Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

Fires burned everywhere. Ruins had rekindled, and the workers’ settlement had become concentrated with so much heat and flame that Voss had to detour off the River Road. The ground appeared on fire as the pools of collected rainwater reflected the inferno. He rode as fast as possible, but it was slow going; the slightest bump and dip caused Reinhardt to moan. At least he’s still breathing , Voss thought. The BMW slid to a stop as he braked at the entrance to the bunker. “I need help! Bruno, get out here!” Matthias Bruno hurried up the slope, hands encased in bloody rubber gloves. “Help me lift him.” The orderly took hold of the ankles and Voss the shoulders. The body sagged in the middle as they carried the sergeant down the slippery grade. Once inside, they laid him on several benches that formed a small, low table. Reinhardt’s legs dangled off the end. Taking the paraffin lamp so he could see better, Bruno examined the body. The field dressing had soaked through. Handing the lamp off to the lieutenant, Bruno took surgical scissors and cut away the shirt and tunic and threw aside the bloody bandage. Inspecting the abused torso, he said, “Multiple penetrations to the shoulders and chest cavity. Very deep. Looks like shrapnel.”

Voss nodded. “What can you do for him?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. I can apply dressings with enough pressure to slow the blood loss and reduce whatever pain he’s in with morphine. But all this is beyond me. These men need to be evacuated to a field hospital, and even that’s not a guarantee.”

“Where are the others?”

“Others? There is only one,” Bruno said, pointing to a form lying on an earthen bunk. A wad of bloody rags was wrapped below the calf where the foot should have been. The rest of the leg was horribly crushed. He was one of the stragglers. Voss did not know his name. “That poor wretch is all that’s left from the workers’ district. He’d been run over. The foot was missing when I got to him. I’m trying to work up the nerve to cut off the rest.”

Voss nearly became ill. How many casualties have been sustained since the battle started? he wondered. He pictured faces and started to count. “Didn’t you hear me, Lieutenant? No one had been briefed that your captain was prepared to engage Red Vengeance. That was the whole purpose of this ‘advance observation post.’ An outright lie. Your commanding officer and you, by complicity, lied to these men. Had they known the insane truth, they would never have stuck around. So they ran, but it was too late. Red Vengeance mowed down everyone in its path. Our one-legged friend over there told me before he passed out. These men were lied to, and now they’re all dead.”

“Wilms eleven, and the women make fourteen…”

“What are you going on about?” Bruno spoke roughly.

“Seventeen casualties. That is including dead and wounded, and Mueller, who is missing.”

“Your arithmetic is impeccable, no thanks to you or your captain.” Methodically, Bruno cleaned and dressed the wounds as best he could under the primitive conditions. Voss had retreated to the bunker entrance to smoke. He looked at his wristwatch. Almost twenty-four hundred. It seemed as though only an hour had passed since he had tried to put an end to this business with Falkenstein. Was it easier to battle Red Vengeance than the captain, he wondered? First Hartmann and now Reinhardt, barely clinging to life. He had to believe he acted correctly, that the horror and bloodshed would have been inevitable, whether he removed Falkenstein or not. The choice, he realized, may have cost him the very last of his crew.

Having finished trussing the sergeant with bandages, Bruno removed the gloves and signaled for Voss to come over. “You might want to have a word before the morphine takes effect. I was very liberal with the dosage.”

Voss knelt down beside the bench. “I’m sorry, my old friend,” he said quietly, and brushed a strand of hair that lay across the cold, clammy brow. “I have to go now, but I will come back for you.” Reinhardt had heard something and touched Voss weakly with his hand. “Rest now, Dieter, rest. I will look in on you soon.” Reinhardt’s eyes remained closed, but the look of anguish on his face receded. Voss placed the hand gently at the sergeant’s side and said to the orderly, “Do your utmost for him. He deserves better than this.”

“So do we all, Lieutenant.”

Large, heavy drops splashed into the bunker entrance; the aura of lightning was followed by peals of thunder. There was more to be endured, Voss thought, as he stepped into the wet, brittle chill of early morning. He threw aside the bloody pallet and started the motorcycle. He barely made it to the repair depot on the fumes left in the gas tank.

From a small window on the warehouse’s second tier, Falkenstein stood watch. Flashes of lightning illuminated the landscape at brief intervals. If he was seeing correctly, with the aid of binoculars and his one good eye, Red Vengeance had taken a stationary position one kilometer to the east with a clear line of fire at anything that tried to make an approach. There would be no chance of getting into effective range, Falkenstein knew, not with the puny weapons at their disposal. “It sits there and doesn’t move. I wonder what it is thinking. If it can think,” he mused aloud.

“The beast smarts from its wounds, Captain.”

He was relieved to have Khan at his side once again. The shaman took responsibility for allowing the tank to penetrate their meager defenses. Falkenstein did not affix blame and would not listen to an apology, especially from Khan. The lightning and the sound of the automobile all played a hand, not to mention his adjutant’s behavior. Red Vengeance exploited a moment of weakness and confusion. “It must be suitably injured, so a mistake is made so fatal it cannot back out. It’s aware of our limitations. All of our weapons haven’t the necessary range.”

“No more can it run about like a big cat,” Khan replied.

There was truth to this simple analogy. The front cog on the left track assembly had been damaged. Falkenstein had deliberately aimed at the wheels when chance permitted, and he was also aware that some damage had been sustained to one of the track links. Very little effort would be needed before maneuverability was seriously impaired. He entertained the notion of sending out a demolition party, under the cover of darkness, to blow up the tank with the mines and satchel charge. He could finish the job with the flamethrower himself, if he had a mind to.

“Remember, Captain, do not think of Red Vengeance as a machine but as an animal. Cunning. It wants to lure you onto the steppe,” Khan warned him, seeming to sense what Falkenstein was considering.

“What alternative is there?”

Khan gestured with the antitank rifle. “Let me sting it with this and force it to move again.”

“Out there? Alone? You wouldn’t have a chance.”

“As long as I have the dark, I can.”

“Take one of the grenadiers along, at least.”

“No, Captain. I can hide in the dark, as other men cannot. Let me enrage the beast and send it blindly into your grasp.”

They worked out the details of a plan. Khan would need time to find a suitable firing position. Then he would have to dig a hole—very narrow, but deep, so he could retreat to it if necessary. If he were discovered, he would have a greater chance of survival in a properly excavated foxhole. The tank could swivel and traverse over the narrow opening but not bury him alive. The whole point was to keep that from happening. To accomplish this, Khan would need two or three hours; he wouldn’t know exactly how long until he was out on the steppe. That would be the real test: covering the nearly one kilometer of distance in the open. Falkenstein didn’t press for a more specific timetable. The operation had ceased to be purely military; other factors had long since come in to play. He would have to trust the ancient, native methods Khan employed. It was the only real power that remained in a depleted arsenal. Nevertheless, Falkenstein could not help but express some doubt. What if Red Vengeance were to maneuver to another location or launch an attack before Khan was ready?