Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

Red Vengeance had progressed no more than a hundred meters southwest of the supply yard perimeter before it had come to a stop. The right track had unfurled from the wheel assembly and lay inert, like a crushed snake. Perhaps some final shaman’s trick had brought this about, as Khan was absorbed into the track links, Falkenstein mused. Unable to move forward, the tank could only traverse in a counterclockwise direction, as the trackless road wheels dug deeper into the wet soil and forced a thick berm along its flank. After a few minutes, the wheels became so immersed in the ground that a traverse in either direction was impossible. Except for the turret, the tank was stilled. Scorched and blackened, pools of oil and diesel fuel seeped out from the wounded hull. Smoke issued from the grill vents above the diesel engine; from out of the view slits; and through every crack, fissure, rent, and penetration made by their guns. The crew must be asphyxiating by now, Angst was sure; why they didn’t open the hatches and surrender, simply for the need of air, was beyond comprehension.

Like ice-age hunters gathering around a beast that was hard to kill, they advanced upon the tank to deliver the final blow. No longer in need of support, Falkenstein took the last steps alone. Voss was the first to reach the tank. He did not behave with conscious volition but acted simply, determinedly, with an insectlike impulse. Circling around to avoid coming head on with the rotating turret, and careful not to step out in front of the hull machine gun, he shot clots of flame at the crippled machine.

Mueller set the satchel charge on the ground and attempted to light the fuse but was having difficulty. He was dragging the striker over the fuse end, but the sparks would not take. Damp . Falkenstein watched with impatience and joined in the effort, as the situation for the lieutenant had reached a state of crisis in a matter of a few seconds. The flamethrower was out of fuel. He pulled the trigger on the firing mechanism, and the 9 mm cartridge fired and ejected until the magazine was empty. Small, inconsequential globs of flame dripped from the nozzle. Voss backtracked. The turret started to swivel, and the gun cradle lowered. He turned and ran, unbuckling the shoulder harness, and let the empty fuel cylinders fall in midstride. The turret sceeched from the friction of metal against metal. Voss ran toward a farmhouse badly singed by a previous fire that stood near the Old Cart Road. This was not the ideal cover he would have wanted, but there was little choice; he had to get out from the open, be less of a target. He could hear, clearly, the shell being loaded and the breech closed. There is still hope , he thought as he ran; the episcope was certain to be damaged or at least obscured by soot. The gunner would have to shoot wild. Voss ran into the house the moment before it exploded.

A thin trail of smoke hissed from the satchel charge fuse cord. Being the most agile of the group, Mueller took the small but heavy canvas bag by the shoulder strap, ran to the back end of the tank, and tossed it underneath the hull. He dove to the side, behind the high berm, and curled into a ball. A bright flash was followed by a piercing bang. Metal parts spat out, and smoke billowed from the undercarriage. The tank heaved and then collapsed deeper into the earth.

Angst ran over to the farmhouse. The high-explosive shell had struck high, blowing off a section of roof and causing a portion of the upper story to collapse. Once inside, he had to clear away floorboards and rafters that had fallen from the ceiling above to get to the lieutenant. Voss lay partially buried but was still alive, staring clear-eyed, almost bemused at the exposed sky overhead. Angst knelt and worked some of the heavier joists and wood lath off his body. His light brown hair was matted with blood and dirt. The goggles had slipped down over Voss’s mouth, the lenses filmed over with soot and oil. Carefully, Angst removed them. “How goes the battle?” Voss asked. It seemed like days, weeks had passed since he had asked someone this question. Who might it have been, Reinhardt? Angst? Captain Griem? He thought it important that he remember.

“I think we’re finally making some progress, Lieutenant.”

Voss asked for a cigarette. “I can’t feel anything, Corporal. Nothing moves.” He told Angst which tunic pocket to look in for the cigarettes. Angst removed the case, took one, and lit it. Dutifully, he held the cigarette to the lieutenant’s lips and allowed him to inhale. “I think my back is broken,” Voss said.

“We will get you out of here, Lieutenant,” Angst said, not without a little false optimism. Secretly he wondered how. The clouds had thinned, and small patches of blue sky were revealed.

Voss smiled weakly. “It may turn out to be a fine autumn day after all.”

