Impasse (The Red Gambit Series) (54 page)

Instinctively, his arm shot out, finding the perfect hole down which to slide, before his not inconsiderable frame hit the bricks and the weight of his body in motion strained the bone past its point of tolerance.

Through the diminishing sounds of battle
, the snap of his left arm was heard for many yards in all directions, causing more than one soldier to duck in self-preservation.

Gesualdo passed out with the pain
, and it fell to his radioman to scream out for a medic, his eyes focussed in horror on the arm, bent at right angles with bones protruding from broken skin.

The Rangers pushed on, encouraged by their NCOs
and the few surviving officers, the Soviet forces almost melting away before their advance.

Barkmann heard of Gesualdo
’s injury and felt relief that his friend had survived the fight with only a broken arm.

He pressed on, starting to gain on his forward troops
, warning them to be aware of Legion defenders ahead.

They now found no resistance; no die-hard soldies selling their lives for a few yards of Alsace. The enemy was not to be found.

If it was at all possible in a world ripping itself apart, something in the Alsatian air brought a moment’s pause across the battlefield. Those who were more pragmatic argued that it was the obvious product of burning flesh that every nostril detected.

Others believed they
sensed a revulsion in the very ground they trod on.

Men migrated to the horrors
on display in front of the bistro.

Rangers,
engineers, and tankers, stopped and took in the sight. Many an appalled mind refused to acknowledge what they saw there, and many a stomach rejected its contents.

Barkmann hobbled up,
sensing what he was about to find.

‘
Goddamnit Al, I need you now.’

First Sergeant Ford stood wait
ing for his commander, face set; hardened, impassive, but betrayed by his eyes.

Barkmann stood with his hands by his side, watching the decreasing fire continue to charr flesh and burn uniforms away, but not enough to hide the identity of the bodies.

“Oh Jesus, Walter.”

Ford was too engrossed in his own mental battle to acknowledge the use of his first name.

“Ne’er seen anthin’ like it in all my days, Cap’n, no sir.”

Some civilians appeared, clearly shocked and stunned by what had gone on in their home village.

A monk, his face bloodied by some unknown injury, stood before the terrible bonfire and made the signs of his faith repeatedly, calling for forgiveness on those who had brought about the terrible event, and seeking to bring mercy to those that had suffered so badly.

A burst of firing made everyone dive for cover, all except the old monk, who continued his entreaties.

Up the road, one of the Rangers had just executed a badly wounded enemy NCO, the same one who had ruled on the squabble over lighting the pyre.

“
NO! Stop firing!”

Barkmann strode forward, pointing at the young Ranger who had
just dispensed justice as he saw it.

“
There will be no more! No more, you hear me?”

He took
a deep breath, and raised his voice.

“
Men... this is the worst thing I’ve ever seen in my soldiering. Far and away... and you all know we’ve been through some deep shit together.”

He pointed at the pile.

“These men were our Allies..."

He swallowed hard and composed himself.

"We were not in time to save them... but that’s not our fault. We couldn’t have done more. You all know that. YOU ALL KNOW THAT!”

He started to move amongst his men, placing a calming hand on a shoulder or patting an arm as he went.

"You ALL know that we couldn’t have done more for these boys."

Turning back to the smouldering heap, he spoke, almost as if addressing the fallen.

“This... this is awful... but we cannot... we must not... and we will not... let it make us into the same as those that did it.”

He
reached the two dismounted armored officers, Watkins and Ewing, the commanders of the 712th and 5th Tanks respectively.

“
We cannot become the same as the swine that did this.”

Ewing looked away
, but Watkins held his gaze, the anger spilling from every pore in his body.

“
You,” Barkmann pointed at an experienced Corporal,

“
You,” a young 2nd Lieutenant.

“
You,” a Sergeant from Gesualdo’s company.

“
Me.”

He drew a few more looks and waved a
n expansive hand over the group.

“
Us.”

He created a moment of silence to emphasise his point.

“All of us were at Hattmatt where... a mistake was made... a mistake that cost many Russians their lives.”

He nodded as a thought occurred to him.

“Perhaps that is why, eh? Maybe that’s why this... this abhorrence happened?”

He saw that some of
the men could see his point.

“
Perhaps we can help turn this off now... by not becoming like those who did this and... I don't know... maybe starting to make up for Hattmatt?”

Barkmann had failed to spot the enemy soldier at the feet of one of his Rangers, cowed and bruised.

The American pulled the Siberian rifleman to his feet, both suddenly the centre of attention.

The Ranger shoved the prisoner towards Ford.

“One prisoner, Sergeant.”

Ford looked around him.

Directly opposite the bistro was a modest house, relatively undamaged by the battle that had raged around it.

The wooden hatches that protected the entrance to the basement stood invitingly open.

Two Rangers stood nearby, and Ford called to one.

“
Rigby, you been in there?”

“
Yep, Sarge.

“
Secure is it?”

“
One way in, one way out, Sarge.”

Turning back to the Ranger with the prisoner, the First Sergeant jerked his thumb at the basement entrance.

