Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6) (19 page)

Hanebury watched on as the pathetic attempts of the villagers failed to prevent the fire ripping through the heart of the fifteenth century church.

There was no point in detailing any of his men to assist.

The structure was as good as destroyed before he and his men had arrived, although he understood why the handful of men and women tried so hard to preserve the already damaged structure.

It was a community thing, something he could fully identify with.

Something drew his attention to a different sort of fuss, a one-legged man and a woman, grabbing people, shouting, apparently oblivious to the fire.

Clearly, the two had something serious on their minds, and Hanebury’s curiosity was piqued.

During their sweep of the countryside, Jim Hanebury had engaged the veteran Heinrich Raubach in conversation, and had struck up quite a rapport with the old man.

He caught Raubach’s eye and inclined his head towards the gathering.

Raubach understood immediately and strode off confidently. He was soon embroiled in a flurry of shouts and gesticulation, which mainly consisted of finger pointing at the woods to the north.

He returned quickly, his excitement lending him wings.

“The SS have been spotted.”

He grabbed Hanebury’s shoulder and pointed to the northern woods.

“In there, about a kilometre… they killed the young man’s father… five of them… moved off heading north.”

The First Sergeant grabbed his own jaw and looked at the woods, then back at the agitated gathering.

“We sure on this, Heinrich?”

“Certain sure. The boy’s a Luftwaffe veteran… lost his leg in Normandy… he knows what an SS man looks like. They’ve gone back north.”

Hanebury suddenly realised something he should have thought of previously.

‘The ambulance… the hospital… they’re desperate for medical stuff… shit! I’ve fucked up!’

“They’re going back to the hospital.”

It was simply a statement, requiring no response.

“Round the boys up, Corporal. Pronto.”

Collier called the MPs back to their vehicles as Lucifer grabbed the radio.

“Pennsylvania-six-tw…” he started into a coughing fit as a change in wind direction ensured that the command vehicle was engulfed in rich smoke, “Pennsylvania-six-two, Pennsylvania-six, over.”

Stradley responded immediately and took onboard the new information, and Hanebury’s instructions.

To the northeast, his unit accelerated back down the road they had come, intent on resuming their over watch positions as quickly as possible.

After a quick exchange with Raubach, one of the Germans was dropped off to bring the villagers into some semblance of order, the man Raubach selected being an ex-Kriegsmarine Petty Officer with a level-head and a loud voice.

Within two minutes, Hanebury’s men were back in the saddle and racing north.

The two SS troopers who had set fire to the church had long since vanished back into the woods.

The radio had alerted the hospital defenders to the possibility… actually, the probability that the enemy was coming back their way.

The additional information that this was possibly an old SS unit left over from the last war caused a lot of concern.

Throughout the hospital complex, the defenders came alive and wished the sun to hang in the sky for a bit longer.

Most gripped their weapons more tightly, and they were right to worry.

SS Kommando Lenz had plunged back through the forest, determined to take advantage of any distraction started by the detachment sent south, and determined to get the medicines they needed, for the group, and for Jensen in particular.

During the march, Emmering and Lenz had discussed the possibilities of leaving the delirious soldier for Allied doctors to tend, but their ingrained comradeship, SS code, and lack of faith in any Allied good treatment, dictated that Jensen would be with them until the end, whichever end that would be.

Stealing a medic became a priority and, as they had moved back towards the hospital, they discussed how best to do the job.

Allowing his men to take a rest, Lenz and his two senior NCOs moved to a position from which they could observe the site, but avoided the position that they had occupied before.

Their previous plan had been to use the terrain and sweep around to the west, and it still looked good, although the obvious presence of alert armed men on the hospital’s perimeter was an unwelcome change to cater for.

None the less, they were sure that whatever distraction Birtles and Kellerman had enacted in Lonsee-Sinabronn would keep any other elements looking in the other direction, at least long enough to do what they needed to do in Bräunisheim.

Lenz, Emmering, and Weiss had forgotten a couple of the simple lessons of war.

It is not a good idea for you to supply the answers to your own questions.

Things are not always what they seem.

Perhaps it was understandable, as the SS soldiers had been fighting everyone they came across since May 1945, killing Americans, Russians, and Americans again, as the armies see-sawed back and forth.

The Kommando had moved many kilometres from its starting point, and seen men lost throughout the fields and woods of Southern Germany.

Regardless of how tired they were, they were bad mistakes to make.

Time played its part in what happened next.

Speed was an issue, as in all military operations, but Lenz also wanted to be away as quickly as possible.

The attack would be timed for the initial hours of darkness, to allow them the maximum amount of time to escape the locale before enemy security units arrived.

