Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6) (50 page)

The intervention tipped the balance in favour of the defenders, and most of the enemy started the process of falling back, leaving half their number behind, in one way or another.

However, von Scharf only had eyes for the cameo in front of him.

Keller’s scream was superseded by that of the enemy rifleman, as a burst of sub-machine gunfire stitched across his shoulders.

He continued to squeal with pain as he dropped face first onto Keller with his lifeblood draining away and his useless nerveless arms unable to do anything to stop the bleeding.

Next to Keller’s confused form, the metal butt plate of a Mauser smashed into the side of a guardsman’s skull, and a rough kick directed the dead body away from falling on top of Schneider.

The position was suddenly only occupied by the men of 3rd Battalion, save for the dead of both sides.

Von Scharf beckoned to three men.

“You two man this weapon… you, get at least four cases of ammunition here immediately. Move!”

Other hands grabbed Keller and Schneider and pulled them out of the gun pit and, with surprisingly more care and reverence, recovered the bodies of the two-gun crew.

Less reverently, two Soviet bodies were pushed into place to temporarily strengthen the position; the other enemy corpses were sent rolling down the hill.

Only the occasional shot interrupted the conversation back at Keller’s forward position.

“You look like shit, Stabsfeldwebel.”

Aching in places he didn’t know he had, Keller intended no humour.

“I feel like shit, Herr Hauptmann.”

A sanits arrived and went to work, the grey-faced Schneider getting first use of his medical bag.

A simple dose of morphine put the signaller out for the count, allowing the orderly to straighten and splint the ruined leg.

Keller and von Scharf shared a tug on the former’s water bottle.

“Cigarette.”

Keller had lost his manners, but it didn’t matter, and his commander pushed a lit one between his lips.

“Want to give me a verbal report for now, Hermann?”

It was meant as a light-hearted comment, but fell on stony ground.

‘The bastards attacked… we shot the bastards… strangled the bastards… the bastards fucked off.’

Keller rejected the idea immediately and went for the simpler option.

“Not quite now, if that’s alright, Herr Hauptmann.”

Neither man said any more, and they withdrew into the satisfaction of a cigarette and the unadulterated pleasure that a survivor draws from post-battle silence.

The Soviets had tried again, but got nowhere near their previous high-water mark.

The attack had simply petered out.

It actually hadn’t existed in front of Eighth Company’s positions at all, and von Scharf had decided to risk reconstituting his reserve force by pulling men from the Eighth to form it.

His main problem now was ammunition and water, one he was addressing by stockpiling weapons and ammunition from the dead of both sides, as well as scavenging for anything drinkable or edible amongst the corpses.

Von Scharf also risked a small party to take all the empty water bottles they could find and head back to the river in the valley behind them.

He consumed a pack of dry biscuits, washed down with some acidic red wine, and surveyed the battalion situation map, seeking out any weaknesses that he might have previously missed.

Reports from his companies showed differing fortunes for the Soviet advance.

Heights 397 and 420 were quiet. According to Keller’s 2IC, the Soviet attack formations had withdrawn back to the Saale, and in some cases, to their starting positions.

The only aircraft seen in the skies overhead were now Allied, although they had shared the space with a number of Soviet aircraft for a short and violent period of time.

Honours were even as both sides lost three aircraft each, but the sky belonged to the Allied air forces.

To the south, messages from the recovered Aschmann told of heavy fighting in Weenzen and southern outskirts of Marienhagen itself, although there appeared to be nothing more troublesome than enemy stragglers for Ninth Company to concern itself with.

The presence of friendly aircraft had even put a stop to the enemy mortar and artillery work so, for the first time since they had taken the height, the men of Third Battalion were not under fire from anyone.

Most casualties had been evacuated, save for walking wounded like Aschmann, or the seriously bloody-minded ‘I’m not going anywheres’ such as Keller.

The former was recovered from his momentary psychiatric lapse and, with his senior NCO, was examining an object of interest in the enemy positions.

“Gas cylinders? Some sort of field kitchen?”

Aschmann snorted.

“No chance… really… no chance. On their side… on such a low frame work… only one man… don’t see that at all, Oberfeldwebel.”

