Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) (83 page)

“I am relieving Dunne of his command.”

Turning back to the signals corporal, he issued his first order.

“I’m the radio officer, Sir. T
here is no such message logged!”

The revolver spoke once, the hole immediately appearing in the canvas overhead.

“Consider yourself under arrest, Bracewell. I will have you court-martialled.”

Suddenly, sure of his course of action, the radio officer leapt forward.

Dunn’s radio conversation had been with Lieutenant-Commander Steele, officer commanding 822’s Fireflies, and the overall leader of a two-squadron sortie by the recently formed Royal Naval Air Wing.

Accompanying him were his old comrades from the days of HMS Argus, the Corsairs of 853 Squadron FAA. Both squadrons had increased in strength, despite days of continuous combat, reinforced by men and machines from the training facilities, and survivors, recovered after the sinking of Argus.

Steele too, had heard the cry for help from Barnstorf, and had led his men into the air, despite the awful flying conditions, confident that their naval air experience in the unforgiving North Atlantic would carry the men through on their mission of support.

South of Barnstorf, 822 and 853 Squadrons found the enemy where Dunne had predicted.

Fig #69 - Immolation, Bloody Barnstorf.

On the ground, the surviving tanks of Yarishlov’s 1st Battalion scattered as the attacking aircraft were spotted. They tried to make cover in the woods, despite the presence of the enemy infantry.

RP3 rocket’s, fired from the Fireflies, left criss-cross patterns in the air,
most of the time ploughing up the sodden earth but enough hit to reduce the 1st Battalion to a shambles.

Tank after tank exploded, one tossed on its back, tracks still running, crew dead and dying inside.

One aircraft singled out the road bridge, three rockets destroying the structure, and the engineers who had laboured to preserve it.

Yarishlov’s T44 was selected for particular attention, two of the rockets landing close enough to remove the tracks, sending pieces
of it flying across the field.

Stunned by the shock wave, the tank Colonel fought back the nausea and tried to radio his units. His aerials had been carried away,
so he tried in vain to contact men already dead or beyond caring.

Casualties amongst the accompanying infantry had been heavy enough, and they too sought cover in whatever was closest, large bodies of
frightened men closing on the woods to the west and north-west, yet more investing the southern edge of Barnstorf itself.

Refraining from a machine-gun sweep, Steele called in the Corsairs, detailing the different sections into their own singular attacks.

853 Squadron consisted of nineteen aircraft, well over strength, a matter hidden from higher authority by the officers and men of the Royal Naval Air Wing, for fear of having them removed.

Five sections dived under Steele’s instructions, his skill bringing each section in, staggering their assaults, and changing angles of approach to confuse any
Soviet AA gunners.

Yellow section attacked the Russians to the west.

All but two of the Squadron’s Corsairs had received the special field modification, which allowed a double load of the chosen ordnance to be carried under each wing, sacrificing range and speed for power of attack and maximum damage to the target.

Yellow section’s four aircraft attacked in a slanted line, and conducted a
textbook delivery of their payload.

Napalm.

Dunne had much to answer for, as the dropped tanks spread their awful load across friend and foe alike, turning the field and woods into an inferno, secondary explosions marking a grenade cooking off here, a mine there.

Blue section was next, their four aircraft immolating the Guardsmen heading north-west, the wall of fire falling just short of petrified Allied so
ldiers. Even then, the experience proved too much for some. Scot and American alike started to flee, panic bred panic, and within a minute, all the defenders were running for the Channel ports.

Yarishlov emerged from the turret, still reeling from the
near misses, his eyes seeing much, but his brain struggling to comprehend what was in front of him.

Some yards away, Deniken’s jeep stood unmarked, engine running
.

U
noccupied.

Deniken had taken refuge in a small shell hole and had survived the attack on the T44, unlike his two comrades.

From the hole, he had watched as the first aircraft approached the mass of men, fear turning to abject horror, as hundreds of soldiers disappeared before his eyes, as the bright yellow wave seemed to engulf everyone in sight.

Now, he was focussed on his men approaching Barnstorf, willing them forward, looking at the approaching aircraft, knowing who would win the race for life.

White section, all but one of their aircraft modified, swept in line abreast, and dropped their Napalm just short of the buildings southeast of the railway line.

Whole lines of men were gobbled up by the greedy flames.

Deniken screamed in frustration and horror, beating the ground with his fists, as comrades from the old days were reduced to black pygmies by the unforgiving horror weapon.

Others, less fortunate, ran around the field and houses, streaming flames, their screams rising above all sounds of battle until some comrade
or enemy gave them mercy.

Through his tears, Deniken saw a few dozen of his men still mobile, but retreating from the blackened fields.

Another group of aircraft, three this time, dropped their fiery loads around the Rechtern Bridge, ensuring that there was nowhere that he could look without seeing death at its most horrible.

