Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6) (23 page)

Captain Malvina Ivana Taraseva listened impassively to the report of the exhausted man.

His heavy breathing replaced the sound of his words, but still Taraseva did not respond.

Her mind processed the information and elected to respond by way of action.

The knife was out and slid into the man’s chest before he could offer a protest.

“You traitorous dog! All of you, traitorous dogs who deserve death!”

The runner was long past hearing, his eyes glassy, and his ears unreceptive to Taraseva’s rage.

She yanked the blade free, permitting the dead man to fall.

“Comrade Starshina, get them ready. The Allies are coming!”

“Listen you fucking monkeys… and listen good. If I ever… ever… find out who took a dump in my rucksack, I’ll have his bollocks off in a jiffy.”

The sniggering left Corporal Keith May in no doubt that the perpetrator was present.

A spent force, his bullying ways no good in present company, he tried to ponce a fag from the nearest smoker.

“Here, six-six, give us a fag will yer?”

It was a Welsh regiment, and there were so many Jones’, Davies’, and Jenkins’ that each man had a number, which rapidly became his standard name.

Lance-Corporal Ian Jones, the six-six in question, shrugged his shoulders.

“I’m out, Corp.”

It was a lie, but he didn’t care.

“Simmo, cough one up now, there’s a mate.”

“This is me last one, Corp.”

“Fucking hell, will someone one spring me a smoke… please?”

Davies one-four decided to cut the whining short, and a woodbine flew across the gap.

“Oh ta, one-four, very decent of you.”

Ensuring that his rotund frame was properly concealed behind the counter of the ruined tobacconists shop, May flicked his lighter and drew in the pungent smoke.

“Fags out, you bastards.”

May looked at the Sergeant as if he was a member of the Spanish Inquisition.

“I’ve just lit the bastard, Sarge.”

“Well, fucking unlit it, Corp’ral. We’re getting set to go now, boys. Change of plan. Rupert’ll fill us in shortly.”

The sergeant, Jones nine-five, dropped down next to his brother, Jones five-nine, and stretched his legs, easing the aches and pains of the day’s exertions.

The ‘Rupert’ arrived within seconds, bringing with him the wonderful news of the Soviet surrender.

2nd Lieutenant Gethin Jones lit up a celebratory cigarette as he explained the plan and the delay, May giving Jones nine-five the evil eye as he relit his own battered offering.

Close on Gethin Jones’ heels came the most hated man in the Fusiliers.

Major Stephen Monmouth-Kerr, or as he was known to pretty much everyone…Wayne.

The general description offered by his men tended to include the words ‘posh twat’, ‘arrogant’ and, perhaps most unforgivably, ‘useless’.

‘Wayne’ had decided to move forward with the first wave, perhaps to acquire some of the glory that his old military family had been steeped in, as he was so fond of telling his subalterns whenever they stood still long enough.

Most thought it was simply to find some item around which he could concoct a story of great valour.

The assembled soldiers shared a common thought.

‘Twat.’

As the seconds passed, the men of 1st Platoon readied themselves.

The support gunfire from 83rd Field Regiment had been cancelled, although the experienced gunners were waiting… ready just in case anything went wrong.

“Right-ho, Lieutenant. Move your platoon forward. Chop-chop.”

Gethin Jones rose swiftly and waved his sten.

“Come on then, boys… after the Major now.”

The younger officer deferred to the company commander, and Major Monmouth-Kerr suddenly found himself outside his comfort zone and in front of his men.

Taraseva held the flare pistol close and automatically checked above her to ensure she could get the last flare up through the ruins.

The gap was sufficient and she smiled, wondering if the single green flare she had left would be enough for her needs.

It took her only a moment to understand that there was nothing she could do, even if it wasn’t, so she contented herself with calming those soldiers around her.

“Wait, Comrades… wait… wait…”

The Major managed to find a torturous route to scramble through, but still hit the paving of Brandsende ahead of the others.

His bravado increased and he encouraged the men forward with his revolver, the ice white of its lanyard waving about as he pointed at the men around him.

“Come on, Sergeant. Get a move on… no hanging back, man.”

Jones nine-five’s look was lost in the darkness of the night and he bit his tongue, halting the retort at source.

Jones five-nine leant in closer as he hauled himself over a large lump of masonry.

“Come along, nine-five, stop skulking now, you old gont.”

The sergeant aimed a swing at the back of his brother’s head, which was as easily evaded as it was expected.

“Shut it, you little bastard. Show some respect for your betters.”

Instinctively, he put out a hand to help his younger brother over the next obstacle.

“I’ll do that when I find someone better, nine-five.”

The younger soldier received a less than helpful push towards the final barrier in their stealthy advance across the small street.

Left and right of them, the men of A Company were doing the same, and the entire company had now left the safety of the ruined buildings that had formed their defensive position.

Fusilier Cornish, the 1st Platoon number one gunner, had established his post back in the same buildings, and his Bren gun moved gently from left to right as he scanned the dark rubble ahead for threats.

