Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6) (69 page)

“Let’s go! Move your goddamned arses!”

Third Battalion’s L Company rose up with great energy, buoyed by their recent success, and rushed forward.

Some spared a glance at their grisly handiwork, where bloody groups of Russians lay in lines or clusters, slaughtered by a combination of the machine-guns and the volume of fire from the new Garands.

Third Battalion’s own mortars started putting down fire on Height 403, a lower promontory to the northwest of 444, the target for Love Company, who led off first.

Fig # 215 - US Forces at Hofbieber, Germany.

The other two companies, King and Mike, would push straight at Height 444 itself, leaving Item Company and a reinforced platoon of 315th Combat Engineers to fill the trench line behind them.

First Sergeant Micco, commanding the leading platoon, pushed his men hard, despite the light resistance so far encountered.

The Soviet mortar fire seemed so much less effective than normal, even though they were used to the much lower enemy fire volumes by now.

Towers, despite the fact that a battalion commander shouldn’t really be up the sharp end, brought his small command group with him, and trailed along behind the soldiers of Love, his former company.

Occasionally, he would see a wounded man or a corpse, and know the man’s name, remember the man’s voice, or what brand of cigarette the man smoked.

A groan caught his attention, and a pair of legs came into view as he moved towards it.

‘Oh my God!’

“Medic! Medic!”

Fig # 216 - Third Battalion’s attack on Height 444, Hofbieber, Germany.

The wounded man had been struck in the abdomen by something capable of opening him up like a butcher’s knife.

The bloody entrails were wrapped around his legs where he had thrashed around in extreme pain, at first caused by the wound, and subsequently from the additional damage his own actions inflicted.

Pain and blood loss had reduced the man…
boy
… to a whimpering wreck, and Towers knew he was not long for this world.

He knew the boy well.

He knelt beside Private Jacob Means, son of Mr and Mrs Randolph Means of Gillette, Wyoming, and held the dying eighteen year old’s hand as Dressman, one of his old hands, administered morphine in battlefield fashion, straight into the thigh of the casualty.

“Fuck.”

Means’ eyes glassed over and he was gone.

Arranging the boy’s hands appropriately, Towers stood and picked up the discarded Garand, placing it in the ground barrel first, so as to mark the location of the body.

“Just a boy, Major… they’re always just boys.”

Towers slapped Corporal August Dressman on the shoulder gently, understanding that the old veteran had seen more violence in his life than most.

“Move on out… let’s catch up with the company!”

A gap had opened up between Towers’ group and the hindmost of Love’s soldiers.

Which gap ensured his immediate survival.

Fig # 217 - Soviet order of battle, Hofbieber, Germany.

“Comrade Mayor, if I fire now, I’ll waste much of my salvo. I recommend waiting.”

The rifle battalion’s Major was living on his nerves, and the combination of enemy artillery, mortars, and the approaching infantry were bringing him to the edge of his endurance.

“Comrade Starshy Leytenant, I order you to fire your fucking weapons now… right now… at the enemy… right there!”

The shaking pistol indicated the men moving towards the northern peak of Height 444, where the rifle battalion commander had placed his most junior and inexperienced company.

“Comrade Mayor, there’s movement in the other enemy positions. Look…”

“Give the fire order, Tobulov, give the fucking fire order!”

Ignoring the proximity of the Tokarev’s muzzle, and the wild eyes of the critically stressed man, the Guards artillery officer spoke calmly into the telephone, changing the fire order to one that brought down the deadly rain upon the troops advancing on Height 403 instead, out of nothing more than self-preservation.

“Drug-one-one, this is Druzhok-five-two, execute plan dva, execute plan dva, over.”

“Druzhok-five-two, Drug-one-one, two minutes, repeat, two minutes. Out.”

The Major was rapidly coming apart, and failed to notice the change in his fire order.

“Two minutes? Two fucking minutes? Tell the lazy bastards to fire now… the enemy are moving forward!”

“For the Rodina’s sake, will you shut up and let me do my job, Mayor!”

The artillery officer produced a flare pistol ready to fire the agreed signal, and he waved it threateningly at the man who had started to cry.

The Major dropped to his knees and came apart mentally, helped by a near miss from an American mortar round.

A single red flare rose into the sky above the Soviet frontline, sparking frantic activity amongst the defenders.

The attacker US infantry, fearing the nature of the signal, advanced quicker.

Dropping back inside the battalion command post, Starshy Leytenant Tobulov ensured that the men tending to the gibbering officer had fitted the man’s equipment properly, following the instructions that the engineer colonel had given that very morning.

Satisfied that all was in order, he donned his own kit and turned to watch the arrival of the deadly barrage.

“Cover!”

The cries went up as men recognised the sound of Katyusha rockets about to arrive in their vicinity.

Over six hundred were in the air and the noise was terrific in volume and terrifying in its intensity.

The rockets started to explode, covering an area between Allmus and Height 403.

The light smoke filled the ground over which the Soviets had attacked, and that was now occupied by US troops going in the opposite direction.

The failed attack had been expected to fail, albeit not so bloodily, and had been designed to provoke a response from the US forces that they believed were gathering for an assault.

That response charged straight into a killing ground from another world.

In February 1945, Soviet forces had stumbled across
Dyhernfurth in Lower Silesia. GeneralMaior Max Sachsenheimer, led a German counter-attack and spoiling mission, protecting the Anorgama Gmbh facility, part of the huge I G Farben empire, whilst its deadly product was dumped into the Oder River. Eventually Sachsenheimer’s force was driven back, and the Soviets claimed the facility.

Despite the best efforts of the German troops, some quantities of the product remained, and were recovered by the Red Army.

