Opening Moves (The Red Gambit Series) (114 page)

The concealed operational T34 fired again and penetrated the hull front of the CS Sherman just underneath the machine gunners position, cutting the luckless gunner in half before moving on to destroy the main gun loader as he was in the act of sliding a shell home.

Whatever happened in that split second turned the tank into an instant inferno, immolating the dead and living in equal measure. Within seconds, the vehicle was ‘brewing up’, a typically British understated term for the way some tanks burn like furnaces, firing flames in hard straight lines from openings and loudly whooshing like a boiling kettle.

Those in and around the Markt who had not seen the phenomenon before could not help but spare it a horrified gaze, the more so when the awful fate of the crew occurred to them.

Finally locating the enemy tank, the other British vehicle, a Firefly, put three shells into the now silent hulk. The 17-pdr’s sabot rounds had a high penetrative performance but lacked the punch of larger shells once inside. In this instance it hadn’t mattered, as the first shell had killed three of the crew, the last two succumbing to the second impact.

Much to the regret of the Firefly crew, the enemy tank did not burn as their friends had burned.

They moved forward into a sandbagged position to assume a cover position up the Mönckebergstra²e and immediately destroyed another T34 manoeuvring its way past its dead comrade. This time the Firefly gunner was rewarded with the sight of flames and a satisfactory imitation of CS tank behind him.

In Ramsey’s position it was total chaos. Some of the Scottish and Germans soldiers exchanged fire with the majority of the Russians, who had temporarily dropped back to regroup for another attack, satisfying themselves with grenades and bullets over the thirty yards that separated the two forces. The remainder were engaged in close quarter fighting with the score or so enemy who had not fallen back with the others.

The sudden squawk of the pipes being winded penetrated the sounds of fighting.

B Company’s piper had taken a bullet on the leg as he ran across the Markt and had only just managed to crawl to his instrument to contribute as best he could to the fight.

Setting himself against the dead body of an unknown paratrooper he started his repertoire, ‘Scotland the Brave’ building in volume as he set about his task.

The effect upon Ramsey’s Jocks was electric and they renewed themselves to greater efforts, especially as their Major had rejoined them, unharmed and in fighting mood.

Ramsey could sense the difference and, for that matter, so could Perlmann twenty yards away to his left.

Turning around to shout at the Piper, the very English Ramsey drew a number of grins from his men for behaviour less than that expected of a gentleman.

“Piper Sinclair!”

The piper played on.

“Sinclair!”

Affecting his finest Scottish accent Ramsey tried again.

“Sinclair ye deaf bas!”

Picking up a piece of brick, Ramsey tossed it at his piper who thought that it was a grenade and rolled over the body of the German with the speed of a gazelle.

Sheepishly looking over the corpse he noted his Major grinning and shouting in his direction.

Ramsey, confident he now had the undivided attention of his piper issued his orders.

“Black Bear Sinclair, give the lads Black Bear!”

Putting wind in his instrument once more, the pipes started to belt out Ramsey’s choice, which the company always played when they went on the attack.

The Scots braced themselves and waited on Ramsey’s order.

That order came and the Watch rose up, charging forward, screaming like banshees, closely followed by the strangely yet equally inspired Fallschirmjager.

The Soviet force also chose to attack at the same time and the two groups met in the middle area, clashing at the charge.

A hideously ugly Russian leapt in the air, intent on staving Ramsey’s skull with his rifle butt. As he descended he changed direction in mid-air, the force of bullets from a paratroopers MP40 sending him flying into the Soviet rifleman to his left.

There was no time for thanks as that man, regaining his balance, threw himself at the Black Watch commander, bayonet surging towards his unprotected belly.

Ramsey fell, his feet tangled in the straps of a discarded Soviet rifle. The thrust missed its target and skidded off Ramsey’s canteen.

Winded by the force of his fall, Ramsey twisted as best he could, narrowly avoiding a second thrust which hit the road and snapped the bayonet of his enemy.

The Russian stupidly looked at the broken blade and Ramsey took advantage, swinging his Enfield round and slamming it into the side of the man’s head sending him flying, the impression of the front sight clear on the side of his forehead.

Ramsey moved quickly, as he sensed rather than saw another threat, and felt heavy pressure as his rifle was almost forced from his hands. As he had turned, the bayonet had become a spike onto which the attacking Soviet officer had propelled himself with his own momentum.

The dead body slid easily off Ramsey’s steel, and he turned and quickly shot the other unconscious man in the head before taking a moment to assess the situation.

Many of the Russians were down, over half their number had perished in the ferocious counter-attack, but there were also a large number of his own men who would never see the glens again.

The Fallschirmjager had fared better, possibly because they had run in slightly behind the Scots.

‘Black Bear’ had stopped, Piper Sinclair having been sought out by a rifleman and shot in the head.

Over a hundred more Soviets flooded out of the ruins and into the fight, throwing everything into the balance again, and Ramsey knew the moment had come.