The two dropped back into silence, observing the curiosity that had appeared a few minutes earlier, slipped into a position almost unobserved, served by three men, two of which had melted into cover to the rear of the ‘thing’

“Tell you something, Herr Oberleutnant… whatever it is, that man is in an ambush position. Look at where his ‘cylinders’ are pointing… where he’s covering.”

Aschmann concentrated hard.

“You’ve a good point there, Oberfeldwebel. If I was going to position an anti-tank gun, I’d find no really better position, Behrens. He’s covering the approaches to Marienhagen, plus the cross route there, Route 462 and Route 240.”

He forced his eyes onto the binoculars.

“But it’s not an anti-tank gun, is it, Behrens... is it?”

“No, Herr Oberleutnant.”

Aschmann coughed and spat a gobbet of something unwelcome over the edge of his position.

“So what in the name of God and all his sainted triangles is the shitty thing eh?”

“Perhaps we should ask the old sweats, Sir?”

Ninth Company had two men who, allegedly, had accompanied Marshal von Blücher onto the field of Waterloo, so long was their war service.

“Go and grab the elderly gentlemen, Oberfeldwebel. Let’s see what they have to say, eh?”

Two minutes later, Stabsgefreiter Arturs flopped noiselessly beside his company commander.

“Herr Oberleutnant?”

Aschmann pulled the binoculars away and passed them to the wizened infantryman who, according to his records was forty-nine, but looked roughly twice that.

Pointing across the valley, Aschmann brought Arturs attention to the ‘thing’.

“To the left of that stone ruin… on the down side there… see it?”

“No, Herr Oberleutnant… I… ah, yes.”

“And?”

“Field kitchen?”

“We’ve decided not, Arturs. Not seen one before?”

“I’ve seen most that the communists have to offer. Not seen one of those before… mind you… it’s set up in a beautiful position, Herr Oberleutnant… lovely field of fire.”

Confirmation of his and Behrens’ thinking was of little use without knowing what it was.

“Thank you anyway, Arturs. Return to your platoon. Thank you.”

The old Stabsgefreiter returned the binoculars and saluted.

He passed his older friend on the way back.

“It’s a field kitchen, but play dumb, Roland. You’re good at that.”

Roland Freiser took a playful swipe at his old comrade.

“Fuck off, boy.”

He was a mere three months older than Arturs.

“Seriously. I’ve no idea what the bastard thing is. Asch is worried about it though, so it won’t take too much to get a rise out of him.”

The two parted, leaving Freiser’s ‘bullet-loading swine’ comment floating in the widening gap between them.

Freiser dropped into the earth alongside Aschmann.

“Reporting as ordered, Herr Oberleutnant?”

The binoculars changed hands again, but the sound of heavy engines and the crack of high-velocity guns distracted both men.

Snatching the binoculars back, Aschmann found the source.

“Our panzers are advancing. King Tigers and Panthers! They should make short work of the communists!”

Suddenly all smiles, he forgot the initial problem, concentrating on the nine heavy and medium tanks as they rolled forward in two lines, rolling down the road from Thüste, driving towards the enemy at Weenzen, occasionally stopping only to pick off an enemy tank here and there.

“Was there something you wanted, Herr Oberleutnant?”

Brought back to subject number one, Aschmann pointed towards the ‘thing’ and explained the problem.

Binoculars to his face, Freiser found first one, then quickly two more of the ‘things’.

“Fucking hell!”

“What? What’s that you say, man?”

“I can’t pronounce the name but I know what they are… and there’s three of them. The panzers are in trouble, Herr Oberleutnant. We’ve got to stop them before they get too close. Those bastards are deadly!”

“What are they?”

“They’re rockets… Hungarian anti-tank rockets. Saw some in use when I was with the Feldherrnhalle in Budapest. No fucking prisoners with those things. They’ll make mincemeat out of the panzer boys, no problem, Oberleutnant.”

He turned to look at his commander and saw nothing but horror on Aschmann’s face.

The officer thought fast.

“Get on to Bataillon. Tell them what we have, and that I’m going to try and stop the panzers. Oberfeldwebel Behrens!”

