Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) (53 page)

Cirisse emptied the Sten gun into the man
, who fell back against his comrade, his eyes wide open in horror and fear, full of disbelief that his life’s blood was escaping from the holes across his chest and abdomen.

I
t was beyond the now exhausted Cirisse to reload the Sten, and he painfully eased the Browning Hi-Power out of its holster.

With a magazine holding thirteen rounds of 9mm, the Hi-Power was a serious handgun, capable of putting an enemy down at fifty metres.

Unfortunately, in this instance, the enemy was encased in Soviet steel. The killing of the DP crew had been witnessed by the commander of T34 3882 of the 5th Guards Mechanised Corps.

Bouncing over the scattered bricks on the road, 3882 completed the work started by the collapsed building, and Captain Cirisse became a red smear on the track of the
Soviet vehicle.

The Soviet attack surged forward, and t
he Belgians and Germans had no choice but to withdraw, their position now outflanked on both sides.

The remaining 327th Glider boys had taken over, relieving the 501st’s 1st Battalion, and they had immediately faced an onslaught.

The attacking
Soviet infantry had been flayed and sent packing, the high water mark of their failed assault clearly marked by numerous still forms.

Soviet
artillery, enjoying the liberty offered by the awful weather, pounded the small village, and neighbouring Limbricht, causing more casualties amongst the exhausted glider troops.

Colonel Harper toured the positions, encouraging his men, checking on their welfare, all the time with an eye to the north
, and the enemy lines.

“Govno! Govno! Govno!”

Colonel Artem’yev had seen some serious fighting in this new war but this was the first time he stared defeat in the face.

His regiment, the 179th Guards, had started the campaign at a good strength, over eighteen hundred sons of Russia, all soldiers with experience gained in the harshest combat.

After the severe battles on the road to Wurzburg, an advance that had culminated in the encounter with the American Armored Command at
Rauschenberg, the 179th was on its last legs, less than a third of its men still standing, the rest spread evenly between aid stations and cold graves.

The first attack on Guttecoven had been a hasty affair, ordered by a Divisional Commander under pressure from above.

Another hundred of Artem’yev’s men had paid the price of the General’s folly, some fifty-nine now lay bleeding in the aid stations to the rear, forty-one left inert on the Dutch soil.

The field telephone rang.

Eyes blazing, the angry commander snatched the receiver up.

“Artem’yev.”

Those standing nearby could hear every word.

“Polkovnik, if you want to keep your fucking head, stir those fucking girls of yours into action
, and take that fucking village. I want no excuses. Understand?”

Artem’yev’s knuckles went white around the receiver.

“General Karamyshev. I just lost one hundred men for nothing. Another frontal attack like that is nothing short of stupidity. I need time to ...”

“You need no such fucking thing, Polkovnik. The
Amerikanski are collapsing. I’m ordering you to make another attack. By 1800, you will be in possession of Guttecoven. Am I clear?”

A deep breath controlled Artem
’yev’s rage sufficiently for him to reply, although it failed to hide his anger from the commander of 59th Guards Rifle Division.

“Comrade General, I will send my men forward, but not in some foolish gesture
, ordered by someone sat at a comfortable desk. I need artillery support and I need armour. Without them, I will lose what’s left of my regiment in front of that Dutch village.”

The silence was electric.

Slowly, in measured angry tones, the commanding General replied.

“Comrade Artem’yev. The 179th Regiment will attack
, and will take Guttecoven, completing its capture by 1800hrs at the latest. Acknowledge that order.”

“Give me the tanks and guns, Comrade General.”

“Do it with what you have, Artem’yev, or I’ll find someone who will, and you will answer for your fucking failures.”

Artem’yev laughed, a laugh without humour, the sort that the mad emit just before they go
berserk.

“One hundred of men have already answered for my failures
, Comrade General. I owe it to them not to fail again. Now, I need tanks and artillery.”

“Pass the telephone to PodPolkovnik Fyokhlachev immediately.”

Extending the hand holding the telephone, Artem’yev looked at his second in command with a forced smile.

“The General wishes to speak to you.”

Taking the receiver in his good hand, Fyokhlachev took his time before speaking.

“PodPolkovnik Fyokhlachev here, Comrade General.”

“Ah Fyokhlachev. You are now regimental commander and temporary Polkovnik. You will attack Guttecoven as soon as possible, and be in possession of the village by 1800 latest. You will first arrest that imbecile there, and place him under guard until the NKVD come for him. Have you understood your orders, Polkovnik Fyokhlachev?”

“I have understood your instructions quite clearly
, Comrade General.”

“Excellent
, Fyokhlachev. Now...”

Standing slightly more upright, the Lieutenant Colonel looked directly into his commander
’s eyes as he spoke to the man on the other end of the line.

“I have understood your instructions
, but I am unable to carry them out, Comrade General. Comrade Polkovnik Artem’yev is absolutely correct. An attack without tanks and artillery would be suicidal.”

“This is fucking mutiny! Obey my orders
, Fyokhlachev!”

