Opening Moves (The Red Gambit Series) (100 page)

A red-faced and soaking engineer emerged from the water close by and coughed his way up the bank to where the CP had been set.

“Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, Kapitan Smina requests permission to attack the Amerikanisti mortar positions,” he turned and pointed, “Which lie roughly one hundred metres east of the bridge.”

A deeper cough to remove the detritus of his swim and the young soldier continued.

“Kapitan Smina states that he believes he can easily destroy the position with the twelve men he has ready and awaits your reply, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel.”

Chekov smiled. Of course it would be Smina who wanted to attack.

And of course, he would let him.

“Tell your Kapitan that he may do so, but not get involved in anything else, He is to return back once his mission has succeeded or is not possible. Is that clear comrade?”

“Yes Comrade Lieutenant Colonel. I will return immediately.”

The engineer ran back to the water’s edge and plunged into the river once more.

A figure Chekov recognised as Smina met the exhausted man at the water’s edge. A swift discussion took place before the Captain raised his hand to his CO and organised his section for the attack.

The Engineer commander watched as the group all but melted into the ground beyond the bridge.

The firing was increasing in volume and intensity.

Looking at his watch, Chekov correctly calculated that the main advances would now be approaching Deiselburg from the south and Trendelburg from the south-west and southeast.

Whilst Deiselburg was too far away from him for now, he looked out for more opportunity to get involved with the fighting and help his comrades in the infantry and tanks.

His attention was suddenly focussed on intense firing closer at hand as Smina launched his attack. There was no doubt that it had an immediate effect, the distinctive mortar sounds ceasing within seconds, replaced by the unmistakable sound of PPSH sub-machine guns hard at work.

He suddenly remembered the engineer who had donned the American uniform and looked for him but the man was experienced enough to have already cast off the enemy trappings.

‘No sense in getting shot by your own side’.

A new sound emanated from the south-west, unlike anything he or his men had heard before. A low ripping of cloth. Whatever it was the Chekov suspected it was bad news for someone. It was an M16 quad .50cal AA mount, and it was visiting hell upon the motorcycles and armoured cars of the 12th Guards as they tested the Seilerfeld road approach to Trendelburg.

The noise at the mortar position was abating and Chekov was watching carefully for signs of his men returning.

Eleven men had gone forth and the first of them scurried back with a second senseless over his shoulders.

The next two men were supporting another whose screams rose over the increasing sounds of nearby battle. He had no legs.

Four more men slid into view, one of them favouring a wounded side.

‘No more?’

Turning to question his trusted Starshina, he saw that the man was already on his way to the water to swim across and find out what had happened, in company with another NCO he didn’t recognise from the back.

Chekov noted with grim satisfaction that the mortars had not started again.

A Mosin rifle on his side of the river fired and was joined by other weapons as his troops engaged a small group of American infantry that was falling back down the eastern bank of the river. Most were successfully dropped to the ground and the others ran back to where they had come from, only to fall back into the hands of the advancing 1st/1323rd Rifles.

As the sunlight began to spread further, the welcoming shapes of BA64 armoured cars and ISU-152 self-propelled guns became evident on the southern approach road.

From the north-west side of the bridge emerged more enemy soldiers, some of whom were immediately killed by the engineers nearby.

However, this was a company of American engineers from the 308th Engineer Battalion, now galvanised by orders to protect the bridge, coincidentally defended by Soviet engineers of the 14th Guards Sappers with the precise same instructions.

Steady fire started from the buildings to the west of the bridge, increasing as more American troops were set to the task.

It now seemed to Chekov that a severe battle was taking place to the south-west of Trendelburg as well as on his own doorstep.

A panting Starshiy-Serzhant arrived with a report, rivulets of water running off the shivering man.

“Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, the attack was successful and the mortars have been destroyed with grenades or by smashing sights. However, Comrade Kapitan Smina was wounded in both legs and ordered his men to withdraw while he covered them.”

Chekov would have expected no less from Smina.

“Serzhant Iska saw him disarmed and taken alive.”

‘
Good,
’ thought Chekov, ‘
The Motherland will have need of such men when this abomination is concluded.
’

“Starshina Neltsin says that, with your permission, he will remain on the east bank to assist.”

“Agreed. Thank you Abramov.”

He considered that news.

Neltsin wouldn’t do that unless there was good reason.

‘Good luck and stay safe Mikhail my old comrade.’

Bringing himself from his thoughts, he grabbed a blanket from the pile next to the ammunition boxes and passed it to the NCO, who had done the river there and back in record time.