Therefore Lenz elected to move his men to the assault point in the evening light; not ideal, but necessary.

From their final position, and with the twilight, they would be able to better assess the target and the approaches to it.

Using the terrain, he considered that he could move unseen, certainly by the defenders of the hospital complex.

Having let his men recover from the speedy move north, Lenz harried them into order and sent them scurrying up a roadside ditch, led by Weiss, with the rearguard commanded by Emmering.

Everything went smoothly until the ditch petered out at the junction of the lane and Route 7312.

The whole Kommando simply melted into the ditch, as hand signals made their way from man to man.

Lenz made his way forward, sliding in beside Weiss.

In whispers and using signals, Weiss showed his commander the problem.

Sat on the edge of the wood ahead, set into the rising slope, was a ‘something’ that had attracted Weiss’ experienced eye.

Carefully, Lenz accepted the binoculars and homed in on the unusual construction, just in time to see a small movement, betraying the presence of an enemy.

Closer examination brought the sight of a .30cal machine-gun barrel… and a waft of cigarette smoke.

Lenz handed the binoculars back, and gently gripped his NCO’s shoulder.

“Good work, Unterscharfuhrer.”

Sparing a quick look at his map, and checking that his view of the terrain supported the printed information, Lenz laid a quick plan.

SS troopers Schipper and Zimmerman were given a quick brief and, having divested themselves of anything remotely military, disappeared back down the ditch.

The remainder of the Kommando stayed alert, eyes fixed on their surroundings… watching… waiting…

To the second, Schipper and Zimmerman emerged from the woods to the south of the US position, draped over each other, laughing and giggling, staggering like men who had enjoyed a little too much of what the local hostelry had to offer.

Lenz switched his attention to the enemy position, where three heads were now clearly defined, and all focused on the noisy new arrivals.

SS Hauptsturmfuhrer Lenz clicked his fingers once and, with a simple palm movement, sent death on its way.

Four killers rose and ran at top speed, reducing the distance between them and their targets rapidly, their crouched run less defined with each step forwards, their weapons held tightly, ready for immediate use.

The lead figure, Emmering, threw himself forward as a head appeared to turn, the American’s mouth opening to shout a warning.

The rest of the murder squad fell upon the distracted GIs, and two seconds later, four beating hearts were forever stilled.

Like the professionals they were, the four SS soldiers took station in the position, scanning the countryside for threats.

The two drunks had ‘sobered up’ and met up with a comrade laden with their kit, the whole Kommando moving forward, across the road, heading for the relative safety of the woods.

The sound of the heavy engine reached all ears simultaneously, and the SS soldiers hit the ground, disappeared into whatever cover they could find, or continued to run for a distant position of safety.

It mattered not, and the annihilation of SS Kommando Lenz began.

“Shit! They’re the krauts! Let ‘em have it!”

Hanebury grabbed the firing handles of the .30cal and let rip, the area around the bunker throwing up grass and earth as the bullets ripped through the air, and occasionally, flesh.

One of the four killers flopped to the floor, the top of his head waving like a bin lid over an empty skull cavity, the impact of three bullets sufficient to empty his head of anything remotely brain-like.

Emmering flew backwards, his left shoulder ruined by the passage of two more of Hanebury’s bullets.

The M3 halftrack’s heavier .50cal was working, and the SS Kommandos started to fall, as the gunner concentrated on those still running for cover.

Lenz screamed orders at his men, and then screamed in pain, as a heavy bullet blew his left hand off at the wrist.

A number of his men were down hard, but the others were starting to fight back, and the .30cal in the bunker position lashed out at the speeding vehicles.

Lewis Collier lost control of the command jeep as a .30cal and an SVT40 bullet struck simultaneously, one in each shoulder.

The jeep turned lazily and the front offside wheel stuck in a rut, rolling the vehicle and throwing the five occupants in all directions.

Collier’s left leg was snapped as the jeep’s windshield rolled across it, before the vehicle messily came to rest on top of one of the SS Kommandos’ bodies.

Hanebury, weaponless and in pain, the bones of his considerably shortened left arm protruding through a shattered wrist, rolled for cover as best he could, as Schipper and Zimmerman tried to finish the job the crash had started.

Raubach, still in possession of his rifle, took a steady aim and put a round into Zimmerman’s chest.

With a disbelieving look, he dropped to his knees, his chest welling with the vital fluids of life.

Unable to speak, he lost consciousness and dropped forward onto his face, almost like a man of faith at prayer.

He was dead before Raubach’s second round threw him to one side.

Hanebury dragged himself in beside the old German, his face grimacing with pain.

