Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

“Fata Morgana,” Wilms interjected.

“How do you know it’s the same tank?”

“No T-34 in the entire Soviet arsenal looks that miserable and mean. Besides, it has all the telltale signs. That inscription on the turret, for one.” Schroeder remarked.

“I saw something but couldn’t make it out. The lettering was too worn.” Angst said.

Schroeder nodded. “Worn from battle and taking hits that have no effect.”

“Do you know what’s written on the turret? What it’s supposed to mean?”

Schroeder made a face and shrugged. “Nobody knows for sure, Angst. Some poor devil got close enough to read it, but it was the last thing he ever did on this earth. ‘Krasny.’ And another word that can’t be made out.”

“Krasny is the word for red in Russian,” Angst said, more for his own edification than for the two escort grenadiers.

Schroeder nodded. “Red something. But what? Red Barricade? Red Factory? Red Star? The Bolsheviks name one goddamn thing after the other red. It helps to reinforce their shoddy principles, I should think. Some general coined the term ‘Red Vengeance,’ but I can’t remember who.”

“I think it was ‘Panzer’ Schulze. Or Hoth,” Wilms said.

“Could have been,” Schroeder said, unwilling to commit to either name. “The name is in Cyrillic, so one guess is as good as another. Besides, Red Vengeance is what it’s come to be known as.”

Angst did not know what to make of the story, or even if the escort grenadiers were having one over on him, although he doubted it. They were both very much afraid, and sensing this caused Angst to grow fearful along with them. It wasn’t enough that a Russian T-34 had them all in the crosshairs. No, it had to be something especially diabolical, to hear these two tell it. “I thought you said Red Vengeance disappears. It’s taking a long time to pull off that trick, don’t you think?”

Schroeder smiled crookedly. “It’s not finished with us yet.”

The sun was beginning to sink low on the western horizon when the powerful diesel engine of the T-34 started to rev. The sound electrified everyone inside the cramped, stifling hut. The grenadiers watched from the windows as the tank traversed on one track, stopped, and then started to move. They continued to look in anticipation as it drove in a northerly direction until it became obscured by dust and the clusters of shacks that comprised the pathetic little hamlet. Schroeder ordered Wilms to go out and keep it under observation. The signalman took the binoculars, hesitated for a moment, and ran out the door.

“This is our cue to make a clean break,” Schroeder said to Angst, “at least make it to the ravine.”

They would have to play this showdown out one moment at a time, Angst knew. He was then ordered to cut the blanket into strips and tie the ends together. The sound of tearing fabric was harsh on all their nerves. Angst was to tether the boys and Daryna utilizing the blanket strips and the lengths of twine that remained. They were to be gagged as well. This would make it easier for the squad to keep the children together and more difficult for them to run away as a group. Schroeder seemed pleased with himself for having come upon this idea. He then looked over to the bed and snarled. Oleksander had taken over its use as soon as it became free. Now, in spite of the panzergrenadier’s threats and Daryna’s gagged pleas, he would not be coaxed from its comfort. The old peasant had probably slept in that bed for over fifty years, Angst guessed, and it was to become his bier. There were no distances left in the old man to travel ever again. He was home, utterly, desolately alone, and here he would stay. The washed-out blue eyes appeared luminous in the failing light and stared with all the defiance left in them. Schroeder seemed to relent. “To hell with him. He’d only slow us down anyway.”

Wilms had returned and called through the opened doorway. “It’s still heading north and hasn’t stopped.”

“How close to the ravine?” Schroeder asked.

“Still maintaining the same course. About five hundred meters out.”

“But not for long. I can guarantee it. Did any of you have the presence of mind to scout out the ravine?”

“Lang and Schmidt took a stroll in opposite directions. Schmidt reported back after, you know, after the tank shot up the huts. He figures the run of the balka is four, maybe five kilometers, as it bends in a north westerly direction.”

“How deep?”

