Opening Moves (The Red Gambit Series) (50 page)

“Here they cannot be observed from the bastion. They might try to climb, so we need a small group there. Colonel Knocke?”

“I will take three of mine but will need weapons.”

Valois spoke decisively as she offered up her sten.

“Take this as well. I will bring others and more ammunition.”

Whilst the allied group had been sorting their hasty defence plans, Makarenko had organised an assault against the gate to the northern area, and then launched his men against it. The defenders hacked down many paratroopers in the narrow confines but were not immune to casualties themselves. The defensive fire slackened, and then ceased, as they were overwhelmed.

He called Major Ilya Vidalevich Rispan to him, indicating first the northern gateway and secondly the stairs to the Lions Gate.

“Ilya, I’m going to take a group through here straight to the bastion. Keep up the attack there and get your men into the main building regardless.”

The wounded officer spat blood and a tooth fragment, summoning a reply as blood dribbled from the hole in his cheek.

“Yes Comrade General.”

“Are you well enough Mayor?”

“I had worse in Vienna,” Rispan countered, with an absence of humour.

Makarenko nodded, recalling the sight of Rispan’s unusually nasty wood splinter wound, sustained when he slid down a damaged banister in drunken celebration of the Viennese victory. Whilst the grenade fragment had knocked a few of his teeth out, the senior man thought it probably looked more nasty than it was.

“Press hard, don’t stop Ilya.”

Slapping the man’s shoulder, Makarenko moved off, gathering men to him as he moved towards the damaged gateway that led to the lists and the route to the Greater Bastion.

At the Lion Gate, the explosion that had terminated Dubois’ briefing had wrought great harm on the defenders. Capitaine de Corvette Fournier lay surrounded by dead and dying commandos, a tossed satchel charge having exploded on the steps in the area to the west of the gateway.

His ears spilled blood from ruptured eardrums, and more of the precious fluid seeped from the deep wound in his side.

Of more immediate concern was his left leg, attached only to the rest of him by a few strands of flesh and sinew, virtually severed below the knee.

Some freak of explosive force had caused the heavy door to jam shut into its frame, masking both the shattered defenders and the bloodied attackers, providing some temporary respite from the butchery.

Rispan ordered another satchel charge placed to open the door, risking the wooden bridge. A young Lieutenant was detailed to find a suitable item to replace it, should the blast destroy the wooden structure, and he returned before the charge had been prepared, smugly manoeuvring a solid table with the help of two of his men.

Every man in the Well room was killed, save the wounded Fournier, the blast tossing men aside like chaff in the wind.

Clutching his M1911 pistol, the French officer sensed more than saw the shape in the door and fired two shots, killing the Lance-Corporal and sending him flying back into the men behind him.

Two more paratroopers threw themselves forward, diving through the doorway into the cover of the stairs, only to discover that their executioner was lying amongst the bodies there, not at the top of the stairs as they had supposed.

Out of ammunition, Fournier dropped the pistol, wiped the blood from his eyes and snatched up a Sten gun that appeared in focus.

No man came into view, only a small round object, bouncing around before settling against the body of one of the French commandos.

Its explosion decorated the inside of the chamber with more vivid colour and human detritus but, again, Fournier was not further harmed.

He dragged himself painfully up the steps a small distance and set his battered body into the window recess, taking advantage of the extra cover provided by a stone trough.

He took two spare magazines from the pouches of an unrecognisable comrade and set himself for the next assault.

The Sten rattled, messily downing the first man through the door. The second man hung back and risked a look around the shattered doorframe, and was rewarded by a burst which blew the front of his temple off, sending him screaming into the shallow void behind him.

Rispan shouted at his men but none chose to hear his orders. The attack was stalling badly.

Putting a new magazine on his PPS submachine gun, he braced himself for the run, mentally reciting some words of his faith, signalling his men to follow.

He rose and started up the stone stairs but was overtaken by the young Leytenant who had obtained the sturdy table.

The two officers crossed the void, its occupant now permanently silent.

Fournier killed the younger man with a burst of fire, stopping the charging officer and dropping him to the floor on the spot.

The last three bullets in his magazine struck Rispan, two destroying his water bottle and the third passing through the flesh on the side of his stomach.

The Jewish Major’s PPS ended the battle at the Lion Gate.

0535 hrs Monday, 6th August 1945, Temporary Military Laager, Selestat, French Alsace.

In Selestat, what had started as curiosity had swiftly turned into genuine alarm and finally progressed into decisive action.

In and around the small Alsatian town were two companies of the 2e [Deuxieme] Regiment, Légion Étrangère Infanterie, on their way south to reunite with the 1e [Premiere] French Division after ceremonial duties in Strasbourg.

