Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) (8 page)

The Cossack replied in kind, using the extra length of his weapon, feinting a right handed slash and reversing, pushing the point into yielding flesh and dropping the Gurkha to his knees.

Gurung’s thigh howled in protest as the blade bit deep. He struck out at the shashka, snapping it in two, the renewed surge of pain almost causing him to faint.

Kazakov was raging, his father’s sabre broken by this small brown man, its blade now the same length as the strange knife the Gurkha wielded.

He slashed out with the broken sabre, missing his man and falling backwards as he lost his balance.

Throwing the destroyed sword to one side, he
slipped his own knife from its scabbard and rose to his feet.

Taking advantage of the lull, he caught his breath as he watched Gurung try
to pull the half-blade from his thigh.

His hand closed around the sharp steel and he gently pulled, slicing flesh on fingers and palm. The blade remained firmly embedded.

Kazakov used the moment to his advantage.

Se
nsing the Cossack’s attack, Gurung pushed himself upright, the embedded blade slicing into muscle that was already struggling to support his weight.

The deadly knife missed its mark, swatted aside by the flat of the
kukri.

A swipe similarly missed the Russian, splitting the air as
the Cossack rocked backwards in avoidance.

Kazakov feinted with his knife and drew the expected defensive move from the Gurkha.

His foot lashed out and made contact with the protruding blade, catching the exposed metal and ripping it upwards.

Gurung wailed in pain and staggered backwards, thumping against a
smouldering tree behind him.

He raised his
kukri, but realised his strength was going, the extended wound in his thigh draining blood from his body at an alarming rate.

The Cossack lunged with his knife and the blade bit into Gurung’s stomach, driving right through and into the wood beyond.

His kukri fell from his grasp, and he moaned loudly. The pain was unbearable, both that of the wound and in the knowledge of his failure.

Kazakov bent down and recovered the
kukri that had slipped from Gurung’s grasp. He weighed it in his right hand, nodding in acknowledgement of its deadly capabilities.

His adversary was dying, blood trickling from his mouth as well as from shoulder and thigh.

“You fought well, little man.”

Gurung did not understand, and was past caring, his mind straying to family and the mountains of home.

The kukri sent the CHM to his ancestors, Kazakov slashing across his exposed throat in one economical movement.

The battle was won, and the defending Gurkhas were either killed at their posts or withdrew, the latter hotly pursued by fresh Guardsmen from the
2nd Battalion, eager for vengeance after suffering badly at the hands of the Indian Division’s artillery.

One group of Cossacks, men from the 1st Battalion, moved northwards, bludgeoning into the right flank of 5th Platoon, as they struggled against the second wave of dismounted cavalry.

Elsewhere, the dying Rai was dispatched by a single sabre blow, and other Gurkhas, prisoners and wounded alike, were killed out of hand. 3rd Battalion was spent, over one hundred and sixty men having fallen, the Soviet dead and wounded littering the killing zone in front of the Allied position. The ground was shared with seventy-eight dead and dying Gurkhas.

The survivors rallied on the old
German trench, trying hard to ignore the pistol shots as the special detail swept through the woods behind them, bringing merciful release to many a wounded beast.

Some cavalrymen sought out their own mounts, whether dead or dying, sharing a last quiet moment with a friend.

The Regimental Commander was in tears. Not open grief and crying, but the dignified weeping of a man grieving for comrades lost. Colonel Pugachev, who had spent his life in the saddle with many of the dead, watched in silence as the triumphant cavalrymen of 1st and 2nd Battalions moved on through the positions. They pushed the remnants of the Sirmoor Rifles back, the other Gurkha companies withdrawing slowly in an attempt to reform a shorter line, hingeing on the solid bastion of Vogt.

His horse snorted and stamped its front hooves, unsettled by the sudden whinny of pain from the woods behind. He turned to comfort the mare and a
movement caught his eye.

“Comrade Serzhant Kazakov?”

The Colonel was unsure if the bloody apparition was that of the experienced but troublesome NCO.

“Comrade Polkovnik.”

“A terrible day, Comrade Serzhant. So many of the old crowd are gone; so many.”

A Cossack Lieutenant
rode tentatively up, and dismounted to present a grim report.

Fresh tears ran down Pugachev’s grimy face, his sorrow
mixed with occasional joy, as a veteran officer was placed amongst the wounded, or an old comrade staggered into view as the 3rd gathered at the trench.

Acknowledging the report, Pugachev took a moment.

“Right. Thank you, Comrade Leytenant. Move up, and make sure the advance ends at the halt line. I’ll be up shortly.”

Salutes were exchanged and the junior man rode away.

“Comrade Kazakov, gather up the survivors and get them back to Wolfegg. Get the mounts and men fed and rested. We’ll be passing over to the infantry soon enough. I’ll bring the Regiment back to you.”

Kazakov looked at the Colonel without
comprehension.

Pugachev realised the man’s lack of understanding.

“You’re it, Comrade Starshina.”

‘Job tvoyu mat!’

That he had just been bumped to Starshina was lost on Kazakov.

Raising his voice, the Colonel spoke to the shattered men around him.

“Comrades! Well done! Well done! You broke the enemy. Now, go with Starshina Kazakov, and we will organise you somewhere dry and warm to rest. And some hot food too.”

The men drifted in the directi
on of the still bemused Kazakov, the occasional attempt at ‘Urrah’ stifled by their recent experiences.

“Look after them, Comrade Starshina.”

Kazakov nodded and led the survivors back towards Wolfegg.

Pugachev watched them go
.

