Opening Moves (The Red Gambit Series) (103 page)

It was to the bloody inanimate patch he spoke as far as an observer could see, but in his mind he spoke to Kapitan Smina and Leytenant Munin, his dead engineers at the bridge and to Starshina Mikhail Neltsin, his friend.

“We will meet again and there will be a reckoning.”

0620 hrs Saturday, 11th August 1945, Stammen Heights, Germany.

The American defenders of Trendelburg had melted away, helped in their escape by a renewed downpour.

That same surge in rainfall prematurely concluded the exchange between the Sherman’s on the rise at Deiselberg and the IS-II’s’s and ISU-152’s on the east bank of the Diemel.

Both sides had scored hits and Serov had to concede that the American gunnery had been better, four ISU’s and three IS-II’s lost in the exchange. His vision was obscured but at least five distinct columns of smoke rose from where the US tanks had stood to exchange shots.

That increased to seven in one second as the remaining two companies of the 11th Guards Heavy Tank Regiment arrived on the flank of the defending armour.

The Colonel expected the defenders to withdraw and turned his attention elsewhere.

Reports from Penal Company Zin placed them on the outskirts of Deiselberg. Mentally correcting himself, Serov reduced Zin from a company to about a full platoon strength. According to reports, Zin’s unit had suffered horrendously at the hands of the automatic AA weapons they faced on the plain.

14th Guards Sappers had taken full control of Trendelburg and he had not been able to contain his relief that Chekov had survived the battle.

1st Battalion of the 1323rd Rifles had been hit very hard and was being pulled back into the east bank part of Trendelburg to sort itself out as best it could.

2nd and 3rd Battalions had pushed hard and dislodged the defenders from their positions in the woods, and pressed them back beyond Saurenthal. Two units of Germans, more militia than proper soldiers, had been the very devil to shift and many of his men had been killed in the wooded valley to the east of Trendelburg.

The 2nd Battalion of the Guards Motorcyclists had taken Friedrichsfeld without loss earlier and had been bolstered by the recent arrival of the 3rd Battalion.

The 7th’s Bridging Engineer officer had saved himself just in time, but had been presented with a new problem as the last IS-II from A Company had partially collapsed the bridge. Efforts were in progress to extricate the forty-five tons of Soviet heavy tank from the structure and effect repairs.

Ever the martinet, Serov had no intention of letting up on the unfortunate Kapitan, even though the Trendelburg Bridge was safely in friendly hands.

He smiled at that thought, but the smile disappeared as quickly as it arrived when he remembered the first casualty reports from the scene. He had ordered Chekov’s battered company back to the relative safety of Stammen, partially to ease their burden but partially so he did not have to look Chekov in the eye this day. His Leytenant had asked how many trucks would be needed.

The answer had said a great deal.

One.

‘Not this day,’
Serov repeated to himself, imagining the pain present in the younger man.

Another report from the 1323rd’s senior medical officer stated that a casualty station had been established near the burning Rapunzel Tower and that it was already overflowing with wounded.

Serov had radioed back for more medical assets and was surprised to receive them without having to fight for them.

It had been the same when he had requested more infantry reinforcements. 22nd Penal Company was already on the field and there were more troops coming.

Clearly, the Army Commander was a happy man.

“Time to move. Five minutes Comrades.”

A sudden flurry of activity showed he had been heard and understood.

“Kapitan Fleurov, contact 14th Guards and request a suitable location for us to set up in the town and secure directions.”

The Kapitan saluted and changed direction smoothly.

The Colonel sauntered off to the rear overlooking Stammer and sampled one of his stash of captured American cigarettes as his staff broke down the mobile HQ.

Enjoying the cigarette away from the hubbub of command, he closed his eyes and dreamt of himself at home with his wife, playing his accordion as she sung her songs. Startling himself from his reverie, he checked his watch. According to his calculations, he had run slightly over the five minutes so expected his staff to be ready when he walked back.

He became aware of the dull insistent ache and his brain reminded him that his bladder only had so much capacity.

In the time honoured tradition of man regardless of nationality, he sought a convenient spot to relieve himself and located a patch of scrub just off to his left.

Manoeuvring his trousers as needed, he let relief flood over him.

The ecstasy of the moment was interrupted.

“Sonofabitch!”

He looked down into the scrub in time to see a bayonet thrust upwards and stop just short of his pride and joy, whilst another hand holding a pistol emerged, attached to an indistinct shape in the undergrowth.

No words were necessary and he moved as directed by the waved directions of the pistol, rounding the scrub and finding himself in the middle of about twenty American soldiers.

‘I will have Haganski’s hide for this,’
he thought, failing to appreciate his predicament.