Also, not by coincidence but by design, Colonel Christophe Lavalle was there, having arranged to meet with some old comrades as they passed by.

As senior officer present he assumed command and had ordered both companies to deploy towards the sound of fighting. The two companies were both mechanised with American halftracks and so made good progress, one having been tasked to advance through Kintzheim, the other through Orschwiller and St Hippolyte.

Lavalle rode with 3e [Troisieme]
Compagnie’s senior officer on the Kintzheim approach. He was anxious to discover what exactly was going on, the growing feeling that something extremely bad was happening being reinforced by the steady stream of flares being sent skyward from the Château.

Radio messages flowed to the Brigade headquarters and upwards, both informing as best they could and seeking information from higher command.

Over the sound of the half-track’s 6.3 litre petrol engine came the sound of firing, followed shortly by a radio report from 2e Compagnie.

Lavalle listened in as the two radio operators exchanged information, the 3e Compagnie’s Swiss commander, Commandant Albrecht Haefeli, waiting for his opportunity.

It came as the other operator broke off in mid-sentence, his excited voice suddenly replaced by static.

“Light machine-gun fire at worst. But who is it?”

“Surely it has to be the Germans, Albi?” although, as he said the words, Lavalle gave them no credence whatsoever.

Haefeli slapped his operator on the shoulder.

“Get Isabella back. We need to know who the enemy is this day.”

Using Haefeli’s call sign the operator sought out his counterpart in 2e Compagnie.

“Isabella-Zero-One, this is Achille-Zero-one, come in.”

The static remained.

A gentle tap from Haefeli encouraged the man on.

“Shall I stop the column, Sir?”

“No,” the decision immediately made, “We will push on to the Château, but we will be prepared to send forces down the road to St Hippolyte if needs be Albi.”

Haefeli nodded, sorting in his mind which of his units he would send into the rear of whatever was blocking 2e Compagnie’s advance, once he knew what was happening. Retrieving a map of the area he quickly consulted it before drawing Lavalle’s attention to a T-junction on their route of advance.

“Here we should be able to drop down behind them if 2e are on the right road.”

Lavalle’s response was drowned by the excited voice on the radio.

“Achille-Zero-One, Isabella-Three-One calling, Isabella-Zero is off air and burning. Request orders.”

Both Haefeli and Lavalle ignored the probability that a comrade from the old days had just died.

“Three-one?” sought Lavalle questioningly.

“Green officer. The name is Mardin I’m sure.”

Again the radio crackled into life.

“Isabella-Three-One, under heavy fire, Request orders.”

Taking the handset from his operator, Haefeli spoke calmly and deliberately, flouting radio procedure to get results.

“Achille-Zero-One calling. This is Haefeli speaking. I need a situation report. How many, what weapons, where. Rely on your training Mardin, over.”

The silence of the radio belied the battles within a scared young man at the other end of the network, struggling to bring himself under control.

“Isabella-Three-One, sorry. Enemy infantry in platoon strength sat astride primary advance route three hundred metres north of St Hippolyte, oriented south. Light weapons only so far. We have lost three vehicles and crews. Mortars deploying for assault. Request orders.”

The two experienced officers exchanged glances. The clearly shaken young officer had retained sufficient presence of mind to organise his mortars and was already thinking of attacking. If he survived the battle he would have learned valuable lessons unavailable in the classroom.

“That puts them roughly here I think, on this kink in the road.”

Lavalle nodded his agreement and followed his friend’s finger as it traced the roads to their own route of advance.

Haefeli voiced their shared thoughts.

“He’s on his own for now I think. Holding action would make sense but we don’t know what we are heading into. We may need his men.”

Again, Lavalle’s decision was immediate.

“Tell him to attack and force the road.” The consummate legionnaire and leader paused a moment, weighing the situation. “Tell him we cannot assist him and he is in command there until relieved. He is responsible for the mission and his mission is to destroy the enemy force in front of him, reinforce our advance and to secure his own route, with minimal losses and at all speed.”

3e Compagnie’s commander grinned and quoted from a lecture the two had attended years ago.

“There is nothing like dropping extra problems and responsibility into a man’s lap to help him deal with the pressure’s and indecisions of command.”

Lavalle saluted Haefeli’s memory with an inclined head.

The radio operator relayed the message, the calm acknowledgement from Mardin suggesting that the young officer had regained control of himself, giving weight to the sage words of a long-dead Legion training officer.

Haefeli switched to his own troops, the second operator issuing his Commander’s orders for the advance, increasing the pace on the main road but putting troops on the myriad of small tracks that were a feature of the route to the Haut-Kœnigsbourg.