Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6) (32 page)

Inside Lohengrin, Schultz held a steel helmet containing a few oily rags, all of which were lazily burning, the crew’s effort to help paint a convincing picture of the Tiger’s destruction.

The sound of someone climbing on the tank meant that Schultz moved slightly to one side and was replaced by Jarome, his Beretta-35 handgun held ready to obliterate the face of anything stupid enough to look inside the turret.

Having been reminded forcefully of the need for speed, the rifleman simply primed his grenade and dropped it into the open hatch, rolling quickly away and onto the ground.

The two soldiers ran away as fast as their legs could carry them, intent on putting distance between them and the likely effects of the grenade in a vehicle filled with ammunition.

Both men stifled a squeal of terror as a grubby hand dropped a deadly egg grenade into their laps.

Schultz, unable to think of anything better in the micro seconds available, turned the helmet over and forced it down over the grenade, dropping his body on top of the stahlhelm.

There was not even time to utter a prayer.

The grenade exploded, firing Schultz upwards into the breech of the 88mm, snapping two of his ribs and adding more injury to his head and face, knocking him out in the process.

His leg broke as he was forced upwards and the limb was left behind, caught up under the gunner’s seat. Something had to give, and his tibia and fibula conceded the unequal struggle. His unconscious state prevented the inevitable screams of pain.

The blast scattered the remnants of the burning rags, sending fiery sparks in all directions, some through the open hatch, adding to the evidence of an explosion for the watching eyes at the IS-IV.

“Driver, move forward… follow the track.”

The IS-IV leapt forward, almost sending three of the riders flying.

“Remember we have passengers, Leonid!”

Kartsev was an impeccable driver, but the new clutch configuration was, in his own words, a bitch from hell.

Leaving the two ‘dead’ tanks in its wake, the IS-IV moved on towards the outskirts of Knickhagen, now totally abandoned by the Legion and home only to a few hardy German residents.

Köster decided that he could now breathe again and risked a gentle movement of his head, catching the last moment of the IS-IV’s presence before it disappeared from sight.

His sigh of relief was audible to those inside the tank, and brought forward a rush of words loosely based around two themes.

“Has the bastard gone?”

“Max is hurt bad!”

Köster stuck his head into the turret and winced at the sight of Schultz’s mangled leg.

“That’s got to fucking hurt!”

Jarome, who was figuring out how best to move the insensible loader, could only agree.

“He’s out for now, so best we get him moved before he comes round or they’ll hear his screams in Berlin.”

“Dolf, keep an eye open whilst…”

“He’s out cold. Broke his arm at least in that impact.”

“Right… Klaus?”

“Ok, I’ll do it,” and the hatch opened up enough for the driver to look out for approaching trouble.

Köster slipped inside the tank, careful not to step on anything that might object.

He and Jarome managed to organise the broken leg and propel the loader up and out of the turret, where Jarome fished some medical equipment out of the turret bin.

“Right, let’s drop that heap of Russian shit off our beautiful Lohengrin, and get out of here quick as we can. Anything, Klaus?”

“Nothing. Engine sound has disappeared, so either he’s close and silent or moved off. It went bit by bit, so I think he’s gone away.”

Acting on instinct, Köster made the call.

“Start her up, Klaus. On my mark, slow reverse, full left.”

The Maybach roared, and those that could, even Jarome, spared a look in the direction that the huge Russian tank was last seen.

Nothing.

“Ready?”

“When you are.”

“Three… two… one… mark.”

The engine note changed and Meier put the tank into hard left reverse.

Köster watched as the displaced plate desperately tried to hang on to the Tiger’s glacis, but the extra angle of the left turn meant that it failed.

The plate slid free and the ZSU came away, dragging some of the protective mesh with it.

“We’re free… steady back and let the bastard slide off us.”

Klaus Meier controlled the ZSU wreck nicely, reversing slowly, and the Russian’s tracks gently came to rest on the ground.

“Free.”

“Right. That makes me the loader, but first, I’ll help Hans on the engine deck.”

“Quick check of the tank, Klaus. I’ll keep an eye open. Once you’re happy, see what you can do for Dolf.””

Every now and again, Köster spared a look back at the man working on Schultz. He didn’t envy him the task of sorting the loader’s leg out into some sort of shape, but it had to be done, even though they were taking too much time.

