Breakthrough (The Red Gambit Series) (76 page)

The gap needed to be filled and
Braun reacted immediately, moving his tank to cover,
halting, and
turning one of the T34’s into a metallic bonfire with a single shot.

Selecting a hollow position behind a modest bush, he kept his silhouette to a minimum and worked the flanking force, picking off another tank.

‘Are the bastards breeding?’

It seemed no sooner did one tank get knocked out than another two took
its
place, which in fact was probably a fair description, as the
Soviet
Brigade commander
frantically
fed more of his forces into the fray.

The fields between Dagersheim and
Sindelfingen
seemed to be crawling with armour, well over a hundred vehicles committed to action.

Braun became aware of more high-velocity weapons firing, and was relieved to discover
comrades
from 4th Company moving into position.

4th Company was a
hotchpotch
of vehicles, which was why it had been left out of the assault.

Now, its SP’s and tanks started working the field efficiently, killing and killing and killing.

The T34 drive vanished, gutted further by the arrival of 4th Company, the survivors turning and running, exposing thin rear armour to vengeful Legion tankers.

Another wave of T34’s moved forward, but this time mingling with the IS-II’s, the centre of the battlefield containing an inexorable wedge of advancing
Soviet
armour
, s
till outnumbering the defenders.

Braun checked his watch, surprised to find it was precisely ten o’clock.

Uhlmann ordered a forward movement
all
across the
defensive
line, regaining their previous positions.
The Katyusha barrage arrived as the tank companies relocated once more.

Two of his men lay dead, torn to pieces by a machine-gun that was covering the trench leading to the bunker. Another man had exposed himself above the parapet for the briefest of moments and was now coughing out his life as his ruined jaw and windpipe leaked vital blood into his lungs.

Sounds of combat from Durand’s platoon moved
further
away, as the Legion Lieutenant drove his men to fulfil his orders.

Two of Von Arnesen’s men equipped themselves with some grenades and made speculative throws over the top, aiming at the machine-gun.

Both failed
,
and one man earned a bullet in the wrist for his troubles, an alert guardsman shattering his ulna.

Reinforced by some more stragglers, Von Arnesen could still only muster two dozen men. In an
y case, two hundred men wouldn’t
be any good unless the present tactical problem could be overcome.

Höffman dropped down by the edge of the trench, accepting a Mauser rifle, its bayonet fitted and stained with recent use.

Wiping the blood away, he extended the weapon, using the reflective blade to look up the trench, assessing and planning his own move.

Returning the rifle to
its
owner, the fanatical NCO slid across to his commander
,
who was on the radio ordering mortars onto the target.

“Sir, I think I can sort this. I need a smoke grenade and the ST44.”

No explanation
was required, indeed
,
there was no time for it.

The ST44 changed hands for the third time that hour and a nebelgranate was pressed into his hands.

Ensuring the assault rifle magazine was full, Höffman moved to the edge of the trench and prepared his grenade.

“Don’t do anything until I shout
,
Kameraden,
” he spoke with black humour, “If I
’m
fucking
dead
,
act independently
,
and send my mother flowers
.”

A mad grin split his face and he tossed the smoke grenade over the top and into the trench some thirty yards up.

Giving time for the smoke to obscure the view, he scuttled on his belly, hugging the ground as the
Soviet
defenders fired speculatively through the
spreading cloud, ad
d
ing
random
grenades
for good measure
.

His reflected view had been correct, in as much as there was a depression in the trench floor, framed by the bodies of
Soviet
guardsmen killed previously.

Sliding into the depression, he organised the dead body to give him both protection and a place to steady his weapon.

The smoke cleared slowly.

Höffman could clearly see two riflemen in cut-outs down the trench sides, but it was another minute before he made out the barrel of a DP light machine-gun some metres beyond.

He made a professional judgement
,
and settled himself for the shots.

The ST44 was a modern weapon designed for the modern battlefield, range less than a rifle but greater than a sub-machine gun. The intent was to provide
improved
firepower to the infantry facing the
Soviet
juggernaut, giving the Wehrmacht
superior
firepower in the ‘middle ground’ of battles.

The magazine contained thirty short-case 7.92mm rounds, capable of being blazed off on full automatic or, as Höffman intended, in semi-automatic mode.

He could see the enemy peering down the trench and felt that the left side rifleman was becoming far too interested in his hiding place.

He pulled the trigger and sent a burst into the DP position.

The MG
fired, its bullets zipping through the air above the Sergeant.

Höffman fired again, assisted by the muzzle flash, silencing the crew.