As he waited for the NCO to appear, Aschmann rummaged in the battalion chest.

“Herr Hauptmann?”

“Behrens… they’re rocket launchers, according to Freiser. I want them under fire immediately… tracer rounds… try and let the panzers know the enemy’s set up there.”

He paused as he lifted out the signal pistol.

“If the mortars had any ammo, I’d direct them onto it… them… there’s three apparently. I’m going to try and stop them another way.”

He found the flares.

“Tell the Leutnant that he’s in charge. Now get to it!”

Behrens was away like a flash as Aschmann slid the first flare into the pistol, and pocketed half a dozen more.

He moved back to Freiser’s side.

“Any more, Stabsgefreiter?”

“Not sure, Herr Oberleutnant. Three for certain… that’s what I can see. I remember the things used to engage up to about a kilometre or so, less to be certain. I think our panzers are still beyond that.”

He clicked his fingers as a memory surfaced.

“Buggiveters… they’re called Buggiveters…*”

He turned to look at his commander, but saw only a pair of heels as Aschmann was up and out of the trench. Running down the slope with his SMG in one hand and the flare pistol in the other.

He was still watching Aschmann as a burst from a DP28 chewed up the earth around the running man’s feet, before it was professionally ‘walked’ into the target.

The Oberleutnant went down hard, and stayed down.

[*Buggiveters
= Buzogányvető, Hungarian AT rockets]

Vesnin was fuming, and his bad temper grew with each hit on a tank of the 45th Guards.

“You say you can hit up to twelve hundred, so fire, Mayor, for the Motherland’s sake… can’t you see that the tankers are getting hammered out there?”

The AT unit commander shook his head.

“They’ll have to make their own arrangements, Comrade Alezredes Vesnin.”

He used the Hungarian rank deliberately.

“I’ll not risk my unit until I know I can hit what I aim at.”

Vesnin bit back his reply, as his briefing on the Hungarian-designed
Buzogányvető rocket system had been quite specific.

‘…the Mace unit commander is a veteran who knows what he’s doing. Assist as he sees fit, allow him to do his job, and protect the rocket systems and crews at all costs…’

Major General Babadzhanian had been so invested in this unit that he had bothered to send a written message specifically to Vesnin, under whose command he had placed the Special unit.

“When?”

“Eight-hundred.”

Vesnin made the calculation and came up short by nearly one hundred metres.

“And these things’ll kill their King Tiger?”

“No problem, Comrade.”

That was a claim and a half to Vesnin, but he held himself in check, grimacing as one of the supporting ZSUs exploded violently.

An enemy barrage pounded the top of Height 329, completely missing the launchers concealed on the northwestern slope.

He could keep his mouth shut no longer.

“That has to be in your range now, Comrade Mayor!”

Not removing his eyes from the special sight, Major Sárközi sighed audibly, like a parent at an overly questioning child.

“I need all five maces in range, or we’ll lose our advantage, Comrade Alezredes.”

That made sense, and Vesnin kicked himself for not thinking of it.

‘The man knows his trade remember!’

A scream betrayed some injury to the covering infantry force, two platoons of his guardsmen had been laid out in front of the launchers to provide security.

Another scream penetrated Vesnin’s brain to the core, one originating from Sárközi, as the Hungarian gave the order to fire.

The five ‘Mace’ launchers sent their rockets downrange as one.

Accelerating to two hundred metres per second, the Mace rockets ate up the battlefield and hit home.

Spectacularly.

Each hollow-charge warhead was capable of penetrating three hundred millimetres of armour, if the rocket warhead presented perpendicular to the armour plate.

The King Tigers and Panthers all had angled armour, so some penetrative power was lost.

Not enough to preserve some of the targets.

One King Tiger shrugged off a glancing frontal hit, its crew unharmed, but suddenly petrified beyond words.

Another one, a Henschel version, was struck on the flat turret plate.

Everyone died as the metalwork simply disintegrated and flew in all directions.

Similarly, the nearest Panther took a turret hit and came apart in a violent explosion.

The rear turret hatch cartwheeled away, the heavy piece of metal covering the short distance to the command Panther tank in the blink of an eye, where it wiped through the head and shoulders of the unit commander.

