Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6) (21 page)

Camp Rose was, as far as any enquiry would reveal, a medical staging facility, through which wounded men were returned to active units after additional training.

That was, in fact, its main job, and explained the comings and goings of experienced soldiers.

The camp spread itself down the west side of the lake, seemingly clinging to every open space from the forest’s edge to the waterside.

However, there was another part, a secret part, that dwelt inside the woods and occupied a clearing that could not be observed by accident, and that clearing held the men destined to serve as members of Operational Group Steel, a joint US Army/OSS project.

The concept was to reinstate the ability of the US Army to project force behind enemy lines, and therefore train a unit of battalion size that could operate by itself, in conditions of low supply and support, and trained in stealth warfare and all that entailed.

To that end, the instructors were the very best, or worst, depending on who you asked, drawn from the SAS, Commandos, and US Rangers.

The group was so secret that it had not called for volunteers, but had quietly cherry-picked men from units across the spectrum of the US forces. Resistance from some unit commanders had met with secret and unimpeachable orders, supported by assurances of an unhealthy interest in their career progression, interest of a type not necessarily conducive to advancement.

One group of men recently arrived at Camp Steel was on parade, ready to be given some sort of idea what hellhole they had landed in.

The veteran soldiers, ranked from private to lieutenant, understood enough to know that, whatever it was, it would result in going in harm’s way.

The array of divisional badges was impressive, with very few of the experienced European divisions being unrepresented amongst the one hundred and thirty men in the group.

As the murmuring rose, the paraded men were brought to attention by a sharp barked command, issued by a Commando RSM who clearly would not have their best intentions at heart.

The four lines came crisply to the correct position and all eyes followed the prowling RSM, whose moustache was waxed to points that almost reached his ears.

Having given piercing eye contact to as many of the ‘yanks’ as his time allowed, the martinet returned to the main office building and came to attention, throwing up the most immaculate of immaculate salutes to the emerging officers, who returned the honour as best they could.

The three men marched forward in easy style, coming to a halt in a triangle in front of the group.

The full colonel nodded to the RSM, who brought the men to the parade rest position, or ‘stand at ease’, as he shouted it.

“Men, thank you for coming here today. I know you’re here blind, and had no choice. We were the ones with choice, and we chose each of you.”

The colonel relaxed into his speech and put his hands on his hips.

“You ain’t here to polish your boots or do rifle drill. You’re here to learn how to soldier in a special operations unit. We ain’t being put together for fun… we’ll be used… and we’ll be ready for anything the generals ask of us. Keep your noses clean… no old soldier tricks… the instructors know them all and probably invented most of them… work hard, train hard, fight hard. We’ll ask no more of you.”

He smiled disarmingly.

“Now, if any of you don’t wanna stay after you’ve been here two weeks, then you’ll be able to go back to your own units… no questions… but you won’t be able to talk about this place or the men you leave behind. That’s the deal and it ain’t negotiable.”

Coming back to a less relaxed position, he continued.

“Your platoon officers will now detail you to your new units, thirty-two men each, and then you will be assigned to a barracks. As of now, you are men of Zebra Company, and the last company to be established in this battalion. Today, you’ll settle in. Chow is at 1800. Your platoon officers will brief you on camp rules. There will be no infractions.”

He smiled, the face suddenly becoming less friendly and welcoming.

“Reveille will be at 0530. That is all.”

He nodded to the Commando NCO, whose voice literally made some of the combat veterans jump.

“ATTEN-SHUN!”

The colonel nodded in satisfaction and saluted the group, turning to his 2IC, who, in turn, saluted and took over.

“Right men. The following officers will come and stand in front of me. Lieutenants Garrimore, Hässler, and Fernetti.”

The three selected officers doubled to the front and took up station as directed, each separate from the other by a dozen paces.

As further directed, they raised their hands and shouted a number.

“One!”

“Two!”

“Three!”

“Right men, when your name is called, fall in in column of your marker at the attention.”

The Major consulted his clipboard and made a mark each time a man answered his name and fell in.

“Acron one… Ambrose three … Barry three… Berconi two…”

The colonel watched through his office window, satisfied with the ongoing process, as he shared a coffee with the commander of Zebra Company, a man who he knew little of, but whose reputation had preceded him, a reputation much enhanced by the Medal of Honor that the Captain had earned in the early days of the new European War.

A handful of men remained to be called forward and the company commander took his leave, ready to go round each barracks and introduce himself.

“Rideout one… Rosenberg two… Ulliman one… Vernon one … White two… Yalla three… Stalin two… fucking Stalin? You gotta be kidding me!”