In the chaos that was the Soviet logistical system, some special rocket rounds were accidentally delivered to the front, where Lieutenant General Gluzdovskiy, the commander of the Sixth Army decided to use the tools at his disposal, and ordered the 98th Guards Mortar Regiment to deploy in support of the ragged 117th Rifle Corps.

The surviving Katyushas of the 98th put their special shells on target.

Starshy Leytenant Tobulov didn’t bother to call in the results, as he knew the Katyusha unit would be rapidly relocating.

In any case, the gas mask and cape made conversation difficult.

The explosions were… well… different.

Micco risked a look up from his prone position and observed the ground behind him, seeing a hazy, almost light brown coloured smoke screen forming all across the rear.

It was no smoke screen, and obscured nothing, just changed the view enough to be noticeable.

Already on the leading slope, Micco and his men were not engulfed in the same way as the rest of Love Company’s soldiers were.

He and his men did not smell the light fruity smell.

Which meant that First Sergeant William O. Micco and his men survived the first use of Tabun nerve agent on the modern battlefield.

“Stop! Stop right there!”

Dressman’s voice rose above all other sounds.

In any case, the tableau that greeted them did not encourage forward movement.

Towers was rooted to the spot as the most gruesome play was acted out before his eyes.

Men rose up screaming, others dropped to the ground gasping for air.

Hundreds of soldiers became incapacitated in a moment, as the nerve agent found bare flesh or was inhaled.

Death came quicker to those that drew the deadly agent into their lungs.

Some died within seconds, whereas others gasped for air as they evacuated their bladders and bowels.

“Chewing gum?”

“What’s that you say Harry?”

“Chewing gum… smells like chewing gum.”

“Oh my god! Major! Get back!”

Dressman had been there before, and pieced together the explosions, hazy vision, and unusual smell.

“Gas! The bastards have fired poison gas!”

There was not a single gas mask in the attacking force, in Third Battalion, or even in the 90th Division.

For the soldiers of Love Company, it was already too late.

Otherwise healthy soldiers found themselves unable to draw breath, or lapsing into a sleep from which there was no return.

Towers was startled by the figure that leapt past him.

“Stop Harry! Grab him someone!”

It was too late, and the acting commander of Love Company escaped the grabbing hands and charged forward to help his men.

As Remington ran, his lungs worked overtime, drawing the deadly Tabun into them.

His vision started to fail him and his lungs failed to work as hard as he ordered.

His limb control failed and he tumbled head first into the ground, where his body started to convulse.

Around him, others were in a similarly awful death dance, arms and legs jumping and waggling uncontrolled, as the agent interfered with their nervous systems.

Remington vomited and, face down, inhaled the contents of his stomach, bringing a reasonably swift end to his suffering.

Towers, open-mouthed with shock, watched from a distance. Suddenly shaking himself from his inactivity, he made the only decision he could, assisted by Dressman’s hands pulling at his straps.

“Move back… quickly!”

The command group needed no second telling, and displaced back to the command post, where Towers immediately grabbed the telephone.

Out on the killing ground he had left behind, the gentle breeze encouraged the Tabun to spread south and southwestwards.

Shocked beyond measure, he tried to compose himself, and failed.

“Colonel Bell, Sir… Colonel… my boys’re all gone… all gone…”

Dressman shouted as he pissed on his comforter.

“Piss on it… anything… get it on your fucking faces… quickly!”

“Who is that shouting? What the hell do you mean, Towers? Talk sense, soldier!”

“Colonel, the commies fired something at us… don’t know what it was… poison gas or summat… but all my boys are dead… not shot, not by shrapnel, not blown up… but they’re all fucking dying or FUCKING DEAD!”

Bell felt the full force of Towers’ anger down the phone.

Clearly the man was unhinged, and Bell needed to act quickly.

“Towers, put your next senior man on the phone right now. That’s an order.”

Retaining enough understanding of the situation, Towers, his muscles twitching, handed the phone across to the only other officer left, a veteran Lieutenant who had recently rejoined the 90th.

The officer opened enough gap from his urine soaked handkerchief to be coherent.

“Yes Sir, Colonel, Sir.”

The man’s voice was strangely high-pitched, but Bell missed it.

“Who are you, soldier?”

“First Lieutenant O’Halloran, Sir.”

“What the hell is happening with Towers? He said everyone’s dead. What’s he on about?”

“Sir, Major Towers is correct. Third Battalion’s been wiped out… they’re all dead or dying… all of them.”

“All of them? Are you goddamned mad, O’Halloran?”

The Lieutenant’s nose streamed, and he started to shake with rage… or shock… or…

Towers, sweating profusely, took the phone from O’Halloran as he folded to the ground, alongside the radio operator, who struggled to draw on the cigarette he had just lit, resigned to his end and preferring to go out with lungs full of smoke than nostrils full of his own waste.

O’Halloran wet himself as he coughed and spluttered.

Towers held the man’s webbing to try and pull his face out of the dirt.

“Colonel Bell… we’re about… to die…,” he felt a wave of instability wash over him, and grabbed the hand holding the telephone in an attempt to hold it steady.

O’Halloran, unsupported, simply collapsed to the floor.

Towers’ attempt to rally was unsuccessful and the receiver fell from his grasp.

His vision indistinct, Towers made a barely controlled descent into a sitting position, as his limbs gave up being properly controlled.

The man with the scythe strode the valley floor, and none of the attackers, save Micco and his group, were spared.

Dressman, knowing his end was approaching, spent his last few conscious moments waving his fist at the sky, and screaming at whichever decider of men’s fate it was that had spared him the horrors of the Great War, albeit shot and gassed, only to bring him to die so horribly in a German field in 1946.