Breakthrough (The Red Gambit Series) (77 page)

Many eyes were on their approach. The legionnaires of 5th RdM waited, coiled like a spring, ready to charge into the devastated position.

Knocke and Lange
observed
from their command positions
, ready
to react as needed.

The
Soviet
machine-gunners and flak crew waited
,
fearful for their lives if they should not knock down the aircraft.

The Invaders carried delayed-action bombs, enabling them to come in low and strafe as they
attacked
, each aircraft producing a devastating fire from eight nose-mounted .50cal machine guns, a heavy firepower bolstered by a further eight .50cal’s in four wing pods
.
T
he combined effect being to place over
nine
thousand rounds per minute on the target area
from each
aircraft.

It almost seemed to the observers that the smoke was beaten down by the passage of lead, angular lines appearing in the redness, and often
,
other redness
appeared marking the fatal passage of heavy bullets.

Experienced observers noted that the central Invader had its bomb bay open, and it was this aircraft that
released
eight 500lbs bombs, the weight loss causing it to swiftly rise above its comrades, receiving a line of tracer through its open belly for its trouble.

The three bombers turned sharply to starboard, moving over friendly territory, angrily pursued by a hail of
Soviet
bullets.

The fuses ran their course and exploded.

Rostov-5 rose into the air, or that was how it seemed to Knocke through his binoculars, the force of the bombs raising up earth, stone, metal and flesh
,
before it all came crashing back down again.

8th Compagnie’s commander gave the order and his second in command charged forward, leading 7th Compagnie onto their objective.

The French officer shouted for all he was worth and plunged into the cloud of dust, closely followed by the 7th’s legionnaires, shouting and screaming in the charge.

A
Soviet
guardsman staggered out of the smoke and dust, his hands holding his ruined face, ears bleeding from the concussion of the explosions.

He was shot down
,
and the legionnaires ran on.

A dead
Soviet
officer, his legs neatly severed at the top of both thighs, stood erect in a shallow pathway, acting as
a
diminutive gatekeeper and attracting
humorous
shouts as the
legionnaires swept on.

The Invaders lined themselves up.

7th Compagnie pushed on, dispatching a few shocked
guardsmen
as they progressed.

The Invaders approached.

“Anton to Adler. Call the eagles off.
Friendlie
s
on target. Repeat, call the eagles off!”

Those on the command net who heard Knocke’s words realised that a disaster was in the making, their commander’s voice carrying a fear and worry that none could miss.

8th Compagnie’s leader could only watch in horror as the USAAF bombers approached
again
.

All three opened fire together and ceased fire
just
as quickly, flying straight over the wrecked position without dropping any ordnance.

“Adler to Anton. Attack aborted. Eagles are low on fuel and returning to base
,
over.”

The radiomen in the Command Panther heard a defined sigh of relief from their leader, and
they shared one
together.

The Invaders had fired for a split second, enough time to get nearly two hundred rounds on target. Enough to kill three legionnaires and wound five others.

7th Compagnie pressed on finding no resistance, dispatching a wounded man here and there
,
until they reached the edge of the position and
could overlook
the road to the south-east.

7th Compagnie’s Senior NCO beckoned the radioman forward and reported in, confirming that
their mission was accomplished
,
and also that he was in charge, the Invaders having killed the 8th Kompagnie
’s French
officer.

Behind schedule, 8th Compagnie assaulted Rostov-6, taking the position with ease.

Von Arnesen’s group was now down to thirteen on their feet. Whilst none of the others were fatally wounded, they were out
of
the fight
,
and the
Soviet
resistance was not getting less; far from it.

Allowing his men a few moments to get their breath back, he risked a swift look over the edge and saw just enough to know that they were close to their target.

He also saw a movement in the trench to their front and realised it was helmeted heads moving swiftly.

“Achtung! Counter-attack!”

His warning made all the difference.

Two
experienced legionnaire
s
,
one,
a man who had learned his soldering with the Leibstandarte-SS
,
and his loader, similarly versed in the art of war by his service with the SS-Wiking, had just finished preparing
their weapon for the new assault
.
They
quickly deployed
,
in text bo
ok fashion, the loader kneeling,
the gunner placing the weapon on the offered shoulder.

The MG42 had a phenomenal rate of fire, so much so that it super-heated the barrel if fired
without pause
. The German Army issued instructions to reduce rates of fire
,
and to use the weapon in short bursts.

Experienced or not, the gunner decided to ignore that particular instruction
,
and proceeded to unload the entire two hundred and fifty round belt into the group of Guardsmen that charged round the corner, holding grenades
that
remained
firmly
within dead hands.