A tough looking corporal doubled to the end of the second platoon line, his face set, having undoubtedly heard it all before.

The Major let it drop.

“1st Platoon,” he extended his arm, pointing at an empty barracks, “That’s your new home.”

He repeated the exercise for the two other platoons and watched as they doubled away.

Hässler, as befitted his rank, pulled one of the two single rooms available.

After a short ‘discussion’, a senior sergeant from the Big Red One ceded the other single bunk to Master Sergeant Rosenberg, leaving a trail of bloody spots behind, his nose leaking the red fluid after receiving an argument-winning tap from Rosenberg forehead.

Having stowed his kit swiftly, Rosenberg made the short trip to the other room, stopping briefly to observe the men in the main bunk area, noting that they had sorted themselves and their kit out with the swiftness of veterans.

He entered without knocking.

“So, what does the First Lieutenant think about this fucking outfit, eh?”

Hässler shrugged and rolled onto the bed, testing the mattress.

“Beds comfy enough, accommodation is sound… lovely view, Rosie” he smiled mischievously and pointed at the window, through which green forest could be seen in all directions.

“If the bacon’s good, I’d say we’ll be fine here. It’s what the bastards decide to do with us, or where they send us, that worries me.”

“Same old shtick. Why always with the bacon, eh?”

Outside came a call they could not ignore.

“ATTEN-SHUN!”

They both went for the door and ran straight into the British RSM, whose unblinking eyes carved through them like a red-hot poker through butter.

“Get fallen in, Sergeant… you too, Sir.”

The barracks was at attention, lined down each side, and the two friends joined the formation, every man’s eyes fixed straight ahead and focussed on something a million miles away.

A slow but measured step broke the silence and, through their peripheral vision, they were aware that a shadow had entered through the end door, a shadow of some considerable size, for the light was all but removed as it came closer.

It was the company commander, in his best uniform, the Medal of Honor ribbon plain for all to see, giving him authority well over his rank of Captain.

In any case, the man was built like a mountain and was solid rippling muscle, and, as such, any confrontation was to be avoided.

“Ben Zona!”

The RSM was straight in Rosenberg’s face.

“Did you say something, Sergeant?”

“No… err… well… yes, I did, Sarge… I mean…”

“You will call me Sarnt-Major. Call me sarge once more and I’ll rip whatever bits the rabbi left you clear off… do I make myself clear, Sergeant?”

“Yes, Sergeant Major.”

The RSM moved to one side, only to be replaced by the towering form of the company commander.

Hässler now caught the officer’s eye and nearly followed Rosenberg onto the RSM’s shit list.

The smile was wide and the teeth were white.

“Well, what we have here then? Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

They knew better than to answer, and in any case, no answer was required by the man in front of them.

Tsali Sagonegi Yona of the Aniyunwiya Tribe, named as Cherokee by the Creek Indians, named as Captain Charley Bluebear by the US Army, and known, both jokingly and seriously, as Moose, was that man.

He had pleaded for a return to combat and, by dint of his award, had been heeded, and given a position in the new unit.

Bluebear had personally asked for Hässler and Rosenberg in his company, something that, again, he was not denied.

The pair of them had seen the things before but, as the Captain moved up and down the lines, the tomahawk and battle knife were in prominent positions on the webbing belt, and had the desired effect, the veterans who had heard of the combats at Rottenbauer and Barnstorf shivered involuntarily, as the man of legend walked up and down.

Charlie Bluebear had changed, the two could see that. It remained to see if it was into something they would like as much as the man who had boarded the aircraft all those months ago.

“Men, we have plenty time to get to know each other. There is much to do. Little time to do it. Weapons inspection at 1700. Sargeant Majah.”

The RSM had long since stopped cringing at the Cherokee’s efforts to say his rank, and simply saluted the departing officer.

“Right… you heard the man. Weapons inspection parade will be outside this barracks at 1700 sharp. Full kit. Any infringements will result in loss of privileges…”

RSM Ferdinand Sunday stopped and stooped, placing his face level with Corporal Zorba.

“Loss of privileges, in this instance, means forfeiture of access to the mess hall which, in your case, might mean you lose more fucking height, soldier!”

Zorba’s eyes blazed but he kept his own counsel.

Sunday marched smartly to the entrance and turned, slamming his feet down like cannon fire.

“Dis-miss!”

The men set to cleaning their weapons, amidst chatter ranging from going AWOL, through to murdering the fucking British bastard.

