Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) (68 page)

              ‘Oi vay! What a dump! Are you shure thish is for us, Shergeant?”

             
Hässler mimicked the wounded man’s affected speech.

“Mas
hter Shergeant to you. I’m important and don’t you forget it, Corporal.”

The diminutive Jew looked the Senior Non-com up and down with disdain.

“Most shertainly, it ish difficult to remember shometimes.”

Grinning from ear to ear, the tall NCO went to playfully cuff his sidekick.

Rosenberg ducked away, and formed his lips into a kiss.

“Mein liebshen.”

The two sniggered and returned to assess their surroundings.

It was certainly pretty enough, nestled on the shores of
a modest sized lake, the Baggersee.

However, the accommodation looked like it had seen better days, the signs of
age and swift repairs presented easily to their experienced eyes.

Men of all nations moved around, some in organised parties, off to drill or undertake work details, others
strolled in a leisurely fashion, enjoying some time at rest.

The officer had travelled in the front of the lorry, and now announced his arrival at the tailgate, standing back as two soldiers opened up the rear of the Ford 6x6.

“Master Sergeant, get your men lined up to the left, two ranks. Move.”

The greenhorn pointed imperiously at a
point some ten yards distant, the mud and puddles that filled the chosen spot more than obvious to everyone, except him.

Hässler cut the boy some slack
, and jumped down from the lorry, helping down the Jewish corporal, both of them moving gingerly because of their wounds.

He exchanged looks with another NCO, a man the Lieutenant either failed to notice, which was unlikely, given his size, or ignored, more likely, because of the colour of his skin.

They shared a shrug.

“You heard the officer, now dismount and get fell in.
Hustle up there! Raus, Raus!”

Rosenberg fell in as marker, deliberately in front of the muddy ground, and the rest of the group formed on him.

Most of the men were former hospital patients, a few were new recruits, for whom this would be the first time in a combat formation.

The squeaky clean 2nd Lieutenant fell into that category, and it showed.

Unfortunately, he did not have the sense to understand that he had good men who would help him, if he did but unwind for a moment.

“Detail, detail, atten-shun!”

The men eventually organised their bodies into the appropriate position, and then 2nd Lieutenant James R. Yorke commenced inspecting his men.

Across from the line of GI’s, Major John Ramsey of His Majesty’s Black Watch, finished his discussions with the base commander, a sour-faced American Colonel of Artillery.

Whilst the man was unpleasant, he had agreed to Ramsey’s request, and the extra blankets would be shortly be forthcoming.

Emerging from the Colonel’s office, Ramsey nodded at his waiting men, the gesture
bringing smiles of relief. Passing over the signed document, he sent them off to the US camp’s supply section to obtain the blankets, for which he had just negotiated away two cases of Glenfoyle malt whisky.

Lighting a cigarette, the Englishman took in the
amusing vignette across the parade ground.

The difference between combat veterans and new troops was totally obvious.

There was also something huge in the line, looking extremely out of place; wide, muscular, a foot taller than the others, looking like a grizzly bear, and just as dangerous, except for the smile that spilt the man’s face.

Ramsey was
intrigued, and suddenly he found himself edging across the intervening ground, closing on the inspection.

Yorke saw the man approach, half wondering if the soldier with the red feathers in his strange hat was a circus act or a serious soldier, but erring on the side of safety and saluting in any case.

Ramsey replied in kind.

“Good day, Lieutenant. Fine group of men you have here, I must say. That fellow is particularly striking,” he gestured at the man-mountain in the centre of the rear line.

“Thank you, Sir, but I can’t agree. Bunch of no-hopers and cripples, some from the repple-depple, the rest straight out of the hospital. Normally, I wouldn’t wanna go into combat with them, but the Colonel has given me no choice.”

The American spat to punctuate his disgust at being
given such a worthless command.

“Leastways, I’
ve got a little time to train them up.”

Ramsey had made his assessment quickly, and he was on the money as usual.

“What unit are you, Lieutenant?”

“I
was assigned to Able Company, 116th Infantry Regiment of the 29th Division, Sir. My platoon was wiped out before I could take up my command. I have received orders from the Regimental Commander himself, and I am to organise these men into a fighting company.”

Ramsey smiled disarmingly.

“The 29th, you say? Fine unit. Fought with them around Bremen for a few days. Were you there, Lieutenant?”

Yorke coloured
noticeably.

“I have not yet had the honour of combat, Sir.”

The smirks from some of the older faces on parade were not wasted on either man.

“My apologies. I suspect you will get your chance very soon, Lieutenant.”

Ramsey and Yorke exchanged salutes, the US infantry officer turning back towards his parade, and standing them at ease.

Ramsey made brief eye contact with one battered-looking NCO, enough to recognise the man’s mettle.

Sparing a final glance at the huge man, he returned to his two trucks, now boasting enough spare blankets to keep the survivors of B Company warm.

Yorke went in search of the billeting officer.

“Very pwetty, washn’t he?”

Rosenberg grinned wide enough for Hassler to see his teeth out of the corner of his eye.

“Sure was, but he’s a fighting man, and that’s a fact.”

“You think? Sheems a little too balebetishen to me.”

