Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) (80 page)

“Major, we can do
it; we can blow that motherfucking rail bridge sky high!”

“Go on, Lieutenant,” exchanging a swift look with the newly arrived Robertson, his attention drawn by the US engineer’s noisy dash.

“It’s full of artillery shells, hundreds of them.”

“Pardon?”

“Major, the underpass was secured and marked with unexploded munitions signs. Seems to me like the Krauts used it as an ammo store. It’s wall to wall with HE shells, Sir.”

“And you can use them?”

“Sure thing, Major. I can do both, underpass and bridge, if we have enough time to stack them on the middle of the fucker.”

He waved a finger at the solid structure, already imagining the trek of three hundred yards, staggering with a heavy artillery shell.

“How many do you need on the bridge?”

“A hundred would make a pretty mess, Sir.”

“And you have enough left to drop the underpass too?”

Fielding was extremely enthusiastic.

“More’n enough, Sir.”

“Then we shall get it done.”

He quickly checked to see if the field telephone was ready; it wasn’t.

“Corporal McEwan!”, he shouted
, and the man magically appeared from the next hole.

“McEwa
n, my compliments to Captain Grayson. I need him to send forward a work party of twenty-five men immediately, reporting to Lieutenant Fielding in the underpass. He can have them back in twenty minutes. Off you go, and be smart about it, man.”

McEwan was gone as quickly as he appeared.

Turning to Fielding, Ramsey continued.

“We will hold and give you your time, Lieutenant, but make it as quick as you can, if you please.”

The engineer threw up a hasty salute, and departed as quickly as he had arrived, armed with renewed purpose.

R
obertson stayed silent, waiting, his face set.

“Yes
, RSM, I know.”

Looking to the sky, Ramsey
jumped automatically, as a large raindrop hit him in the eye.

“Angel’s tears, Sah, angel’s tears.”

Ramsey nodded, knowing in his heart that there would be a heavy price to pay this day.

“Nae room for jessies and bairns
here, Sah, not today.”

“Quite so, Murdo.”

The shock of hearing Ramsey use his first name was only superceded by the Major’s offered hand.

“Good luck to you.”

Murdo Robertson took the hand of the man he admired most in the world.

“And the same to yersel, Sah.”

Ramsey smiled, knowing that the RSM had crossed a huge boundary with the handshake, and accepting that Robertson could not go so far as to call him by his name.

“Pass the new plan onto our American cousins, if you please, Sarnt Major.”

Along the Allied rear positions, a few extra units arrived and slid in beside the exhausted men of the 116th and 154th Infantry. Some 4x4’s with AT mounts, the occasional platoon of infantry rounded up by MP’s at the rear.

There were no
more tanks to be had.

Droves had found the problem
, and fixed it. The loose connection had been squirting a mist of oil over a hot manifold, leading to the smoke problem.

Meanwhile, Griffiths had consulted with the first officer he found, name
ly Aitcherson, and established what was happening.

Deciding to relocate, just in case any surprises appeared from Rechtern, the Comet tank snuggled in behind a protective wall, near the junction of
Route 48 and Rechterner Straβe. A small mound offered a dominating position, whichever route the Soviets selected.

The first inkling of
possible disaster for those at the rail bridge was the sharp crack of the Comet’s 77mm weapon, closely followed by Griffith’s urgent message over the radio waves.

“All stations, all stations, enemy tank and in
fantry force on Route 48... FIRE! TARGET LEFT 15! ENGAGE! ...approaching positions from Rechtern, in Regimental strength... FIRE! ...over.”

In his excitement, the tank commander forgot to unkey his mike, sending his
local instructions over the radio to all listeners.

The
Soviet attack fanned out, two of their tanks already smoking after receiving fatal attention from the British tank.

“I’m down to ten AP shells, Sarnt, the rest’s all HE.”

Butler, the normally unflappable gunner, expressed his alarm in his own special way.

“Ten fuckin
g AP ain’t e-bastard-nough. We’re fighting a fucking army out there, Sarnt.”

There were nine tanks to the front.

“Well, don’t fucking miss then, you pillock. Show me you’re as good as you reckon you are, eh?”

“ON!”

Butler’s automatic call was responded to equally automatically.

“FIRE!”

Another T34 shuddered under a hammer blow, the engine compartment immediately spouting a firm candle of fire.

“Apparently, you tell everyone you’re the fucking bees fucking knees, so prove it!”

A shell struck the wall, sending pieces of stone smashing against the armour plate.

“Five degrees, left gunner! Target tank.”

The turret rotated effortlessly.

“ON!”

“FIRE!”

The shell struck, deflecting off through the frightened men clinging to the back of the T34, sending a deluge of pieces in all directions.

“You tosser! You missed!”

“I hit it, Sarnt.

“Well then, hit the bastard again!”

“ON!”

“FIRE!”

The shell punched through the turret ring, transforming the interior into a charnel house.

“Right, Bert, shake it up, man! Reverse up behind the building, then right across the street. Move it, will you!

The Comet moved
back, as two more shells struck the stonewall.

Ramsey did not have a radio with him; that remained in the western defensive positions.

However, he now had a field telephone in position, a working EE9 US Army model, which now screeched at him in an urgent fashion.

