Opening Moves

An NCO, a Quartermaster 1st Class, had been fighting on the gun platform above the main entrance and had turned just in time to see the British officer’s plight. One bullet from the Frenchman’s Enfield rifle sent the paratrooper toppling off Ramsey and onto the floor, his breathing little more than a gurgling of bubbles as blood filled his damaged lungs.

The French NCO grabbed one of the ‘Deux’ agents and doubled round to Ramsey’s position, in time to shoot down another paratrooper firing into the side room at the bottom of the stairs.

Ramsey shook his head and controlled his breathing, gradually returning to his senses but remaining weak. He looked around for his revolver but could not locate it. The SVT lay nearby so he retrieved it and removed three magazines from the now quietly dying paratrooper. The SVT was a large weapon weighing over eight pounds and four foot long, not ideal for a man still recovering from standing on the threshold of death a few seconds beforehand.

He propped the automatic rifle against the stonework at the top of the stairs and sat on an ammo box, regaining more of his senses.

He became aware that the intelligence agent was looking at him, examining him from head to foot.

Normally smart and dapper, Ramsey was now anything but.

Blood from his nose gently leaked down his face, dripping onto his tie and jacket, the rupture caused by the impact of the Russian.

A painful cut on his hand made itself known, origin unknown this time, again adding its own red stain to Ramsey’s attire.

His shoulder, the old sniper wound from Nordenham, stung and ached but had not reopened.

Examining his right armpit, Ramsey discovered that the bullet had indeed missed him but his probing fingers were met with ravaged cloth and he suspected the repair would prove a challenging job for his tailor.

Producing a handkerchief, he wiped blood and saliva away from his chin and mouth and started the process of composing himself.

As the agent looked on, Ramsey returned to some semblance of a British Infantry officer, straightening his tie, smoothing his hair into order, pulling and patting his uniform into some sort of presentability.

As he was doing it, the professional part of his brain was trying hard to relay a message, and it was not until he accepted a cigarette from the French NCO that he realised what the voice was saying.

‘They’ve stopped firing.’

No more paratroopers had come.

Ramsey was wrong; the firing had not stopped, it was just further away.

Whilst the attempts were being made to carry the garden and the bastions, Soviet paratroopers had pushed hard into the accommodation, fighting through chambers and hallways, across wooden balconies and up circular stairs.

The courage of the Russians was incredible as they pressed the defence, urged on both by their commanding General and the sounds of heavy fighting outside the Château behind them.

Rispan had been sent to the Lower Courtyard by Makarenko, with orders to prepare for the assault force’s exit from the Château. Firing from the road below had risen in ferocity since the first and only radio communication with the mortar group, who identified a solitary enemy vehicle coming from Selestat. The Major dispatched Nakhimov to the main gate to discover the facts, as he started to organise how best to evacuate the growing numbers of badly wounded men from the Château.

Heavy machine guns started to hammer away and Rispan understood that the situation was growing more precarious by the minute. He needed to see, so embarked on the extremely painful journey up the round tower in the southeast corner of the Basse-Cour, detailing a wounded Junior Lieutenant to continue with the evacuation planning.

Rispan was a brave man and a combat soldier of great experience and renown. It took but a few seconds for him to appreciate the peril of the Soviet paratrooper forces’ position, as his eyes took in half-tracks pouring fire into his men’s positions and disciplined infantry moving forward in large numbers.

He dismounted from the tower and received the report from Nakhimov. The situation was indeed dire, as the enemy armoured infantry battalion was moving in to close any line of retreat.

Dispatching Nakhimov once more, this time to scout the north wall, Major Rispan limped off up the rising ramp, in search of his General. Rather than send a messenger, he decided this news needed to be given in person, lest Makarenko fail to appreciate its worth.

The assault force had set up a casualty area in the Inner Courtyard and he journeyed through it, mentally adding the numbers of groaning comrades there to those already gathered in the lower courtyard.

The temporary barricade continued to burn, its chairs, tables and barrels feeding gentle flames. Other more horrible items around it continued to smoulder, adding a rich and sickly sweet smoke to the surreal montage in the courtyard.