Impasse (The Red Gambit Series) (31 page)

Fig#91 - Forces involved in the Battle of Hattmatt, 2nd December 1945.

The medic had already put morphine into the
grievously wounded Ranger officer, but it hadn’t touched the pain. He selected another ampoule and plunged it into the surviving thigh, exposed when the blast had torn off Meade’s trousers. This brought almost instant relief to the tortured body, or at least, quiet to the tortured ears of the command group gathered around their dying leader.

The radio crackled.

“Angel 6, this is Washington 6, report, over.”

The radio remained silent as no-one moved to answer.

“Angel 6, this is Washington 6, report, over.”

The unit
’s senior non-com held his hand out for the handset.

“
Washington 6, this is Angel one-three. Angel 6 is down... hard. We’re continuing the attack, over.”

There was a moment
’s pause whilst those bland words were consumed by the Ranger CO in the battalion CP..

“
Roger, Angel. Keep up the pressure, Reports are they’re cracking. Good luck. Out”

Williams wanted to ask much more
, but now was not the time.

‘
In any case, Barney Meade’s goddamn indestructible.’

By the time that
Lieutenant Colonel Williams had that thought, Barney Meade was dead.

Part of
Baker Company was in prime position, unexpectedly so, and its senior officer on the ground called in the good news to a troubled Williams.

Having overrun the mortar position,
two platoons of ‘Baker’ had pushed on along the edge of a rise and found a perfect spot that looked over Hattmatt, as well as providing a position from which they could flay anyone withdrawing from the Alsatian village.

1st Lieutenant Barkmann
, the senior rank in the two platoons, did not yet know that he was the senior rank still standing in the company but, for now, he had other problems.

A sudden surge of enemy caught his eye and he readied his men for combat.

Flares rose, illuminating an almost surreal landscape.

One of
Baker’s .30cal Brownings started lashing out, an unnoticed group of Russian infantry having approached almost to grenade range. A number of the enemy fell, the rest melting back to safer ground to consider their options.

Which options were the same as for the rest of Din
’s unit.

Stand and die
, or run and live... maybe.

Most chose the latter course of action
, and Barkmann’s two platoons had a field day as they lashed the flank of the retreating forces.

Much of the Zinsel
’s ice had been broken by artillery, and most of the retreating Russians focussed on the bridge, perhaps not realising that the water was shallow enough to wade, probably dissuaded by the prospect of being soaked in chilled flowing water.

The bridge was being swept clean by the Rangers of Baker Company,
more and more men arriving to reinforce Barkmann’s original force, all immediately bringing their Garands, BARs, and Brownings into action, dissuading any real efforts to cross.

Din arrived with a gaggle of his men in tow.

“What’s happening, Leytenant?”

“
Comrade Mayor, the fucking bastards have the bridge covered. They’re up on that small rise in numbers. I’ve no Maxims to cover us, but I’ve sent two DPs to the top floor to suppress the swine. My Serzhant is gathering men behind the bushes there,” he pointed across the road, “Ready for when I give the command. We’ve found some old ladders and stuff to throw across the water so we can get at them.”

Din slapped the man
’s shoulder.

“
Good work, Comrade!”

The younger man stiffened.

“Do you wish to take command of the attack, Comrade Mayor?”

Just for a moment
, Din considered the officer, question, and his response to it.

‘
Is Burastov looking for a way out?’

‘
No. Not Nikanor Burastov. He’s a fighter, remember?’’

‘
Is he just doing what he thinks is right in offering?’

‘
Probably.’

‘
If I say no, will I look like I’m backing out?’

‘
Who cares?’

“
No, Comrade Burastov. You continue in charge. I’ll organise the rear party. Send up two reds when you’re over and have pushed them off. Clear?”

“
Yes, Comrade Mayor. Thank you.”

Burastov slammed a fresh magazine into his Tokarev pistol.

‘Good. I was right.’

The two officers checked their watches and agreed on a time designed to allow the
Burastov and the Serzhant to be fully prepared, and for Din to get the rearguard ready.

Din didn’t hear the whistle, the agreed signal, but didn’t need to, as the feeble sound was swiftly submersed in a sea of violent noise, as a sudden increase in firing marked the start of the attack.

To his front
and right flank, the Amerikanski were pushing hard, and he knew that the road behind him had to be cleared; otherwise, his command would become just a memory.

He risked a look over his shoulder and managed to recognise that his men were closing with the enemy, although he also took in the
many still shapes that marked the expensive progress of the assault force.

O
ne of his men shook his shoulder, bringing his focus back to his own immediate problems.

To his front, a surge by a sizeable group of American infantry had gained a foothold
, and the two forces were exchanging grenades at close range.

F
lares shot skywards, illuminating the scene, offering better conditions for the professional killing to come.