The two Jones brothers moved apart and Sergeant Jones 95 found the unit’s unofficial medic, Davies one-four, on his shoulder.

“Something’s wrong, Sarge.”

Jones’ arm shot up, and those around him stopped and dropped as low as they could, the effect rippling outwards in both directions.

Fig# 187 – the Battle of Hamburg

“What, one-four?

Only the Major failed to stop, and he moved slowly forward to the threshold of some unidentifiable building.

Turning around to order some soldier to proceed inside before him, Monmouth-Kerr suddenly realised he was alone and quite exposed, which was not a very satisfactory state of affairs for him, and he went to move back, intent on ripping some poor unfortunate off a strip.

As Davies one-four explained his feelings on the absence of any display of surrender from people supposed to be surrendering, the matter was spectacularly resolved.

Captain Taraseva saw the line of advancing British drop to one knee, which alarmed her.

The leading man, clearly an officer, suddenly turned his back and moved back, displaying unusual urgency.

‘Blyad! They know we’re here!’

A green flare exploded overhead, drawing nearly every eye.

Less than a second later, all hell broke loose.

Major Monmouth-Kerr was the first to die, literally coming apart as a burst from a DP28 took him from the small of the back to the top of his head, spreading his blood, guts, and brains over the unfortunate Gethin Jones.

Two of the bullets also hit the Lieutenant, and he dropped to the street, his shoulder and neck penetrated by the DP rounds.

Bullets slammed into the rubble around the Welshmen, claiming victims with ricochets as much as direct hits.

Sergeant Jones sustained such a wound in the rump of his ass; painful, nothing more.

Jones six-six took a direct hit in the mouth that detached his complete lower jaw, but, despite the horrendous gaping wound, still managed to make his animal-like screams louder than the growing firefight around him.

Most of the wounds were upper body and head, and the Royal Welch suffered badly in the opening exchanges.

Jones nine-five, the senior man for yards in any direction, quickly decided to get the hell off the street.

He shouted in all directions, gaining the attention of the men around him.

“Grenades… grenades!”

He waved a Mills bomb in all directions to emphasise his point.

Those who could see, grabbed for their own little bomblet and readied themselves for the orders.

Sergeant Jones grimaced as the nearby Fusilier Simpson took a ricochet in the side of the head.

Davies 14 was on hand, and quickly started work on the nasty wound.

Jones nine-five pulled the pin, holding the Mills in plain sight. His actions were mirrored along the line.

He ducked as a round clipped his helmet, cursing inwardly at his own stupidity for raising his head out of cover.

Using his other hand, he held up three fingers.

Allowing the lever to spring clear, he dipped the grenade arm in a clear fashion, counting out the three seconds, before raising himself up and sending the deadly charge into the rubble, aiming at the flashes of weapons to his front.

His grenade arrived with a number of others.

The sharp cracks of the detonations were all Sergeant Jones nine-five needed.

“Charge! Up and at the baaarrrssstttaaarrrdddsss!”

He was moving immediately, in fact two grenades went off as he rose, and he plunged forward into the ruins ahead of him, followed by a tidal wave of fusiliers, yelling anything that came to mind, and firing as they charged.

A number of the Soviet defenders had been killed or wounded by the grenades, and most had ducked instinctively.

Some were out of ammunition already, others had some left to use.

A few fusiliers fell on the run-in, but most slammed into Taraseva’s defensive line.

Corporal May stumbled as he tried to leap the barricade.

The bayonet took him in the throat, missing everything vital but transfixing him to a door that lay on the floor.

He scrabbled at the blade, slicing the flesh of his fingers.

The female mortar corporal, screaming in her fear, pulled the trigger as she remembered she had once been instructed, almost blowing May’s head off his shoulders.

She, in turn, took a rifle butt in the side of the head, as Corporal Robinson came up on her blind side.

The young girl was dead before she toppled over the barricade and onto May’s corpse.

The Royal Welch outnumbered the defenders, and were in a lot better physical condition, but some of the Soviet troops had earned their spurs on the streets of Kharkov against Hitler’s SS, and were not easily shrugged aside.

Jones five-nine and Steven eight-five found themselves suddenly isolated and opposed by a group of dreadfully thin soldiers, who fought with the desperation of experienced men.

An entrenching tool just failed to remove Steven’s head, clipping the ear, cutting in to the hairline, and sending gobbets of blood in all directions.

A knife ploughed a furrow in Jones nine-five’s thigh, but the perpetrator received short shrift, the butt of the Enfield rifle hammering into the man’s throat, wrecking everything vital in an instant, and dropping the veteran soldier to the ground.

A glancing blow knocked Steven eight-five’s rifle from his hand, shattering the thumb and two fingers on his right hand.

Incensed, as Steven was a boxing champ within his battalion, he clubbed his adversary with a fist on the top of the head, sending the man to the floor.

He dropped onto the insensible man’s chest knees first, breaking a number of bones, and punched him four times in the face for good measure.