Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

As the train headed east, it began: the numerous stops and starts. Freight cars loaded with equipment and attached only to be disconnected further down the line; troops returning to the front from leave or medical furloughs. Grave like, quiet towns inside the occupied territories, the rare inhabitants flitting by like ghosts. Russia. Diversions and switches at the railheads, due to lines sabotaged by partisans. Weapons at the ready and a high state of alert aboard the train. No longer did Angst and the other men travel as passengers; they were combatants the moment the train crossed the border. They were laid up for hours on end as the tracks underwent repairs. Ad hoc units were formed and sent out on patrol so as not to come under a partisan surprise attack. After a while, they were all back on the train, and off they went, deeper and deeper into the expanse. Angst had never experienced a voyage on the open sea. His only knowledge was gleaned from a film or two and the ocean view while serving guard duty at the Atlantic Wall. But he had never been out in it, surrounded by volumes of nothing. Now he was. Russia, the Ukraine. Instead of limitless water as far as the eye could see, there was land; flat, barely undulant, oceans of soil and seas of grass. The enormity of the space shocked and frightened him. Suddenly, the redundancy would be broken, minutely, by a cluster of huts or a small village. Primitive, rude dwellings, many broken and damaged, touched by war. What could the inhabitants possibly be doing way out here, he remembered wondering, forgotten by time and space. The villages passed, and then nothing. Monotony ruled. Thousands of weary, disconsolate kilometers separated him from home. He could sense the distance, emotionally, and he was terrified. He had come to the very ends of the earth and did not know how he could possibly return. He struck up conversations with some of the men who were returning to their units; some had been in the east for a year or more. They said they could never get used to it. The wide-open spaces, the distance caused one to feel even more lost and inconsequential as time went on. The only comfort was one’s platoon, the company of friends and Kameraden and the familiar machinery of war.

After eleven days had passed, the train stopped abruptly at the siding of a partially ruined industrial facility in the vicinity of Stalino. This was not the original destination for Angst and the lieutenant or most of the troops aboard the train, but it became so out of necessity. Everyone was ordered off the train. High-ranking officers and a detachment of military police stood along the siding and ordered the men to form lines—officers, NCOs, and enlisted men. Returning veterans understood what this meant and grew restless. Some gathered their packs and rifles and urged the others to do the same. “Collection squads,” the grenadiers explained. They were to be scooped up and shipped off to the worst shit-hole of the front, a collapsed, threatened sector. Regardless of their orders or home units, they would be clumped together with a bunch of strangers and formed into units to deal with whatever crises demanded extreme measures. The war was difficult to endure as it was, but to have to risk one’s life without the familiarity of one’s platoon was more than these veterans to the front could bear. While the unruly knot of troops fell into line Angst remembered hearing the lieutenant say, “Dead men, Corporal. That’s what we are. Dead men.”

A small group suddenly broke free of the line and charged down the siding in an attempt to escape but was swiftly ensnared by a reserve squad of military police. The authorities expected such a reaction by some and were prepared. Officers examined their original orders and documentation, and clerks wrote down their names. Trucks were assigned and boarded, and off they raced to the front. They had driven for an hour, perhaps longer, when the vehicles stopped and everyone piled out. It was beginning to get dark. An NCO greeted the lieutenant and informed him he would take him and thirty of the enlisted men to the second battalion combat station. He would report to a Captain Raeder. “If you’re worth the captain’s while, he might keep you on. He’s been without an adjutant for nearly a week,” the NCO remarked. The lieutenant took hold of Angst and told him not to leave his side. Nieheus was shaking. An occasional shell would fall, not at all close, but the explosion was deafening. The aftershock nudged them where they stood. “Remember,” the lieutenant said, “should anyone ask, we volunteered, as our papers specify. Don’t breathe a word of the circumstances that caused us to be here. It will save the embarrassment and I feel we will be viewed in a much better light.” Nieheus made Angst swear to remain silent.

Under the false illumination of flares and mounting artillery shells, the NCO led the thirty-man unit to the front. The lieutenant was directed to battalion headquarters, and Angst and the rest were split up into smaller groups of five. They were taken to the second company, and Angst and another fellow were paired off and sent to the first platoon bunker, where he met the platoon leader, Sergeant Lustig. They were to occupy a slit trench fifty meters away; they had to crawl to get there. It was wet and slimy inside the hole. The smell of urine, shit, and blood. Lots of blood. Someone had bled to death inside that hole. Angst and his partner dug deep and fast as the shells whistled overhead to make the hole a little cleaner to die in. They waited out the night’s withering fire. By evening the following day, Angst and the grenadier were rotated to the platoon bunker. It was there that he learned that Lieutenant Nieheus had been killed. He had reported to the battalion CO, who was just on his way to an observation post. They went together, with Nieheus following the captain. He stood a bit too tall in the trench and was decapitated by a large splinter of shell casing that had exploded nearby. Not ten minutes at the front, and it was over for the lieutenant before it had begun. The pathetic nature of his death rattled Angst the most. “We are dead men, Corporal, dead men.” Those prophetic words had become fulfilled.

Angst was suddenly brought back to the present; Sergeant Lustig and the machine gun crew had finally caught up with the platoon. They must have jogged the entire distance, Angst thought. Out of breath, they panted like prey having outrun their predators. The second gunner wobbled on legs that had turned to jelly. Seidel and Halle helped support him; to lag behind meant certain death. The sergeant’s arrival renewed Angst’s impetus and determination. They would all join the regiment by morning, he was certain of it now. They had to.

Driving a self-propelled assault gun at night was a torturous affair. Kurowski drove blind without the aid of headlamps and received all instructions from the signalman, Wilms, who walked a short distance ahead and transmitted pertinent details of the terrain. Kurowski was informed of all rises and depressions, upcoming shell craters, and detours around the inevitable balka that had yet to present a significant problem. Calls came over the headset to make steering adjustments to prevent the vehicle from straying off course. Sergeant Pieper sat in the radio operator’s seat and dozed fitfully. Naumann and Hofinger walked alongside the assault gun. The reduction of weight, however scant, could only help conserve fuel. Averaging between two and four kilometers an hour, Kurowski had been at it for nearly eight hours, having been relieved for short stretches by both the gunner and loader. Aside from himself, Pieper was the best driver under these conditions, but, wounded and doped up on painkillers, the gun commander wasn’t up to the task. Kurowski operated in a void. He had closed the view port shutter—there was nothing to see outside anyway—and kept the red night light on inside the fighting compartment. Earlier in the night, combat units withdrawing from the front line had overtaken them. The trip was taking too long. The excruciatingly slow pace had begun to unnerve him. Hours on end and nothing happened, only Wilms’s voice for company and the steady drone of the motor. Kurowski had expected elements from one battalion or other to pass them by. And then Wilms relayed a message. A platoon had pulled up alongside, tuckered out from the long march, and would stay with the vehicle for a while. It turned out to be Sergeant Lustig from the second company and some of his men. The dreadful sense of isolation was over. Kurowski was relieved, as were the few grenadiers who made up the escort. Another message from Wilms. Kurowski was to traverse thirty degrees to the left and straighten out. A minute or two passed, and a request was made that he come to a complete stop. Perfect timing, as far as Kurowski was concerned. He braked and allowed the engine to idle. He rubbed his tired eyes and fished out the water bottle that lay under his seat and drank. While he waited for further instructions to come over the headphones, he lit his pipe. To hell with the no smoking regulation—Kurowski felt he deserved it. The scent of tobacco roused the gun commander. “Why have we stopped?” Pieper’s voice sounded thick with phlegm and clotted blood.