The sharp explosions of grenades
, and the subsequent vision of newly wounded guardsmen focussed him, his concentration clearly affected by the nearness of the artillery round that had wiped out his staff.

Bringing his mind back to structured thought
once more, Din saw a greater peril as a group of six M5A1 halftracks bore down on his northern flank. The 18th Armored Infantry force decided to bring their tracks to te battle as the conditions permitted it.

C
oordinating with the attack to Din’s front, the armoured vehicles .50 calibre machine guns spouted bullets in all directions, few of which came anywhere near their intended targets as the tracks bounced forward.

The
424th had a few anti-tank rifles, and some of these cracked out their 14.5mm armour piercing bullets, claiming hits on the attacking tracks.

Two fell out of the attack, one immediately after the other, as heavy bullets struck home.

The infantry component bailed out of the rearmost track whilst the machine-gunner remained to use the gun in support of the attack. The other crew member, the driver, was screaming in shock and horror as he tried to clean the bits of a 2nd Lieutenant from his face and body, the effects of two hits from PTRD bullets having had a catastrophic effect on the dead man’s upper body.

The foremost halftrack spilled part of its
human contents, many of whom were bloodied by the passage of the armour-piercing bullets through their vehicle. Six men remained inside the smoking wreck.

None the less, Din could see that his flank would be lost in short order.

Again, his eyes moved to the other side of the Zinsel, desperate to find the glow of red flares, but finding only the mix of white snow and grey smoke.

In desperation, he gave voice to his thoughts.

“Come on, Burastov! For all our fucking sakes, come on!”

On the
small height above the Zinsel, all was bloody chaos as death and horror strode the hasty positions of the Rangers’ Baker Company.

1st Lieutenant Bark
mann was in a world of his own.

No sound, save a gentle buzzing in his ears, his stunned senses even managing to partially mask the vibrations of nearby explosions, so disoriented was he by the glancing blow from a
Soviet rifle butt.

His attacker had perished to another Ranger, who in turn had died to a bayonet thrust from behind.

Barkmann’s eyes took everything in as his brain struggled to comprehend the images, whilst it also tried to regain a modicum of control over the stunned officer’s arms and legs.

It failed on all counts.

However, the concussion did not prevent Barkmann from seeing the horrors in front of him and, occasionally, feel a glimmer of recognition of a face.

Corporal Thomas Ward presented such a horror, rolling around with a Soviet soldier, both men intent on strangling each other, hands and arms bent for the sole purpose of throttling the life from the other man.

A moment of recognition flared in Barkmann’s mind as Ward’s face bulged and changed colour, the Russian’s greater strength proving vital in the struggle.

The smallest part of Barkmann
’s brain screamed at him to do something, encouraging an extraordinary effort to save Ward, but it remained unheard amidst the greater mists of his injury.

Ward died.

Another man, a new arrival in the Ranger Battalion, fell to his knees in front of Barkmann, his chest ravaged by a burst from a submachine gun.

The man looked almost offended and affronted that he had been
shot.

The corpse toppled forward
, falling so that the head smashed face first into Barkmann’s left foot, causing his recent sprain to announce its presence once more.

A Soviet officer appeared on the edge of the position, waving his pistol and encouraging his men forward.

Barkmann watched in befuddled fascination, almost in slow motion, as red weals sprang up on the man’s body, the impacts throwing the wounded man back from where he came.

Drawing on everything he could muster, Barkmann started trying to get his mind back on track, trying to ease himself into a more upright position.

His efforts were thwarted by a heavy impact on his right side, two struggling men smashing into him as each tried to gain the upper hand.

They fell to the ground, one on top of the other, the Ranger underneath coming off far worse. The Russian drove his elbow into the American
’s solar plexus as they fell, the combination of the impact with the ground and the weight of the Soviet soldier causing internal damage and driving the breath from the Ranger.

Holding the disabled American in place with one hand, the Soviet soldier brought ou
t his knife and stabbed the helpless man repeatedly in the chest and throat, continuing long after life had left the farm boy from Indiana.

Barkmann felt the start of some sort of functional control returning
, and he tested his belief with an act of great concentration, willing his body to try to sit up.

The effort failed
, but his limbs started to move in some resemblance of the orders they were being sent.

In front of him, an enemy soldier screamed, a bullet thum
ping into his lower abdomen, doubling the man over in pain.

The screams continued, burning further into Barkmann
’s recovering senses and, surprisingly, not hindering but helping the process of his mental return.

He sat up and started to take in the bigger picture.

There were wounded men from both sides, in and around the position.

The cries of more wounded and dying men made themselves known as the recovery of his senses accelerated.

Those same senses announced that he could now hear, but that they also believed that they were now less assaulted with the noises of battle.