Read Opening Moves (The Red Gambit Series) Online
Authors: Colin Gee
Opening Moves (The Red Gambit Series) (78 page)
Casualties in the park were heavy, in the I.G.Farben building even heavier, as fire took hold and carved its way through the whole structure. A building preserved from destruction by the Allied bomber fleet on Eisenhower’s express direction, burned for three days before the US Air force and local Frankfurt fire fighters could extinguish the flames.
Many members of SHAEF staff were killed and wounded as few had run for cover, most staying to finish their preparations for the move to Versailles.
220th did not enjoy their success for very long. Their fighter cover was still keeping USAAF aircraft at bay and failed to spot the arrival of another four P-47’s diving on the retreating Ilyushin’s. On the 6th August, these aircraft had been in transit to the French coast where they were to fly to England, prior to the pilots returning to their homeland. Now, having been recalled to active service with the blessing of their government, four Brazilian pilots of Green Flight, 1st GAVCA of Força Aérea Brasileira, fell upon the Soviet aircraft and started to tear them from the sky.
1° Teniente-Aviation Alberto Morales made three passes and downed an enemy craft each time. His number two put two into the ground, three and four destroyed one each.
Morales, officially now an ace with six kills in total, swept back into the attack as the eight surviving Shturmovik’s desperately flew low and fast, screaming for their fighter cover to return.
Another pass saw Morales knock lumps off the rearmost enemy, causing it to lose speed, but the Brazilian ran out of ammunition before he could complete the job.
He rose higher to observe the rest of the attack and saw the damaged aircraft felled by his number two.
As his number three charged in Morales became aware of the sound of metal striking metal, the smell of hot oil and an indescribable pain as his aircraft shuddered under hammer blows from a vengeful La-7’s Berezin cannon. 20mm explosive shells chewed their way through oil and fuel lines, instruments and flesh. The cockpit became a furnace and Morales died quickly but horribly, his aircraft slowly rolling away and crashing into the Main River below.
The remaining fighters, both Brazilian and Russian, drew apart as if by silent agreement, and went in opposite directions, one side with no ammunition, and the other side running light on fuel. Returning to their bases without further incident one damaged Shturmovik skilfully landed wheels-up, saving the crew, but reducing the 220th Guards to only five serviceable planes.
All together, St Elisabethen apart, the day had been another huge success for Soviet air regiments the length and breadth of Europe, meeting Allied aircraft with a numerical advantage consistently and maintaining their undoubted air superiority.
Eisenhower watched the smoking P-47 disappear below his sightline, feeling true pain at the death of the young pilot he had watched destroy three enemy aircraft. He promised himself he would ensure the man’s efforts went rewarded and his memory was suitably honoured.
Climbing back into his staff car he went on his way to the airfield, only to find more delay as his allocated aircraft was a smouldering heap and a replacement needed to be brought in.
Waiting and feeling helpless, removed as he was from his staff and communications, Ike sat in his car chain-smoking his way through his thoughts, inevitably drawing the conclusion that the war was being lost and things needed to change.
The hour spent waiting was not wasted and by the time the replacement DC-3 touched down, Eisenhower had a change firmly set in his mind.
2019 hrs Wednesday 8th August 1945, 12th US Army Group Headquarters, Wiesbaden, Germany.
In Bradley’s headquarters, the task of overseeing the Allied Forces went smoothly, or as smoothly as it possibly could do.
The General was catching forty winks in his campaign chair when he was awoken by a Colonel bearing bad news.
“Sir, you need to see this.”
Bradley stretched himself awake and accompanied the staff officer to the map table.
“OK Colonel. What’s got you so fired up?”
The officer pointed at the map and spoke one word.
“Gottingen.”
An experienced eye followed the pointing finger and took in the dire situation in a minute.
Bradley winced at the thought of American units surrounded and surrendering, his mind reaching into its dark recesses to summon the spectre of the 106th Infantry during the Battle of the Bulge.
Quickly firing a few questions at his staff, he determined that getting the doughboys out was not going to be easy.
“OK, we have some work to do here.”
He paused, grabbing his chin, contemplating, and then acting.
“Looks like the new boys will have some work to do. Please get General Simpson on the horn straight away.”
One officer scurried away to be replaced by another waiting for his instructions.
“Please inform Air that we are counter-attacking here at Fritzlar,” the finger tapped the map, “And here at Bad Driburg,” this time the finger almost caressed the spot, betraying some inner struggle in the man.
Whatever the thought process was, it abruptly stopped as the phone rang.
“Bradley.”
A tinny voice could be heard at the other end of the line.
“Yes I know Bill and before you ask I don’t have anything else to send you at this time. I want you to relieve the situation. Seems to me the best way is a hit at Frankenberg with 3rd Tank-destroyer and the 79th Infantry.”
Clearly that was received without issue as Bradley continued.
