Opening Moves (The Red Gambit Series) (48 page)

Checkpoint #2 was at the eastern end of the peak, again at the point of contact between the ‘up’ and ‘down’ roads, barring the way to the Château approach. The small sandbagged position with the traditional pole barrier across the road enjoyed a modest light from the recently installed external system. It was enough to play skat by, and the NCO was enjoying a good run of luck with the cards. In any case, this was his game after all, and he viewed his comrades as easy meat. Unlike most of his comrades, the caporal-chef had seen no action and therefore did not understand the need for discipline and vigilance, nor the price that was paid when it was absent. He ran a slack section and had already fallen foul of Capitaine de Frégate Dubois on a number of occasions. Not that he cared, for he intended to leave the army at the first opportunity and return to being a croupier in Nice.

Scraping more money in his direction as he won yet again, he detected the sound of an approaching vehicle. The caporal-chef chivvied his men into action. Here was the jeep they were expecting at last and he motioned one man to his side and the other two towards the sandbagged MG position containing the .30cal machine-gun with accustomed casuality. His eyes scanned the Americans approaching but his mind turned to the thought of breakfast in a few hours time.

Perhaps it was the fact that they knew a jeep was coming.

Perhaps it was the witching hour at which it arrived.

Perhaps it was simply that the inept caporal-chef had taken away their sharpness.

Whichever way, no one questioned the fact that checkpoint#1 had not informed them of the approach. Their lack of alertness ensured that Makarenko’s hopes were not dashed. The caporal-chef and his man died at close-range to the HDM’s and the other two took hits from the silenced Nagant rifles. Troopers emerged from the darkness, grabbed the dead men’s berets, and assumed their positions as the jeep started again on its way.

Makarenko nodded silently in approval of the way his men were getting this all right, and his confidence soared, even though he had spotted that these enemy troops were not military police but combat soldiers. Whilst one part of his brain noted the battledress and tried to decipher the markings of French commandos, the other side argued that they did not appear to be good quality troops, so he pressed on with the plan as it was.

The General slid into the checkpoint sandbags and watched as his men silently advanced in the shadows.

A swift look at his watch told him it was 0512 hrs. Early but one should never refuse an opportunity such as the one presented to him.

At checkpoint #3, adjacent to the Château’s entrance, the Ensign in charge tried to raise the caporal-chef. Why the imbecile man could not follow simple orders was a mystery to him. Standing instructions were to telephone through with the numbers of vehicle occupants, their names, and purpose of their visit. It was simple enough and the man would get his ear bent whenever he picked up. None the less, the traffic list on his clipboard indicated only one expected arrival this morning, that being a US Major of paratroops and the approaching jeep was American. The phone rang unanswered and he determined to ravage the idiot guards at #2 at his first opportunity. The jeep was almost at his checkpoint now and still the imbecile had not answered. “Merde,” was all he could say but he promised himself that Capitaine de Frégate Dubois would be informed the moment he finished with the new American arrival. Controlling his anger, he put down the phone and turned to the now stopped vehicle.

He became aware of clacking sounds and flashes and that two of his men, positioned either side of the vehicle, were dropping to the ground like rag dolls. His other two men, weapons coming up from the relaxed positions of a second beforehand, suddenly blossomed into red flowers and collapsed jelly-like to the ground. He knew his death was coming but tried to make for the alarm button. Three more scarlet buds appeared and withered in a second, this time in his back as he turned, as the silenced rifles did their work and he collapsed, glancing off the side of the sandbagged position and onto two ammo boxes that served as their table.

The noise of the breaking glass might just as well have been artillery to Makarenko, only eighty metres away. Eyes swept left and right, up and down, scanning for threat and movement but there was none.

Frequently Rettlinger simply could not sleep. His dreams simply would not permit rest, as they constantly threw up the faces of those family and friends he had lost and images of the things he had seen. Maybe it was he, not Treschow, with mental problems he mused. He often walked around the ramparts of the Château and had become known to the commando guards. None the less, standing orders had at first required someone to accompany him and, later on, someone walked with him out of habit. The security no longer looked inward as well as out and the Germans were accepted universally. Rettlinger also had another advantage for, as a native Alsatian, he could converse with all the guards in their native tongue.

On this night, he and Capitaine de Corvette Fournier were strolling on outer walls of the Château, taking in the air and exchanging words on important gastronomic matters. The German had foregone his suit jacket for comfort, whereas the dapper Frenchman was in his proper uniform and as impeccable as ever. Padding along behind them was a huge hound from the stock of guard dogs, complete with his handler.