“Ramsey.”

As he could see the other position, code and formality was unnecessary.

“Major, the Reds have tanks and infantry in our rear, coming from Rechtern in Regimental strength.”

Thought and deed were very different

‘Jesus Christ!’

“Righty ho, Captain. Orient yourself mainly on that axis. I assume that racket is our lads from the Derbyshires?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Fine, make sure you support them with some infantry. I’m relying on you to hold them back for as long as you can, clear?”

The reply was lost in a whirl of thought.

‘This bridge is suddenly very important. I’m missing something.’

Back in the now, Ramsey issued further instructions.

“I think the next bridge up had extra reserves. 1st Black Watch lads. Send a runner. Get them up here, as quickly as possible.”

Soviet m
ortar shells started to fall, to the second that the rain stopped once again, and sunlight burst through the clouds.

“Once that’s done, get onto Brigade and tell them the situation. I am going to destroy the bridge within the next forty-five minutes. You...,” he summoned up
a mental image of the pale face of the modest blonde officer, “We...We must hold for an hour. That is an order, Captain.”

“Yes, Sir. Good luck, Sir.”

Ramsey looked automatically towards the bridge defences, and caught the end of Grayson’s salute.

He returned it across the divide
, and prepared to live his last few minutes on earth in a manner befitting an English Officer.

“Stand to! Stand to!”

The shout, once voice at first, then repeated around the whole Black Watch position, as other voices took up the warning.

On the extreme corner of the hillock,
one Corporal gave an order to fire, and the Vickers started its deadly work.

Through the trees to their front came a horde of
Soviet infantry, driven forward by their NCO’s and officers, their losses growing as more weapons joined in the defence.

Ramsey spared a look towards the underpass, from where men emerged carrying the artillery shells, two
men to each, bodies hunched in fear and anticipation.

On the other side of the railway embankment, more firing erupted, proof that the Americans had troubles of their own.

“Mac.”

T
he corporal raised his head.

“Aye, Boss?”

“I want you and your pair to watch the top of the embankment. Kill anything on it, and keep me informed please.”

“Right enough, Boss.”

As the volume of offensive fire increased, more and more Soviet bullets whipped through the trees and undergrowth, removing pieces of the greenery in large clumps. A smaller fir tree fell to the earth, its trunk sawn in half by hot lead.

Sparing a swift look at the bridge, Ramsey was encouraged to see
that the pile of artillery shells had grown.

A nearby B
ren gunner screamed as the top of his head was removed by fast travelling metal, his weapon falling silent.

The loader looked on in shock, immobilised by the sight of his
friend and the spray of blood that had lashed his face.

Ramsey shouted from his position.

“Private Fraser!”

Nothing.

Ramsey repeated himself, drawing the same blank.

Shouldering his
Sten gun, he propelled himself up and over the edge of the position, rolling and slithering into the Bren pit, beside the petrified Fraser.

“Come on now, Fraser. There’s work to do, lad.”

The nineteen year old looked at his commanding officer through watery, uncomprehending eyes.

“Come on lad, come on
now! What will you think of yourself in the morning?”

The tears continued
, but the soldier started the process of composing himself.

Ramsey grasped the boy’s neck and gently shook him.

“Come on now, laddie, show the Reds how the clans make war eh?”

A
Lance Corporal, keen to know why the Bren was silent, rushed to the pit, and threw himself on top of Ramsey.

“Jings
, ah’m sorrah, Boss!”

Although winded, Ramsey managed a response.

“Don’t make a habit of it, McClendon, especially as we haven’t been formally introduced.”

“Aye
, Major. We’ll no be daeing it tomorrah anyways, and that’s fer sure.”

The M
ajor grinned and slapped the NCO on the shoulder.

“Stay with young Fraser for a bit, just until you can get back safely to your
own position.”

That
was not what Ramsey meant, and both McLinden and Fraser knew it, but it sufficed to save the young lad’s blushes.

Ramsey
was up and out of the hole in an instant, fighting the new pains in his chest and stomach, and making the distance to his own position in short order.

He collapsed into cover, conscious that McLinden’s unexpected arrival had probably sprung a couple of ribs.

McEwan waited for the officer to recover.

“The bas tried the top like ye said,
Boss. They’re all doon.”

A swift look was enough to confirm the presence of nearly a dozen bodies, some wearing the tell tale cylinders of flamethrower troops.

“Well done, Mac.”

“Oh, there’s more, Sah.

The finger pointed down a path that afforded a restricted view of the top of part of the embankment, almost certainly some seven hundred metres away.

“I dinna know what they are, but for sure
, they’re big bas, Sah.”

Searching his memory, the briefing document he sought came clearly into view.

“Stalin tanks, look like mark three’s, Mac. Very nasty.”

‘Well that’s us up shit creek without a paddle!’

“RSM!”

Robertson heard the call and stopped bandaging his wrist, laid open to the bone by a wood splinter.

He sprinted to the HQ hole.

“RSM, the enemy is pushing heavy tanks up the rail line, on top of the embankment.”

Ramsey extended his arm down the same line that Mac had indicated. They both looked, but the monsters were now not apparent, a cloudburst obscuring them.