Impasse (The Red Gambit Series) (67 page)

Artem
’yev screamed in agony.

Another US soldier clattered round the corner into the area and put two rounds into the
next Guardsman as he climbed through the window.

The Carbine shells didn
’t kill him, and he went down, holding his shattered crotch.

One bullet did for the next man, catching him on the bridge of the nose and scrambling the brains beyond
, dropping the corpse half in, half out of the window..

Recovering himself, Artem
’yev put four shots into the American, throwing him back against the door frame.

M
ore men arrived from both sides, and the small area became a seething mass of humanity, as men battled to stay alive whilst exhibiting no humanity whatsoever.

It was truly awful
, but reflected Artem’yev’s plans to bring the enemy close, and was exactly the same in many other positions throughout the ruins of Strassfeld.

A man
fell heavily against Artem’yev as he struggled to raise himself up, dislodging the pistol from his grasp. A second blow occurred, and the Soviet Colonel found himself face down on the floor with one man’s full weight on him, plus the majority of another man’s, as two soldiers strove to throttle the life out of each other.

Again, the agony of his broken arm overcame him
, and he noisily vented the pain.

The weight lessened as another
American soldier took an interest and joined in.

He pulled back the
Soviet soldier’s head and ran his knife from ear to ear, bathing both his comrade and Artem’yev in blood.

“
Thank… thanks… Walter…”

The rescued man coughed and gasped his way through his thanks and stood as best he could,
unwittingly allowing Artem’yev to recover his Tokarev.

Two rounds
smashed into the lower back of the rescued GI, three more destroyed the chest of Walter, his saviour.

Artem
’yev’s intervention changed the balance in the fight, and the last armored infantryman was shot down by a burst of PPSh, leaving two survivors moaning on the floor.

An experienced corporal shot them both.

Artem’yev, deftly sliding a full magazine into his Tokarev one-handed, slapped a few shoulders and led his men on.

A grenade landed at his feet and he kicked out, making a heavy contact
, and sending the deadly object back through a doorway.

It exploded, sending a shower of dust and plaster in all directions.

Some sixth sense warned Artem’yev.

“
Out!”

His men threw themselves out of the windows and doors, their departure marked by the arrival of at least four more grenades.

Reduced to five men, the others had exited on the other side of the building, Artem’yev waited for the grenades to explode and then led a charge along the outside of the old stable block, turning through a damaged doorway into where he assessed the enemy grenadiers had secreted themselves.

He was spot on
, and his rush found four backs turned towards him.

He shot one man between the shoulder blades, one of his men almost cutting the others in half with his PPSh.

Firing in the adjacent room caused the group to drop to the floor, using the bodies, both dead and alive, as cover.

The unmistakable sound of a PPSh announced the presence o
f the rest of his assault squad, and he warned his men not to be too hasty should figures appear in the entrance.

He was right
, and two more of his men arrived. Eight, including himself, now mustered in what had obviously once been a tack room.

Posting two men, h
e permitted a moment to have a drink from canteens, but there was no time to smoke or eat.

Artem
’yev could sense that the Americans were breaking.

The next position that he a
nd his men swept into was empty, or at least occupied by men who had long since ceased to care.

US soldiers were seen scurrying between piles of rubble across the street
, and a couple of Artem’yev’s men contributed a few bullets to help them on their way.

Moving outside
, the small assault group ran headlong into a body of armored infantrymen intent on ‘repositioning’ to the rear.

The lead Guardsman brought up his PPSh but was beaten to the draw by his counterpart, whose grease gun wrecked the man
, and splattered the hideously wounded soldier’s comrades with blood and gore.

The falling body brought Artem
’yev down, and the soldier behind him followed, falling on top of his commander, winding the both of them.

The only man in the Soviet group possessing a
bolt-action rifle took cool aim, and dropped the enemy soldier with a single shot, his screams loud, but brief.

Two soldiers were rolling around on the floor, each trying to gouge the eyes out of the other.

The small courtyard was suddenly too densely packed to provide room for anything of submachine gun size or above, so the two groups resorted to knives, pistol and hands to overcome their enemy.

Artem
’yev, struggling to his feet, received a punch on his broken arm. The pain was extreme, and he bellowed as he crouched to protect it from more harm.

Struggling for breath he moved back, narrowly avoiding a kick aimed at sending his head into orbit.

The US soldier was off-balance, and he fell against two more soldiers struggling for supremacy. A knife quickly flashed and another GI was out of the fight, victim of one of his own and the mists of close combat.

Artem
’yev struggled to wipe the tears from his eyes with his one good hand, all the time retaining a grip on the pistol in it.

His rifleman had an American soldier on the floor, his full weight pressing down on the Mosin that was placed across the man
’s throat.