Aloft, circling lazily, leaving others to watch for enemy aircraft, Steele was satisfied, his professionalism to the fore, his humanity shelved.

“Good job, Green Flight. Spot on the money.”

Checking his target area, he called the Red flight leader and issued his final instructions.

The four Corsairs turned as instructed, circling to the west and approaching down the rail line, its metal tracks serving as a perfect marker for the attack.

Again line abreast, the four aircraft dropped sixteen napalm canisters on and around the west end of the rail bridge.

Grayson was groggy, a mortar shell having momentarily knocked him out.

Around him, men of his Gordon Highlanders fought alongside GI’s from the 116th Infantry, as the engineers struggled to finish the job.

Many of the brave men had fallen, but the engineer unit’s sergeant seemed to bear a charmed life, and was near to completion.

The napalm attacks on to the positions south and south-west had drawn many eyes, euphoria turning to sympathy, sympathy turning to fear, fear knocking on the door of panic.

Many an eye turned at the approaching four aircraft.

“Jesus Christ! They’re going to attack us!”

Grayson leapt from the hole before finishing his words, loading the flare pistol, knowing he was too late.

“You stupid
useless fucking bastards!”

Sixteen canisters detached from the Allied attack aircraft, hitting the ground within seconds of each other
, and spreading their version of death amongst the Allied soldiers who screamed and cursed the already empty sky.

Across the river, Hässler was
squealing with horror as the fire washed over everything.

Grayson disappeared in an orange wall, the rising
fiery killer moving forward at high speed, engulfing everything and everyone the Master Sergeant could see across the Hunte.

“Rosie!”

Hässler had sent the wounded corporal back across the river on an unimportant errand, keen to get him away from certain death on the east bank.

Even Bluebear stopped fighting, the wall of flames drawing his eye, horrifying even a man whose style of fighting brought him close and personal to the enemy in an extremely brutal and messy way.

Across the river, friends and comrades had been incinerated in the blink of an eye.

Some staggered around, enveloped in flames, lungs burnt by hot gases, unable to scream.

Others ran squealing noisily, their clothes and flesh falling from them as the sticky jelly did its horrible work.

Two
Soviet soldiers, intent on nothing but self-preservation, dropped into the hole, not knowing that it was already occupied.

Death was waiting for them in
its most horrible form.

Hässler watched horrified as Bluebear’s tomahawk rose swiftly up and down, two blows for each disoriented guardsman, both faces
quickly driven in, easily yielding to the heavy blows.

Still one lived, at least for the briefest of moments, a third blow ending his struggle for breath.

Wide-eyed, the Master Sergeant felt shock creeping over him, and punched his thigh in an attempt to break out of it.

Bluebear understood, and a large hand
wiped itself across the German-American’s face, the sound of the slap penetrating into Hässler’s consciousness as much as the pain of the blow.

“Master
Sergeant. Now is not time. Later we mourn. Now, we get outta of here.”

The two men slithered out of the hole and down
to the water’s edge, moving to the north and away from the hell on earth behind them.

Yarishlov was unsteady on his feet, but made the journey anyway, supported by Deniken and Kriks.

Helping him into the jeep, Deniken climbed aboard as Kriks started the vehicle on its journey.

All around them, men of the Obinin assault force lay dead, killed by one of nature’s most terrible forces.

None was recognisable.

And t
he smell.

Not even the rain could remove it.

An overriding taste of petroleum pervaded the air that they reluctantly dragged into their lungs, almost narcotic in its intensity.

Not as strong, but with their own
special pungency, were the diverse smells of the burning, fuelled by rubber, wood, and man.

The sights were too awful, even for men used to the extremes of combat.

All three cried, the smoke undoubtedly playing its part, stinging their eyes, but their basic humanity was the larger contributor.

No guns, no explosions, no cries of pain.

The battlefield was silent now, the growing wind that distributed the fine ashes providing the soft steady accompaniment to the sound of the jeep’s engine, gently cajoling the vehicle through the horrors of war.

All who would die had died. Those
who were alive, too shocked to even talk, would survive the day.

Here and there, blackened soldiers and tankers shared cigarettes and canteens in silence, scarcely acknowledging the passing of their
senior officers.

Moving on through the carnage, the rail bridge came into view.

Intact.

“Blue Three to lead. Those seagulls sound excited, Flight.”

“Blue leader, roger. Now shut up.”

Hall was trying hard to work out where the hell they were, the squalls and low cloud making any sort of navigation difficult for the one-man Typhoons of Blue flight.

The airwaves had been full of the sound of the Fleet Air Arm attack, the seagulls as they were affectionately called, calling in successful drop after successful drop.

Regardless of the urgency of the situation, Hall had to face facts. They were lost.

‘Think it through man! Think it through!’

He summoned up the map in his
mind’s eye, ignoring the one in his lap, seeing his airfield, factoring in the wind, the speed, working the problem.