There was muted conversation amongst his captors but nothing that seemed threatening.

The large soldier,
‘was he a Sergeant?’
spoke to two others whilst the majority of the Americans kept their eyes firmly on his headquarters group.

“Ok then boys. He is yours. Silent and quick.”

Collins sidestepped to let the two survivors of 3rd Platoon do the job.

The older man walked up to Serov and launched his rifle butt straight into the Soviet officer’s mouth, smashing teeth and breaking his jaw, blood flying as the man’s head recoiled from the blow.

Still conscious, the Soviet commander fell to the ground.

The soldier carefully placed the butt of his rifle on the terrible wound and pushed hard, stifling any sound Serov was capable of.

Brennan and Collins watched dispassionately. It was not to the Geneva Convention but neither of them cared a damn.

The younger soldier slid his bayonet into Serov’s open flies and destroyed his penis and testicles in a rapid sawing motion.

The rifle butt pressed harder as a high-pitched squeal tried hard to escape.

Withdrawing the bloodied bayonet, the emotionless young soldier planted his left boot on the awful wound and pushed his weight down hard, steadying himself for a powerful lunge.

That lunge caught Serov in the upper chest and mercifully extinguished the pain instantly.

It was Brown’s group that went in first, and the few shots fired were probably lost in the general hubbub of the battlefield.

Seventeen men and women had stood before the charge. Ten now faced the attackers, pawing at the sky in surrender.

Each was forced to their knees and, in turn, bayoneted to death. The two women were first to die and were quickly dispatched. However, after them each death became more creative as the killers tried to outdo each other.

Brennan, Brown, and Collins were stood together observing and the horror of it clearly broke through the red mist.

“What have we done?” asked Brennan, an appalled and pained look distorting his face.

“Jesus Buck, we’ve become animals.”

Collins said nothing but couldn’t disagree with Brown, especially as he could see the same thought processes going on in the minds of his soldiers. So much so that the last man on his knees was not executed, the horrified GI who had stood in judgement on him unclipping his bayonet and sliding the virgin blade into it’s scabbard very deliberately.

The old soldier from C Coy took his place and stove in the back of the last Russians head with an already bloody stock, but he did not delight in the killing and ensured the man died instantly.

The survivors felt cold and tired, their motivation and energy all consumed by the anger that had died at the same time as the Russian prisoners.

It seemed that only Collins wasn’t paralysed by it all. He walked into the middle of the disorganised group and started to rap out orders, waking them from their malaise and bringing them back into some semblance of a fighting unit. Brown shook the party out into new squads. Brennan, jolted from his own personal waking nightmare by a steady encouraging hand gripping his shoulder, was now accompanying the owner of that hand in a search for Finch.

Collins found the officer thirty yards from the Soviet position.

“Reckon he must have tripped and fallen during the run in, Major. Neck’s broke.”

Brennan thought for a few seconds.

“Get his body put in one of the dinghies and we will use it as a stretcher.”

Collins started his objection but was cut off short by a tried and stressed officer.

“I am not leaving him here, not,” and he pointed squarely at the line of murdered Soviet soldiers, “Not with that nearby. We owe him more than that Caesar.”

There was no more to be said, so Collins doubled away to organise the recovery of his officer.

Prudently, Brennan moved his group on swiftly, moving down the line of trees towards the river beyond.

0655 hrs Saturday 11th August 1945, Stammen, Germany.

Chekov actually had more men left than would fit in a lorry comfortably, but he still managed to shoehorn thirty-three men, himself and cargo into a space more readily used by twenty-four.

The battered lorry slowly carried him and the survivors away from Trendelburg and towards the promised peace and quiet of Stammen.

A working suspension had long since become a distant memory for the ancient weather beaten driver, but that didn’t stop him from hitting nearly every dip and pothole on the road back.

Even the cessation of the rain didn’t ease the pain of the journey, as potholes filled with water looked very much like puddles unless you looked closely. Chekov was convinced the old fool was blind in any case.

Finally, the lorry drew up outside a large undamaged building in North Stammen and the weary engineers dismounted and were chivvied into line by Iska. Under orders from his commander, Iska organised the removal of the boxes and crates from the back of the lorry and instructions were given to clean weapons and replenish ammunition.

Without a single word of complaint, his men set about the task. Chekov swelled with pride and walked amongst the men as they professionally went about their soldierly craft.

As Iska wandered around handing out grenades, Chekov strolled to the edge of the village and lit up a Sobranie. The rich Turkish tobacco made him feel extremely light-headed and he leant against the old wreck of a steam tractor that had rusted badly and become engulfed in grass and creepers.

From his comfortable position, he could see the Rapunzel tower and now some of the rest of the castle burning fiercely.