Hässler spared a momentary glance at the smaller man.

“Will you cut that yiddisher crap and talk properly!”

“And there wash me thinking I could enlighten you with shome more of my culture. Oi vay! I mean he sheems a little too reshpectable to be a fighting man.”

The Master Sergeant snorted in derision.

“Not every fighting soldier has to look like a bag of shit, something you would do well to remember, Corporal.”

“I choose to
, sho as not to make you look bad, Yutzi.”

“Stop with the yiddisher crap
, or I will find a shit shovelling detail that has your name on it.”

“Yutzi is a term of endearment for a closh friend, my Shergeant.”

Rosenberg’s grin told Hässler otherwise.

“Mein liebchen, if you were paying attention
, you might have noticed the man’s salad bar.”

“Pah, we get medal ribbonsh for trapping a finger in a typewriter.”

The Master Sergeant could not argue that point.

“OK
, wise guy, that may be true, but that pretty soldier had the limey equivalent of the Medal of Honor, and a whole lot of other important shit, so I rather suspect he’s our sort of people, and more than handy in a brawl.”

Rosenberg
hadn’t noticed any such thing.

In any case, other matters took precedence as Yorke returned.

“Master Sergeant Hässler, take command of the detail. Get them bunked down in Hut 9,” the officer gestured to the dingiest looking of the many dingy huts, “Get them all squared away, and muster on the parade ground at 1600, full pack, for drill.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Yorke departed again, having discovered a passable Officers Mess in his travels. He had a date with a pot of fresh coffee, before he marched his men around for an hour or two.

H
ässler stood at the front of the detail, sharing his gaze equally between the largest soldier and the door to hut 9.

“You gonna fit through that teeny hole, Sergeant?”

Charley Bluebear grinned widely.

“If not the first time, then surely the second, Master Sergeant.”

Bluebear was a popular comrade, and the laughter was unforced.

“Good answer, well presented, Sergeant. Ok then. Detail, detail
shun. Fall out. Now, go and get that shit heap into some order before our squeaky has a fit. Move it.”

He gave extra attention to his best friend.

“And, as it isn’t the fucking Sabbath, that means you too, Corporal Rosenberg.”

As the group streamed towards the unknown delights of Hut 9, heavy drops of rain started to fall, a
rain that threatened to be ever-present in the days to come.

One of the serious problems in planning the fight against American doctrine is that the Americans do not read their own manuals, nor do they feel any obligation to follow their own doctrine.

Entry in a
Soviet Mladshy Leytenant’s Notebook

1ST BALTIC FRONT - MARSHAL BAGRAMYAN

“So, what’s the bottom line, Walter?”

Eisenhower had his own views
, but wanted the input from his Chief of Staff. The report, thus far, had been factual, covering Soviet attacks along a wide front, some of which seemed designed as distractions, others almost bursting with energy and power.

“Our special information seems reasonably accurate, Sir.”

Bedell-Smith was referring to the intercept intelligence supplied by Station X, the latest of which had been personally handed over by Dalziel that afternoon.

“Reasonably accurate, General?”

Bradley had been a late arrival, still wet from the rain and carrying a fair share of German mud on his boots, and he was not in a mood to mince words.

“Yes Sir. We have two major attacks in progress. Here, south of the Ruhr,” something Bradley was only too aware of, “And here, in Alsace.”

Returning to the top of the map, Bedell-Smith continued.

“Here, there is supposed to be another major attack
, but all we are presently experiencing is a grazing assault, moving down our front line, starting just south of Bremen.”

Again, Bedell-Smith moved his pointer around the map.

“These are all points of assault, but the intelligence is such that we are discounting them as serious threats, Sir.”

Turning to Eisenhower, Bradley aired his concerns.

“Is that wise, Sir? Can we afford not to take these other attacks seriously?”

Eisenhower had already had the same discussion with a number of his senior commanders, and so was able to reply quickly.

“Brad, it all fits. The Intel is good, and we are acting on it. We do not have the resources to go chasing after all these other attacks, and if we do, we risk not having enough in place to stop the main thrusts.”

Ike pulled at another map, and stood slightly aside so that the commander of his 12th Army Group could see.

“We are concentrating our forces, but I do not want to commit them yet. If we can stop the Communists with what we have online, then we have our reserves with which to counter-attack. We need to start taking back the initiative here.”

Bradley could understand that, and the list of units that SHAEF was keeping back was growing in number and capability.

‘But...’

He never got to say it.

“But, if the Soviets do breakthrough, I will employ some of these assets to stop their advance. Either way round, we will be counter-attacking, according to the plan we discussed with George a while back, timetable to be decided.”

Bradley could not help but stare at the Supreme Commander, the change in him
so marked since the last time the two had met.

There was a confidence there, not previously seen since the Bulge had been eradicated and the Allied divisions had flooded into
Germany.

Ike was drawing on a newly lit cigarette, so Bradley took advantage of the coffee that had been given to him on his arrival.

He missed the signal from Eisenhower.

Von Vietinghoff closed the door, sealing off the office from the outside world.

Bradley understood that the sudden change in atmosphere represented a new imposition of secrecy; something special was in the air.