Shouting encouragement to his men, he waded into a group of Soviets, angling in from their left side. He ran the first through with his bayonet, screaming with pain as a rifle butt hammered against his wounded shoulder, dropping him to his knees. A Soviet soldier loomed over him, raising his entrenching tool to maximum height and then falling away as a line of crimson flowers appeared out of his chest.

Recovering his own rifle, Ramsey suddenly found himself isolated and the sole target for three enemy soldiers.

A moment’s pause was all he needed, triggering the Enfield and dropping the centre man with a round to the stomach. Rushing left, he caught the next man by surprise and bundled straight into him, sending him flying. Turning to the third man, he felt the sear of pain as a bullet flicked his thigh. The man worked the bolt on his rifle quickly but Ramsey ended his life with a powerful thrust through the throat.

Turning to the second man, he saw that no further action was needed. The force of Ramsey’s impact had propelled the Russian onto a wicked wooden spike that stuck out from the rubble. The man was face down on it, twitching and mumbling incoherently as his life drained out of him.

Re-chambering his own rifle, Ramsey shot down a Soviet Officer who was exhorting his men forward. The man was the III/215th’s Commander and the sight of their leader screaming his last few seconds away proved to be a turning point and the fight went out of the Russian troops in an instant.

Turning and running, they lost a number of soldiers shot in the back as they tried to regain friendly cover.

The Fallschirmjager pursued them relentlessly, recovering most of the ground previously lost in the process.

Ramsey organised his men, aghast at how few could still stand. He had led the sixty men forward and only twenty-eight could answer the call. Not all the rest were dead and some could fight again that day but precisely half would never move again.

At his feet lay a young Scot, James Munro, his belly ripped open by some unknown blade and a bayonet wound in his shoulder, in excruciating pain but resolutely silent, despite his approaching death.

Ramsey knelt at the young soldier’s side knowing that all he could do was share the boy’s final moments. Holding his right hand tightly he placed his left hand on Munro’s forehead, stroking the boy’s head and encouraging eye contact. The medic rammed home three doses of morphine and James Munro died pain free.

More Fallschirmjager arrived, released from their defence of Jungfernsteig after they and the Yeomanry had drubbed the attacking force. These set about evacuating their injured comrades and the wounded jocks, as well as setting a strong defensive position in place.

Four of the paratroopers reverently removed the insensible body of their commander, Perlmann having fallen unnoticed amongst a pile of dead, alive but bleeding from a dozen wounds.

The arrival of Russian small calibre mortar rounds ended the brief lull and Ramsey determined to reform his reserve and to find out what was going on across the front of Llewellyn Force.

In essence, Llewellyn Force was holding but only just.

The Rathaus was again more Soviet than British as extra troops pressed forward, exhorted by their officers.

The Soviet diversionary effort had run into an allied counter-attack to the south as 71st Infantry brigade sought to throw the Soviet moves off-balance. 1st Battalion, Highland Light Infantry, supported by more of the Yorkshire Yeomanry’s armour had struck back, threatening the Holzbrücke and Beloborodov had been forced to switch one of his reserve battalions to assist. This left solely the III/938th Rifles uncommitted.

II/259th Rifles had been ordered to probe the positions in front of them, not by the Army Commander but by the Regimental Commander who just couldn’t believe the British could be strong everywhere.

This was a huge mistake and his pinning force suffered huge casualties charging A Coy/RWF and the support platoon. He was only saved from the vengeance of his General by a Welsh bullet. It also meant that the dead Lieutenant Colonel would be an excellent scapegoat for what was to come.

‘A’ Company’s commander realised the tactical situation had changed in his favour and released the support platoon and one section from each of his own platoons, creating a reserve force, which he immediately sent to the aid of his Battalion Commander in the Rathaus.

‘C’ Company had held their own at great loss of life, helped by the arrival of armoured support in the shape of the rest of the Yeomanry’s headquarters troop which had forced into the Soviet flank at a crucial time. Not without loss, as was attested to by Acting Major Brown’s body half in, half out of his command tank, slowly being consumed by the lazy fire inside.

In the Rathaus there was a stalemate. Scelerov and his men had burned everything and everyone they could and had run out of usable flamethrowers. A fuming Scelerov has sent ten men back for more and contented himself with throwing phosphorous grenades as he waited to be rearmed. He was unaware that he would wait in vain, as the party had been vaporised by a 25-pdr HE shell as they were returned laden with cylinders.

The situation in the Rathaus was unclear to the Russians, and so the Commander of 1st Rifle Corps committed his final reserve where he could see there was an opportunity, and where they could be directly supported with tanks.

Banging out his orders with his fist on the map table and gesticulating wildly, the General got his officers moving.

There were only seven running tanks left in 2nd Btn after fierce exchanges with British tanks and anti-tank guns but they were ordered to go forward once more.

Ordering the 106th Pontoon Engineers to be ready, the Rifle Corps commander sent his men forward.

A number of things happened at once.

Ramsey reconstituted his reserve force at the rear of the Markt, bolstering the numbers with a stiffening of Fallschirmjager and a handful of Manchesters.

Llewellyn’s ‘A’ Company reserve force arrived at the Rathaus.