Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

Red Vengeance glided over the double set of torn tracks somewhere between the demolished water tower and the warehouse without bothering to use the road, crossing further to the north. The scout car had intercepted the tank only moments after it had turned on to the narrow, muddy street and fired its volley. When Vogel braked perpendicular to the target, a distance of only five or six meters separated the two vehicles. Aiming for the lead cog assembly, Falkenstein had time to fire off eight rounds as the turret began its traverse to three o’clock. Vogel responded by shifting into reverse and swinging neatly behind a cluster of tool sheds, flimsy cover at best. At the corner of the garage, Khan lay on his stomach, the bipod of the antitank rifle having settled a little too deeply in the mud. The tank’s girth filled the mouth of the street. The rifle barked and the recoil shoved the padded butt hard into his shoulder. The 14.5 mm projectile struck the lower edge of the front hull, below and to the right of the driver’s hatch. As the turret was already engaged in a traverse, the hull machine gun let off a long peal. Ready for this reaction, Khan had rolled back around the corner of the garage, dragging the long-barreled weapon with him, as the bullets kicked up mud and gravel and pieces of stonework splintered from the wall. The tank withdrew from the street quickly by turning to the left, picked up speed, and then turned right onto the gravel road. The turret traversed to three o’clock yet again and fired the 76 mm gun at will, its target being the entire depot. High-explosive shells punched holes through the brick and mortar walls of the repair garage. The thin corrugated siding of the maintenance building was torn apart as jagged fragments and large angular pieces flew about from the shattering explosions. The metal around the edges of these gaping shell holes were peeled back like a picked scab. Red Vengeance continued to fire down the entire length of the road, striking the repair garage to the south of the maintenance building and the machine shop. Reaching the end of the road, it braked and swung around 180 degrees and sped back up, its turret traversing to nine o’clock, and more deliberate care was taken as the cannon fired down every alley and intersection separating the depot complex of buildings. The rounds struck storage huts and work shop facades on the next street over and beyond; several more landed within the supply yard, fore and aft from where the Hanomag idled. One shell detonated amid a tier of oil drums. A mixture of paint sludge and gasoline used as solvent began to leak out from the ruptured containers. After the initial fireball was exhausted, the flames were negligible, but the smoke was thick and noxious. The armored carrier soon became engulfed by smoked laced with the heavy, almost sweet odor of paint. “We’ll be poisoned if we stay here,” Hartmann said. Reinhardt was of the same opinion. He sighted for the driver as best he could and called out directions—to the right or to the left—through stacks of worn tires, steel rails, crates, and skids. The junked materiel was at least concentrated into separate islands, leaving room to drive around; nevertheless, despite Hartmann’s careful maneuvering, the front end would clip one obstruction or another. The light cast from the settlement fire reappeared. Out from under the smoke, they could see again, and Hartmann eased to a stop. Reinhardt turned to the last of the crew, huddled on the benches. “This is where you get off. Take your weapons and the mines. Everything. You too, Mueller.” The order seized Angst in the chest. Detwiler let out a whimper. “Sooner or later Heinz will be forced to get the vehicle out of here. I’m going with him. That bastard of a tank will only continue to circle around and chew its way from the outside in.” The grenadiers collected all they could carry. Angst shouldered the satchel charge and slung the MP40 by its strap over his neck. Detwiler placed the three magnetic mines inside the canvas sack. He was not about to tote the machine gun and ammo but he did remove a carbine from the rifle mount on the siding. The sergeant thrust an ammunition box into Mueller’s arms. Inside were two petrol bombs and a grenade bundle. “Create as much havoc as possible with these,” he told the youth, and to Detwiler he cautioned, “But save the mines for the right moment. Understand?” All three nodded their heads in unison. They understood only too well as they piled out of the crew compartment.

Voss had narrowly escaped being torn apart. He had parked the BMW behind a workshop and weathered the fury on the ground, curled up at the base of the brick wall. His body pulsed with the vibrations from the barrage. A minute or more elapsed, and it became quiet again. Smoke from the explosions and a fire somewhere in the direction of the supply yard obscured what little he could see. He climbed back onto the motorcycle, drove around the small building, and looked down the narrow muddy street. He saw three figures scurry across and enter the garage down at the south end. He rode over and pulled up to the open entrance. A shell had blown a neat hole in the opposite wall. Crouched amid the broken brick and mortar scattered over the concrete flooring were Angst, Mueller, and Detwiler, passing around the contents of their lethal parcels. When the motorcycle appeared in the doorway, Detwiler registered shock. Engine noises were causing him to be seized with panic. “The sergeant booted us off the Hanomag,” Detwiler complained.

“Where is the vehicle now?” Voss asked.

“In the supply yard, somewhere.”

“And the captain?”

Nobody knew. Frustrated, Voss wished he had access to a radio. The Hanomag should be abandoned immediately, he thought; it served no other purpose than as a large, pondering, easy target for the T-34. Hartmann and Reinhardt had a better chance on foot. “I’m going over there now to find them,” he announced.

“What should we do, Lieutenant?” Mueller asked.

“Split up… take cover… exploit every opportunity… Over and out.” The motorcycle peeled away. Detwiler shook his head violently. It was a gesture of hopelessness. “That is some brilliant tactical thinking you just heard, fellows.” Angst separated the contents in the ammunition box. The fuse cords of the grenade bundle were looped together and ready to go. He gave it to Mueller. “Once you pull the lead cord, toss it directly under the tank chassis. Remember, you’ll have five seconds before it blows, so time your throw.” He then split the two petrol bombs between himself and Detwiler. “Let’s spread out. Keep your ears open, hug the buildings, and stay low,” he said, mostly for Mueller’s sake, who still contemplated the grenade bundle with worry.

“I’m headed for the water tower,” Detwiler said. “I want to get Wilms.” There was no chance the signalman could have survived the tower’s destruction or the fall, Angst knew. “This is no time for a bone recovery,” he told the machine gunner.

“I’m not about to leave him on the ground so he can get run over. You can do as you please,” Detwiler said, hoisting the canvas sack over a shoulder and taking the petrol bomb. He looked like a deranged Santa Claus as he left the garage.

“Stay here, Mueller, and keep an eye out at this end. There’s no point in having us all wandering around in the dark. Remember, if you get the chance, throw the bundle under the tank.”

“Right, Corporal.”

Angst patted the boy on the shoulder and urged himself into the darkness, his teeth chattering.

Vogel had moved the scout car out from behind the flimsy sheds and parked alongside the stout facade of a workshop to better withstand the rabid shelling. If Red Vengeance was trying to unnerve him, it was doing a splendid job. At the north end of the gravel road, the tank had turned left in the area between the water tower and the warehouse. Activating the turret traverse control, Falkenstein had the 20 mm pointing at six o’clock to cover their rear. The tank advanced beyond the sheds and workshops in line with the scout car’s position and, to judge by the nimbus cast by its searchlight, turned left again and continued south either within or just outside of the supply yard perimeter. Vogel zipped around to the narrow street on the opposite side of the workshop. Falkenstein spoke into the mike. “Two-Twenty-Two calling Two-Five-One.”