He spared a moment to look around the deserted position
and then mounted up, moving forward to liaise with his battalion commanders.

A bird starting tweeting in the trees.

A tree cracked as fire reached a pocket of resin.

A distant gun discharged.

A flare thudded as it exploded into light.

The battlefield that had been so alive with sound fell into
relative silence, the Soviet wounded removed, the Third’s survivors on their walk to the rear.

Everyone was gone.

All except for ‘B’ Company, 1st/2nd [King Edward VII’s Own] Gurkha Rifles.

Captain Lawrence Graham MC, Company Havildar Major Dhankumar Gurung, Naik Gajhang Rai, and their men
, held the line, still.

The Beaufighter was a British bird, designed as a heavy fighter, and achieving the ‘heavy’ in spades. However, she was a beautiful aircraft to fly, and packed a punch, four 20mm cannon and six machine-guns ready for anyone who got in her way.

However, ‘Gypsy Queen
III’, a Mark VI-F version in the air over Wolfegg, belonged to the 416th Night Fighter Squadron of the USAAF, and it wore a number of hats that evening.

The Mark VIII radar reported no contacts, which was no surprise, the Red Air Force having lost the night skies some time before.

Occasionally, some bigwig had risked a short hop on an aircraft, but Zhukov had now ordered his senior officers to avoid such stupidity, having lost three Army commanders in a week to night fighter attacks.

Soviet
artillery spotting was their next purpose, the telltale trails of rockets or the muzzle flashes located and positions relayed back to waiting allied gunners.

When the 22nd Cossack Regiment finally sorted out its artillery support, the commander called down fire on the withdrawing Gurkhas, determined to press them and stop them from settling. More guns joined in as the self-propelled 122mm howitzers of the 1814th Gun regiment deployed, dropping their heavier shells to great effect.

Clark, ‘Gypsy Queen III’s’ pilot, turned his Beaufighter gently, summoning the observer up to the cockpit.

“Sam, two o’clock low, muzzle flashes, say a battalion’s worth at minimum.”

“Yeah, I gottem, Cap’n,” the statement was slightly lost, as a map was noisily jostled into position.

Without regard t
o the niceties of rank, Samuel J. King sought information.

“Any landmarks?”

“Yeah, Sam, Lakes.” The water surface, now between them and the setting sun, proved an excellent point of reference, the shape of the lake prescribed in deep yellow.

“Reckon that one is due east of Wolfegg. The Stock?”

A further moment of intense map rustling followed, terminated by the observer’s head reappearing.

‘Yep, reckon so
Cap’n.”

King seemed slow to most people, but Clark understood his man well, and knew he was just methodical in his approach
, and didn’t rush into making mistakes.

“Flashes on the ground here,” talking to himself he pencilled a cross, five hundred metres to the north-east of the lake.

“Happy, Sam?”

“I’m happy
Cap’n”, the monotone revealing no hint of excitement at what he was about to do.

“Call it in then.”

Without another word, King dropped back into his position, checked the top-secret list he had been given earlier, and switched to the frequency of the nearest artillery unit, instigating an Arty/R mission.

Basically, Arty/R was a barrage called in by an airborne spotter, a procedure
well tested in the German War. However, new security procedures were being tested in this sector after some problems with Soviet misdirections, interference that resulted in a few Allied casualties.

“Queen-five-seven-three, Queen-five-seven-three calling Omdurman-Six, receiving over.”

A voice, clearly that of a man more at home in the east end of London, acknowledged receipt.

“Queen-five-seven-three to Omdurman-Six. Fire mission Baker, target...” he paused briefly, checking the coordinates again before delivering them.

“Omdurman-Six to Queen-five-seven-three, fire mission Baker received. Security check required.”

The Beaufighter had a special list
that gave it security access to men in the front line.

“Standby for check. Ready? Omdurman-six over.”

The procedure was laid out precisely, and the artillery units along a fifty-mile front all possessed a copy of the same list. A word was issued that required a specific reply within three seconds or the orders would not be observed and further communications ignored. It could not be otherwise.

“Security check. Go. Troy.”

“Achilles.”

“Roger. Balloon.”

“Otter.”

“Roger.
Sunburst.”

“
Victory.”

“Roger, check complete, ranging shot on its way.”

The Beaufighter continued on its lazy turn, Captain Clark ensuring that his aircraft was not going to get in the way of a stream of shells.

He was immediately impressed.

“Bang on the money, Sam. Give the Limeys the word.”

The observer keyed his microphone, relaying the confirmation of ‘on target’, and quickly scrambling up to look out of the cockpit.

Seconds past with nothing, save the continued flashes of a few guns below, although the absence of the full count suggested that the Soviets were hitching up their guns, ready to relocate.

Sam King was disappointed for all of thirty-two seconds, at which time the 3rd Royal Horse Artillery put their shells ‘bang on the money’.

A Baker mission was a strike against enemy wheeled artillery, and the gunners of the 4th Indian Division had mixed a barrage of high explosive and fragmentation rounds, creating a highly effective cocktail of death in the area of the 7th Guards Artillery’s deployment.

The barrage of twelve rounds per tube caused casualties and destroyed guns, but the disciplined cavalry troopers worked to hitch up their guns and move away, calmly ignoring
the men and horses that fell.

T
he sun finally retired and the night was lit by exploding shells.

The 7th Guards
Artillery quit the field, relocating to another site and leaving the front troops unsupported.

The General commanding called the commander of the 1814th SP Gun Regiment, his deployed guns having been given orders to
cease-fire and stay alert, ready for exploiting the breakthrough.