Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) (58 page)

Not without cost, as a dozen more of his Fallschirmjager fell in the action.

Running beside the paratrooper officer, Bosicki gasped as the rifle bullet slammed into him, sending him flying into a shell hole on the junction of Daggeweide and Bosweg.

Von der Heydte stopped to check the NCO.

The man had something he needed to say.

“
Sorry, Herr Oberstleutnant.”

Pressing a field dressing to the
probably fatal wound, Von der Heydte shrugged his shoulders.

“It is done, Oberfeldwebel. It should not have been,” he grunted with the effort of tying off the ends, “But it is done.”

“My brothers. Both of them. Executed by those red bastards,” the pain started to affect the wounded man’s speech.

“I am sorry
, Oberfeldwebel. Now, stay still. I’ll be back when I can.”

Touching the NCO on the shoulder, Von der Heydte emerged from the shell hole, straight into the blast from a stick grenade, dispatched from the hand of one of his own.

The blast knocked the Fallschirmjager commander unconscious, and he was carried from the field on the shoulders of the horrified grenadier.

Bosicki lay in the hole, unseen
, and unmissed.

The British rearguard moved out of Stein, leaving behind a vacuum swiftly filled by
Soviet troops.

The surviving Engineers from the 25th emerged from their hiding places, their company shattered by the joint efforts of the British Shermans
, the Vampir soldiers, and the Fallschirmjager.

One shocked
Soviet Corporal stood over a shell hole, its single occupant wearing the uniform of the enemy that had just killed both his cousin and best friend.

He locked eyes with the
wounded German, understanding the man’s fear.

The corporal lit his cigarette, rough cut Russian tobacco rolled in the page of a book he had ‘liberated’ some days ago, flicking open his lighter, also liberated, this time from the dead body of a US paratrooper.

The flame remained, the petrol lighter steady in the hands of a man resolved to revenge.

Lighting the Molotov
cocktail, he enjoyed the look of panic on the German’s face, and grinned as the man tried to move out of the hole.

He tossed the bottle
, and was rewarded with the sound of breaking glass, immediately followed by animal-like screaming.

Standing on the edge of the hole, he watched, enjoying the immolation of the
German soldier, taking it all in, as if he was watching a silent movie in the theatre.

Except it wasn’t silent, the hideous screaming rising above every sound of battle.

The petrol burned away, leaving small flames where a piece of clothing had yet to totally yield, or where flesh was still capable of sustaining fire.

Yet the man still lived
, and the screams went on.

On and on.

The Corporal watched as the sounds of suffering started to curtail and shock set in. He felt satisfied that the man had paid for the deaths of his cousin and friend.

The Engineer company regrouped and moved away.

Bosicki was dead before the rats started to gnaw on his burnt flesh.

At approximately the same time that Colonel Danskin, late of the 25th Guards Mechanised Brigade, was shot by the NKVD, a group of weary officers assembled in a large tent on the outskirts of Dilsen, Belgium.

Even Von der Heydte was there, groggy
, and sporting his own black eyes, brought on by his contact with the road when he was felled by the grenade.

He and Higgins went together like bookends
, and the pair earned more than one grin from their comrades.

Crisp and Harper were holding their own miniature de-briefing, both poring over the map of their last battles, trying to find out what could have been done better, or been done differently.

It would be some time before the full situation was clarified, but it seemed likely that the 101st had less than 50% of its manpower on the right side of the Maas, and that officially put the division out of the war for some time to come.

Maxwell-Taylor was on the phone, dealing with the plethora of matters that accompany such a defeat, or, as some called it, a victory.

‘That will be left to the historians to sort out.’

The Corps commander’s lips curled at that thought, safe in the knowledge that his men had done all they could
, regardless of what history would reflect from the comfort of its armchair when the firing had stopped.

The last man to arrive
, did so with a flourish, two SDKFZ 251 halftrack’s rattling up at full speed and sliding to a halt, adjacent to the tent.

Von Hardegen, his face like thunder, alighted, followed by a group of men who were with him for a
very specific purpose.

Maxwell-Taylor had rehearsed the moment in his mind, but was beaten to it by the swift movement of Higgins, who reached out for the hand of the Panzer officer.

“Lieutenant Colonel Von Hardegen, thank you, from myself, and my men. Without you, we would have been lost. Thank you, Sir.”

Von Hardegen could not deny that
it was true, but was tactful enough to not confirm it.

“We were all lucky, Herr General, and we all played our part today.”

That was undoubtedly true.

The others pressed forward, slapping shoulders, shaking hands, relieved to still be alive
, and attributing it all to this man and his tankers.

Modest as ever, Von Hardegen just shrugged and smiled through the barrage of praise. As it
subsided, he interrupted, for he had an important matter to address.

“Now
, meine Herren, I have some business to attend to, and ask if you will be my witnesses.”

He turned on his heel and walked out.

Off to the left, a German panzer NCO stood, his hands tied behind his back, placed against a tree on the edge of a cinder track.