The foremost King Tiger lost its nearside track and half the drive sprocket, which halted its forward movement in the blink of an eye.

The second volley of missiles were already in the air and the disabled King Tiger was struck again. It burst into flames, knocked out whilst the crew were still working out what had happened in the first instance.

The leading King Tiger, spared when the ‘Mace’ targeted at it struck a tree trunk, had turned to present an angled front, but lurched down into a hole at precisely the worst possible moment, enabling the second rocket to strike its armour at the perfect angle.

The 215mm hollow charge warhead ignited and focussed its penetrative force on a spot precisely forty centimetres below the driver’s episcope, easily cutting through the thick armour, and similarly through the chest cavity of the panzer crewman next in line.

The huge tank started to burn lazily, and the crew quickly evacuated, only to fall foul of vengeful guards infantrymen, who mowed them down with unconcealed relish.

With all four King Tigers and two panthers knocked out, Vesnin was elated.

“One more volley and you’ll have wiped out the lot, Comrade Mayor!”

“No time for that, Comrade. We’re moving.”

“What? You’ve got them beaten. Fire again!”

“No.”

‘The man knows his trade remember!’

Sárközi shouted at his men, winding his right arm in a circular motion,

Each launcher had a crew of three, and was set on an old Maxim machine gun mount.

The entire set-up was manhandled away at breakneck speed; the Hungarians understood the urgency of the situation.

“I suggest you move swiftly, Comrade Alezredes. There’ll be a barrage shortly.”

Vesnin knew why they had relocated, but still wondered if the Hungarians should have taken another shot.

‘The man knows his trade remember!’

He followed Sárközi and his senior NCO as they sprinted away with arms full of equipment, trailing wires as they ran for safer ground.

Behind them, the Panzer unit’s Speiss, the senior NCO and all that was left of the command structure, howled into the radio, firing off coordinates at the same time as he tried to direct his driver on how best to get his Panther into cover.

The veteran of many a battle did both admirably, and saved himself and his crew, and also provided accurate details to the waiting artillery.

Shells crashed down on the ground that Vesnin and the Mace launchers had occupied a few minutes beforehand, and he knew that the Hungarian had been right.

He was also man enough to say so.

“Good call, Comrade Sárközi. You live to fight another day, whereas I would have killed the rest of them, and my corpse would have been decorated with the Red Star.”

The wiry Major turned away from watching his men set up their launchers again and nodded curtly, accepting the statement for what it was.

“We bloodied the fascist’s nose for them. There was no sense in throwing away my men and rockets in a gesture, Comrade Alezredes.”

In the valley, 45th Guards Tanks rallied and drove hard at the surviving Panthers, but overextended themselves, and found the rest of Von Hardegen’s Panzer Brigaden Europa waiting for them.

The surviving T34s streamed back through Weenzen, and didn’t bother to stop at Marienhagen.

It was not until Dunsen that the Guards Tank Brigade Commander managed to bring order to the chaos and halt what could only be described as the total rout of his unit.

Vesnin left the Hungarian special anti-tank company to its own devices, understanding that, no matter what he thought of fighting beside turncoat troops, they knew their trade and were solid soldiers.

He arrived in Marienhagen, where chaos reigned supreme.

Wiping his eyes clean of the dirt of battle, Vesnin reread the radio message script, the general retreat order almost unbelievable in the light of the successes of the Mace unit, and the heroics and sacrifices of his men on Height 462.

He screwed up the paper and closed his eyes.

Overhead, the sound of aircraft made him open them again, and the reports of exploding bombs and the whoosh of rockets seemed almost to taunt him, to remind him of his impotence and his inability to resist, against both the enemy air force and the General’s order.

‘Blyad!’

“Mayor Dushkin!”

His staff all looked at him, but only the Praporshchik spoke.

“Comrade Mayor Dushkin died on the hill, Sir.”

‘Blyad! I’m losing my mind!’

“Yes… he did. Right, get me second battalion immediately. We’re pulling back to another position.”

No matter how he said it, they all knew it was an ignominious retreat.