Opening Moves (The Red Gambit Series) (27 page)

And they will follow you into the deepest valleys.
Look on them as your own beloved sons,

And they will stand by you even unto death!

Sun Tzu

Chapter 21 – THE HERO

0655 hrs Monday, 23rd July 1945, Former SS Panzer Training Centre, Paderborn, US Occupied Germany.

He was the genuine article.

Major John Ramsey VC, DSO and 2 bars, MC and bar was a real gold-plated military hero, much loved by his country and his men. His country loved him from the first moment he had come to their attention.

Leading his Scottish infantry in the Western Desert in a desperate yet successful defence of a forward position at El Alamein against counter-attacking Italians, he earned his first Military Cross for leadership and personal bravery a hundred times over. It was followed swiftly by his first Distinguished Service Order, awarded for the successful repulsing of German infantry assaults at Wadi Akarit. His men loved him because he was a superb leader, genuinely concerned for each and every soldier under his command and keen to bring every one back home in one piece, whilst knowing that he would never do so. He asked his boys to do nothing he wouldn’t do himself and more than one of his jocks owed their life to him, whether they were dragged back wounded from exposed positions or preserved by a timely intervention in the heat of combat.

A bar to his MC arrived in the mountains of Sicily, the second award of a DSO during the night attack at the Gerbini railway station* in Sicily and his third award of DSO for actions under fire during the action at Hives during the Battle of the Bulge.

There was a school of thought amongst his peers that Ramsey should have been the first triple holder of the VC, but that award fell to him only once, earned superbly at the cost of a quartet of minor wounds in the gutter fighting that was the Reichswald assault. He destroyed two MG42 positions with grenades and killed the three surviving gunners with nothing more than a commando knife as his Sten gun had been smashed by a round when he charged forward. He would have gladly traded that award and all the others for the lives of the nine young men of his command that those machine-guns had claimed that February afternoon at Hekkens.

His solid and athletic twenty-five year old frame had sustained a score of wounds on battlefields from Europe to Africa, through the Mediterranean and back to Europe, both before and after the French occupation.

When the dark cloud of war fell over Europe in 1939 he was a young officer newly arrived with his unit, and it was not long before he took them off to fight in France. Since then, and the miracle escape from that conquered land, Ramsey had been constantly in action in theatres across the spectrum of combat and had received more wounds and injuries than most could cope with and he cared to remember, but he always healed fast so he was soon back in the thick of it all.

His final knock was at the hands of a fourteen year old Bund Deutsche Madel sniper on the road to Bremerhaven, whose efforts rewarded Ramsey with a wound that bled like a hosepipe along with a cracked collarbone, and brought the fanatical German girl an instant and violent Valhalla in the shape of vengeful Scottish bayonets.

Since that last action in Nordenham, Ramsey had been on the mend and his unit withdrawn from serious action, facing only minor skirmishes with remnants of hardcore Germans. Skirmishes still deadly enough to put two of his good friends in early graves for no great purpose.

Now he was to return to his unit in sufficient time to be reacquainted with his boys, prior to their returning home to Blighty for garrison duties in Edinburgh and possible subsequent redeployment to Palestine or Greece.

Himself a regular soldier, Ramsey would remain in the post-war army and, by dint of his many decorations, no doubt carve an illustrious career and achieve the highest ranks. A date at the Palace for the investiture of the Victoria Cross was to come but the ribbon sat proudly on his chest, as was his right.

However, for now all he wanted was to be back home and spend some time with his family in the peaceful Berkshire countryside and the opportunity to discover exactly what the freedom of the borough meant in his home village of Hungerford.

In the meantime, there were other duties and so he made sure he was immaculately turned out for the tiresome yank tank display, to which he was committed for the entire day because of the absence of his CO in Bruxelles.

Still, he thought going home would come soon enough.

Somehow our devils are never quite what we expect when we meet them face to face.

Nelson DeMille

1430 hrs Monday, 23rd July 1945, Former SS Panzer Training grounds, Paderborn, British Occupied Germany.

Without putting too fine a point on it, most officers there had probably already seen enough tanks to last a hatful of lifetimes. None the less, here they were basking in the sun on the top of a steep hill in the middle of German nowhere, watching the ‘15th US Armored Division’ exercise, and had been since 1115 hrs precisely.

From a distance, the casual observer would just see a bunch of soldiers, lacking in animation, with some more bored than others. However, closer up even the uninitiated would be able to see different uniforms and realise that officers of a number of nations were gathered together.

The exercise was American run, despite the location being in the British-held portion of Germany, and so the greater number were clearly US officers, mostly from other units as the relatively inexperienced members of “15th Armored” struggled not to make fools of themselves in front of people who had actually done it all under fire on more than one occasion.