Acknowledging his presence with a nod, Lucifer sought and found the radio, and quickly determined that it was of no use, its damage clear and very terminal.

He risked a look at the firefight and grunted with satisfaction as his remaining vehicles took the fight to the enemy.

A German dragging a makeshift stretcher was hacked down, falling backwards onto the man he was trying to rescue.

The casualty, undoubtedly the man who needed the medicines Hanebury concluded, tried to drag himself off the litter into cover.

The halftrack swept through the SS position.

Hanebury winced as first the heavy wheels and then the tracks flattened the wounded man.

Jensen did not die.

But he did scream… and scream… his abdomen and pelvis smashed and crushed by the halftrack’s passing.

The Horch 1A had dropped off to one side, and its MG42, sounding like the proverbial ripping of cloth, ripped through three men in the tree line, killing each man with a minimum of four bullet hits.

Jensen’s screams were still the loudest thing on the battlefield and, if anything, grew louder as more feeling returned to his shattered body.

Hanebury scrabbled around for a weapon he could use with one good hand. He found his Thompson, bent almost at right angles at the magazine port, its wooden stock split, making it unusable.

A Garand lay invitingly close, but was irretrievable, the weight of the jeep holding it in position.

One of the Winchester 12 gauge shotguns stuck in the earth like a marker, and Hanebury shuffled across to grab it, clearing the impacted earth from its muzzle to make it fit for purpose.

As he and Raubach were distracted, the Horch took some heavy hits, killing two of Hanebury’s men, and causing lazy flames to work their way through the engine compartment.

Lenz moved as quickly as he could, dropping behind a piece of cover here or a corpse there, trying to get close to Jensen, who’s tortured wails were increasing.

The halftrack’s ma-deuce churned up the ground around his feet, ripping off a boot heel and taking a chunk out of his right calf.

The Kommando leader fell into an inviting hollow and, head in the earth, examined his options… option… to fight… surrender was not an option.

Half his men were down, if not more, but the enemy had suffered too.

The screaming from the destroyed Jensen grew deafening, and Lenz determined to end the soldier’s suffering.

Sliding up to the edge of the hollow, he gripped his PPSh, steadier on the earth, and fired a short burst, shattering the wounded man’s skull and neck.

Jensen died instantly.

Incensed, and close to losing control, Lenz rose up and yelled at his men.

Almost instantly, the SS soldiers got lucky.

Art Nave, driving the M3, took a bullet in the head. The ricochet hit the side of the vision slit and ploughed into his right temple. Nave went out like a light and the half-track drove into a tree, sending the occupants flying.

A Soviet grenade fell into the rear compartment, killing one MP and a German helper, and putting the rest out of the fight.

Lenz sensed victory, and urged his men forward.

Weiss, leading the surge, dropped to the ground, his ruined neck spurting blood with every weakening beat of his heart.

Trying to sit up, Weiss tried to shout at the men moving towards him, the very effort of turning his head causing his damaged jugular to give way, causing catastrophic blood loss.

His eyes glazed over and he died, his face still displaying a snarl as it thumped into the ground.

By the jeep, Raubach had missed the SS man he had selected as a target, and worked the bolt on his weapon, seeking to make sure of his kill with the next shot.

He ignored the stings as a bullet struck a wooden box from the jeep’s load, sending splinters into his face, neck, and ears.

He breathed out and made sure the sight was on, and pulled the trigger with the calmness of a man who has seen all that war has to offer.

Oberscharfuhrer Emmering had just set himself up behind the .30cal as Raubach’s bullet took him in the chest, robbing the SS NCO of his strength in an instant.

Julius Emmering fell back onto the body of the man he had recently slaughtered and, alone and scared, started the inevitable journey to darkness and the nothingness of what was to come.

Lenz saw his main man go down, hard on the heels of Weiss’ death, and screamed in anger, putting a burst into the old German soldier, and sending Raubach flying with the heavy impacts.

Having killed Weiss and two others, Corporal Rickard turned his attentions to the lunatic enemy officer who seemed to be firing at the destroyed jeep.

The Springfield sniper rifle barked, and Lenz flew backwards with the impact.

Rickard sought other targets.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the shape and rolled instinctively.

The vengeful SS soldier responded with equal quickness, and grabbed Rickard’s arm, slashing at the extended flesh with a cruelly sharp knife.

Rickard screamed as the blade bit and opened his arm almost to the bone.

The SS soldier rolled to slice at the American’s exposed neck, his head coming to rest against the barrel of Rickard’s Colt, which immediately discharged a single round that sent the German’s grey matter over the earth behind him.

The dead weight of the body held Rickard in place, and he struggled hard to get back into the action.

