Peter Idone: Red Vengeance

“He’s dead.”

Angst regained consciousness to find the medical orderly, Matthias Bruno, nudging him in the ribs with a toe. He had passed out soon after the captain was killed. He had watched for a minute or two as Mueller ran excitedly around the tank, shouting obscenities and throwing clods of dirt at the thing in frustration. Then it went dark for Angst, either from exhaustion or the inability to bear the ghastly, pathetic outcome of the mission. “He’s dead,” the orderly said again, referring to Lieutenant Voss. “They’re all dead, even the wounded. I couldn’t save a soul.” Slowly and painfully, his body feeling as though it had turned to stone, Angst got to his feet and looked down at the lieutenant. The face in repose—Angst could pretend, for a little while, that he was only asleep. Leaving the shambles of the house, he saw Mueller waiting for them outside. He had dressed in the camouflage field jacket and was extravagantly armed. Evidently he had scavenged about, as his full battle dress and weapons had once belonged to Angst and others of the crew. The MP40 was slung over a shoulder, the black leather suspenders with double matching pouches for the magazines; a full assault pack with gas mask canister; and a bayonet tucked in his right boot. Sporting the camouflage cloth helmet cover, the youth reminded him of Schroeder, only his face wasn’t set in that despicable frown the corporal always wore. Actually, despite all the war paint, Mueller appeared self-conscious. Then Angst noticed the P-38 tucked in his belt, the pistol that he’d taken off of Walter Lustig. He stepped up to Mueller and took the pistol away. “I don’t care about the rest, you can keep it—but this belonged to a friend.” Angst tucked the pistol in the back waistband of his trousers.

“We have to make a try for our lines” Bruno said with urgency. “The Russians could arrive at any moment.”

Angst agreed. “Not the bridge, though. We’ll take the Old Cart Road to the reservoir. It’s closer. The Greyhounds are dug in there. They’ll want to know what happened to the lieutenant… and Captain Falkenstein.”

They looked to the ruined tank as plumes of smoke continued to emanate from the ruptures and seams in the hull. Mueller and the orderly had since cut down the Captain’s body from the charred netting and laid him out on the ground near the kill. “It can’t hurt us any more, can it, Corporal? The crew inside is dead. All shot up and choked to death on the fumes.” The noticeable trace of disbelief in Mueller’s voice belied the affirmation of his own words, and Angst could not reassure him that it was so. This enemy cannot be killed , Angst thought. Their tolerance to withstand pain, suffering, and abuse cannot be fathomed by the Germans or the rest of the world. The only ones who do understand are the old hands who have walked and fought over these thousands of kilometers and have since fallen. They know. This is an enemy who will contest every centimeter of ground, sustain unimaginable losses, only to attack again and again. An enemy who will not cry out when horribly wounded and dying; no, they will spit and curse at us with their last breath before giving up the ghost. Neither will they whimper nor gasp for breath as the smoke of their burning machines fills their lungs. And before they smother, it is their counterpoint that is last heard. We will never win this war in the east , Angst was sure. The destruction of Red Vengeance is a signal of doom, not victory. One only has to cast an eye to the east and see thousands more like it gathered on the horizon, ready to crush us all . “You will get the Iron Cross for what you did here today, Mueller.”

The youth, in spite of his weapons and combat stance, trembled. “All I wanted was to hitch a ride…”

“You have put an end to the myth of Red Vengeance. He’ll get the Iron Cross, won’t he, Bruno?” Angst insisted.

The medical orderly shrugged, noncommittally, and prodded the others to get a move on. As they walked past the smoldering tank, Angst stopped beside the captain’s body and looked one last time. “I wonder, at the very last moment, if he thought it was all worth the trouble.” No one answered. There was no need for comment. Judging by the expression frozen on the dead officer’s face, Angst did not believe it had been worth it.

“We can’t afford to linger,” Bruno said, as he led them down the Old Cart Road—the road they had arrived on only yesterday; the road that would take them west to the river, finally, and away from a scorched and bleeding world. A desperate hope quickened their pace.

Copyright © 2012 Peter Idone

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1-4792-1241-5

ISBN-13: 9781479212415

eBook ISBN: 978-1-63001-131-4