Occupying the top of the hill was the young US Senior Officer, a Major General, holding court with a Soviet Army General of Cavalry old enough to be his father. Both had their entourages in place, alternating between making positive sounds to anyone who was in earshot and pouring coffee from huge flasks sat next to the largest mountain of sandwiches anyone had seen this side of the invasion of Poland. As in all these things, there were sycophants and kiss-asses plying their trade, but there were also some serious officers there wishing to learn, or at least observe the exercise properly.

The first scenario had been a hasty attack against a fortified hillock well defended by anti-tank guns, infantry, and artillery. Experienced observers from the US, UK and Russia conceded that the attack had gone reasonably well and might even have triumphed had there been real lead and explosive in the air.

The second exercise was nothing short of a shambles to all except the Divisional Commander and his staff, and the Russian cavalry general for that matter, or so it seemed. In the first instance, any fool could see that gathering tanks in one place, open to observation as they were, would just invite a barrage of artillery in short order. The umpires had a field day with that part. Even if that had not happened, then the choice of attacking up and over a small but pronounced ridge was not sound, as it displayed tender hull floors to any anti-tank weapon in the vicinity. More vehicles were removed at this point.

“At least the umpires are competent” was the acid aside from a British Brigadier, whose insignia indicated that he had his roots in a distinguished cavalry regiment and now had a command in 11th Armoured Division.

To be frank, it was embarrassing. The route the US Regimental commander had selected was nothing short of madness, as even the observers on the hill could see the ground turned to a marsh by a weekend of heavy rain. Sure enough, a large number of tanks bogged down, including the presentation company comprising the latest M26 Pershings.

Another of these vehicles was positioned at the bottom of the observer’s hill so that they could study it close up and even get in it if they chose, via the set of wooden steps provided. Two young Soviet junior officers were already taking in every detail, inside and out, and would submit a comprehensive report upon their return. A number of the staff officers chose to have photos taken standing in the commander’s cupola, already mentally shooting a line to their friends stateside about their time rampaging across the German countryside sweeping all before them.

The third exercise had apparently been planned as an armoured wedge attack but it would never start unless the debacle of the second attack was sorted out, and no one seemed in a position to get to grips with it.

One US staff officer tried to climb up onto the M26 and suddenly howled with pain and jumped back. Sucking on a finger, he complained to the Captain with him that he had broken a nail.

Two other men, one English, the other Russian, drifting away from unsatisfactory company now stood together close by and exchanged glances. Although they spoke no words, their eye contact spoke silent volumes and they shared a professional smile.

To date, generals and crony’s apart, there had been little mixing but, with the awkward silence broken by the American officers misfortune, the two struck up a conversation.

The Englishman saluted, which the Russian smartly returned, and stuck out his hand.

“Good day to you Colonel. John Ramsey, Major, The Black Watch, 51st Division.”

“Comrade Major,” acknowledged the Colonel with the slightest of grins and shook the offered hand firmly. Ramsey’s relief at finding an English speaker was very evident. “Colonel Arkady Arkadyevich Yarishlov, Red Army Tank Corps.”

With a swift toss of the head Ramsey ventured “Two different types of officer here today Sir.”

“Yes, I agree. Let us hope his nail to be fine in the morning Major.”

Ramsey had always thought of the Russians as a humourless lot, so the comment caught him unprepared and he laughed aloud.

“Indeed Sir, or the division will grind to a halt.”

“I think it will have done so already Major.”

And so the professionals broke the ice at the expense of the amateurs and walked by some unspoken agreement to a more private place, strolling silently along a small well-worn path until stopping adjacent to a large rock.

“You speak excellent English Colonel. Cigarette?” Not the first time Arkady had been told that, and always in such a way as it seemed a question as to how.

He was happy to supply the answer.

“Thank you Major. When I was in Military Academy, I were tasked to draw up a total presentation on the Battle of Waterloo. I had to learn English to read the books. Do you know of this battle Major?”

The unintended humour of that question timed with a deep draw on his cigarette caused Ramsey to cough violently.

“I am aware of it Colonel. We and our German cousins gave the frogs a damn good hiding as I recall.”

“I’m sorry Major. Frogs? I do not …err...understand.”

“Ah so sorry. It is our pet name for our French allies, Colonel.”

“Ah yes, I remember now. But why?”

“Something to do with their culinary habits I understand.”

Unfortunately, that was also wasted on Yarishlov.

“What is culin-airey Major?”

“I was talking about the things they eat Sir. Rumour has it they eat bits of frogs, such as the legs, Colonel.”

“A uncivilised nation indeed Major, and my apologies.”

No matter how many times it happened Ramsey could never get used to it. Yarishlov came to full attention and saluted the British Major because of the small piece of ribbon on his left breast.

The salute returned, Ramsey ventured “Thank you Colonel. I suppose that you also learned of that little custom from your English studies?”

“I study some more than Waterloo, Major. You are the first VC medal man I have see”.

Within the British and Commonwealth forces, any holder of the VC was saluted first, regardless of rank, as an acknowledgement of the importance of the award.