Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

“Judging by its slow rate of speed, some damage has been sustained,” Voss said, optimistically.

“And it will continue to run circles around us, despite the pace, until its task is complete…what the devil is the matter with Khan?”

The shaman had sunk to the ground, an arm slung over a cog for support.

“Concussion. He was by the coal lift when it blew up,” Voss explained.

“Damn! See that he’s placed under cover for now. Where are Detwiler and Mueller?”

“On their way back to the machine shop. Their interest was aroused.”

“Vogel and I will be at the south end. Keep it on this road, Voss. Wear it down. Let it run the gauntlet on this road and grind it down.” Falkenstein’s voice trailed off as the scout car U-turned and sped down the muddy street. Voss returned to the Mark IV and joined Angst. The tank had followed the gravel road as far north as the crossing and traversed a full 180 degrees. It would return down the same road, as the captain had said. Voss had Angst gather the antitank rifle and shoulder bag and help him carry Khan into the garage. They laid him down in a far corner with his weapon close at hand. “Keep your head covered next time,” Angst said, but Khan did not seem to understand, so he pointed to his own head. Voss hoisted the flamethrower onto his back and cinched the shoulder straps. “Corporal, I want you to get into the ditch by the water tower. Red Vengeance should pass by close enough for you to fix a charge.”

Angst’s bowels churned. “It’s covered in cement paste…”

“You might get lucky. Don’t dawdle, there isn’t time.” They went over to the Mark IV, where Angst took off the camouflage jacket, removed the Walther P-38 from his belt, and set both on the rusting hull. “Bear in mind, Corporal, the closer you are to the tank, the less you will be observed by the crew within.” Angst was fully aware but didn’t know why he had to get soaking wet in the ditch to carry out the assault. Armed with the magnetic mine and the lieutenant’s words of encouragement, Angst sprinted to the base of the water tower. The ditch that ran alongside the road was at its deepest point here, he remembered, and filled with an obscene mix of muddy water, oil, and grease. He looked at Wilms’s corpse lying under the tower, the shelter half still covering his face. Then he stepped into the water, a half-meter in depth, shocked by the reptilian cold. He settled in as deeply as possible, careful to keep the magnetic charge out of the slime. The T-34’s diesel engine strained as it drew closer. Angst raised up just enough to steal a peek over the rim of the ditch. The tank clattered onward, slowly, thirty meters away. The cannon, pointed at two o’clock, covered the buildings as it advanced. Angst ducked back down and listened as the armored symphony increased in volume, worried that his joints would seize at the decisive moment. He lay flat, his shoulders pressed against the sides of the ditch, and held the mine up with two tired arms. The sound had swiftly transformed into a deafening roar. Any moment now , he thought. The tank was too close for the crew to see him now. In the scant, gloomy light, he sensed the oppressive mass burgeoning terribly near. Angst shifted about and again looked up to get an exact fix, and, horrified, he saw that the tank had straddled the ditch. Urinating uncontrollably, he still had his wits about him to pull the delayed fuse on the charge. Darkness engulfed him as Red Vengeance loomed directly overhead, and with both hands he pushed the mine against the armored under carriage. He let go, but the four strong magnets would not adhere to the metal. He tried again, and as his knuckles grazed the surface, he understood why the mine wouldn’t take. The undercarriage had been textured with the same concrete that covered the outer hull. The magnets, the mine was useless. How ingenious. Thorough. The tank seemed to take forever to pass overhead as the charge hissed, and Angst panicked with the belief that all he would accomplish in this life was to blow himself to pieces in a rank, dark hole. Suddenly there was light, and he leaped out of the ditch, ran several steps behind the tank, and hurled the mine onto its rear deck. He turned around and dove back into the cold ooze, like some mud-born creature, certain never to reemerge.

Falkenstein witnessed the corporal’s bungled attempt from behind the sights of the 20 mm gun. Parked in the alley between the machine shop and the south garage, Vogel had nosed the vehicle beyond the corner just far enough so the captain could see. When the magnetic charge detonated, it set off the string of small antipersonnel mines that covered the deck. Strands of barbed wire unfurled. The tank picked up speed and continued on a diagonal, leaving the gravel road completely, as it neared the repair garage. As it passed the Mark IV, where Voss had taken cover, a jet of orange flame leaped out from the flamethrower. The fiery liquid splashed across the turret roof and immediately turned to black, oily smoke. The cannon fired point-blank at the garage wall. As it neared the end of the building, a grenade bundle skipped out from the wide intersection. The explosion resounded directly beneath the undercarriage. The tank stopped and shuddered, then traversed, with the purpose of turning into the intersection. The hull machine gun blazed.

It was Detwiler who had thrown the grenade bundle. He was exposed and too many meters from suitable cover. An overwhelming futility enveloped him as he made a run for safety. The burst from the T-34’s machine gun tore into his stomach; the impact spun him around and he hit the ground hard.

Falkenstein was aghast. Red Vengeance had done the one thing he was sure it would never do: enter the confines of the depot. The distance between the tank and the scout car was too far for the 20 mm to have any effect. He had Vogel circle around to the next intersection that separated the machine shop and the maintenance facility building.

Voss ran down the length of the garage and skidded across a pool of grease that coated the floor. He caught a glimpse of Khan at the far wall, attempting to get up. The armor-piercing shell had punched a hole clear through the building, and Khan had been pummeled by chunks of brick. There was nothing Voss could do for him now. He had reached the splintered doorway when Mueller bounded through, face drained of color, eyes bulging, mouth shaped in an expansive “O.” Why hadn’t the grenadier returned to the machine shop as he had ordered? Voss could only think the question but hadn’t the time to ask. Mueller croaked, hoarsely, but the words did not form. Voss could hear the racket just outside the door and knew. He pointed the flamethrower nozzle out the door, careful not to expose himself, and let loose with a stream of fire. The turret face and sloping front hull became awash in flame. The camouflage netting ignited into a sea of orange embers. The hull machine gun shifted within the confines of the mantelet and raked a sustained fire. The tank’s left flank was subjected to a series of hits as the scout car fired down the length of the maintenance facility at the target framed within the opening at the far end. The turret spun around to nine o’clock and responded. The cannon’s eruption resonated down the mangled corrugated building as a fine rain of dust and bird droppings fell from the shaken rafters. Vogel shifted into reverse the very moment the armor piercing round smacked into the machine shop wall. The 222 bucked from the force of the explosion as pieces of brick and mortar slammed against the armored skin. His composure severely ruffled, Vogel continued to back out into the street, then turned down a narrow aisle separating the workshops in search of concealment.