Very deliberately, the phone was passed back to the signalman who, like the rest of the staff in the 179th’s headquarters, sat wide-eyed and speechless at what had just happened.

“Thank you, Nikita, although I fear you may just have signed your own death warrant.”

Von der Heydte knew the Fallschirmjager were on borrowed time; the pressure on his regiment was building, as his ability to deal with it reduced, the casualties mounting by the minute.

His positions in the
rail yards had shrunk, drawing closer in towards the centre of Geleen, but they still held the Soviet infantry and tanks at bay, although the supply of Panzerfaust was nearly exhausted.

One of his best friends had led a counter-attack, restoring the positions lost when the Belgian fusiliers had been overrun at Urmond. His friend had died, along with many men from the old days.

Picking up his MP40 and pulling his white peaked cap more tightly onto his head, he moved quickly out of the Hotel Normandie, the building in which he had set his headquarters.

The sound of increased firing greeted him as he emerged into the driving rain, the water immediately making him feel cold.
He spared a moment to look up at the sign, the irony not wasted on him.

“Head toward
the sound of the guns, Kameraden.”

The small group of staff and lightly wounded men took off after their commander, jogging steadily
northeast, to where a serious fight was taking place.

Von der Heydte’s last reserve was committed to the fight.

Soviet artillery had just taken a big hit.

Eisenhower had grabbed units from all over the frontline
, and sent them to the threatened area, gradually forming some sort of defensive line on the Maas.

Part of that defence was the 309th Field Artillery
Battalion; a 155m equipped artillery unit that still retained enough of the deadly ‘Long Toms’ to bring down a world of hurt on the artillery of the 5th Guards Mechanised Corps.

The 122mm Howitzers of the 355th Guards Artillery Regiment were busy pounding Geleen, preparing the way for a hug
e assault aimed between the two Dutch towns.

Using the methods developed and refined over the past two months, the 30
9th put a mix of high explosive and air burst on top of the Soviet artillery regiment.

Each of the nine 155’s put eight shells into the area occupied by the twenty-four 122mm, two full batteries of the
Soviet heavy howitzers.

355th Guards ceased to be an effective force, the destruction
widespread, the survivors mentally shattered by such accurate fire.

Switching their fire to a likely supply route, the 309th put more shells into the air.

Their first target was clear of enemy forces, the only casualties being four Dutch civilians in Vaesrade.

Their second choice fell amongst a horsed supply column of the 25th Guards Mechanised Brigade, wreaking havoc on the unfortunate beasts
, and killing many of the supply troops.

Men from the 3rd Battalion rushed back to help, tending the wounded
, and shooting the maimed horses.

The 1st and 2nd Battalions attacked Geleen
, smashing into Von der Heydte’s exhausted paratroopers.

The Fallschirmjager Commander threw himself behind the body of
a dead Dutch civilian.

“Mein Gott!”

The experienced German paratroopers all dropped into cover immediately, disappearing to ground, at the very moment that the squad of Soviet Guardsmen had burst around the corner.

Bullets flew, the majority striking Russian flesh, as Von der Heydte’s group tackled the small breakthrough efficiently.

The Russian survivors turned and ran.

Moving forward quickly,
the paratroopers made the same corner, checking around it carefully, expecting more trouble.

As they moved over those they had shot down, their battle experience made them check the bodies for signs of life.

Two of the Russians were still in the land of the living, so a pitiless Gefreiter killed each with a single shot to the forehead.

Around the corner, the Russians that had escaped were stood with their hands up, five men desperate to live.

They had run straight into a small German force that had been sent back to hunt them down.

Von der Heydte motioned his group forward, his eyes away from the surrendering
Soviet guardsmen, therefore only hearing the telltale sound of a PPSh firing.

He snapped his head back to find the prisoners falling dead to the road, the PPSh still spitting bullets as they hit the paving.

“NO!”

It was too late.

The Lieutenant Colonel strode forward.

The killer, a senior NCO, clicked to attention to report.

“Herr Oberstleutnant, I beg to report that the prisoners tried to escape, and were shot.”

Both men knew that
was not true.

“Oberfeldwebel Bosicki, never again, clear?”

More heavy firing drew a line under the matter, and the two groups of paratroopers moved back to the frontline positions.

The fighting became more desperate.

The blood obscured his vision.

The wounds, although nothing much, bled profusely, and the blood ran down his face, soaking into the neck of his tunic.

A PTRD anti-tank rifle bullet had struck the corner of the wall behind which Von der Heydte had been hiding, missing him, but creating enough projectile stone fragments to transform the paratrooper’s face into a mask of red.

The Mechanised soldiers had drawn off once more, the second attack having been made on foot, their lend-lease universal carriers proving particularly vulnerable to the defensive combination of
Panzerfaust and Molotov cocktails.

Many Guardsmen had sprung screaming from the small British and Canadian built carriers, the
ir hair and clothing alight, flesh starting to split and fall away.

This time the killing of unarmed men had been a merciful release.

The Fallschirmjager had held, but only just.

Artem’yev cradled the bloody body as the hideously wounded man screamed and kicked his life away.