Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

“Are you in contact with Schroeder? How many left in his platoon?”

“He’s got about a squad left. He was up front with the second company, ‘settling old scores,’ as he put it. Whatever that means.”

“Tell him to get back here, right now. I want to know who’s still among us and what kind of shape we’re in.”

“Right,” Hofinger said, and climbed back down into the vehicle.

Pieper settled back. It would prove to be a long, difficult night before this was over. Pieper could easily go for medical treatment, but it would mean leaving the crew members to make the journey by themselves, and that was something he was too stubborn to allow. Not for a nosebleed. Obstinately, he would see them through the long night drive. Damn, what was it I wanted to ask Schroeder? The thought, which he had yet to grasp, continued to linger in his mind like something hiding under a blanket. Or was it a beast, under the cover of darkness?

Flares illuminated the night with unyielding frequency. Yellow, green, and red, the respective colors shed an eerie cast over the “no man’s land” that separated the German defensive line and the balka. Intermittent bursts of machine guns and the single crack of a rifle fired upon shadows and forms, either real or imagined. Hillocks and mounds of the countless dead afforded cover for parties of Russian shock troops as they attempted a probe. A major night attack wasn’t likely, but small, isolated assaults were guaranteed. No letup on pressure. The Russians were masters at infiltration. They would be right on top of the trenches before the grenadiers knew what hit them.

Angst, Braun, Seidel, and Wahl remained in their rifle pits and maintained vigil over the squad’s vulnerable strong point with anxiety-laced fatigue. Schmidt fired flares from a Very pistol at intervals. At any given moment, someone, somewhere, shot a flare into the sky. The battalion sector wasn’t left blind for a minute. Minnesinger came around to inform the platoon that they were to withdraw at twenty-three-hundred hours. Sergeant Lustig had briefed him in full. Most of the battalion had already pulled out at dark. Quietly. Efficiently. Nobody in the first platoon had been the wiser. Although he had been wounded slightly, earlier in the day, Captain Raeder was able to lead the withdrawal. The top kick, Kessler, was back at his side, no better or worse for wear. Division headquarters recommended that no less than forty-five kilometers had to be covered before defensive positions were reestablished by sunrise the next day.

“With the head start the rest of battalion has, that’s barely possible. What’s to become of us?” Braun lamented. He voiced the fear everyone in the squad was thinking. Good news made bitter by the poison of futility. Minnesinger attempted to quiet their worries. He explained, as Lustig had described, the manner in which the pullout was organized—in stages, and each battalion would have a lead by no more than two hours at most. “It’s very likely we will catch up with one unit or other from the Regiment shortly after dawn,” Minnesinger said, trying to reassure them. He then instructed Angst which route to follow out of the company sector. The squad was to exit the platoon ellipse from the right, following the trench that bypassed the company command bunker, and continue until the trench linked directly to the main communication lane and out of the sector completely. Minnesinger impressed upon them all not to deviate from this course. Access to all other trenches and strong points was strictly “ verboten .” Mines and booby traps had been sown throughout the bunkers, emplacements, and trenches. They were not to scavenge in the hope of finding something of value that might have been left behind. When the Russians finally entered the abandoned positions, a nasty surprise was waiting to greet them. Trip wires placed inside an officer’s briefcase stuffed with documents or under a map case. A high-explosive charge rigged to a box of field ration tins. The availability of food always aroused the Russians’ interest. They would act recklessly, move the partially opened box lid, and it would detonate. Even seemingly harmless things, like a small pile of personal effects that had belonged to dead comrades-in-arms. Small, inconsequential items like snapshots, letters from home, or a tobacco pouch. Sift through the pile, and the curious are left without hands or a face. Create panic and terror; the potential of death lurking with each footfall. The German rear guard could not slow down the Russian offensive advance. There wasn’t the manpower or tactical weapons available. Not for this regiment, at any rate, they all knew. Only the mines could do what the weak, desperate units couldn’t, and that was to force the Russians to examine every square meter of ground, centimeter by deadly centimeter. Antitank and personnel mines had been laid west of the divisional sector. Minnesinger showed Angst a map where the dummy mine fields were, so they could cross over in safety. He admonished them all one last time before he left. “Don’t touch anything, and don’t set foot where you don’t belong.” No one foresaw a problem. They all wanted to get the hell out of there as soon as possible.

So, the Tortoise Line was to be abandoned, Angst thought. The corps and divisions of two armies were in retreat. This was the second time in less than a week! The industrial heart of the Donets Basin was lost forever. The Wehrmacht would never make its way back here again. No counterattacks or offensives to retake the wealth of coal and machinery necessary to maintain the war. Even if the will existed, there wasn’t the strength.

Twenty-two-thirty hours. The platoon had gathered their gear. Assault packs, mess tins, shelter halves, and gas mask canisters strapped on, buckled, cinched, and tied down tight. No clatter that might give away their movements. Richter dropped by with a handful of Pervitin and a bottle of schnapps. The night march would be long, and Minnesinger didn’t want them passing out on their feet. The keen edge of the drug and alcohol was needed. The amphetamine helped fuel the invasions of Poland and France, as necessary as petrol, and Angst remembered being hopped up on the stuff in those days—entire armies were. What pushed the men forward during blitzkrieg now was used to keep the troops mobile and alert for lightning retreats over great distances. But it was getting harder to come by. It was terrific when you were on the drug, fearless and unstoppable, but a devil of a descent. Paranoia lay coiled in the brain and could spring out at any moment.

On schedule, Angst led the squad down the silent empty trench. As they followed the assigned course through the third platoon area, past the company bunker, they fell in behind the tail end of Minnesinger and the rest of the men who had filtered into the communication trench from the left of the ellipse.

Lustig and a machine gun crew occupied an emplacement near the bunker. He gave them all a thumbs-up as they passed. The sergeant could have led the company out but opted to remain behind to shoot off the last flare, a final burst of the machine gun, to maintain the deception of a continued presence. The platoon would have passed the regimental headquarters bunker before Lustig and the machine gun crew followed. Angst hoped they lost no time.

The slow, inexorable trek to the front was reversed. Angst headed back in the direction he had traveled originally—only this time, the journey was to be made on foot rather than by train. The night was warm and still, and the only sounds that could be heard were the dry feather grass and weeds crushed underfoot. The sky was a magnificent extravagance of stars against a background of ink blue. It seemed as though he walked beneath a limitless, jewel-encrusted dome, strangely beautiful, but overpoweringly lonely. Angst felt terribly alone, despite his Kameraden, who walked alongside him. Despite this loneliness, he felt a tinge of exhilaration. He had survived a day of so much death and carnage. He had trembled and wept before and after the firefights and had wet himself, involuntarily, at some point. Having made it through alive emboldened him.