Impasse (The Red Gambit Series) (52 page)

Both groups then swept back over the area, sweeping the ravaged ground with .50cal rounds.

For the Rangers, it was seriously impressive
and professional work, and Barkmann was determined to make the most of the opportunity.

He pushed his men harder, upping
the pace of the advance, spreading groups out to the edge of the swept area, in case any defenders rallied on the flanks of the beaten zone.

Careful to protect his men
from his own Air Force, he ordered more red smoke put down as they advanced.

Six aircraft swept overhead, the 416th circling with impunity, no ground fire of
note to concern them, and definitely no enemy aircraft to challenge their mastery of the airspace over the battlefield. They repeated the attacks, moving the bomb line forward by seven hundred yards

This time the secondary explosions were obvious.

Reports from the Squadron Commander indicated major damage to a Soviet tank unit that had been concealed, but not well enough to avoid the attentions of the Invaders.

Barkmann knew that Ewing would be listening
, but he also remembered that assumption was the mother of all fuck-ups, so he confirmed that the tanker had heard the report.

“
Roger that. We’re on it, Boxer Six.”

Ewing was a
career soldier, and understood that the Ranger officer was a competent man who was just playing it by the numbers.

Amidst the burning
Russian tanks to his front, one still exhibited life, its turret turning from side to side.

Inside, a soviet tank commander, fresh to the battlefield, condemned his men with his exhibition.
Urine and faeces dripped down his legs, creating a smell they could recognise, but it was his inability to make a decision that brought their premature end.

Ewing
had no such problems but, in truth, he hadn’t just been bracketed by 500lbs bombs.

The commander of the 5th Battalion
’s tanks got a shot away; a high-velocity armor piercing that did just what it was supposed to do.

The young Soviet tank officer was the sole survivor as firstly the shell and then the
vehicle innards it displaced, scythed through the four men, two in the hull and two in the turret.

“Sturmbannfuhrer?”

Derbo looked at the orderly bandaging his leg and nodded at the enquiry.

“Feels fine, Willi... thank you.”

He stood up and tested the leg, wincing at the initial pain
, but soon getting himself under control.

He patted the old medical orderly on the shoulder.

“I owe you a drink, Kamerad. Are you free later, say, eight o’clock in the promenade bar?”

More than one of the weary Mountain troopers managed a laugh
, and more than one was too exhausted to hear.

Rettlinger
’s perimeter had shrunk as the Soviet attackers redoubled their efforts, and no one there was under any illusions as to what would happen next.

He was still clinging to the two road junctions, having pulled all his men into the five hundred metre
long oval that covered Route 9's junctions with the 135 and 7.

Actually, he had pulled back nearly a
ll his men, for a small group had become isolated in the village cemetery, on the northeast edge of St Petite Pierre; they were still fighting.

It seemed that the heaviest combat of all rolled through the monuments and headstones, the screams of the frightened and the dying often louder than the sounds of the weapons doing the Grim Reaper’s work.

The fighting had started to lessen, but it had taken nearly an hour for silence to descend on the positions.

Eight men filtered back from the bloodbath in the cemetary

The Castle Lützelstein had already been abandoned, its defence pointless, a few white flags left to shield the handful of wounded that had remained, unable to be moved. They retained their weapons, just in case, and each man had a grenade, should something more unpalatable than death threaten them.

Some
seven hundred metres from where the ex-SS officer moved amongst his men, another commander was exhorting his troops to one final huge effort.

“
Listen to that, Comrades, listen.”

The sounds of exploding artillery
, and the crack of tank cannons were timely.

“
That’s the enemy trying to get through to this bunch that we’ve bottled up.”

Astafiev favoured his right leg, a growing bruise on his thigh indicating where he had contacted the tree stump that lay hidden beneath a layer of snow.

“We’ll make one last effort, a final attack. We will overrun them,” the emphasis on ‘will’ made a number of faces swivel his way, “And then prepare this position against the forces that are coming to relieve the SS swine.”

The former identity of the defenders had become known some time beforehand. That information quickly passed from mouth to mouth
, bringing an increased savagery to the Siberian’s attacks.

“
Comrade Mayor Toralov.”

He looked at the once-immaculate figure, now black from head to toe
, and carrying a dozen wounds.

“
Comrade, I need one last effort from you.”

Toralov stiffened by way of reply, his broken jaw not permitting anything above a grunt here and there.

“You’ll command the wounded, who’ll all be assembled at this point here.”

Astafiev indicated a pair of houses that had yet to burn, although they had not escaped unscathed.

“On my command, you’ll open up upon the Germanski and keep firing until you see us on their position.”

Th
e Major nodded and eased the PPD on his shoulder, looking around at a few of the men who would share the duty with him.

“
The rest of 2nd Battalion will hold behind this position, ready to come forward to prepare the defence, once 1st Battalion has overrun the last defenders.”

The sound of aircraft gave him pause
, and the Soviet Colonel looked up as a number of twin-engine aircraft swept over La Petite Pierre without engaging which, for the 415th Rifles, was good, as they bore the white star of the USA.

