Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) Read online

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  Use them how you will.

  For all those that take up the sword shall perish by the sword.

  Matthew 26:52

  Chapter 78 - THE TERROR

  1017hrs, Friday 7th September 1945, Headquarters, Red Banner Forces of Europe, Kohnstein, Nordhausen, Germany.

  Colonel-General Mikhail Malinin consumed the GRU report dealing with the dishonoured British peace negotiations.

  Zhukov sat peeling an apple, having already read the document.

  He spoke, rushing the words, anticipating the taste of the first slice.

  “Your thoughts, Comrade?”

  “I see no reason to doubt her report, Comrade Marshal. Even though it is hard to imagine such an act without a mandate, Comrade Nazarbayeva sets out the reasons quite clearly, and the reinstatement of Churchill seems to bear out all she states.”

  “So we lost many men for no good reason, Mikhail. Bagramyan is hopping mad and threatens our lives, so I’m told.”

  Whilst Zhukov delivered that with humour, both men understood that the old Armenian Marshal was extremely upset at having lost so many good men for something that, in the end, produced no advantage.

  In fact, it had produced some advantages, in that the British and Dominion formations had been given a very hard time and, by all accounts, were exhausted beyond measure.

  That at least three times as many casualties had been suffered by the attacking forces was of no comfort to the British, but they had not folded under the pressure and now, with the return of Churchill, they seemed almost inspired to higher things.

  “We must send the Armenian Fox some more troops. Draw up a list of units we can release for his use.”

  Malinin raised an eyebrow at his superior, knowing he was husbanding his reserve forces for the right moment.

  By way of reply, Zhukov adopted a conspiratorial voice to try to suit the moment, but he did not carry it off.

  “Just enough to shut him up, Comrade. Just enough to shut him up, and not a soldier more.”

  Malinin looked at his commander, realising for the first time that the strain of command was laying heavier than normal on his shoulders.

  1957hrs, Friday 7th September 1945, Allied defensive line, east of Unterankenreute, Germany.

  The 4th Indian Division had given up Bergatreute and Wolfegg under pressure, dropping back into the woods to the west, protecting the major highways that led to the remaining parts of Germany still under Allied control.

  They had yet to take serious casualties, their retreat caused by logistical problems that saw some frontline units without more than a few minutes worth of ammunition.

  Food was also just beginning to be a problem, the restrictions of their various faiths meaning that it was less easy to scavenge, or accept gifts from the friendly population.

  A serious enemy thrust on Vogt had been bloodied and repulsed, the combination of British tanks, Indian artillery and USAAF ground attack proving too much for a large mechanized force that withdrew in disarray.

  Nonetheless, the position was still precarious and the withdrawal continued.

  Those units melting into the cool shadows of the trees found ample munitions and hard supplies waiting, the result of a magnificent effort by the Division’s logistical chain, meaning that this was a line that they could hold. Bullets and explosive had taken priority over bread and meat, so only modest amounts of food reached some units, whilst others waited in vain

  Many men went hungry that evening.

  Partially because of the absence of food.

  Partially because of the presence of the enemy.

  They were known as the ‘Red Eagles’, a homage to their divisional badge.

  Their service during the Second World War was exemplary, from the 1940 campaigns in the Western Desert, through East Africa and the rout of the larger Italian Forces, Syria, and finally Italy.

  Italy, where the division earned undying glory in and around the bloodbath that was Monte Cassino.

  The 4th was considered an elite formation, but it had taken heavy casualties in the process of acquiring its illustrious reputation.

  Returned from a stint of armed policing in Greece, the Indian Division had slotted back into the Allied order of battle alongside sister units with whom they had shared the excesses of combat, only to be swiftly transferred north, and into the cauldron of the new German war.

  It performed well against the new enemy and swiftly relieved the exhausted 101st Airborne.

  The new positions assigned to the 7th Indian infantry Brigade covered the routes out of Wolfegg and the approaches to Vogt.

