Peter Idone: Red Vengeance

“We tried to raise you on the radio before we left the garage,” Voss told him.

“I did the same, only there was interference. Red Vengeance allowed us to communicate for only as long as it was beneficial to itself,” Falkenstein replied.

Vogel had brought over the first aid kit from the 222 and applied a field dressing to the sergeant’s chest wound. “This is really bad,” Voss heard him mutter. Blood flowed liberally from the numerous wounds and pooled on the makeshift stretcher. “Where is Khan?” the captain asked.

“On the tower,” Detwiler called from the ruined vehicle. “He tried to warn us.” Falkenstein looked across the way and saw the shaman wave. The T-34’s cannon barked. The incoming shell whined and then crashed somewhere beyond the damaged sheds. “Off with you, Lieutenant! Klaus! And you grenadiers had better work fast.” Another volley sailed in and landed further down the street. Red Vengeance had retreated east, somewhere in the vicinity of the equipment dump. The captain had to admire the beast. It knew they would center on the destroyed vehicle to tend to the wounded and the dead. “Find us some cover, Klaus.” The scout car took the long way around to the warehouse, entering the building from the rear. Voss sped off to the bunker on the opposite side of town. Aware of the salvage operation in progress, Red Vengeance continued to fire high-explosive rounds while Angst and Detwiler made haste. They unlashed equipment from the siding, ammunition from under the seats, weapons from the storage lockers behind the backrests, and the water can. The bow machine gun had been severely damaged by the blasts. Detwiler didn’t bother with it and grabbed his own MG42. Although the shells landed short of the intended target, the sheer volume of noise and cascading debris hampered their efforts. Detwiler slung the Pshagin submachine gun over a shoulder and rooted for another magazine drum. “We still have the antitank mines to haul,” Angst reminded him. The shells began to zero in closer as they clamored off the wreck, laden with weapons and mines. Angst had difficulty keeping up, with the weight of the water can and satchel charge in each hand, the MP40 and belts of ammunition draped around his neck. The hot breath of detonating shells blew at their backs as small, deadly fragments winged past. Angst stumbled, and the weight of all he carried sent him sprawling. Something took hold of his tunic collar and yanked him out of the mud. Detwiler. The panzergrenadier half-dragged, half-carried him along, as well as the loads they both carried, to the safety of a narrow alley between two workshops. They dropped to the ground and lay flat on the soft, wet earth, an arm thrown over each other’s heads for protection until the barrage lifted. Then all became silent, except for the blood throbbing in their ears. Self-conscious of the position in which they lay, both men sat up. Angst leaned against the workshop wall, the stonework cold against his back. Although he breathed heavily from the exertions he was impelled to make, Detwiler wanted a cigarette. He searched around in all his pockets. “Damn, I think I smoked my last.” Angst removed the flat rectangular box from the breast pocket of his tunic and handed it over. “Last one,” Detwiler commented. Angst nodded to indicate it was all right. The water can was leaking from shrapnel punctures. There was no sense in allowing what little remained to go to waste, so he drank freely and passed the can to Detwiler. Once it was empty, Detwiler tossed the can aside. “One less thing we have to carry,” he said, and continued to smoke. Angst smiled but did not respond. He owed the machine gunner his thanks for saving his life but was at a loss for words. They had been at each other’s throats from the time they had first met; at least Angst was, never forgetting the erection Detwiler displayed after the battle of the Tortoise Line. How abhorrent he found the man. Yet, despite the animosity and seething antagonism, even outright hostility on occasion, Detwiler had risked his own life to drag him to safety. What Angst now realized, so bitterly, was that he would not have done the same; had Detwiler fallen, he would have left him and continued to run, all because he didn’t like him. “Thanks…for back there,” he choked out.

“Forget about it, Corporal. Let’s call a truce to our differences and leave it at that. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Angst replied.

“Good, because I’m counting on you to watch my back when the time comes.”

“You’re not half as stupid as you make yourself out to be.”

“Oh yeah? Well, maybe I’m not. All I know is, we lost all our friends this night, and we have only each other to rely on.”

Before he had the chance to stub out the cigarette, Angst took it from him and smoked the last few drags. He flicked the butt into a puddle, and the ember hissed loudly. He hurt all over, even worse than from before, when the Volkswagen was destroyed and all his friends were killed. He did not want to think about it. He could not afford to, not now. How many times have we been exposed to this tank and walked away? It was extraordinary luck—unheard of, even. He started to pick up the weapons and ammunition when Detwiler stopped him. “Leave all that shit. We can get it later. Take the satchel charge and your weapon. I still have the mines.” They slipped out of the alley, past the burning Hanomag, utilizing the cover that was available. There were fewer buildings at this end of the depot, and spaced further apart. Most had been flattened by the tank or the shelling. They crawled on hands and knees, at times on their bellies, Angst swearing all along that he could hear the turret rotate and the gun cradle raise and lower. “How many shells can a T-34 keep on board?” He had known the answer at one time but could not recall.

“Seventy-five, I think. Maybe more,” Detwiler replied.

“You would think it has used up most of them by now.”

“I haven’t been counting.”

They crawled the distance to the support stand of the truncated water tower. Amid the debris of wood staves that had once formed the container, they found Wilms. He lay on a narrow width of ground between the gravel road and the gully that ran along the base of the tower. Water had flooded the depression and had formed a long, narrow lake. Upon inspecting the body, they deduced that it was the fall that killed him, not the effects of the high-explosive round. There were no marks or glaring shrapnel wounds that either of them could see. Detwiler stepped into the water and suddenly found himself knee deep. He cursed as his boots flooded. Getting out, he remarked that had Wilms landed a few more centimeters over, he would have landed in the muddy water, which might have lessened the severity of the fall. “It was his time, I guess,” Detwiler commented. Taking an arm each, they dragged the body to the base of the tower. Detwiler pulled the tattered shelter half over Wilms’s head. “We can bury him later.”

An ominous shape materialized over their heads. Before they had time to unsling their weapons, Khan had leaped off the lower support strut and landed among them. He shook his head condescendingly as the grenadiers fumbled with their submachine guns. In a heavy, piping accent, he spoke a few words in German, pointed in the direction of the equipment dump, and then started to rattle on in Russian. Detwiler attempted a translation. “Red Vengeance has retreated to the east. Very far to the east.”

“Does this mean it’s over?”

“No such luck,” Detwiler said, and, for Khan’s benefit, he pointed to the north and said, “Warehouse. Captain.”

Khan spoke again and waited in expectation for a word or some sign from them, but Detwiler pointed again and said, “Captain. Mach schnell .” The shaman fell in behind them as they slithered through the dark. Angst heard Detwiler mutter, “He’s a strange one, but I’m glad he’s on our side.”