Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

“Once this shit-hole is secured, we’ve got one hour,” Schroeder said, “and then we push on.” The last leg of the journey would be made through the hottest portion of the day under a sweltering Ukrainian sun, but it could not be helped. He gave the signal to advance, and the squad crawled forward.

The hamlet had been erected along the edge of a balka that ran north and then angled sharply to the northwest. It was a collection of eighteen houses—or, more accurately, shacks and hovels, constructed from whatever materials could be scavenged from the vast, empty surroundings. The walls were made of dried dung, mud, and straw, with tar paper and planks covered by sheets of rusty tin for a roof. Small sheds and fencing were fashioned from sunflower stalks, either bundled or tied singly. No symmetry existed to the layout; it was an agglomeration of structures, with a passage separating one string of huts from the other. Most of these passages were blocked, illogically, by a trough, animal pen, or coop. As the squad darted about, peeking through windows or furtively opening doors with extreme care, the one-room hovels seemed devoid of life. The ground was covered with the litter of a hasty occupation. Empty ration tins, broken and damaged personal equipment, empty cigarette packets, and trash, which was mostly Wehrmacht issue with a number of Red Army items mixed in.

Minnesinger and Braun were crouched beside a small shed, their faces knotted, almost as if in pain. Curious, Angst and Schmidt joined them. Braun made a motion to keep silent. The buzz of flies and the odor, enhanced by the morning heat, said it all: an outhouse. Schmidt covered his nose and tried not to gag. Movement could be discerned between the narrow separations of the wood slats when a bent, wiry figure started to back out of the door, tying a rope belt that held up a pair of trousers. The long peasant shirt was gray with soil. Tufts of white whiskers curled outward from the bearded chin. When the old peasant finally turned, his expression changed dramatically from self-absorption to utter confoundedness as the presence of heavily armed German soldiers clustered around the outhouse registered. The facial transformation was so comical the four grenadiers could not help but burst into laughter. Once they had recovered, Braun said, “For all he knows we might as well have dropped from the moon.”

The old man smiled nervously and greeted them in a shaky voice, “Dohbrohgoh rankoo. Mehneh zvahtih Oleksander.” He went on to mumble something else, but the words were indistinct.

“What’s the old geezer saying?” Braun asked Minnesinger, who understood a smattering of Ukrainian.

“His name is Oleksander, and he’s a good fellow toward us Germans. Something to that effect.”

“Anyone else here in the village? Go ahead, ask him,” Angst suggested. As Minnesinger started to speak the language haltingly, Oleksander politely interrupted, took him by the arm, and led him away from the outhouse. The others followed. “I think he’s taking us to his house” Minnesinger said.

They all noticed the old fellow trembled as he walked, either from fear or some palsied condition due to his advanced age. Minnesinger pointed to the dust kicked up by the traffic on the distant horizon. “Rohsee yah nihn? Nee mehts?” he asked. Oleksander either did not understand or pretended not to. “Tahk, tahk” he said, as he grinned and trembled.

“I asked if they were ours or Russian, and he answers yes to both,” Minnesinger translated, amused but obviously frustrated. They followed Oleksander into a dilapidated hovel. Inside, the space was cramped and reeked of sour milk. The walls were lined with sheets of newspaper that had yellowed over time. A small table and two chairs, all haphazardly constructed, stood near a compact earthen stove. A wood crate mounted on the wall served as a cupboard. There was a bed in the corner, the straw mattress covered by a frayed, quilted blanket, and this constituted most of the furnishings of the single room dwelling. Braun dropped his pack on to the floor and jumped on the bed. Schmidt did the same and nudged his friend over so he could lie straight. They both had expressions of ecstasy to be off their feet and lying prone, even if the mattress was somewhat lumpy.

“Watch out you don’t catch any lice,” Minnesinger told them.

“We already have lice. A few more can’t hurt,” Schmidt affirmed.

Oleksander did not seem to mind the strangers making themselves so at home; in fact, he seemed to enjoy it. He went to the stove and picked up a small tin pot, which he presented to Minnesinger. It looked like kasha, or a variety of the same, the porridge having become thick and glutinous. The platoon leader removed a spoon from his bread bag and took several mouthfuls before passing it on to Angst. It tasted revolting, but they were too hungry to care.

Schroeder entered. A look of disgust creased his face as he surveyed the room and especially Braun and Schmidt lying together on the bed. They got up. “Who is this?” he growled, and immediately belabored Oleksander with questions in a mix of limited Russian and German. The old peasant took the pot of kasha from Angst and held it out with both hands to the corporal, saying, “Yeestih.” The offering was lost on Schroeder. He knocked the pot from Oleksander’s hand; as it clattered to the floor, he grabbed him and began to shake him roughly. “I want answers from you, old man. Not this swill!” Oleksander flailed about like a loose collection of sticks.

“Take it easy with him,” Angst shouted, but it was Braun who seized Schroeder and separated him from the frail Ukrainian.

“Lay off before you break all his bones!”

Shocked by the brazen interference, Schroeder glared.

“He can’t speak anything but the local dialect,” Braun continued. “What do you expect to learn by beating the old boy to death?”

Although challenged, Schroeder regained his composure. “See if you can get anything out of him, Braun. As for the rest of you, clear out. Set up defensive positions. I want this shit-hole covered on all sides. Observation posts. You know what to do. Angst, find Richter and do a thorough search of all the houses. See if there’s anything to eat around here other than garbage.”

Once the three filed outside, Schmidt said, “I hate to leave Friedrich in there alone with him. Besides, I don’t think his knowledge of Russian is any better than the corporal’s.”

“Don’t worry about Braun. If anybody can handle Schroeder, he can,” Angst said.

Although his estimation of the foul-mouthed, back-talking grenadier had grown over the past several minutes, Minnesinger had his doubts. “I don’t think the likes of Corporal Schroeder can be handled.”

Wahl appeared from around the corner of a shack in the company of two little boys about seven or eight years old. Shoeless and covered with scratches, their spindly legs stuck out from baggy trousers that stopped just below the knee. One boy wore an adult’s cap that fell over his eyes. He had to lift his head and look under the brim to see the giants that surrounded him.

“Where did you find these two?” Minnesinger asked.

“I caught them trying to sneak out the back of one of the houses. They were headed for the ravine.”

“What’s he got in his hand?” Minnesinger gestured toward the boy in the cap, who held a small metal object.

“A tin of fish, but nothing to open it with,” Wahl said. “They don’t trust me to do it. Afraid I’ll take it away from them, I suppose.”

The children had the wide-eyed stare of feral kittens, abandoned, hungry, and afraid. The smaller of the two boys exhibited a stunted quality due to chronic malnourishment.

“I wonder if they’re any relation to the old Popov,” Angst said.