A bullet
nicked
his shoulder, the
enemy
rifleman having got his bearings quickly.

The ST44, momentarily out of control because of the impact, lined up with the guardsman and fired. A bloody body tumbled out of the niche and onto the trench floor.

The second rifleman
picked up
a grenade
, armed it
,
and threw it high.

Höffman was horrified to see it land the other side of the dead Russian he was using as cover.

He pressed his face into the mud and felt the shock wave as the grenade exploded.

Unharmed but disoriented, he struggled to aim the ST44, not realising that the foresight had been neatly removed by shrapnel.

None the less, he pulled the trigger twice, sending bullets into the right-hand niche, smashing the knee
and shoulder of the rifleman,
taking him out of the fight.

The sergeant retained enough presence of mind to shout
to the assault group.

“Schnell Menschen! Vorwärts!

Needing no second invitation, Von Arnesen’s group crashed around the corner at high-speed, closing down the deadly machine-gun position before it could be brought back into action. The first
man there used his MP40 to repul
se an attempt to
man
the DP, leaving three
Soviet
dead in the trench beyond.

Propping the damaged ST44 against the trench, Höffman selected a discarded PPSh
,
and slid an extra
round
magazine under his belt.

The second
Soviet
rifleman was crying tears of pain, moaning softly as his shattered knee and shoulder
brought
him
to the
extremes of agony.

Th
e
ex-SS man
drew level with the
noise
and examined
the Russian
with emotionless eyes
. He moved
his PPSh
into the crook of his left arm
,
grimacing as the extra weight provoked his new
shoulder
wound.

Höffman took
out his
pistol
once more.

“Bastard Russi
ch.”

Hate replaced pain in the guardsman’s eyes.

“Germanski bastard.”

The Colt spoke twice, the naked fury in the Russians eyes inspiring Höffman to make doubly sure, the second shot masking the sound of the arming lever on the
US
issue
fragmentation
grenade, now dropping from a lifeless hand
.

It rolled against his foot.

Höffman’s
impaired
reactions gave him no chance.

“Du verdammter bastard Russich!”

The first assault had failed, falling short of the enemy position
on a small rise two hundred metres from the main road out of Böblingen.

5th RdM’s 3rd Battalion were tasked with Rostov-5 through to Rostov-9, a frontage of just under a kilometre
,
and they had fallen at
the first hurdle.

In fairness, it was not their inability or lack of courage, but
the fact that Rostov-5 was brist
ling with everything in the
Soviet
infantry arsenal.

Lange, his teeth gritted against the pain as the
soldier
bound his ankle, swept the approaches with his binoculars, the bodies of 7th Kompagnie’s commander and some of his men still burning bright enough to be remarkable on the extensive battlefield.

A few metres behind Lange and his command group was his headquarters vehicle, its
engine wrecked by shells from a
light anti-aircraft gun brought into play against
the
easier
ground
targets.

Salvaging a couple of radios, the group set up in a shell hole, moving earth to form a raised ridge on the rim
, behind
which they could more safely observe the battle.

Lange had dislocated his ankle in the mad dash to escape the anti-aircraft gun’s cannon shells
,
and the swollen joint stuck fast in his combat boots.

Refusing to have them cut off, he allowed one of the signallers to bind it tight with a bandage as he tried to organise his forces.

“Gelbkopf to Gelbbruder-one-two over.”

The second in command of 7th Kompagnie did not have a radio
,
so no reply was forthcoming.

“Gelbkopf to any unit Gelbbruder come in.”

“Gelbbruder-two-one to Gelbkopf receiving.”

The commander of the 8th Kompagnie was an old soldier, and Lange’s enthusiasm got the better of him
, formal radio procedure suspended
.

“Status, over.”

“Gelbbruder-two-one to Gelbkopf, one-one is dead, one-two is wounded. I have command. I need Adler on this location immediately
,
and be aware, light flak is in the target zone, over.”

“Gelbkopf received. I will advise.”

Lange waited whilst the other signaller went to switch his radio channel to contact Adler direct. He was curtailed by an
authoratative
voice on the main scheme radio.

“Anton to Gelbkopf, Gelbbruder-two-one. Adler will be inbound. Mark Rostov-5 with red smoke, repeat red smoke over.”

8th Kompagnie’s Captain acknowledged and Rostov-5 was bathed in an expanding ruby red cloud within seconds.

Knocke spoke to the air controller, who in turn directed his last support strike in on target.

The self-propelled guns of the anti
-tank unit were warned
,
and readied themselves
to move closer still.

Three glass-nosed A-26 Invaders of the 640th Bomb Squadron lined up and attacked.