Impasse (The Red Gambit Series) (15 page)

Leading the Romanian advance were three Panzer IV’s, two model G’s and one H, the most modern vehicles available to the 4th RAG.

They were flanked by four T34/m42’s and two Sturmgeschutz III’s.

Some way behind, a small group consisting of a Tacam R2, a Zrinyi Assault Gun, and a mechanically unsound Hetzer, struggled to close the action.

Fig#77 - Soviet and Roumania forces assaulting and Puch, Austria, 0027hrs, 14th November 1945.

Fig#78 - Töplitsch and Puch, Austria, 1500hrs, 14th November 1945.

Kearney had declined to be evacuated, reasoning that Walshe would need a loader when, not if, the Russians attacked again.

He had accepted a dressing from the orderly who remained behind to tend the two men, occasionally wincing as the man worked to cover up the wound. The man was a conchie and, as such, had been ridiculed when he first joined the battalion. The contempt did not survive their first action, for the man, whose deeply held convictions prevented him from taking up arms, was no coward, and many a son of Ireland was plucked from peril by the slight effete orderly.

Walshe seemed not notice as the medic cut away at his greatcoat and battledress to get at the shoulder injury.

Satisfied with his work, Lance-Corporal Young RAMC moved off to find other employment.

As the pain of his wound mounted, Kearney started to regret his decision to stay put.

Within seconds of deciding to seek out a relief, his mind became focussed on the arrival of enemy artillery and mortar shells, undoubtedly a pre-cursor to another attack.

And something else.

‘Fuck! Tanks!’

In a rough V shape, the enemy tanks moved slowly forward, their machine guns firing short bursts into anything that looked like it could house an anti-tank team, occasionally stopping
to place larger ordnance on a suspicious mound or shadow in the snow.

Behind them, more waves of Soviet infantry moved purposefully forward, buoyed by the presence of the armoured support.

Kearney was woken from his thoughts by the stammer of the Bren gun as Walshe engaged the group nearest the Drau’s southern bank.

“
Nipper, have a go at that bastard there, now! He’s got his turnip up, boyo!”

Walshe mechanically looked down the line of Kearney
’s good arm and saw the Panzer IV commander leaning out of the turret, engaged in animated conversation with a jogging infantry officer.

The Bren chattered three times, sending bullets into both men.

The tank officer slid inside his turret, his neck and facial wounds spraying blood over his shocked crew until there was little left to leak from his wounds and the man died.

Outside, the infantry Captain had taken five bullets in the groin and stomach, the heavy impacts throwing him against the side of the tank. Robbed of strength by his wounds, he was unable to avoid the fall onto the tank
’s bogies where, mercifully, he died instantly, his head crushed between track and roller.

Earth splattered
the two defenders as the hull machine gunner attempted to avenge his officer, both Irishmen automatically dropping down behind the frozen corpse.

Kearney eased his wounded arm and risked a swift look over the top.

One of the T34s, attempting to engage the sole anti-tank gun supporting the Inniskillings, suddenly dropped into a rut disguised by a build-up of snow. The HE shell went wild and dropped well short. Unfortunately, for Kearney, it met resistance some ten yards in front of his position, its arrival coinciding with his risky attempt to see the field in front of him.

A flat pebble, the sort that water skimmers everywhere seek out for their best attempt, was forced out of the earth by the explosion and, at high speed, it struck Kearney on his right temple.

Suddenly Walshe found himself alone, and with a bloodied 'corpse' wrapped around his feet.

None the less, the young soldier continued to fire controlled bursts, picking off enemy soldiers with each attempt.

The artillery claimed a success; one of the T34s took a direct hit, smashing in the front of the vehicle and flipping the turret back onto the engine compartment. It was quickly wreathed in flames and debris was thrown in all directions as rounds cooked off and the intense fire melted the snow around it.

The sole six-
pounder also added to the tally, striking a Panzer IV as it manoeuvred, putting its AP shell into the rear compartment. With the engine destroyed and a growing fire, the leaderless crew decided to evacuate, leaving the corpse of their young officer to be incinerated within his last command.

Soviet mortars cut short the celebrations and spread the crew and pieces of the gun across the snow.

Kozlov had to admit that the Romanians had done well and that the extra assets that Ryzhov had allocated had made a huge difference.

‘
We have them this time!’

Turning to his signals officer
, he confidently gave him brief instructions.

“
Inform Polkovnik Ryzhov that we are overrunning the line of resistance and that he should prepare phase seven immediately!”

Turning back to his observations, he was rewarded by the obvious signs of the British withdrawing, although the violent end of one of the Sturmgeschutz did not escape him.

Anton Emilian, Major of Tanks, commander of the Romanian armoured force, sat quietly watching as his crew struggled with the repair, the vital track having been severed by the strike of a PIAT round, just as the British infantry ran for their lives.

He carefully examined his dislocated middle finger, stroking it with his right hand, rehearsing the move that would bring it back into shape.

A group of dazed prisoners were herded past him and a small kerfuffle ensued.