Sixteen men missed their meal that evening, some for the tiniest infractions, but their comrades found enough space in their pockets to smuggle food back into barracks, something that did not escape the sharp eyes of either Bluebear or Sunday.

It was expected and desirable, the comradeship in adversity already pulling them together into a tight unit.

They would need every ounce of togetherness to get them through the rigorous training ahead.

Brigadier Haugh was grim-faced.

There was no way he could wrap this attack up in pretty ribbons and pass it off as a cakewalk.

None of his experienced officers would buy it for a moment.

It would be a total nightmare.

71st Brigade had already taken a heavy hit, hammering through the Soviet defences as they strove to destroy the Soviet pocket and permit the port to begin resupplying the Allied armies.

In Wandsbek, they had ground to a halt, until Allied air forces took a hand, reducing the area in an attack of great ferocity.

Fig # 185 - Opposing forces at Hamburg 17th June 1946.

Fighting in Barmbek, Eilbek, Uhlenhorst, and Hamm drained the fighting battalions, although they gave a good account of themselves.

But it had been St Georg that had proved the costliest of all.

The 1st Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry had been smashed in an unexpected combination of heavy defence and counter-attack, that left the battalion leaderless and below 40% effective strength.

The absence of their commander, Lieutenant Colonel Henry Howard, was keenly felt, and Haugh spared a silent moment to wish the badly wounded man well.

“Right, gentlemen. Thank you for coming. I know you and your men are tired, but we must press on, and Uncle Joe’s boys are equally at their wits end, and without supply and reinforcement.”

He leant over the map, encouraging the ensemble into the same action.

“The General wants us to have Altstadt under our control by the morning.”

“Did he say which morning, Sir, only I have a request in for a spot of leave?”

The tired laughter gave everyone a lift.

Rory MacPherson was always a wag, but his humour had been slightly forced and deliberate on this occasion.

The 1st Battalion, Highland Light Infantry, had taken their own fair share of punishment.

His tam o’shanter was gone, replaced by a grubby bandage.

The product of the head wound remained on his only battledress, the rest of his private belongings somewhere in the divisional train outside of the German city.

His trews showed all the signs of having been trampled by rabid camels, but he was there and fighting fit, if not tired beyond words.

“Thank you for that, Rory. Alas, I will not have time for leave requests before this show kicks off. Now…”

Haugh drew a few lines on the map and added unit marks.

“I’m deliberately not going to use the waterside on this one. You all know why.”

The last time the brigade had bared a flank to open water, it had cost them dearly, so Haugh was not having any repeat.

“Rory’s jocks will take and hold this area, but you will anchor yourself on the Zollkanal to the left, and you will take and hold the Grimm Bridge here. No moving over Fischmarkt without orders. That’s phase one. Phase two and you move up to here… and here. These bridges are long gone, but do watch out on the flanks in case. Cremon, up to Reimerstweite, that’s end of phase two. Phase three… well, we’ll call that as we see it, but I suspect that will be for another time. Clear, Rory?”

MacPherson checked his recall and nodded.

“Crystal, Sir.”

“Your unit boundary will be Steinstrasse, and for phase two, Börsenbrucke, for which you also have responsibility.”

“Terry, your special unit will take this line here, between Steinstrasse and Mönckebergstrasse. You have Mönckebergstrasse. No further forward than this park here for phase one, unless I order it. Phase two, liaise with the Royal Welch on your right, as they may need to manoeuvre, but I want your unit to hold the gap between the Jocks and the Welsh, no further forward than Johannistrasse. Understood?”

Major Terry Farnsworth was in charge of an ad hoc unit, drawn from the support services of 71st Brigade, and bulked up with two platoons of Ox and Bucks.

Haugh turned to the Welshman on his right.

“And you, Tewdyr… you get the prize, the Rathaus… for obvious reasons.”

He brought the young Colonel in closer.

“See here. Do try and keep clear of Ballindamm, will you. As you move forward, the natural lie of the land concentrates you, giving you a frontage of less than a hundred and fifty yards when you attack the Rathaus itself… not that I need to tell you eh?”

Lieutenant Colonel Tewdyr Hedd Llewellyn VC, OC 4th Royal Welch Fusiliers, understood only too well, and for the briefest of moments, his mind went back to August 1945, when the cobbles and rubble had run red with the blood of hundreds of soldiers; German, Scots, Welsh, and Russian.

He shuddered involuntarily.

His commanding officer understood and slapped him on the shoulder.

“Perhaps lay a few ghosts eh, Tewdyr?”

Llewellyn nodded his agreement, although he actually suspected that he would simply acquire a few more.