  The 4th/16th Punjab Regiment, ably supported by two platoons of the 6th Rajputana MG Battalion, had stood firm in and around Vogt, British tanks from the 26th Armoured Brigade causing heavy casualties amongst the attacking T34’s.

  As the Soviet probes continued, the 2nd/11th Sikhs were pushed hard along their defensive line, set in parallel with Route 324 to the north of Vogt.

  On Route 314 to the north, British soldiers of the 1st Royal Sussex Regiment folded back but did not give, forcing the attacking Soviet infantry and cavalry to retreat leaving scores of dead on the field.

  An unusual error in Soviet attack scheduling had delayed the central assault, enabling the defending artillery to concentrate on assisting the Sussex Regiment before switching to the aid of the forces defending Routes 317 and 323.

  Fig #52 - Junction of Routes 317 & 323, near Wolfegg, Germany.

  2007hrs, Friday 7th September 1945, Junction of Routes 317 & 323, two kilometres south-west of Wolfegg, Germany.

  Company Havildar Major Dhankumar Gurung looked around him, able to make out the shape of one of his men here, a weapon manned and ready there.

  8th Platoon was quiet, safely hidden behind their tree trunks, protected by the hastily scraped foxholes, or comfortable in the old German trench.

  Not one man had suffered any injury as the Soviet artillery, weak by comparison to normal, had probed the defensive positions of the Sirmoor Rifles.

  Part of their line was a trench that was eight foot deep, wood reinforced, and with firing steps along its length. Some fading graffiti marked it as German, and a relic of the previous conflict.

  Gurung’s soldiers had extended the trench, and taken advantage of natural depressions in the ground, as well as fallen tree trunks, creating a strong position from which to resist.

  Thus far, the battalion had not seen an enemy, apart from the occasional flash of an aircraft overhead.

  According to the legends of the British Army, no enemy relished fighting these wiry hill men from Nepal, and, to a man, they were keen to get to close quarters with the new foe to put their martial skills to the test against a strong and cunning enemy.

  The Sirmoor Rifles, also known as the 1st/2nd [King Edward VII’s Own] Gurkha Rifles, waited in anticipation of the battle to come.

  Allied forces – 1st/2nd [King Edward VII’s Own] Gurkha Rifles, and 2nd Platoon of ‘A’ Company of 6th Rajputana MG Battalion, both of 7th Indian Infantry Brigade, 3rd Royal Horse Artillery, and 11th Field Regiment, Royal Artillery, all of 4th Indian Division, directly attached to US 12th Army Group.

  Soviet Forces – 3rd Battalion of 22nd Guards Cavalry Regiment of 5th Guards Cavalry Division, and 2nd Company, 1814th Self-Propelled Gun Regiment, and Special Group Orlov, 7th Guards Horse Artillery Regiment, all of 3rd Guards Cavalry Corps, 5th Guards Tank Army, 3rd Red Banner Central European Front.

  “Are you fucking kidding, Comrade Kapitan?”

  “No, I am not, Comrade Serzhant, and what’s more, we go in fifteen minutes because staff already fucked it up once.”

  The old Cossack shook his head.

  “They are fucking it up again then, Comrade Kapitan.”

  He pointed in the direction of advance, emphasisi
ng his words.

  “Those boys down there are proper infantry, with machine guns. They want us to charge them? Mudaks!”

  “Calm yourself, Kazakov. Apparently this is not your first action.”

  “That is why I question this order, Comrade Kapitan. It’s total fucking lunacy!”

  Captain Babaev moved like a striking snake, the flat of his hand wiping itself loudly across the older man’s face.

  “You shut your mouth, Serzhant, or I will shoot you myself!”

  All around, the younger Cossacks froze at the sound of flesh striking flesh, their eyes drawn to the growing red weal on Kazakov’s cheek, the ferocity of the blow becoming more apparent with the darkening of the skin.

  Kazakov froze, controlling his breathing, his mind racing.

  Babaev looked at him with unconcealed contempt.

