Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

Wahl looked perplexed. “What Popov”?

Angst proceeded to explain about Oleksander, but Wahl shook his head. From the little he could understand, the boys were orphans and had been abandoned when the townsfolk left with the unit that passed through earlier that morning.

“And the Russians?” Minnesinger asked.

“They were here. Lucky for us, we just missed them.”

They now knew which side kicked up the dust as it made pursuit to the west, but this knowledge was of little comfort.

“You better tell Schroeder what you’ve learned,” Minnesinger told Wahl, and pointed to the old man’s tar paper residence. “He’s in there.”

The boys followed but remained outside as Wahl entered the shack. Minnesinger decided to look for a well. It would be polluted, more than likely, but it might be worth the effort. Standard practice was to foul the water supply when in retreat, usually with the rotting carcass of an animal; sometimes poison, if available. As Minnesinger departed, he instructed Schmidt to keep an eye to the west. “The Russians may come back this way again.”

Angst tagged along with Schmidt to the edge of the balka. It was steep-sided and broad in width, with a depth of approximately three meters, and bone dry. Angst turned over the binoculars to his friend.

“It wouldn’t be at all pleasant if the Russians did decide to return,” Schmidt said, as he took the binoculars.

Angst doubted the likelihood of that happening. “The Bolsheviks have the entire Sixth Army to chase. They’re not going to bother themselves over a few stragglers.”

“Where are you off to, Johann”?

“As Herr Corporal has ordered, to snoop around.” Angst left Schmidt to his picket duty at the edge of the balka and poked around in several shacks in an effort to find Richter or something edible. He walked past a particularly squalid hovel and noticed the barrel of an MG42 protruding from an open window. Ganz sat at the other end of the weapon inside the house and eyed Angst with suspicion.

“Have you seen Richter?”

“Don’t know him. What does he look like?”

Angst was about to describe him but realized the number two gunner was applying his own peculiar brand of humor. “Maybe he’s taking a crap in the ravine,” Ganz suggested with a smirk. Angst did not bother to comment. There was a loud noise; something had overturned, followed by a muffled squeal. He walked around to the rear of the shack to investigate. There was an addition or hut of some kind attached to the back end. He could see movement in the spaces between the dried sunflower stalks that formed the walls. A struggle was taking place. Suddenly, the dried stalks burst outward, and amid a cloud of fibered motes that gleamed in the sunlight, a girl bounded out. The strings of a dingy apron were untied, and her sleeveless blue dress had been torn at the bust. Her kerchief had either fallen or was pulled to the back of her head, revealing lank, sandy-colored hair. She nearly ran into Angst but was able to stop, eyes wide with terror, and, without missing a beat, sprang out his way with the agility of a fawn and ran for all she was worth. Detwiler ploughed through the remains of the wall with one hand clutching at his unfastened trousers and the other extended uselessly as he tried to grope for the girl as he ran. Angst took his carbine, bent down, and extended the weapon neatly between Detwiler’s ankles. He went down solid and hard, the air forced out of his lungs from the impact of the fall. Angst picked up his rifle and watched as the machine gunner tried to rise to his knees, spluttering, and coughed up dust and saliva. “I’m going to kill you,” Detwiler managed to say between gasps.

Angst knew he was serious. “She’s only a kid, for Christ’s sake.”

Ganz called out from the window. “Detwiler’s got a bigger appetite than most. Best to let him do as he pleases.” She was no more than fifteen, Angst guessed. He watched as Richter caught the girl in midflight and, with Wilms’s help, held onto her as she squirmed and kicked. Fed up with the struggle, Wilms cuffed her savagely on the back of the head. Stunned, she immediately turned docile.

Detwiler drew a knife from his boot and planted himself, if a trifle unsteadily, in Angst’s path. The gunner was an impregnable wall of meat and weapons that would not allow circumvention. Angst knew he could not go against him in a fight without being mauled, or worse. He threw the bolt of the carbine with a distinctive click and pressed the muzzle firmly to Detwiler’s gut. Angst had nothing to prove, but he understood that if he dropped the panzergrenadier in this manner it would be the last thing he would ever do. His Kamerad, Ganz, and Schroeder would certainly see to that.

A voice started to scream the same foreign word, repeated over and over. “Tridsatchetverka! Tridsatchetverka!” It was the girl. While they sized each other up, warily, the meaning had finally penetrated Detwiler’s fury and Angst’s fear. Thirty-four. It was the Russian word for T-34.

“Tank! Tank!” Seidel shouted frantically.

The two grenadiers broke away to face an even greater showdown.

Seidel ran and shouted as the tank barreled toward the hamlet from the east, a heavy plume of dust trailing behind. The rattle of its tracks and the rasp of the diesel engine could be distinctly heard. Schroeder came out of the house and watched alongside Wilms, Richter, and the girl. “It’s the same one from last night,” Wilms said.

“You better pray it isn’t,” the corporal responded.

Angst would have to agree with the signalman that it was the same tank from the night before, the one that killed Sergeant Lustig and the others. Viewed in the light of day, the T-34 was like some unwholesome organic creature. Folds of camouflage netting hung down from the turret and draped over the cannon barrel. Like an animal’s mane, the netting swayed with the vehicle’s movements. Barbed wire spiraled along the track mudguards and continued in thick coils over the rear hull deck, covering the grillwork right above the engine plant. The tank traveled in a wide arc around to the north end of the hamlet and came to a complete stop once it neared the balka. Schroeder shouted out orders. Stick grenades, of which they possessed few, were to be bundled into clusters. He shouted for Braun to bring out the old man. Freitag, one of the escort grenadiers, gathered up the two boys in his arms before they had a chance to run away.

“Find some rope, somebody,” Schroeder yelled in a high-pitched voice, “and all of you take cover in the ravine. Except you, Angst.”

“What do you have in mind?”

With a twisted smile, Schroeder said, “I don’t know yet, but God help us if it doesn’t work.”

Ganz was able to find only a loose roll of twine. Thin but strong, it would have to serve the purpose. Schroeder helped to cut several lengths so the second gunner could tie the grenade bundles. Next, he proceeded to loop the remainder of the twine around the throats and wrists of the three children and Oleksander and held the end like a leash. “Shoot anyone who tries to make a run for it,” he said to Angst.

Angst shook his head. “Not me.”

“Do it, Angst, or I’ll shoot you!”

When the last of the squad ran to the safety of the ravine, the captives watched as the tank retreated a short distance to the east of the hamlet. Angst sensed the collective shudder of the group, even Schroeder. He trembled with them and prayed no one got it into his or her head to try and bolt. He really doubted if he could fire upon the kids if they tried to run. A Russian tank crew could easily be immune to any threats the peasants faced. Being Ukrainian, in territory that until recently had been under occupation, Oleksander and the children might be considered more as collaborators rather than as fellow Soviet citizens. While the minutes passed, the tank took no action as Schroeder and Angst remained poised behind their human shield. Should a decision be made to level the hamlet, the tank would not need to expend a single shell. The tonnage alone could accomplish this deed with little effort. The pathetic collection of shanties could be plowed over, along with anyone who stood in its path.