Opening Moves (The Red Gambit Series) (104 page)

He took out his binoculars, only to find that they too had been damaged during the battle, fragments of one glass lens falling out, tinkling onto the ground where he stood.

Chekov suddenly felt so tired and hoped that the men would soon complete their task, although he knew only too well that he would remain awake for the first sentry turn to show example to his men.

A sound developed more and more in his subconscious until it was identified as aero engines.

Scanning in the direction of the growing roar, he spotted a flight of Shturmoviks heading north-west and flying almost directly over his head.

He craned his head, following the flight.

‘Off to cause the Amerikanisti more grief,’
he mused, too tired to really care.

His gaze lowered the further the aircraft flew on, Just as he was about to look away he spotted the movement, brief, vague, but none the less very real.

Gently but purposefully stretching, apparently unconcerned, he strolled back round the building and to where his men were finishing up their cleaning and rearming.

He needed to ask for one final effort from them, and quickly brought them to order.

Serzhant Iska would take a cover group of the two DP machine guns and six of the best riflemen into the building that was to be their billet.

As Chekov had walked back from the abandoned tractor, he decided Iska’s building’s field of fire would be good enough if the movement was what he thought.

A cover force of six men under a steady Yefreytor was set to watch the right flank of Iska’s group.

He, with the remaining eighteen men, would move west to the riverbank and then move northwards in its cover.

Now that action seemed likely, Chekov’s lack of a suitable weapon needed addressing. He had sixteen rounds left for the Garand and decided to discard it.

Iska went to one unloaded crate and fished out two weapons. The first was an SVT-40 automatic rifle, showing signs of similar damage as that which had rendered his PPSH useless at the bridge. The other was a pristine Mosin-Nagant sniper’s rifle. Whilst Chekov loved shooting, his head won over his heart and he took the SVT, along with a bag of magazines retrieved by an engineer at Iska’s direction.

The sniper’s rifle went with Iska’s unit and was quickly given to the unit’s best shot.

Chekov moved his men out and, using the cover of buildings and undergrowth, reached the river.

It was agreed that if Iska saw enemies on the loose then the lorries horn would be used, three times to confirm and then once for every five or so men seen.

It was simple but should prove effective thought the Serzhant, who stifled a laugh as he realised the rifle protruding from the window he was looking out of was in the hands of the elderly truck driver.

“Make sure you point that in the right direction granddad. You know which way that is don’t you?”

The old man looked at the NCO with something approaching disdain and hawked deeply, spitting the product out of the window and nearly reaching the derelict beyond.

“Have no fear; I have had cause to use one before Comrade Serzhant.”

Iska laughed softly.

“Such as where and when old man? I’m keen to know the metal of the man I fight next to.”

“I joined the Army in 1928 and became a rifleman in the 87th Rifle Division.”

Iska, speaking the truth but intent on mischief, probed further.

“Never heard of them. What did they do? Convoy duty on the Caspian Sea?”

“Bit of this, bit of that Comrade. Finland for the Winter War and of course Kiev. That’s all the 87th did really.”

Enjoying his baiting, Iska searched for more dismissive lines.

“That’s not a lot. Why didn’t you do anything impressive and brave then?”

“Because they changed our unit designation and the 87th was no more Comrade Serzhant.”

“Oh you were disbanded then?”

“No Comrade Serzhant. Just renamed.”

Part of Iska’s mind sounded warning bells but they were overridden by his attempts to wind up the old man. From the grins on the faces of his riflemen, he was providing glorious entertainment for them, grinning to a man as they were.

“Oh really? What was that to? 1st Guards Kitchen Division Comrade?”

With all the skill of a striking snake, the old man put Iska in his place.

“Close enough Comrade Serzhant. 13th Guards Rifle Division. You may have heard of them.”

There was not a man in the Red Army who hadn’t heard of the 13th Guards, mainly for their heroics at Stalingrad.

The grins had vanished and the awkward yet extremely respectful silence encouraged more from the old soldier.

“I was with Leytenant Dragan at the railway station, and later on I served on the Mamayev Kurgan.”

After a moment’s silence, the Serzhant ate his humble pie.

“My apologies Comrade Driver. Had I known I would not have…”, and embarrassment overtook him, “You know. Sorry.”

Against all convention, the old man slapped Iska’s arm robustly.

“Think nothing of it Comrade Serzhant. From what I saw of that mess at the bridge, you boys have been ‘there’ too.”