“I’m looking at the 15th Armored hitting through Brakel and regaining the Diemel River line. Should help with getting your boys out of the mess at Göttingen.”
That drew a response and then some, Bradley raising his eyebrows as General Simpson went into a lengthy diatribe.
“Hold on Bill, hold on.” Bradley’s voice was rarely raised so he drew a few looks from those working around him.
“It’s not a question of blame Bill so get that straight right now. We just have to sort the mess out as best we can and get back on line.”
A short response and Bradley continued.
“My intel gives me only infantry and SP’s from the Red’s 3rd Army. You tally that Bill?”
As Bradley listened to the response, he checked a small marking on the map.
“Yes I know but they should cope well enough, especially if you give them some help.”
Squinting at the map, he retrieved the details he needed.
“You got some of Baade’s boys at Gütersloh, 320th RCT. Send them up with the 15th as some back-up.”
The reply was swift and acceptable. Then came an enquiry.
“Absolutely, in fact I have given Air the heads up to give you all possible support, within the limitations obviously.”
That was very obviously well received.
“Ok then, please let me have your plan as soon as you can. Nothing complicated but I think it will need to be done as soon as possible.”
A swift reply.
“Provided you can hold where you are then Friday morning will have to do General.”
Simpson was right. It would take time to get the plan ready, units prepped and supplies in place. None the less, the delay was a huge risk and Bradley had demonstrated his irritation.
‘
Let the man do his job
,’ he thought.
“I know you will do the best possible, Bill.”
Final words exchanged.
“Thank you and good luck to you too, Bill.”
"I hold it to be of great prudence for men to abstain from threats and insulting words towards any one, for neither the one nor the other in any way diminishes the strength of the enemy; but the one makes him more cautious, and the other increases his hatred of you, and makes him more persevering in his efforts to injure you"
- Niccolo Machiavelli
The 9th Infantry Division had set up a loose screen to protect retreating units on their way to the comparative safety of Nurnberg.
On the northern edge of Schnaittach, a company of the 2nd/39th Infantry Regiment held the line, backed up by a battery of 105mm howitzers from 60th Field Artillery positioned to their rear just outside of Neunkirchen.
No attack had developed and ‘B’ Battery was preparing to fall back through the next screen to their allotted positions at Malmsbach, just northeast of Nurnberg.
The Captain in charge, new to the unit, having shipped in from the States that very week, was finally satisfied that all guns were hitched and he gave the order for the battery to move out, relaying their departure to the infantry commander they were leaving behind.
Rattling down Hauptstra²e, ‘B’ Battery drivers became aware of a tank column approaching from their left, five Sherman’s intent on using the same route to Nurnberg.
Captain McDaniels was half-inclined to give the order to accelerate and try to beat the tank column to the junction, but he figured he would let it pass, especially as his high-speed tractors already seemed to have lost the opportunity.
He leant out of the window, signalling to the vehicles behind to slow down. Flopping back into his seat he was extremely surprised to see the rearmost tank explode into a fireball, running off the road into the verge and coming to a halt as the next in line took another killing hit and stopped dead on the road, crewmen bailing out and coming under small arms fire
Mind racing, head turning in all directions, McDaniels indecision meant his battery moved closer to whatever it was that was reaching out and killing the tanks.
As the lead tank spewed flame, McDaniels noticed the telltale smoke trail of a bazooka shell running from the trees on the south side of Hersbrucker Stra²e.
The second tank reversed panicked and blind, crunching into the third vehicle and broke a track, which immediately uncoiled its full length as the drive sprocket rotated at full reverse. A panzerfaust sailed almost leisurely past its turret hitting a telegraph pole and bringing it down on top of tank number three, which had stalled on the impact of the reversing tank. The desperate driver, trying to restart his vehicle, found himself alone as his crew deserted him in search of safety.
McDaniels’ driver halted the M5 HST without orders and the Pfc manning the .50cal started lashing the crewmen abandoning the Sherman’s, who were running in all directions as more small arms fire reached out from the woods, dropping men hard to the ground.
Shocked, McDaniels shouted at his gunner to cease fire, his voice reaching a crescendo of despair as a burst flayed two men into butcher’s meat before his disbelieving eyes.
“They’re our men! Cease fire, they’re our fucking men!”
Shouting at his men, the desperate officer ran towards the tanks, waving his hands, screaming for a halt to the firing.
The handful of surviving tank crew chose two courses of action. Some put up their hands and sought safety in surrender; a few others chose valiant resistance and blazed away with sub-machine guns or pistols.
Either way, fire from the HST’s and the force in the woods did not discriminate between a coward and a brave man and soon all of them were stilled and bloodied.
McDaniels, the only American casualty of the ambush, never felt a thing as a single bullet from a Soviet Nagant revolver took him in the forehead and ended his life.