He ducked his head inside and grabbed the MP-40, checking it automatically.

Köster stuck his head back out of the cupola.

“We’re going to have to drop him off… first chance we get.”

Jarome nodded as he finished up tying the shattered leg to the good one.

“I’ve given him morphine… should take the edge off when he comes round.”

“Hans, leave him now. Just make sure he isn’t going to roll off. Check out the gun and make sure we’re ready to work.”

The gunner had been inside the tank for less than a minute.

“Verdammt! Rudi!”

The finger pointed out the damage.

The hydraulic traverse unit, mounted on the turret floor, had taken a few hits from the grenade.

“Can you rig it?”

“Nope… it’s fucked. Unit needs replacing.”

“Hand traverse?”

The wheel was spun, but Jarome felt it needed more effort than normal. None the less, the turret moved smoothly.

“Bit stiff, but fine.”

“Stiff but fine will have to do.”

“Good. Stay there while we move up to that building,” he pointed at an old barn, “Then we’ll shift Max into it and move off after that Russian bastard.”

Meier reported he was happy with the tank; he’d packed some of the new silver scars with mud just to make them less noticeable.

He was less happy with Wintzinger, who was conscious, but not with it.

An ampoule of morphine sent Adolf Wintzinger back to a quiet and restful place.

“Move off left… head to that barn… remember Max and Dolf are on the back.”

The driver dropped into his seat and put the Maybach into gear.

Lohengrin eased herself forward and made the short trip to the barn.

Max Schultz was quickly moved into a comfortable spot, whereas Wintzinger required more effort to extricate from the front of the Tiger.

The two injured men safely hidden away, Köster moved the Tiger back towards the suspected position of the IS-IV.

The radio simply refused to function, despite no apparent damage, so they were technically blind to the events on the ridge.

A quick check of the map suggested the most likely route for the Soviet leviathan, the Burgstrasse out of the town being perfect for bringing the enemy tank out on the flank, or even behind the forces defending against the river attack.

Lohengrin set off as fast as Meier felt comfortable with, until Köster called for a right turn and the Tiger moved off.

Having swapped sides in the turret, Köster observed through the loader’s hatch, using his binoculars.

Meier’s voice piped up in his ear.

“Oberscharfuhrer, if I might ask a question?”

“As if I could stop you, Comrade Driver.”

The normal start of an exchange over, Meier posed the question that was on his and Jarome’s minds.

“Given that there’s just three of us, why in the fucking name of the devil’s drawers are we still going after that big bastard?”

It was something that Köster himself had been giving some thought.

Not that he felt his friend deserved a sensible answer.

“Because we are heroes, Ritterkreuzträger Meier. It is expected of us.”

Jarome saw the opening.

“In which case, Oberscharfuhrer, I should be permitted to leave. I don’t have the Ritterkreuz.”

“You were recommended for one, so you’re in, like it or not.”

That the statement came from Meier caused the gunner to scoff, and his right foot lashed out, catching Meier’s shoulder sufficiently to display his feigned ‘annoyance’.

“I’ve been assaulted by a junior rank, Rudi. What sort of fucking tank are you running here?”

“You deserved it for being disloyal to your only friend. Shitty drivers are all the same… and ten-a-pfennig, so… if you don’t want to be assigned to the petrol column, I suggest you stop annoying our efficient gunner and know your place.”

The humour died away in an instant.

“Come right… I want to go up that grassy slope there… I think we can do that… agree?”

“No problem.”

The Tiger moved onto the new course and took the grassy route with ease.

“I’ll give you ten-a-fucking-pfennig drivers. It’s you tank commanders that are cheap and nasty… with your nice Ritterkreuz, all shiny and unspoilt because us drivers do all the work whilst you put brilliantine in your hair and pose for the photographers.”

Not for the first time, the subject of Köster’s photo shoot was used against him.

After Hangviller, Köster had been photographed and interviewed by ‘Voir’ magazine. The subsequent edition contained no clue to his former allegiance, but simply talked of the efforts of the French Army and, in particular, the Foreign Legion, in stemming a huge Soviet counter-attack.

The picture had been edited, for ‘security purposes’, removing all but clearly French insignia and rank markings, and the accompanying story held little resemblance to the events of that cold January day.

That did not stop Köster getting stick from anyone who knew anyone who had heard someone tell the story they had heard from someone else.