“
Air support, Kameraden. Air support at last. Help is not far away now, so we must stand firm. They’ll come again, and it will be all-out so be aware. We must hold out, not long now, but we must hold out. If we fall, our Amerikan allies will have a hard time of it.”

Such was the perimeter that the Mountain Battalion now occupied,
that Rettlinger could see every pile of bricks or scrape in the snow that was held by his men.

The last enemy assault had overrun the
new battalion medical post and Koch’s platoon had been unable to take it back.

Koch himself had not returned from the effort and his fate was unclear, with some of his comrades believing him killed as he ran forward, whilst others
thought they saw him gain the canvas and wood position.

Either way, an experienced officer had been lost.

Milke was now in command of the emergency unit, reduced to nineteen men, including those who had been retained by Derbo.

“
You know what you have to do, Bernhard.”

It wasn
’t a question. Ex-Hauptsturmfuhrer Milke was an old and trusted soldier.

“
Remember, Kameraden. They are coming for us. You know it; you can hear them coming. Hold on... hold on just a little while longer... and I’ll buy everyone a drink, not just Willi!”

The first laugh was drowned by the arrival of Soviet mortar shells, falling all over the position, no more than 300
metres across at its widest point.

“
Hals und Beinbruch, Kameraden!”

Dropping into a low crouch, or as low as such a mountain of a man can get, Rettlinger moved off quickly to his chosen point of defence; the part of his position nearest the enemy.

Heavy firing started behind him, quickly accompanied by the sounds of distress from men recently wounded.

He dropped into his position, struggling for breath, and rubbed his aching thigh, trying to prepare for what he knew came next.

Astafiev had decided to lead his men from the front, and the point he had chosen to attack was the obvious one. The shortest distance between his positions and that of the hated enemy.

He moved amongst his assault force, slapping a shoulder here
, or shaking a hand there.

Some distance away, Toralov
’s small force had started laying it on thickly as the mortars expended their last few rounds of smoke and HE before dedicating themselves to finding more ammunition to the rear.

Asatafiev
risked a look over a broken brick wall, and was greeted with a gift from the gods.

The nearest building was now bathed in smoke from two mortar rounds, the adjacent structure adding more smoke to the situation as fire took hold.

Holding his Tokarev pistol firmly, he stood and yelled at the men of the 1st Battalion.”

“
Comrades! To Victory! Urrah!”

The cry grew in three hundred and forty throats as his men rose up with him and plunged across the small but deadly piece of No man
’s land, where fire from unsighted enemies plucked the life from man after man.

The momentum was unstoppable and, firing as they ran, the Siberian infantry smashed into the Mountain troopers positions.

At first, submachine guns, grenades and pistols ruled.

One Siberian soldier stumbled through a walkway in a snowdrift and found himself behind a group of three
Legion troopers, who themselves were throwing grenades and firing into a struggling section of soldiers caught between some barbed wire and a larger snowdrift.

Even as the grenades exploded and claimed many lives and limbs, the single Siberian killed all three Legionnaires with a prolonged burst at close
range, which turned the snow crimson, and decorated it with small pieces of their bodies, blasted away by the sustained fire from the PPSh.

It was kill or be killed.

It was also kill and be killed.

The PPSh gunner never felt the bullet that entered the back of his neck and added his own
fatal contribution to the crimson montage in the snow.

Rettlinger stepped over the corpse and organised a small group of men to fill the
latest hole in his line.

Through the snow gap came more Siberians
, and Rettlinger charged, screaming and firing at the same time, the ST44 dropping each of the three men with none of them able to return a shot.

Dr
awing hard on the cold air. Derbo dropped to his knee at the entrance to the snowy walkway and fired off the rest of his magazine as two more Soviets sprung forward.

Two men of the initial rush were only wounded and their cries started to sound stronger and stronger, especially when Rettlinger stepped on one
’s face.

One of Derbo
’s men rushed up to assist his leader, pausing only to shoot both men in the head.

The Russian Front had taught harsh lessons and often harsh actions were the only answer,
many a man had been lost when leaving a wounded enemy behind him, and the young Mountain trooper had no intention of allowing himself or his commander to be shot in the back.

Rettlinger changed out his magazine, conscious that it was his last one
, and that it was already light by five rounds.

A grenade dropped perfectly in the entrance of the snowy walkway, causing both men to dive for cover.

The wait was awful.

‘
Dud?’

Derbo posed the question to himself
, even as he rolled away. He risked a look up at the entrance.

He yelled a warning
, but the Siberian soldier there got off a shot with his rifle.

The Mosin bullet passed through the young Trooper
’s pelvis, clipping the hip socket on its way through.

Howling with pain, he shot his oppon
ent four times, the Gewehr 43 falling silent only because it was empty.

Gritting his teeth, the Mountain soldier rolled away and grabbed for another magazine.

He neither heard nor saw the grenade that killed him.

It had been poorly thrown
, but its explosion propelled a deadly piece of metal through the left ear and into the German’s skull.

Rettlinger missed the death; he was quickly
looking around, knowing he was losingthe fight, as more of his positions were becoming overrun with enemies.