Meanwhile, Lenz had reloaded, the empty magazine tossed carelessly to one side, the new 71 round container in place.

The six remaining SS Kommando soldiers, moved towards the Horch and halftrack, intent on carrying out Lenz’s orders, namely to kill survivors and quickly grab anything of use.

Lenz himself went for Hanebury’s command vehicle, the PPSh held one-handed, ready for any threat.

As Lenz moved behind the jeep, a new force entered the arena, one that swung the balance of firepower in favour of the MP platoon, and one that sealed the SS Kommando’s fate.

The M8 Greyhound crashed through some modest hedgerow and started firing at the enemy to its front.

A halftrack quickly followed it, but moved out to the left flank, bringing its own .50cal into use.

A jeep and another half-track followed, completing the group commanded by Stradley, and effecting the reunion of Lucifer’s platoon.

Schipper was first to go down, as heavy bullets hammered into his torso, flinging him aside like a rag doll.

The others quickly followed, with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, they chose death, and death obliged them all.

Lenz watched as the remainder of his command was destroyed before his eyes, and his anger overcame him.

The PPSh lashed out at the halftracks, the jeep, and the armoured car.

Not without success.

Stradley took two rounds in the upper back, both of which punched out just below his collarbones. He dropped noiselessly onto the seat of the halftrack as it turned away.

Three others were hit by bullets from the vengeful Lenz.

The SS officer ducked behind the overturned jeep, stepping on the wounded Raubach.

Lenz straight-armed the sub-machine gun’s butt into Raubach’s face, smashing bone and teeth with real savagery.

Hanebury pulled the trigger, the muzzle of his pump action shotgun no more than eight feet from his target… and missed completely.

Holding the heavy weapon in one hand was tricky, and the motion of pulling the trigger, along with his fatigue, had been enough.

Lucifer prepared himself.

He had seen Stradley go down, and could only imagine how many of his boys had been lost to the piece of shit that now turned on him.

This was the man that had killed the medics…

Killed the Russians…

Set fire to the church…

Killed the old woodsman…

Killed how many countless others…

Lenz screamed at the American sergeant lying by the jeep and brought the PPSh up, aiming it in one simple manoeuvre.

He pulled the trigger.

A single bullet only, which took Hanebury in the midriff, causing him to moan with pain.

When Lenz had hammered the gun into Raubach’s face, he had displaced the magazine enough to jam the feed of the next round, thus saving Hanebury’s life.

Two bullets hit Lenz in the back, and he was thrown at Hanebury, ending up on his face right beside the wounded NCO.

Raubach had been responsible for the one that had entered Lenz’s anus and burst out through his genitalia, ruining the SS officer for the rest of his tenure on life.

At the same moment, Rickard had put his own bullet through Lenz’s back, destroying the right lung on its way through to the open air on the other side.

Hanebury moved himself up onto his elbows, and prodded the babbling German onto his side.

Lucifer looked at the man, the eyes still glowing with fanaticism and hate, even though death was rapidly approaching.

Shouts indicated more US troops arriving, as medics and other MPs from the hospital gained the field and started to tend to the wounded and dying.

A young medic stopped by Hanebury, who shrugged off the ministrations, intimidating the green soldier as much with his injuries as his scowl.

“Fuck you, Amerikan… fuck…,” Lenz descended into a coughing fit, bringing fresh crimson blood to his lips.

Bringing his breathing under control, Lenz pushed himself upright, or as best he could, and spat bloody phlegm at Hanebury.

“Ich schwöre dir, Adolf Hitler, als Führer und Kanzler des Deutschen Reiches…”

Hanebury looked around, taking in the terrible scenes… of the medics tending to his wounded men… or covering those beyond help…

“Treue und tapferkeit. Wir geloben dir…”

Raubach fell back into unconsciousness, his face a bloody mess of flesh, bone and teeth…

“Und den von dir bestimmten vorgesetzten gehorsam bis in den tod…”

Lucifer’s face went blank as his decision was made. His hand released its hold on the shotgun, and the Winchester dropped down through his fingers, his hand suddenly shifted from trigger to charger.

Not taking his eyes off Lenz, Hanebury made a sharp motion with his good hand, chambering a shell.

The charging of a pump-action shotgun has a very particular sound, one that carries no good news for anyone at the business end of the weapon.

None the less, there was no fear in Lenz’s voice, or in his eyes… just hate… and malice… and fanaticism.

“So wahr mir Gott helfe! Seig heil!...”

Hanebury held the weapon steady as a rock, his hand back on the trigger, the muzzle placed nicely, balanced on the German’s bottom lip and tongue.