The bullets literally cut some of the men to pieces.

The belt gone, the two machine-gunners dived for cover as
the armed
grenades started to go off amongst the recently fallen, transforming that piece of trench into something completely unspeakable.

More
Soviet
soldiers yet to emerge from the angled trench fell to shrapnel, and those that remained had no stomach for a further attempt.

‘No time like now then.’

Von Arnesen rose swiftly, the pain stabbing his thigh and causing him to wince.

“Forward Menschen! No stopping, press hard!”

The two gunners already had another belt fitted and dragged another from a Legion corpse nearby.

At the front ran an ex-Hitler Youth soldier, screaming at the top of his juvenile voice whilst firing short bursts from his MP40 into the backs of the broken
Soviet
infantry.

He tripped and fell but the attack didn’t falter, a French Caporal-Chef took up the lead, his recently acquired PPSh pushing the enemy on quicker than before.

The trench took a few more turns until they could see the log bunker just ahead.

At the next turn, a
Soviet
officer had stopped some of his men and they rallied.

The caporal-chef flew back round the trench corner
, the impact of the bullets knocking him off his feet.

Through bloody lips he screamed as the Russians used his legs as a target, exposed as they were.

Von Arnesen and the medic dragged the man by his straps
,
but were horrified to see both his feet detach, severed by the stream of bullets.

“Grenate!”

A stick grenade was thrust into his hands and the cord w
as pulled. I
t was airborne with seconds, landing on the top of the trench and doing no more than distracting the defenders.

He risked another look over the top.

“Menschen, stay ready to charge. I’m going over the top here, you,” he pointed to the ex-Hitler Youth soldier, “Young Fischer, I want you over that side. Come down in the trench behind them
,
but let’s not shoot each other. Klar?”

Alois
i
us Fischer grinned like the child he was.

“Alles Klar
,
Sturmbannfuhrer!”

“And you all stay ready and attack when they have us to worry about. In the meantime, keep them busy as soon as we move. Klar?”

It was clear
,
and no further explanation was needed.

Von Arnesen checked his MP40 and took up another grenade, a British Mills bomb.

Fischer put a new round magazine on his submachine gun.

Both men ensured that their pistols were ready and correct, as such a weapon would be a life-saver and a life-taker in the environment they were about to create.

“Ready?”

A nod was sufficient.

“Go!”

Von Arnesen leapt up and out of the trench, half expecting to be instantly cut down by machine-guns.

Nothing.

He could see Fischer moving like a Gazelle, nearly halfway already, and so he drove himself forward hard.

Fischer was close to the trench now, and had his grenade ready, waiting for his leader.

His thigh protesting loudly, Von Arnesen got to his chosen position
and signalled the attack with a simple nod
.

Both man and boy pulled the pins
on
the
grenade
s and threw them into the enemy position
.

Both bounced into the trench
, just
as the defending DP started firing again after a reload.

The two
Soviet
soldiers who had covered that
reload
darted back into the trench and found themselves staring at death on the floor.

One threw himself back around the corner, falling in front of his machine-gun team who were busy firing at nothing in particular, just denying the French the trench on front of them.

The man died messily
,
and also blocked the DP’s fire.

Both grenades exploded, sufficiently apart to be individual
,
and to do their own specific killing.

The
Soviet
officer was first, thrown up out of the trench.

Three of his men were killed or wounded by the same grenade.

Von Arnesen’s grenade killed the DP gunner and badly wounded the loader, and spread its shrapnel equally between the remaining guardsmen.

Both attackers jumped into the trench a
nd went about their grisly work, pistols barking in unison.

None of the defenders were in much state to put up any resistance, and so the two worked swiftly.

The main group arrived, less the medic,
who remained
to tend to the French NCO.

Quickly reloading his pistol as he moved, Von Arnesen found himself looking at the wooden structure
rising out of the groun. Inside, the sounds of
a
huge
fire fight
broke out.

He halted his men
,
in order to understand what was happening.

‘Durand?
’

Rushing into such a position
,
when there is an uncoordinat
ed friendly attack going on was a
stupidity
,
and so Von Arnesen’s group took cover and waited whilst their leader made an assessment.

Where the trench butted up to the bunker, a camouflage net hung, obscuring a doorway.

The netting ripped apart as a
squealing
Soviet
officer threw himself through it, pursued by a bloodied Legionnaire.

The
Soviet
officer’s scream was cut short as a bayonet sliced into his throat and trashed the base of his skull.