Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

“I’m asking for an expert opinion. Has it been so long since I’ve asked for your advice you’ve forgotten how to give it?” The moment he’d asked the question, Falkenstein instinctively knew it had indeed been a long time. Since Khan had joined him, he had hung on to the shaman’s every word.

“Red Vengeance could arbitrarily fire upon our exact location at any time,” Vogel told him. “I could bring us around to the opposite side of the emergency air raid bunker and swing wide, north by northeast, to the far side of the settlement. The fires will then afford us plenty of cover.”

“Indeed. What are your reservations?”

“The speed I can do it in. More importantly, how good is Red Vengeance’s gun layering under these conditions? We will be exposed as I make that swing, in the full glare of the fires. With all I’ve heard, I don’t want to find out firsthand how good an aim that tank has.”

Falkenstein weighed his driver’s words. The reasoning was sound. It was a cat-and-mouse game, he was reminded; it had been so from the start. The tank did not know their exact location, but he was sure it presumed, correctly, that the scout car was close. The brick facade of the ruins offered some protection at the distance the tank was at now, but it would not stop an armor-piercing round at close range. Should the T-34 reenter the square, Falkenstein had the option of firing if it passed by within ten or fifteen meters. “I have decided, Klaus. We will stay here for the time being. Let’s find out who has the greater patience, shall we?”

“Radio silence, Captain?”

“Yes. Voss will simply have to wait.” Falkenstein worked his way up into the turret and settled behind the 20 mm cannon. He looked through the sighting mechanism, past an empty window socket, beyond a section of missing wall to the square and the darkness that lay even further to where his quarry resided. The tank had ceased firing, although the loud idling engine could be heard. Falkenstein thought he could see a vague reflection of firelight flicker across the hull. “I will defeat you,” he whispered. “You know our weakness but not our strength. My strength. You are trapped in this struggle the same as I, only my determination is greater, and that is what will destroy you.”

An hour passed, and still no sign of the scout car or word from the captain. Wilms had tried to raise the captain, as had Voss, but without success. Voss had gone so far as to make the request that Falkenstein click his set three times to at least acknowledge he was receiving. There was no response. If he was still alive, Falkenstein kept still, like a quarry in hiding. The settlement was burning quite magnificently, as were the captain’s former headquarters and the neighboring houses, including the few stores and sheds along the eastern perimeter of the square. Voss checked his watch yet again and decided, after five more minutes, to embark on a scouting mission of his own in an effort to locate the captain. Nerves were tense inside the Hanomag as the men took an opportunity to catch their breath, although rest was impossible. They were parked along the wall of the garage north of the maintenance building; Khan had eventually gravitated to their position and waited quietly, unobtrusively, for word of his master. A tinny voice sounded in Voss’s headphones. It was Wilms. “Target moving.”

“Direction?”

“South, southeast… full speed.” The crew became galvanized as the distant clatter from an MG34 sounded. The aura of a flash could be seen above the depot buildings, followed by an abrupt bang; definitely not the report of a 76 mm cannon. Another explosion followed, again not of the T-34’s cannon. It was the second grenade bundle to have detonated. Schmidt must have left his bundle with the machine gun crew when he informed them of their phony mission to link up with the nonexistent panzers. The poor saps , Angst thought, the only armor on the way belonged to the enemy . Another pang of guilt over the misery he was responsible for.

Wilms: “Grenade and machine gun fire south of the Old Cart Road.”

Falkenstein: “Who is covering that sector?”

Voss/Wilms: “Captain… Captain, are you all right?”

Falkenstein: “I repeat, who is in that sector?”

Voss relayed the question to the crew. Angst spoke up. “Herzog and… I can’t remember the other one…”

“Fritch,” Mueller responded.

Voss: “Two stragglers. Not ours.”

Wilms: “Well, looks like they just got squashed.”

Falkenstein: “That will be quite enough! What is the target’s heading?”

Wilms: “Target has crossed the tracks and continuing on a course due east; engine noise receding considerably.”

Falkenstein: “Maintain your position, Two-Five-One, on my way.”

Mueller got up off the bench and stood beside Reinhardt at the bow. “I can go over and see if they need help.”

“I don’t want to expose anyone right now. Let’s wait for the captain,” Reinhardt said.

Helplessly, Mueller sat back down. “They’re decent guys, Fritch and Herzog. I hope they’re all right.”

“Do yourself a favor, kid, and don’t hope,” Detwiler said, his voice brittle with anxiety.

Wilms: “It’s returning! Driving at top speed.”

Voss: “Where? Be precise.”

Wilms: “By the slag heaps… still making an approach… turret in traverse, gun angling high… it stopped. Oh, my God…”

Voss: “What is happening Wilms?”

Wilms: “It’s aiming at the water tower… at me!”

Wilms tore off the headphones and started to climb down the ladder. The thought that his actions were fruitless never occurred to him, quite the opposite in fact. He looped his arms through a rung in anticipation of the blast and was determined to hang on. The cannon fired, and before the noise completely registered, a terrific explosion rocked the tower. The front section of the enormous, barrel-like container blew out. A cascade of thousands of liters of water crashed down like the sound of shattering glass. Despite the concussion, Wilms miraculously held on, although his feet dangled, and he had to reposition both on the rungs so he could continue the descent. With each move, he realized how stressed the ladder had become from the explosion; the fastening hardware had loosened considerably. The rear side of the container still remained, but torrents of water spilled from the ruptured seams. He was not only getting soaked but also the waterfall pushed down on his head and arms with such force he was finding it a challenge to maintain a grip. He was almost to the catwalk when another high-explosive round struck. The ladder writhed, and he was caught in a whorl of twisting lumber, gobs of pitch, splinters, and water. He never let go of the single rung he still held as he plummeted to the ground.

Falkenstein: “Get out of there immediately, Two-Five-One; Red Vengeance has crossed the tracks and is heading toward the depot.”

Voss shouted the order to go, leaped over the siding, and was on the motorcycle as Hartmann had the Hanomag in gear and moving. Seemingly unfazed by the approaching threat, Khan stayed put. He turned the corner of the garage and, using the stout brickwork for cover, prepared his weapon. There was no time for the crew to react except to crouch low in their seats and expect the worst. Angst wished he had jumped clear, but the vehicle had gained too much speed and raced down the length of the narrow muddy street. Hartmann needed to turn to the right, fast, but the space he needed wasn’t available until he was past the machine shop. Under the best conditions, the Hanomag was a beast to maneuver. Detwiler watched from the rear, speechless. The gunner’s form was crisply illuminated by the glare of the tank’s spotlight at the far end of the muddy street. Reinhardt shouted, “Do it now, Heinz!” and Hartmann yanked the wheel and braked the left track assembly. The massive personnel carrier wiped out a tool shed as it made the wide turn. At the same moment, the 76 mm tank cannon barked. The armor-piercing shell screamed over the crew compartment, as heads ducked, and landed down the far end of the street, where it exploded. The rumbling bulk slowed as Hartmann eased up on the gas and turned, with more finesse this time, into the supply yard. Red Vengeance was not about to follow down the long, darkened street. The men breathed a sigh of relief and then listened to the rapid knocks of the command vehicle’s 20 mm and the crack of an antitank rifle.