Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

The tank traversed again, as did the turret, simultaneously, to twelve o’clock and entered into the maintenance building. Now that the deadly machine gun–fire no longer faced in his direction, Voss bolted from the garage doorway and hosed down the exposed flank with a prolonged burst, certain that enough fire and smoke had blinded the episcope. The tank accelerated and continued down the length of the building. No longer interested in the men on the ground, Red Vengeance was intent on pursuing the scout car. Lying at the end of the intersection, facing the railroad tracks, was Detwiler. Nothing short of a miracle had prevented the machine gunner from getting run over, but his abdomen had been shockingly torn open. He’d been repeatedly shot; immobile but still conscious, he uttered a stream of obscenities as Voss, with Mueller’s help, dragged him into the garage. They found Angst inside, sodden, muddy, and bewildered, trying to communicate something to Khan, who had managed to sit up. “Stay with him, Angst. We’re going after the tank.” Voss had to press forward; he knew his nerve would evaporate, if he allowed himself time to think about the madness he was presently engaged in. Mueller recovered the satchel charge and followed the lieutenant out of the garage.

There was nothing at hand to administer to Detwiler as he lay clutching his middle in an effort to keep his insides from spilling out. Angst could not help but think of the wisecrack Detwiler had made when the crewman was pulled from the Tiger. “Once things settle down, it’ll be safer to bring you to the first aid bunker.” Angst tried to console him.

“You really fucked it up with the mine,” Detwiler croaked.

Angst could not stomach to hear the words turn to liquid as the blood rose in the man’s gorge. “Don’t talk, Ernst, and try not to move.”

“Oh, fuck.” Detwiler winced and looked terribly afraid. Angst felt a pang of guilt, that his failed actions were directly responsible for the gunner’s mortal wounds. “The magnets wouldn’t take. The concrete paste…there was nothing I could do.”

Detwiler winced again; this time, it was what passed for a smile in his condition. “You looked like a schoolgirl who didn’t know how to throw a ball…I laughed so hard.” His face suddenly froze in a twisted grimace, as a final gasp of bloody breath mixed with the odor of his bowels escaped his lips. The eyes remained open but were terribly vacant. A wave of confused emotions flooded over Angst. There were times in their short, bitter acquaintance when he could have murdered the man with his bare hands; yet, in the space of a few hours, a bond had formed, a need, as natural as their shared loathing. In his last moments on earth, all Detwiler could do was mock him. No other thought entered the man’s brain—not of family, friends, or home. Only of Angst, the butt of his derision as death snatched him away. All alone, in a filthy, disgusting hole , Angst thought, fighting a twenty-ton metal beast, and instead of appearing heroic, I’m flailing about like some silly schoolgirl . He felt a surge of anger, but as the image Detwiler had presented to him congealed in his mind, he began to laugh, laugh until it hurt. Then he started to cry, but that hurt even more; so he laughed again, then cried uncontrollably, with Detwiler’s lifeless hand clutched in his all the while.

As Khan lay on the cold, greasy floor of the garage all he could think of was the hole that suddenly appeared three meters from his head. An armored piercing round entered through the wall opposite from where he lay and traveled straight through and out the other side. Had it been a high explosive round he would most likely be greeting his ancestors. There was no magic involved in his survival this time; it was mere luck. The battle against the relentless armored beast had diminished his powers. The pieces of stone that had blown back at him were inconsequential. The welts and bruises hurt but the damage minimal. It was the concussion that was the worst. His skull felt as though it had doubled in size and the monotonous ringing in his ears added to the discomfort. He almost felt embarrassed by the manner in which the T-34 had bullied him as though he were a child. It was a formidable, an evil adversary and he knew, despite the skills of the captain and the tenacity of his men, even his own craft, that Red Vengeance would take them all.

At least the ringing in his ears was beginning to subside. He needed these few minutes to gather his wits although he didn’t have the luxury of time: moments, seconds, nothing.

The one called Angst knelt beside his comrade, Detwiler, holding his hand and crying and laughing all at once. It sounded strange; why do both? Khan wondered. The big man was dead; let his spirit leave this terrible place.

There was a dissonance of explosions, machine guns, and the hissing flamethrower as the steady noise of a great diesel engine continuously droned. He had propped himself up to a sitting position, his back against the concrete block wall for support. There were so many sounds of crashing and grating, he could not isolate them all but there was one sound he did detect. At first he thought it was a background noise caused by his abused eardrums but he distinctly heard it: a sweet fluted whistling song that piped somewhere to his left where the useless Mark IV blocked the opening at the rear of the garage. And then he saw it. Although stocky in girth it was a medium sized bird that stood with tiny legs on the armored front end of the abandoned tank. It spread its wings and flew no further than to the concrete floor and hopped closer to where Khan sat. The bird’s head and neck was pale brown with dark breast and flank spots and reddish brown wings. It kept singing as it tilted it little head and looked directly at him. Despite the terrible noises echoing through the empty garage the chubby bird had yet to fly away and Khan knew the bird was there solely to visit him. It was a Thrush native to the taiga in Siberia. “You are a long way from home my little friend. And you have been eating well I see.” It was an omen for Khan and he knew what it meant. “My wife is calling me home isn’t she? I’ve been ignoring her for these many months and she sent you to remind me, didn’t she.” No, that wasn’t the reason why the Thrush had come but he wanted to play, one final time before all else. Khan rallied and managed to get up using the anti-tank rifle for support. He would be leaving for home very soon and he didn’t feel the least bit afraid. His task was almost finished; his service to the captain nearly complete. “If you return home before I do tell my wife I’m on my way” he laughed, and then added in a mock serious voice, “And don’t try to seduce her with that sweet song of yours.” He reached for a shell from the canvas ammo bag that hung from his shoulder and holding firmly onto the bolt, the barrel slid forward so he could then insert the large projectile into the breach. When he looked up he saw that the Thrush was gone. From the depths of his diaphragm his own song arose and exited his mouth with the sound of a ferocious animal. He ran from the garage to join the furor outside.

The shaman’s war cry jolted Angst out of his laughing fit. He let go of Detwiler’s hand and stood up. The noises outside were nothing less than dreadful. He urged himself toward the shattered doorway and carefully poked his head out. A terrible groaning of heavy steel being twisted and torn and the continual clatter of the scout car’s 20mm cannon fire pierced his ears. Stop, please, just make it stop. Something dreadful was occurring over by where the Hanomag lay destroyed. He saw heavy plumes of diesel exhaust and a glance of orange fire from the flamethrower. From this vantage point all Angst could see were sheds and workshops that had been reduced to splinter and rubble. He then noticed Mueller crouched behind this wreckage, hanging back from the terrors that were occurring further up the narrow muddy road. Angst ran over to join him.