A hissed warning from the sniper brought everyone back to the task in hand.

“I count… eight…no….twelve…..no….govno!”

He slid his eyes away from the scope and looked at a rapidly moving group of Americans well over thirty strong, a sight which everyone there, even the old guardsman, could see unaided.

Rushing across the landing to the window at the front of the house, he called down to one of the cover group, stood by the lorry with precise orders.

“Three and six Boris, three and six.”

As he moved back to the rifle group the sound of honking in the required pattern reached his ears.

“Wait for the Lieutenant Colonel to engage and make sure of what you are aiming at.”

Chekov had moved his party speedily and when the contact report sounded he checked his party and moved up to the edge of the rise.One look told him that he was nearly in a direct path with the enemy group’s advance, having actually gone about fifty yards too far.

The first bullets took the lives of Brown and Lopez, each man taking two rounds from Chekov’s SVT. Other rifles and sub-machine guns opened up from the riverbank and more men dropped, never to rise again. Brennan immediately took his men left, away from the threat and nearer to the haven offered by the buildings.

This haven transformed into Hades as Iska ordered his men to open fire.

Two DP machine guns poured fire into the group, one into the front end, one the rear, causing the troops to bunch more.

The riflemen calmly fired and reloaded, sweeping the centre ground.

Some eighteen enemies were already lying motionless and more were moving with difficulty because of wounds.

However, enemy fire was now coming back and one DP ceased firing amid animal like screams.

Iska ran into the room and recoiled in horror. The loader was dead, shot through the centre of the forehead.

The gunner was rolling on the floor in agony, blood pouring through the fingers clutching his shattered face, pieces of which had been displaced by two bullets striking the magazine of the machine-gun causing vicious metal fragments to fly off. Sharp pieces had flayed his face open, shredding his eyes and opening his jawbone to view. Steady spurts of lifeblood from his leaking jugular drained his strength with each pulse.

The screaming was awful, a comrade in pain.

Not for the first time, a merciful bullet from a friend was preferable to the agony of wounds and Iska dispatched the poor soldier with a single shot.

There was no time to dwell on the matter and the tough Serzhant returned to the rifle room, only to be smashed in the shoulder as soon as he walked through the door. The impact dashed him against the solid door frame, causing further hurt.

His rifle dropped to the ground and all he could do was clutch his painful wound and watch on as his men fought.

Considering they had the advantage of cover over the Amerikanisti, they seemed to be taking too many casualties.

Iska suddenly realised that there was another enemy group, presently unengaged, that was firing at them unhindered.

Stepping up to the firing line again he got the attention of both the sniper and the old driver, pointing with his bloody hand, issuing his orders to engage the new enemy group through gritted teeth.

This group was also in the act of setting up a .50cal machine gun, which could well have changed the balance.

Iska’s quick thinking meant otherwise and both of his men killed their targets, the old soldier calmly directing the fire of the younger sniper.

Disaster had struck the Americans and there seemed little to do except fight it out and die. Brennan prepared to do just that, dropping to a knee, bringing up his Garand and taking out two enemy on the river line.

Suddenly he became aware of a drop in fire volume from the village and realised his cover force had engaged and scored hits.

“Caesar, get the fuckers moving to the village now. I will cover. Go, go, go!”

Collins’ huge voice rose above the sounds of battle and not a single member of the group failed to hear the instructions.

They ran helter-skelter for Stammen.

Dropping down next to his Major, the bald NCO took down at least one man with a controlled four rounds from his Garand.

“The boys are moving Sir. We can buy them some time.”

The Master Sergeant looked quickly around and saw what he needed, pulling his Major into the relative safety of a shallow depression exactly halfway between the two roads.

Both men fired constantly, more intent on keeping the riverbank enemy focussed on them, not on the backs of their running men.

Collins tried a long throw with a fragmentation grenade but came up short, getting nicked on the upper arm for his trouble.

“Goddamn it,” he growled as he dropped back into cover and tested the wounded limb.

He risked a quick look at the men’s dash for the village and was appalled to see how few were left. Even as he watched, two more went down hard.

A low groan and a weight fell heavily against him, snapping his right leg at mid-calf in one hideously painful instant.

Brennan had taken a round through the shoulder and it had knocked him off his feet.

Collins, tears of pain in his eyes, helped the Major back up and watched as the officer tried to fire his Garand one handed.

The Master Sergeant picked up his own weapon, discharged the last two rounds skywards, and inserted another full charger.