The beast seem to enjoy the company as well as the exercise but Rettlinger knew it watched him constantly. He never touched the dogs without asking, for fear of losing something vital. They were fine once the word had been given by their master, in this case a wiry little Algerian of indeterminate age, seconded from the 3e Division D’Infanterie Algérienne, along with three others and their dogs.

This beast was called Marengo, named for the decisive French victory that Napoleon’s forces inflicted upon the Austrians in Italy one and a half centuries before. Von Arnesen, the keen historian and wit, advised his comrades that the leviathan was actually named for Napoleon’s horse Marengo, given the similarity in size. He got no arguments on that suggestion, as the solid Alsatian hound was far and away the largest of its breed any of them had ever seen.

Walking round the two officers had fallen into one of their traditional arguments about French and Alsatian food and wine. As a proper Frenchman, Fournier was defending the honour of the Bordeaux region, waxing lyrical about the combination of a good Garonne Sauterne with his mother’s baked apple and honey pudding. As a gastronome second and soldier first, Rettlinger understood the value of alcohol whatever its place of birth but hadn’t always been such a philistine and argued for a sweet Muscat an uncle of his had experimented with in Alsace before the war, combined with the honeyed raisin pastries which made his mother money during harder times.

Both men halted their pointless verbal fencing with grins and took station on stools within the small round tower above the main entrance, leaning back on the woodwork in satisfied silence, minds recalling times sat around family table’s years before sampling the remembered delights of their argument, looking towards the half-open shutter, in anticipation of the first signs of an approaching dawn.

The inevitable cigarettes appeared.

A tinkle of breaking glass.

Followed by nothing but a low growl from Marengo.

Both men stopped a few seconds, waiting to hear the unlucky person being berated by an officer or NCO but nothing came; only silence.

Almost casually, they both opened the wooden shutters a bit further and looked out, gazing down towards the checkpoint. They had heard the jeep grinding up the slope as they talked, so were not surprised to see it in the road. The scene was vivid and obvious. The two men had seen enough of war to know that either side of it were dead men, and that the flitting shadows moving up both sides of the road were not caused by trees lazily shifting in the breeze, but by concealed men moving urgently and with deadly purpose. Men in uniforms only one of them recognised were moving around the jeep and checkpoint, the two dead men in the road being swiftly pulled away and other shadows materialising with berets to take their place.

More movement caught the eye and suddenly the whole area seemed alive, which it was.

Fournier reached for his .45 M1911 automatic and slipped off the safety. Taking rough aim, he fired three quick shots into the men at the checkpoint and then started running along the battlements, firing in the air as he went, shouting as he ran, almost overtaken by the diminutive Arab being dragged along by the huge dog attached to his left wrist.

The M1911 was an excellent handgun, and had what was called ‘stopping power’. The three bullets fired by Capitaine de Corvette Fournier were mainly to initiate the alarm but he decided not to waste them and sent them flying towards the men at the second checkpoint.

The first bullet hit the Senior Lieutenant with the silenced pistol, taking him in the left side of the neck, ploughing downwards through windpipe, lung, and liver until it exited at thigh level, subsequently removing two toes from the soldier moving past his now dead officer.

The second bullet passed through the roof of the jeep, clipping the steering wheel and burying itself in a sandbag.

The alarm spread through the Château like wildfire as the fighting erupted. The duty guard inside rushed to their positions at the open entrance and engaged the attacking force whilst others, roused from their slumber, dressed and tumbled out into the night, directed by the shouts of their NCO’s and officers, not knowing who had come calling but in the knowledge that the killing had already started.

Capitaine du Frégate Dubois ran the short distance from the company office to assume command of the lower courtyard and was found there by a breathless Fournier.

His arrival coincided with the report from his Petty Officer Major that the phone lines were down and no one could be raised on the radio.

A small group of commandos took position on the walls above the entrance and started to pour down fire and grenades, causing horrendous casualties to the elements forming for a second assault. However, a quick-witted Kapitan swiftly organised four sniper-rifle equipped troopers and they quickly silenced the French fire with well-aimed and mainly fatal results.

Another platoon of paratroopers was immediately directed to use their grapnels and gain the wall position under the covering fire of the sniper unit. The grapnels rose and all but two held first time. One landed harmlessly back on the ground and was recovered for another, again unsuccessful throw. The other fell back and heavily struck an unsuspecting young trooper on the head, splitting his skull and dropping him senseless to the grass. His comrades ascended the taut lines, each second expecting the stinging impact of bullets.

In the allied officers sleeping quarters in the main building, pandemonium ensued as the alarm was shouted and then reinforced by the unmistakeable sounds of gunfire nearby. Each allied officer had his pistol in his hand as they emerged on various floors, grouping up and deciding what to do.