An e
nemy soldier, wearing a Red Cross armband, had moved towards him and one of the Russians guards had ‘tapped’ him with his rifle butt.

The medical orderly held his hands out, palms up, placating the guard, slowly moving in Emilian
’s direction.

Young had spotted the
Romanian officer’s predicament and had moved only to offer his medical help.

Suddenly, both Emilian and the guard understood the orderly
’s purpose and both relaxed.

After a swift examination, Young
’s hand gestures overcame the language barrier and Emilian steeled himself for the pain.

It came and went quickly, not as much as he expected but more than he would have wished for.

He smiled and thanked the Englishman, but realised that his words were wasted.

Instead, he reached into his pocket and produced his recently acquired cigarette case
, found when his unit stumbled across a hastily evacuated Allied headquarters position. Holding out the shiny object, Emilian indicated that it was a gift, one that Young accepted immediately, even though he was a non-smoker.

The guard chivvied his group back into some sort of order and Emilian was left to resume his critical assessment of the track repair work.

The cigarette case was plain and simple, all except for the prominent four-leaf clover that was mounted on its face.

As the group of prisoners made its way to the rear, the
Romanian unit’s Hetzer reached the field and promptly gave up the ghost.

Its commander,
exasperated and in the foulest of moods, dismounted, and commenced a violent kicking attack on it until he realised that the inert object was not even offended by the assault, whereas his foot was now aching badly.

Be
lligerently, he stood his ground as the prisoners descended upon him, forcing the group to split and walk around him.

Hands on hips, he inspected each in turn until he caught sight of the cigarette case, its unique clover imprinting itself
on his memory, suggesting that his Commander had perished and the body had been looted by the man holding it.

“
Futui gura!”

The Soviet guard started to shout but the Steyr M1912 pistol was out in an instant.

Young’s smile disappeared along with the top of his head as the enraged Romanian tank officer exacted revenge for Emilian’s death.

Slipping the case into his pocket, Lieutenant Ionescu went in search of higher authority.

He was stunned to find Emilian sat with his crew, all tucking into bread and cheese, their track mended but lacking the fuel with which to move off the field.

“
But I thought...”

“
You thought what, Tudor?”

The Lieutenant was confused.

“I thought you were dead, Sir.”

Emilian
’s eyes sparkled.

“
Well, I admit my finger hurts," he waggled the damaged appendage with care, "But I think I’ll manage to survive ‘til the morning.”

The crew appreciated the humour, but not enough to stop eating, so the rumble of amusement had no real form.

Ionescu fumbled in his pocket, produced the cigarette case and proffered it to a now puzzled Emilian.

“
And where in the name of Saint Andrei did you find that?”

“
An enemy soldier had it. I thought he’d killed you and looted it from you.”

Emilian was no fool but he had to ask.

“So you took it back, eh? So, where’s the man now, Tudor?”

“
Dead. I shot him, Sir.”

Accepting the
cigarette case, he gestured that Ionescu should join them and the whole group fell into silence again.

As he chewed on the heavy bread, the Catholic in Emilian turned to God, the persistent dull ache in his finger sharpening his memory of prayers long gone by.

‘Oh Saints of our God, come to his aid. Come to meet him, angels of the Lord. Receive his soul and present him to God, the Most High. Amen.’

And with that, Young became but a memory.

Walshe had managed to escape.

About
a third of the Inniskillings managed to disengage themselves and fell back from Töplitsch to positions in Weiβenbach, over one and a half kilometres further down the Drau River line.

Whilst Walshe and the others were integrated into the positions of the 1st Battalion, Royal Irish Fusiliers, those who had been slow to rise or wounded were herded up and marched away to begin a new life as prisoners of war. Eight-one men started the journey, sixty finished it, as wounds, the
cold, and poor treatment took their toll.

Across the river, the London Irish had been displaced with heavy casualties and were staging a fighting withdrawal down Route 38.

At Spittal an der Drau, the prisoners of both battalions were loaded into small trucks, along with local Austrians of military age, despite the fact that no Kommando had been present.

Kearney
the 'corpse', still dazed and with the mother of all headaches, was helped aboard and the doors locked into place by guards eager to find some relaxation indoors and away from the freezing temperatures.

As the 16th November gave way to the 17th, the small train bore over six hundred souls to a fate unknown.

Hunger had driven him to it; sheer desperation had forced decisions upon him, decisions that he would have baulked at in different times.

Hunger also played another part, in as much as the Soviet paratrooper was still out
searching for food in daylight, so weakened was he by a lack of everything the body needs, save fresh water; something in abundance in the snow-covered Alsace.

Hunger produced a telling influence, drawing the man towards the soft sounds of contented chickens, temptingly originating in a small outhouse to the rear of the buildings on the junc
tion of Rue de Juifs and the Rue Principale.

Hunger played its final card by making the man careless
, its debilitating effects blocking the inner voices of the combat soldier, voices that shouted caution and were ignored.

The building was owned by a French family
, presently encumbered with the billeting of a group of US war correspondents, all guarded by a small detail of military police.