“Stick him in there.”

The fortunate Siberian received another shove, sending him on his way
.

Barkmann continued.

“Now boys, let’s get this place secured pronto, and get ready for defence, just in case. Move!”

The crowd immediately dispersed to their duties.

Watkins shook out a Chesterfield for himself, and then offered the pack to Barkmann and Ewing.

“
Lukas, right?”

“
Yep. You?”

“
Jeff, Jeff Watkins.”

All three
men drew deeply on the cigarettes and turned to face the pile of corpses.

“
You gonna call this in, Lukas?”

“
‘Spose I gotta. I mean... Jesus, Jeff. Whatever makes people do that?”

“
Hate,” stated Ewing, matter of factly, without thought that his view would be challenged.

“
Simple as that?”

“
Yep, I reckon. Look fellahs, most of us don’t hate most of them, do we? I ain’t got no beef with the Russkies, save they’re shooting at me and mine. Never had a beef with the Krauts either, for that matter, but,” Ewing took another draw on his cigarette, “But the Japs. I fucking hate ‘em, every last man jack of ‘em. My bro died in the Bataan March.”

No further explanation was needed.

“I’ll get on the horn straight-away. Told the General we got the place already. But he does need to know about this.”

Before he got to the radio, Barkmann was waylaid by one of his men and the monk. The French-speaking Pfc translated the old man
’s version of events, giving the Ranger officer the whole horrible picture.

He was cut short when reporting to Pierce, the general terminating the radio exchange with the briefest of statements.

“Hold in position and await my arrival. Out.”

General Pierce stood in silence, hands upon hips, sucking his lips quietly as he took in the sights that La Petite Pierre had to offer.

Acting Captain
Barkmann had briefed him fully, on both the military situation, and the story behind the grizzly sight now served up to the two officers.

“
Goddamnit, Barkmann, but it’s a hell of a thing.”

Pierce grabbed the Ranger by the shoulders
and talked as a father to his boy.

“
C’mon now. Don’t you go thinking you or your men are to blame for this, son.”

By the reaction, Pierce knew that the young officer was plagued with nagging doubts.

“Son, I travelled up that road aways. I saw what you and your boys went through to get here. I don’t see how you coulda got here any sooner, really I don’t. Everyone did their best by these poor boys,” he looked over at the smouldering pile, “But it just simply wasn’t enough, just not enough...,” somewhere in his words he seemed to turn from speaking to Barkmann to addressing himself, “Especially when faced with men who could do that... what sort of men do that?”

He snapped out of the moment as quickly as it arrived.

“You understand me, son?”

“
Yes, sir.”

“
You make sure your Rangers know that... and make sure they know it from me... hell... I’ll tell ‘em myself... get the...”

Pierce halted as the apparition came into view. A stretcher being carried by four Soviet prisoners under the supervision of a Ranger First Sergeant.

He looked at Barkmann quizzically.

“
No idea, Sir.”

The stretcher was laid at the feet of the US General and one of the
prisoners knelt by the side of the badly wounded man it held.

The Soviet officer laboured his words
, and the stretcher-bearer had to lean further forward to understand.

Nodding at his commanding officer, he stood and saluted both Americans.

“My Colonel asked is he is speaking at the American commander please?”

Pierce gave Barkmann the stage and stepped back a short distance.

“I'm the commander of the force that retook this village.”

Translating Barkmann
’s words, the Siberian rifleman listened as Astafiev spoke softly.

“
My Colonel wanting to say thank you and to apologise for what is happen here.”

More words flowed from Astafiev
’s mouth, even though his first tranche had yet to be fully delivered.

“
He try to stop it, but he is shooted. He say that his men seed him bloody and lost mind. He also say that all have hear of Red Army soldier being shooted in other battles near here.”

Dropping to a knee, he took more input from Astafiev
, his voice softer as his wounds made their presence felt.

“
My Colonel wanting to thank you for not shooted his prisoner men. He know it would have been most easy.”

“
Someone had to turn it off... someone had to stop the killing. What we do to each other as soldiers should not be like this.”

He pointed at the pyre.

The Siberian soldier translated back Barkmann’s words and those present could see the wounded Colonel’s acceptance, his head nodding as he looked at the pile of dead.

Astafiev raised himself up on the stretcher as best he could, given assistance by the translator.

He spoke a few words in his native tongue, words that brooked no argument.

Two more Siberian soldiers helped him to his feet.

Practising his words in his mind, he made himself as at attention as his damaged body permitted, leaning on the interpreter, but still in immense pain.

“
Thank you, Leytenant.”

The salute was pretty good for a badly wounded man and Barkmann responded in kind, as did Pierce.

The effort proved too much, and Astafiev was helped back onto the stretcher and quickly carried away.

Pierce broke the moment carefully.

“Ok then, Lieutenant. As you’re it, and seeing on what you’ve done so far today, it seems reasonable that you make Captain permanently.”

Fig#103 - Forces involved in the Battle of La Petite Pierre and the Allied relief attempts, 7th December 1945.