  “You boast constantly of the action you have seen and the men you have killed, and yet all I hear from you is whining about being sent to fight.”

  The officer cleared his throat, intent on completing the NCO’s humiliation.

  “I say enough of it, Kazakov! I demote you to Private immediately, and you will lead the attack!”

  To the watchers, it seemed that a strange peace settled on Kazakov. The few that really knew the man understood that a white fury was consuming the ‘former’ sergeant.

  Finishing the job, Babaev summoned one of the observers to him.

  “Comrade Levadniy, you are now Serzhant. Don’t let us down.”

  “Thank you, Comrade Kapitan.”

  The new sergeant saluted respectfully, avoiding the burning eyes of the previous incumbent, slipping quickly away to find some rank markings.

  Kapitan Babaev poked his finger into Kazakov’s right breast, hard enough to cause the man to sway under the blow. His finger flicked up at the medal that was the pride and joy of the man he had come to despise.

  “The Order of the Red Star, for which I have been unable to find any proof of entitlement I might add!”

  Kazakov’s eyes moved upwards, making the eye contact that he had been trying hard to avoid.

  “The divisional records are meticulous, except when it comes to you it seems.”

  Kazakov exhaled slowly in an effort to control himself.

  “I wanted to strip you of it, but the Colonel prevented it.”

  The former Sergeant’s eyes blazed openly, his fury feeding on the officer’s words.

  “So we have agreed to give you the chance to earn it. That is why you are leading the attack.”

  Stepping half a pace closer, Babaev leaned his head forward so that the distance between their faces was the length of a cigarette.

  “And you fuck up in any way, any way at all Kazakov, and I will shoot you down like the cowardly dog you are. Clear, Comrade?”

  Babaev misunderstood the delay for compliance, whereas it was a moment of debate for the ex-sergeant. He decided against his preferred course of action and replied, coolly and softly.

  “Understood completely, Comrade Kapitan.”

  “Excellent. Now fuck off and get yourself ready, Comrade Private Kazakov.”

  Babaev smiled openly as the defeated man strode off, removing his epaulettes as he went.

  The officer checked his watch, noting that he still had twelve minutes before the attack commenced.

  He lit a cigarette and consumed the rich smoke avidly, happily unaware that it was the last he would ever smoke, and that his life had seventeen minutes to run.

  22nd Regiment had not conducted a horsed charge for over two years, the fighting mainly being done on foot with a few disappointed Cossacks left behind to restrain their mounts.

  The general plan was to deliver a horsed cavalry charge into the positions of the Indian troopers, using the woods as a cover, accepting that the upright trunks would both conceal and break up the advance, slowing it to a modest running pace at times.

  A small probe had already established that both roads were mined and to be avoided.

  The woods were heavy, but gaps between trees were wide, and there was little thick undergrowth to halt the surge. The Pine trees had no low-lying branches to foul the riders, and so the normally unthinkable seemed feasible, at least to those who ordered the attack.

  It would require excellent horsemanship, something that actually stimulated many of the men who would make the charge, as the challenge appealed to their sense of showmanship, creating a stage for them to demonstrate their riding skills to each other.

  Some wiser heads agreed with Kazakov, as horsed cavalry and machine-guns made for a bad mix, but a message from the new Major assured them that the enemy troops were ready to fold, and that a full-blooded Cossack charge would break them in an instant.

  At 2025hrs, Soviet artillery commenced a brief but violent barrage on the enemy positions, partially to cause damage but also to mask the sound of harnesses and sabres rattling as the assault company got ready.

  At 2030hrs, the 3rd Cossack Battalion commenced its advance.

  [Author’s note. Indian Army ranks. Lance-Naik = Lance-Corporal, Naik = Corporal, Havildar = Sergeant, CSM = Company Havildar Major, Jemadar = Lieutenant]

  Sudden cries from the section on his right drew the attention of Company Havildar Major Dhankumar Gurung.

  Some piece of artillery shell had found soft flesh, and one of his men was screaming loudly.