Red Vengeance was still; the turret had come to rest with the gun cradle lowered to the extreme. In this sunken tilt, the cannon muzzle nearly touched the ground. Falkenstein sent Mueller to find more weapons—anything he could lay his hands on. The young grenadier ran off and left the captain to drink in this moment of victory. The last stroke, the coup de grace, was his alone. One year and a month, almost to the very day, had passed since the tragic loss of his company, followed by weeks of suffering in the hospital and long nights plagued with horrid memories. He had come full circle, and the object of his revenge lay vanquished at his feet. He had fulfilled everything he had set out to accomplish. “With my bare hands,” he uttered aloud, but only the tank was present to hear his words, if indeed it listened. Falkenstein picked up the mine Angst had dropped when he ran over to see after Voss. He limped over to the tank and ran a hand over the front of the sloping hull. Some of the concrete on the armored surface had chipped away from repeated weals and dents made by Khan’s antitank rifle and the scout car’s cannon. He applied the magnetic charge to the hull’s face, between the driver’s hatch and the machine gun mantelet, and removed his hand. The magnets took, and the mine remained in place. He pulled the fuse cord and swung himself around quickly to the berm side and stepped back. The charge detonated inward, creating a molten opening the size of a man’s fist. Pieces of metal knocked around inside the compartment and echoed like stones hitting the bottom of an empty well. Falkenstein waited as the smoke and gases vented and the glowing edge of the blast induced aperture cooled. Removing the P-38 from its holster, he aimed into the hole and emptied the clip. There was no more he could do, so he wandered around the stricken tank until Mueller returned. Nearly ten minutes had elapsed before the grenadier showed up with an armful of weapons. Falkenstein had his choice: the Pshagin, an MP40, Angst’s Walther P-38, and a Very pistol, all bundled in a camouflage field jacket. Falkenstein wanted them all. He began with the Russian submachine gun by poking the muzzle into the hole and firing one fully automatic wail until the biscuit tin–shaped magazine was empty. Tossing the gun aside, he did the same with the MP40, spraying the interior with both short and long bursts until it was completely discharged of ammunition. Next came the Walther P-38, and finally, waiting as Mueller opened the breech and inserted a flare, the Very pistol. Like a surgeon’s nurse, Mueller pressed the flare gun firmly into the captain’s open palm, and he fired it into the hull. Bright yellow-white smoke from the burning magnesium poured out of the hole. As a precaution, Mueller then helped the captain to walk a good distance away, in case the tank blew up. They waited. What these acts of overkill accomplished, Angst could only wonder as he observed the final scene of the drama from the ruined house. He could only surmise that the captain wanted to prolong whatever sensation he now experienced, be it pleasure or satisfaction; either that, or it was simple thoroughness. The mission would not be completed until the T-34 was embroiled in flames. The smoke thickened, but the tank did not ignite. There was no terrific, shuddering burst. Its fuel and ammunition had all been spent, and there was nothing left to cook. Falkenstein returned to the tank once again and, using the berm as a step, climbed onto the mudguard. He stepped over to the rear deck, carefully avoiding the barbed wire and any antipersonnel mines that might still be active. Mounting the foot bar welded to the rear side of the hexagon shaped turret, he pried and clawed at the hatch covers. Both seemed welded in place. He growled like some animal and tore his nails in the pathetic effort to raise the hatch covers and peer inside. “The tomb is sealed,” he ranted, “like your fate. Secrets that lie within, devils or men, unrevealed. Smoke, only smoke…as it should be…as it was always meant to be.” He gave up the struggle and lay on the turret roof, arms outstretched in an exhaustive embrace. Minutes passed; finally, he straightened up and climbed off the foot bar and back on to the mudguard. His foot hovered in midstep over the berm when he heard a noise that caused him immediate concern. It was the sound of metal grating against metal. He turned to look and saw the sliding movement of the pistol port, located just under the view slit on the turret’s side. An inconsequential report sounded, followed by a puff of smoke. Falkenstein felt a hard punch to the chest as the small-caliber bullet struck. He fumbled for the cannon barrel to hold so he would not fall. Stunned, but then awed, he tried to remember the words Khan had spoken—a prophecy or admonition—the exact phrase obscured by shock. Poor Khan , he thought, always so circumspect . Reeling around, Falkenstein fell backward and became entangled in the loose strands of barbed wire and charred netting. As he writhed to free himself, he became even more enmeshed in the snare and hung, suspended, like prey caught in a spider’s web. He struggled, weakly, until he no longer bled. The one good eye stared out lifelessly, and the dead face retained the same grim, remorseless expression as it had in life.