Wilms put his hand high over his head. “Even deeper in some places. And it’s wide. It’ll give us all the edge we need before having to cross out in the open. The T-34 would never be able to span the width, and it’ll have to detour well out of our way in order to get around.”

“Whatever you do, don’t underestimate that machine,” Schroeder warned. He then examined Angst’s handiwork to make certain the knots in the tether would hold. He was satisfied. “The sun is going to set fast over the next hour. Let’s get moving before that spotlight is activated. I’ll cover you.”

Graceless and noisy, the children were led out of the shack, with Angst taking up the rear and Wilms leading. They worked their way toward the ravine using the shacks and animal pens for concealment. Wilms pushed down on the kids’ heads to make sure they kept low. The descent into the ravine was steep. Angst used all his strength to keep from sliding and had to help keep the children upright so they didn’t tumble and hurt themselves. Several grenadiers waited below and helped as Angst neared the bottom. Among them were Schmidt and Braun. Quietly, all three patted each other on the back. Until that moment, Angst hadn’t realized just how close he had become with his squad mates and how he could not bear the thought of losing either one of them. Perhaps spending the day in a confined space with the likes of Schroeder made him appreciate them both all the more. “I was afraid one of you bought it when that tank popped those rounds.”

“This show hasn’t even begun yet,” Braun whispered. They all agreed.

“Minnesinger’s dead,” Schmidt said.

“I heard. He was such a competent soldier. What was he thinking”?

“He had to get out of the sun. He was turning purple. Either way, I don’t think he would have made it through the day.”

“He was too fair-skinned,” Schmidt said.

“This Russian sun always made him nuts,” Braun chimed in.

“Minnesinger would have made an effort to see us all through. It’s in Schroeder’s hands now” Angst said, with regret.

“If there’s any chance of making it back to battalion,” Braun said, “it will be because of guys like Schroeder. I’ve seen his type before. I can guarantee it won’t be pleasant, but he’ll see that it’s done.”

Detwiler had sought out Daryna, bound and cowering beside the two boys. He was sniffing her, in anticipation, as though she were chow, hot and ready to be served out of a goulash cannon. Angst deliberately placed himself between the machine gunner and the girl. Daryna’s eyes gaped wildly, the whites showed painfully clear in the dark. The look of stark terror was made even worse by the gag that filled her mouth.

“No. Not now. Not ever,” Angst said, and made clear to Detwiler where he trained the submachine gun. Detwiler backed off but continued his lewd antics.

“Someday those two are going to tangle,” Braun said quietly to Schmidt, “and one of them won’t be getting up off the ground.”

Schroeder had finally arrived at the bottom of the ravine and was threatening to cut out a few tongues if silence was not maintained. Angst immediately sensed something was wrong. He could detect it in the panzergrenadier corporal’s demeanor—a peculiar vacancy in his eyes, which gave a clear indication of what Angst held to be true. Oleksander was dead. Without making too much of a fuss, Schroeder had killed the old man, quickly and efficiently. There was no reason for it. The old peasant certainly wasn’t a threat; what could he possibly tell the crew in the tank, if they even bothered to ask? No, Angst thought, there simply wasn’t a reason, and for Schroeder there didn’t have to be. Braun said it was guys like Schroeder who’d see them through. Angst would concede the corporal was a good soldier, but that quality came at a very high price, not only for the Russians but also for his own Kameraden. He’d been transformed into the embodiment of brutality. He was fearless, motivated, and sure of his judgments. He did not have to be right, necessarily, but once he got started he’d see it through. Everyone takes the brakes off when in combat for too long. One kills for survival, mostly, and revenge—and ultimately for enjoyment. No matter how terrible the war had become, combat, for its own sake, was a lyrical action, something venerated almost. Schroeder had reached that place now and, Angst sensed, had progressed even further. Killing had become ingrained in every fiber of his being. He possessed the capacity long before the war had started; he had simply found the means for this expression to flourish.