  A reliable Naik, Gajhang Rai, was already scrambling across the defensive position, and the medical orderlies were ready to move, once the bombardment stopped.

  To the right, another shell found its mark, but this time there were no sounds from pained throats, the three men blotted out in an instant, and their Bren gun silenced forever.

  Making a note to adjust his reserve Bren gun team, Gurung found himself showered with earth as a round landed nearby.

  Fortunately, for the Gurkhas, the Soviet artillery was only of modest calibre, otherwise the accurate fire would have reaped more bloody rewards.

  As it was, a small number of them had been killed and a handful more wounded.

  So far.

  Fig #53 - Defensive positions, junction of Routes 317 & 323, near Wolfegg, Germany.

  One of the last shells tossed over by the 76.2mm guns hit on thick branch directly central to the company’s position, exploding thirty feet above the ground, transforming the shell into deadly shrapnel and the tree into wooden splinters, equally capable of taking a man’s life.

  Directly below a Vickers machine-gun team from the 6th Rajputs died, fast moving metal and wood taking the lives of every man in the position, metal alone responsible for perforating the water-cooler jacket on the big machine-gun.

  Captain Graham, the Gurkha company commander, recognized the problem immediately and gestured at his senior non-com.

  Grabbing three of 8th Platoon’s men, Gurung sprang from cover to cover, making it to the silent Vickers position as the Soviet guns fell silent.

  Graham immediately shouted at his men to make ready.

  The Company Havildar Major quickly organized the recovery of the Vickers, aware that an unusual sound was steadily growing from the direction of the enemy.

  The signaller with Captain Graham cursed, his radio another victim of the shrapnel. A small piece had somehow missed the man, who had protected it with his body, creating an insignificant hole in the top casing, but causing significant damage within.

  The Indian artillery could not be called in until it was fixed, the spare radios already consumed in the earlier fighting.

  The summer light was fading, but what there was illuminated the battlefield from behind the Gurkha positions, drawing the Cossacks forward.

  The Gurkhas were straining to identify the sounds, allocating many identities to the enemy, until one horse planted its leg in a small hole, snapping the bone in an instant.

  The cry of distress was easily identifiable.

  “Jesus Christ! It’s cavalry! Pass the word, Jemadar!”

  Captain Graham look
ed upon cavalry as a ceremonial necessity with no place on the modern battlefield.

  But now that he was faced by the reality of approaching horse, he found himself unexpectedly challenged.

  The Gurkha Jemadar saluted formally, reporting that the company was aware of the enemy to their front.

  “Fix bayonets if you please.”

  The Jemadar passed the order on once more, despite the fact that he and his men preferred to do their close work with the kukri.

  The noise of approaching cavalry was increasing and Graham’s bayonet order undoubtedly eased some of the tensions growing amongst the Nepalese hill men.

  Amongst the trees to their front, the shadows flitted as the day drew to a close, and the Cossacks pushed their horses hard.

  In front of Graham’s eyes, the shadows became real, and dangerous.

  “Fire!”

  All along B Company’s positions weapons fired, filling the air with .303” bullets. Vickers heavy machine guns and Bren guns, held in competent hands, punched out their own version of death in deadly streams of bullets.

  Lee-Enfields, bolts being worked furiously, added their own .303” rounds to the wall of metal into which the Cossacks of the 3rd Battalion charged.

  A bugle sounded, bringing to the battlefield a feeling of days long gone by, of times when Napoleon and his peers had held sway in matters of war.

  Many bullets found trees or occasionally nothing, hurtling on into the approaching night beyond.

  Those that were left found flesh, horse and man, in equal measure.

  Two hundred and ninety-one riders and mounts had started the attack, the remaining strength of the experienced cavalry unit.

  Now, dead men and horses filled the woods in front of the Gurkha positions, the attack losing momentum as the trees restricted alternative manoeuvre and obstructed the second wave.

  A Soviet officer rode forward, picking his way through a number of wounded beasts, commanding his men to dismount and fight on foot until a rifle round plucked him from the saddle.