The American was turning purple and the
defending hands were weakening in their effort to push the weapon away.

An
small American NCO raised his knife, intent on plunging the blade into the Guardsman’s back, his face suddenly betraying shock as his strength left him in an instant, one of Artem’yev’s bullets ripping through the man’s chest.

He fell to the floor, dead before he had covered half the distance.

At the courtyard doorway, out of which the US troopers had charged, Artem’yev saw an enemy.

The young
GI stood holding a .30cal by the triggers and barrel, pointing it into the courtyard, undecided, or just too plain scared to make a decision.

The area was rapidly emptying of American resistance
, and soon the decision to fire would be more easily made.

Artem
’yev put a bullet through the boy’s stomach, dropping him to the ground in agony.

The last two GI
’s were overwhelmed and killed quickly, one earning numerous kicks for slashing the throat of the rifle soldier.

A grenade bounced off one wall and exploded.

One of Artem’yev’s men squealed in pain as three fragments took him in the chest and stomach; another silently absorbed the agony of hot fragments in his thigh and arm.

Artem
’yev fell against the wall and slid down it, leaving a red trail as he went.

One fragment went straight through him at the joint of neck and body, the bleeding instant and profuse.

Another slashed open his broken arm, just below the elbow.

With his injuries, the assault group lost its impetus
, and the few survivors did what they could for their comrades, but advanced no more.

Elsewhere, the remainder of his Guardsmen
drove back the surviving armored infantry, forcing the surviving US tanks to fall back and, by ten minutes to four, Strassfeld was wholly in the hands of the Red Army.

The snow fell thickly, covering many of the horrors.

Whilst the battle had raged in Strassfeld, Hardegen had pushed his men and tanks hard against Müggenhausen.

The promised Soviet artillery support had arrived, and was hurting the Task Force badly.

Sometime during the attack, he was unsure as to when the defining moment had occurred, Hardegen realized that his force was being beaten, and that to preserve what was left he needed to get in closer and cling to the enemy infantry for all he was worth.

As he rushed his troops forward, orders to the mortars called for the rapidest of rapid fire, and US bombs starting doing grisly work amongst the enemy infantry.

Only ‘Bismarck’ and one other Easy-Eight had made it to the edge of the village, the ISU152’s proving to be awesome adversaries.

The attrition in vehicles had been extreme
, and the arrival of six T34’s from the 12th Guards Heavy Tank Regiment* had threatened to turn the tide.

The newly arrived Jackson had earned its keep, dispatching four of the tanks in as many minutes, proving the worth of its 90mm gun.

Fig#109 - TF Hardegen's second assault on Müggenhausen, 11th December 1945.

One of the ISU
’s put a heavy shell on target, and the M36 tank-destroyer was transformed into pieces of flying scrap within a micro-second.

Hardegen
’s tank killed it with its second attempt, bringing his total kills in the brief combat to five.

The mixed infantry group had charged recklessly into M
üggenhausen, and immediately encountered the same problems as the nightmare endured by the armored infantry in Strassberg.

The clerks and cooks tried
, and no-one could have asked more of them, but they were not proper combat soldiers, and the casualties they took reflected their weaknesses, as well as the strengths of the guardsmen who fought with them.

The German unit had been there before, many of the men
were veterans of the Russian front.

If it was at all possible, the close combat between the Kommando and Guards infantry was even more bestial than that elsewhere across the frontage of CCA
’s defeat.

The sight of hated uniforms spurred Artem
’yev’s men to superhuman effort; the vision of the old enemy drove the Kommandoes to incredible effort. The two combined left little room for decency and humanity, both of which took a back seat to the imperatives of survival and revenge.

Soviet artillery
continued to sweep the field, and Hardegen had decided to press forward and stay in support of his infantry, rather than leave them without armor and face annihilation.

The two Shermans stood as a redoubt
, and provided a rallying point for the US soldiers in Müggenhausen, standing proud around the junction of Rheinbacher and Rochus Strasses.

The 191st Artillery
was keeping Hardegen’s force alive, the excellence of their craft combined with the skill of the observer, Lieutenant Higgins.

An enemy rush manifested itself
, and both Shermans opened up, lacing the snow and rubble with tracers, each of which was accompanied by three equally damaging but invisible friends.

The rush died in an instant, almost as if the men had immediately been recalled.

Hardegen narrowed his eyes, expecting some sort of trick.

His ears warned him first, their unspoken warning reinforced by
red smoke rising from the enemy positions.

His eyes searched the snowy sky and found his nemesis immediately.

Two enemy aircraft were already lined up for an attack.

Rising up out of the turret hatch, he sensed rather than felt the zip of bullets around him
, as the Soviet infantry force saw his intent and tried to put him down.

He fired the .50cal, knowing he was out of range
, but using the device to warn those around him.