bang!”

A
few more eyes swivelled his way, and in those eyes he could see the fear of men approaching breaking point.

He thought fast, and rose to his feet.

“Lads, the Black Watch does not retreat! We will not retreat, so you will hold here, until I come back to retrieve this.”

He rammed the cane point-first into the ground, the silver pommel instantly recognisable
to every man of the old 7th.

Ramsey took off, ignoring the pain in his feet, as sharp splinters and stones cut his flesh.

He stumbled into the remains of Fielding, the man’s unseeing eyes showing no pain, despite the unrecognisable nature of the rest of his body.

A few yards further on was the ignition point, two of the American engineers lying dead on the ground around it, protecting their work, even in death.

Ramsey made a final lunge. He threw himself left, but was thrown to the right, the impact of metal changing his direction in mid-air.

He screamed in pain, the rifle bullet having smashed into the same spot as the young
German fanatic in Nordenham, and his already damaged ribs finding the butt of a Garand rifle.

With teeth clenched hard
, to counter the excruciating pain, he retrieved his lighter, and lit the cord.

It fizzed and flared, making a noisy and obtrusive journey into the underpass.

Ramsey slithered back as best he could, every movement an agony, every movement moving him another inch towards safety.

He could hear Robertson shouting to the men, telling them to take cover.

‘Urrah’s’ sprang from hundreds of throats, as the Soviet infantry equated the lack of fire with impending success over the defenders, surging forward in confident mood.

The IS-III’s, unmolested, moved into view, the first tank racing forward towards its goal.

The det cord burned down, its final few seconds witnessed by a curious Soviet private, who suddenly realised that he was experiencing his last breath.

For him, and countless others, the world suddenly ended.

Yarishlov’s tanks swept forward, conscious of the suffering of their infantry, and determined not to fail again.

Their fire
was more accurate this time, enemy positions noted and marked, the SP guns and trailer weapons smashed one by one, until the Allied commanders pulled them back.

Yarishlov was interested in the enemy tank, determined to employ his own 100mm gun to good effect, satisfied that Deniken could manage the battle for the moment.

Behind him, the additional forces were already moving against the US defences on the Dreeke road.

To his left, yet more were pushing forward to the
northeast, enemy fire slowing them but not stopping them.

To his front, somewhere, was the enemy tank that had killed so many of his comrades.

A jeep bounced up alongside and out sprang the muddy and bloodied infantry officer he had come to admire. Sparing a quick look at the jeep, he recognised it for the one that he had travelled in with Deniken so many days before.

“Comrade Polkovnik. My men have broken through and...”

The cataclysmic event that interrupted Deniken’s report was later equated to a volcanic explosion.

The shock wave was immense, and both men feared for their ears.

A huge pall of smoke and flame rose from the railway line.

After a moment spent taking in the scene, Deniken spoke calmly.

“Well then, Comrade Polkovnik. We’ve wasted our time, and our men.”

Both
officers were horrified that so many lives had been lost in trying to take the rail bridge, only for it to be destroyed in front of their eyes.

The radio crackled in Yarishlov’s ear, his attention
mainly focussed on something darker in the dark greenery ahead.

Yarishlov listened to the message, the man’s shock and disorientation evident, but still composed enough to make an important report.

The dark area grew slightly darker.

“The bridge is still up. Proceed
, Comrade Deniken, and get away from this tank fast.”

Deniken was momentarily surprised
by the curtness, and then grasped the situation perfectly.

He leapt off the attractive target and ducked behind the jeep.

“Kriks, do not turn the turret. One o’clock, in the trees there, See it?”

Kriks looked.

“No... wait...yes...mudaks...the bastard has us cold.”

“Driver, turn the vehicle to the right, millimetre by millimetre, carefully. Kriks, shout when you are on.”

Yarishlov instinctively realised that the enemy tank had him, and was just waiting for a better shot, ‘
or maybe something else?’

He quickly analysed the situation.

‘A better shot? What is better than me sat here in the open eh?’

The T44 rotated slowly, the driver skilfully inching the vehicle into position.

“Stop. I’m perfect, Comrade.”

The veteran tank commander spoke the words softly, not risking making his gunner jump with the command.

“Fire.”

The two guns fired together, and both hit.

The 17pdr APCBC round struck the mantlet and flew skywards, the strike resounding inside the turret.

The 100mm AP shell struck the Glan bull on the right shoulder, transforming the heavy carcass into small pieces
, and decorating the surrounding trees with bite-sized pieces.

Griffiths raged.

“You fucking pillock! It’s still alive. Move back, Drives, smart about it.”

“I sodding ‘it it, Sergeant. Every shell but one ‘it, and that was Drives
’ bloody fault.”

“Shut up, you horrible excuse for a gunner. “

The banter hid the tension of the moment, the ammunitionless Comet no longer of any use, so Griffiths felt free to quit the field.

Uncharacteristically,
Drives stalled the engine.

The crew said nothing, waiting for their experienced driver to sort it out. The engine turned
, but refused to fire.

Griffiths watched the field to his front, studying the enemy tank, assessing if their recent target had worked out their position.
He also watched the ground in front of their position, the Soviet forces spreading out, and, as he watched it all, Griffiths became witness to something truly awful.

Dunne, foaming at the mouth, eyes wild, had lost the plot, even to the point of producing his revolver, and threatening his own men.

Snatching the radio from the surprised radio officer, he spoke rapidly, issuing orders well beyond his comprehension.

“York-Six calling Trafalgar Leader, You may attack. That position is lost, over.”

“Roger York-Six, Trafalgar Leader out.”

Dunne returned the handset to the young captain.

“What have you done, Sir?”

“I’ve stopped the enemy, Captain Bracewell, that’s what I’ve done, Single-handed, no help from any of you bastards. All by myself, I’ve won the fucking war!”

“But that’s our positions, our men!”

“Long gone, Bracewell, I issued orders, don’t you know.”

“No you didn’t, Sir.”

“Silence, you mutinous bastard! How dare you disagree with me!”

“Get the aircraft back on and call them off.”

The operator was fingering two perfect holes in the front of the comms pack.

“Set’s fucked, Captain.”

Bracewell looked at the destroyed radio.

“Then so are we all, Robson.”

The sound of attacking aircraft drew his attention.

“Oh Jesus, so are we all!”

Others came to his aid, and a brief struggle took place. The revolver discharged twice more, before Dunne was wrestled to the ground.

Bracewell, his hand seared by the heat of the barrel, turned to the rest of the staff.