“Thank you for your effort young Abramov. Get yourself dry Comrade. There will be hot work here soon enough for you.”

Firing immediately next to his position took on an almost desperate quality, and he saw his men rise to receive a charge.

Abramov threw aside the blanket and fell, all in the same motion, the grenade exploding behind him, killing him instantly, punctured by a score of hot fragments.

Chekov was aware of two thumps on his right side but felt nothing as a mixture of courage and fear drove him forward to repel the assault, his men grabbing their close-combat weapons.

He fumbled for his Tokarev automatic.

Shouting for reinforcements, he charged up the bank into what had instantly become a whirling mass of bodies.

Standing back from the throng, he careful selected target after target, dropping each American engineer with an aimed shot, turning the tide single-handedly and allowing his men to gain the upper hand.

One wounded enemy Sergeant rushed at him, bayonet lunging, but he sidestepped it, allowing momentum to carry the exhausted American down the bank. He shot him in the back of the neck, dropping him into the water to drown in a combination of blood and river water.

One of his own men cartwheeled dramatically away, the top of his head distorted by the impact of a bullet fired from vengeful Americans who had witnessed the massacre of the assault party.

Another wounded engineer was dragged into cover before both sides recommenced a steady exchange of fire at distance.

Suddenly feeling his own aches and pains, Chekov examined himself. A lump had been taken out of his right calf. Painful now the adrenalin was abating, but no more than that.

The pain in his hip was worse and required him to drop his waist belt to examine the area.

His PPSH had been struck by a grenade fragment and the wound in his hip was actually caused by splinters from the sub-machine gun’s wooden stock. He pulled out three obvious ones and felt instant relief, but the sharp stabs of pain told him there were more present.

His PPSH was of no use, neither was his Tokarev, as he had no more ammunition for it.

Looking around he took up the rifle and bayonet his recent attacker had carried.

Smina was in pain but he reasoned that at least he was alive to feel it.

He dragged himself up on a sandbag position, gritted his teeth and surveyed the scene of his attack. Dead American’s were everywhere, his assault force’s only fatal casualty lying peacefully at rest, arms strangely but neatly folded where he had been dropped by a rifle bullet.

Smina nodded at the man’s corpse, acknowledging the man’s bravery in the attack and promising the stilled heart that he would recommend him for the valour award he deserved for his actions.

The sun was rising and the Kapitan turned his face upwards and smiled, half in wonder at seeing a new sunrise and half in pleasure at ensuring his men escaped.

His smile was not well received by his enemy.

“What the fuck are you smiling about you bastard?”

Smina did not speak a word of English but he didn’t need to, understanding by the tone alone that his last sunrise had come.

The 1st Lieutenant who until recently had commanded the mortar platoon of C Coy 330th Infantry had survived his men, but only just.

Dragging himself upright and with blood running freely from his shattered left arm, he unbuckled his holster and walked slowly over to the wounded Russian.

“Smile at this you murdering son of a fucking bitch.”

The first bullet was enough but he discharged all seven to assuage his anger.

0512 hrs Saturday, 11th August 1945, Exen, south of Trendelburg, Germany.

Brennan’s 1st and 3rd Platoons were rounded up by a platoon of Guardsmen from the 12th Guards Motorcycle Battalion and chivvied along at the point of a bayonet.

The Mladshy-Leytenant in command selected a brick outhouse on the west side of Exen and directed his men to secure the prisoners inside.

The space would probably have comfortably housed a dozen men but thirty-nine survivors were shoehorned into the derelict structure, the wounded, as well as the fit.

Leaving a section of twelve men to guard them, he took the rest off to perform a tragic duty.

Quickly they buried the twenty-one dead that his 3rd Company had suffered during the assault on Exen, including the company commander, an extremely popular officer, his friend, and the unit’s female radio operator, his lover.

He spoke words of farewell over the graves of his comrades and then spoke no more. Taking up a flamethrower, he strapped it on and transformed the derelict building and its human contents into a sea of fire.

As both screams and flames rose higher, his shocked men watched as he cried and, stricken with grief, blew his own brains out
.

0512 hrs Saturday,11th August. Trendelburg, Germany.

Chekov was now in a desperate position, under attack from both sides. On the positive side was the fact that his infantry comrades were nearly up to his positions on the east side of the river, the SP guns firing in direct support. On the other side, the battle was obviously hotting up on the west side of the town but he was under increasing pressure from the engineer enemy and what appeared to be infantry reinforcements.

As he watched the east bank, one of the SP’s took a hit on its flank, followed by three others that transformed it into scrap metal and immolated the crew.