Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

“Either it was me or Schroeder—one of us fucked it up somehow. Anyway, he’s dead, and that’s the last of the panzerfausts. Any word from the captain?”

“He got off a few rounds as Red Vengeance zipped by.”

“Where is it now?”

Hartmann pointed over his shoulder at Mueller, sitting in the co-driver’s seat wearing headphones and speaking quietly into the microphone. Reinhardt mounted the fender and eased over the armored siding. After a moment, Mueller gave a report. “Red Vengeance has receded beyond the southern perimeter of the square. The captain has followed at a distance and is now stationary.”

Reinhardt had the novice signalman click on the radio speaker and hand over the microphone. “Two-Twenty-Two, this is Two-Five-One, come in, over.”

“This is Two-Twenty-Two. I gather you were unsuccessful in your attempt, Sergeant.” The captain’s tone wasn’t shaded with sarcasm, Reinhardt noted, only blunt. “Affirmative. Schroeder is dead. What is your recommendation, Two-Twenty-Two?”

“Stand by for now, Two-Five-One.”

Reinhardt put his hand over the mike and said to Mueller, “See if you can find the lieutenant. He should have been here by now.” As Mueller got out of the seat, Reinhardt took his place. The youth leapt over the siding and ran into the street. Indecisive, he looked both ways, as a pedestrian might, and then headed east. While the sergeant watched, he suddenly became aware of someone else in the crew compartment. Detwiler sat in the far left corner by the doors. “Sorry about the corporal,” Reinhardt said.

Detwiler looked up. “Yeah… I want a smoke.” The machine gunner took a cigarette from the mangled pack and offered one to Reinhardt. He shook his head; his throat was dry from the running, the cordite, and the fear. He went for the water can behind the seat and drank sparingly. There wasn’t much left. Chatter erupted over the headphones, and he listened as Wilms reported from the water tower. The tank was making a sweep of the town square, employing the hull machine gun and firing high-explosive rounds. They could hear it plainly from the vehicle. The captain’s headquarters and the assembly hall each took a direct hit. Suddenly, the motorcycle pulled alongside the Hanomag. Voss had finally arrived. Still a bit unsteady, Angst got off the back. Reinhardt called out to the lieutenant, “You found a survivor.”

“He’s still battle-worthy. So he claims, anyway,” Voss said, and helped usher Angst into the crew compartment. Mueller was just then returning to the vehicle. He climbed aboard, sweating, despite the chill in the air, and breathing hard. Voss crouched behind the co-driver’s seat. “Any word from the captain?”

“He said to hold our position for the time being.”

“Sorry for the delay, but we ran into Khan on the way over.”

“You better alert the captain.” Trailing wires, Reinhardt passed the headphones and mike to the lieutenant.

“Two-Five-One Voss calling Two-Twenty-Two, come in, over…”

“This is Two-Twenty-Two, over.”

“Five casualties sustained from initial encounter at repair depot. The women and two grenadiers, Braun and Schmidt, are dead. Corporal Angst survived with slight injury,” Voss said.

“He is an unusually lucky young man.”

“Khan has been located and sends abject apologies for allowing Red Vengeance to get through. Apparently he’d been outwitted.”

“That is of no importance now. I’m relieved to know he is still among us.” Falkenstein signed off. A voice burst from the rear of the crew compartment. “You’re all so goddamn clever. You think Red Vengeance can’t listen in on the same frequency?”

“Keep your voice down,” Reinhardt ordered.

“The crew speaks fluent German and knows our every move,” Detwiler continued angrily.

“We don’t know that for certain,” Reinhardt replied.

“How many casualties will it take before you are certain, Sergeant? Or you, Lieutenant?”

Wilms’s voice crackled over the radio speaker. “Cannon fire one hundred meters southwest of square perimeter.” They heard the report of the 76 mm gun, followed by the wail of an incoming round. A white ball of phosphorus erupted to the northeast of where the armored carrier was parked. “Incendiary,” Voss said.

“It knows, I’m telling you, it knows.” Detwiler placed his hands over his helmet and leaned down.

Wilms again: “Heads up! Second volley on the way.” Another whistle, this time directly above the vehicle as the shell landed among the houses on the opposite side of the road. The explosion took on the aspect of some multilegged creature as glowing white embers arched in all directions, followed by trails of illuminated smoke. The embers set small fires to everything combustible they came into contact with, the damp wood of the houses notwithstanding. The fire pattern was more general than precise as several more rounds volleyed over. The tank was igniting a fire screen, Voss thought, to create enough light to pick out targets and cause confusion. He raised the command vehicle. “Settlement under intensive blanket fire. Two-Five-One requests an immediate withdrawal.”

“Do as you see fit, Two-Five-One. Rendezvous by central maintenance complex, over.”

Voss returned the headphones to the sergeant. “The captain will meet us over by the repair facility. Let’s get out of here before the entire settlement goes up in flames.” Reinhardt nodded and switched seats as the lieutenant jumped off the vehicle and started up the motorcycle. Throwing it into gear, Hartmann wheeled the lumbering, brutish Hanomag through a yard, taking down a section of fence before maneuvering onto the dirt road. Flames had begun to fan out in all directions. Voss rode out in front, leading the way. He could have easily outdistanced the armored carrier on the smaller, faster motorcycle, but thought it better for the men, psychologically, that they take the short, dangerous trip together.

Well beyond the square, to the south, Red Vengeance remained outside the effective range of the captain’s 20 mm gun. Vogel had positioned the vehicle behind the ruins of the administration building, and there was no other cover to advance or retreat to. The tank had complete control over this part of town, including points north and east. Earlier, when the scout car covered the settlement’s left flank, Falkenstein had fired six rounds at the T-34 as it flew past. It had occurred shortly after Reinhardt and Schroeder’s failed attempt. The tank had wedged a path for itself between two houses, near the west end of the settlement, and raced across the road on a diagonal. It didn’t turn to the right and head down the road toward the square; instead, the tank continued south at full speed. The 222, parked to the side rear of the second to last house on the extreme southwest end, opened fire, striking the hull’s flank. Falkenstein regarded this as a momentous occasion. This was the very first time he had Red Vengeance directly in his sights and had fired upon it from ten meters away. Before the turret traversed to respond, Vogel was off between the buildings and taking the long way around to the square. The event was anticlimactic somehow. Falkenstein tried to remember what he was feeling at that precise moment, but in all honesty, he did not remember feeling anything. He had anticipated this moment for so long with a fervor that bordered on lust; and when the moment actually arrived, he did not feel anything special at all. He disengaged from the throat microphone and eased down from the turret. “What do you think, Klaus, should we try to get out of here?”

Vogel turned in his seat to face the voice that spoke to him in the darkened compartment. “Go or stay, Captain, the decision is yours.”