In front of him stood a line of his peers, grim-faced men
, there to perform a duty and salvage some pride for their unit.

The e
ight men, all members of Europa’s 3rd Kompagnie, stood ready, Kar98k rifles held in the attention position.

To one side stood
the 3rd’s commanding Captain, his face still like thunder, the way it had set ever since the destruction of the Berg Bridge.

Turning to the Allied officers behind him, Von Hardegen enlightened them
, their eyes narrowing, focussing on the prisoner before them.

Turning back to face his men again, Von Hardegen clicked to attention.

“Proceed, Herr Hauptmann.”

Out of the corner of his eye, the ‘Europa’ commander watched as two men
painfully exited the second halftrack.

The first, a heavily bandaged German
, the gunner of JagdPanther 414, had been blown out through the rear hatch, his survival unseen by Jablinski. The second man was an American, with both arms in plaster, because Garand bullets had smashed his bones. He was the 4th US Infantry NCO, who had stumbled upon the scene in the sandbagged position.

Their evidence had been damning and unequivocal.

Jablinski had been confident enough to try to slip back into the unit, as if nothing had happened, and, for the most part, had been successful. That is until a burned and angry Panzerkanonier spoke to the 3rd Kompagnie commander.

The same officer now spoke, listing the charges
, and the verdict of the field courts-martial, as chaired by Von Hardegen.

There were no frills attached, no last words
, or final cigarette.

With a nod from Von Hardegen, the firing squad commander got on with business, the time from first order to weapon discharge just under
seven seconds.

Despite the obvious demise of the man, the Panzer Hauptmann still added
to the injuries suffered by the Russian spy. He put a bullet in the corpse’s brain, solely for his own satisfaction, rather than ensuring life was extinct.

Petrov finished his briefing, the headquarters of 2nd Red Banner so quiet, that the sound of a circling aircraft almost filled the room.

Apart from the destruction wrought upon the 5th Guards Mechanised Corps and 34th Guards Rifle Corps, there was the not insignificant matter of the destruction of the 6th Pontoon Bridge Brigade.

Three full artillery regiments added to the list of losses, along with numerous smaller units, mortar battalions, tank companies, and the like.

North of Sittard, 40th Rifle Corps had been badly
handled by the British Red Devils, soldiers that lived up to their name and fought with incredible ferocity.

Gradually, the staff officers started work on reassembling their shattered units
, to make them ready for another day.

Two of Konev’s armies were badly knocked about, perversely
, the two that had formed the spear point of his plan to cross the Maas, which plan now lay in tatters. In addition, the failure of his effort meant that the overall operation had been jeopardised, without the balance of tangible success, something that Zhukov would use against him when he found out.

‘If he finds out?,’
Konev mused.

Worse was the supply situation, some of his units having been incapable of properly defending or attacking
, for want of bullets and shells.

And worst of all, the situation had no resolution in sight, the consumption rates higher than predicted, the losses due to partisans the same, the only
thing lower than predicted being the amounts arriving from the Motherland, after the losses sustained by enemy air attacks and armed groups on the ground.

‘How can it get any worse?’

Again, the room filled with heavy silence, the low hubbub abating instantly.

Konev became aware that Petrov looked decidedly uncomfortable, eyes widening as he took in the new arrival.

The commander of 2nd Red Banner understood immediately.

“Greetings, Comrade
Marshal Zhukov.”

“Greetings, Comrade
Marshal Konev.”

“Tea, Comrade?”

“Later, thank you. First let us deal with what the fuck you have done here, and your answers better be damn good.”

The two NKVD Generals and their accompanying men filled Konev’s vision.

“Your office, Comrade?”

The two moved off into the separate private office.

The staff worked on through the tirade, as the constant shouting, all by Zhukov, escaped through the glazed door.

Wishing to keep their heads, they worked diligently under the close and unwelcome scrutiny of the implacable NKVD officers, even Tarasov, who had kept Zhukov supplied with the minutiae of Konev’s plans from start to finish.

One thought puzzled him.

Had Zhukov permitted the attack to go ahead in case of success, or had he turned a blind eye
, in the hope that Konev would fail, and so fall?

No matter what happened in the next few minutes, and the hours ahead, one thing was certain.

2nd Red Banner had been stopped in its tracks.

All warfare is based on deception. Hence, when able to attack, we must seem unable to; when using our forces, we must seem inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near. Hold out bait to entice the enemy. Pretend disorder, and crush him.

Sun Tzu

“You’ve done well so far, Knocke. My generals are pleased, although you did get very close to the Enz, did you not?

Kowalski looked smug.

Ernst-August Knocke pursed his lips, failing to hide his contempt for the man opposite.

“It was not easy.”

That was actually completely untrue, as rumours of the Legion’s movement north of the River Enz had been unfounded in any case, but, none the less, the apparent act of compliance was welcome.

“Not easy, but you managed it
, Knocke. Good boy.”

Kowalski was deliberately provocative, all the time assessing how well Knocke was controlled by the possession of his family.