Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

“Easy,” Voss consoled. “The doctors will fix you up in record time, and then you will be on a hospital train back to Germany. Just think, you’ll be home.”

“Home,” murmured the semiconscious grenadier.

Voss could feel the life ebbing from the youth and knew he wouldn’t last the trip. All I’m doing is leaving the boy with small hope , he thought, ultimately unfulfilled, and clouded by pain, disorientation, and blood. The blood! My God it’s everywhere. Oozing from a multitude of wounds, soaking through bandages and clothing, running down the siding, the stowage lockers, and the bench cushions, the blood collected into pools on the deck and began to coagulate. I am no more than a purveyor, ferrying livestock to the slaughter, only to return with offal for the refuse dump. The rough analogy was how Voss had come to define himself over the past number of weeks for his complicity in the agonies of his men.

The dressing station had been erected five kilometers behind the battle line. Surgeons performed emergency operations, amputations, and transfusions under several large billowing blue tents. Stretchers were lined up outside the tents and some of the wounded lay right on the ground without so much as a blanket or shelter half. Medical orderlies, accompanied by Russian nurses, dashed from one serious case to the next as they sorted and tagged the order of seriousness and who required immediate attention. Extra hands from an ambulance crew aided Voss and Reinhardt as they offloaded the armored personnel carrier. Two had died along the way—the fellow who lay on the engine compartment and the young grenadier whom Voss had tried to comfort. There was no time to see that their Kameraden were squared away. Hartmann had the vehicle rolling as Voss and the sergeant leapt aboard. Ambulances, troop lorries, even panje wagons now converged from all directions with more casualties. The dressing station had become swamped in a matter of seconds.

After traveling another four kilometers to the northwest, the Combat Group mobile headquarters was sighted. The Hanomag was waved through the security cordon of grenadiers after a brief exchange with an NCO. A number of command armored vehicles were parked, spaced well apart, as were dispatch motorcycles and riders ready to take off at a moment’s notice. Two multi-barreled flak guns were positioned outside the perimeter of the laager for antiaircraft defense. Hartmann stopped the vehicle. The crew compartment smelled like an abattoir. A mange of flies had settled on the gore-smeared interior and was having a feast. As a junior staff officer trotted past, engaged with some errand, Voss hailed for directions to the colonel’s vehicle. The staff officer pointed to an eight-wheeled armored radio car parked some thirty meters away. As Voss was leaving, he told the last of his crew to clean up the interior of the carrier. Voss hadn’t thought about why he had been summoned until he walked toward the colonel’s vehicle. Hahn was the Combat Group senior field intelligence officer, and it was the reconnaissance battalion commander, Griem, who usually dealt with the colonel.

The eight-wheeler was partially dug into the ground to lower its profile. A canopy of camouflage netting was draped over the aerial frame and created an umbrella of shade. Underneath, the colonel sat on a folding camp chair and concentrated on a map that was spread out on the engine hood of the vehicle’s rear. Voss announced himself and saluted, smartly but without fanfare. The lean gray officer returned the courtesy and indicated the vehicle. “Remove that tool bag and have a seat, Lieutenant. Not the best accommodations, I’m afraid.”

Voss removed the bag and seated himself on the wide fender and propped his feet on the loose soil that was piled along the side of the large, deep-treaded tires.

“Captain Beck will be joining us momentarily. You know the captain, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Voss replied. “We served together in the same reconnaissance battalion.”

“It was he who recommended you to me.” Hahn did not take his eyes from the map. “Operations are moving along better than anyone could have hoped, considering the disadvantages. Your battalion has had a particularly difficult time of it. I’m sure you will appreciate knowing that your efforts are having some effect.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The whole of Thirtieth Corps broke free of the encirclement at Konstantinovka. Granted, the infantry divisions are woefully spent. We’re not much to lean on but at least we’re still moving. Twenty-Third Panzer Division is making headway. With any luck they’ll link with the panzer units pushing up from the south within the next twenty-four hours. The gap should be solidified by then.”

“That is good news, sir.”

“On the darker side, Krasnoarmeyskoye has been overrun. Stalino has fallen, and there is every indication that Mariupol has suffered the same fate.”

This outcome was expected, so Voss did not exhibit surprise. The Combat Group had bought very little time. It was just a delaying action so two battered armies could form a continuous line. But for how long, Voss wondered, before the Russians wielded the final annihilating blow?

“Can I offer you some coffee, Lieutenant? Ersatz, of course, and tepid.” Hahn reached down for a small kit bag next to the camp chair and brought out a thermos, unscrewed the cap, poured a little into a tin mess cup, and handed it to Voss.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Smoke if you wish,” Hahn added, as he nudged a cigarette case closer to Voss after he helped himself. The coffee was very sweet, though not strong; and Voss drew on the cigarette deeply, if a little nervously. Above, a hatch cover squeaked open, and Captain Beck climbed down. He possessed an air of urgency but was all smiles as he bobbed under the netting. “Lieutenant Voss, good to see you.”

Voss stood up, saluted, and shook Beck’s hand when he offered it.

“Please stay seated,” Beck said, affably enough, although Voss could tell the captain was somewhat appalled at his appearance. His field tunic was blood-spattered and his hands and face grimy with soot. Beck placed a folder down on the vehicle, opened it, and unfolded another map. “We haven’t much time, so I’ll come straight to the point. With your permission, Colonel?”

Hahn nodded his assent.

“Until early this morning, we were receiving detailed reports of enemy movements to the west from a listening post stationed at a kolkhoz some fifty-five kilometers northeast of Pavlograd. All the information the listening post obtained and forwarded to us originated from a special reconnaissance unit that goes by the call sign ‘Sundial.’ Since the Soviet Twenty-Third Tank Corps linked up with the First Guards Mechanized Corps, Sundial has followed in the armored column’s shadow. I don’t know how Sundial has managed to do it, but fortunately for us—First Panzer Army, I mean—we’ve had some idea where the Russian advance is and what it has been up to. The enemy has wreaked havoc on our lines of communication all throughout the rear. Telephone and telegraph lines have been cut, and there is a fair amount of radio jamming. Except for Sundial, via the listening post, overall intelligence has been sketchy at best. We have learned that advance detachments of Soviet armor have reached the outskirts of Pavlograd, and a reinforced reconnaissance unit is in the vicinity of Sinelnikovo.”

Sinelnikovo was close to the Dniepr River, Voss realized, a distance of only twenty-five kilometers.

“And all this courtesy of Sundial,” the colonel reiterated.

“Yes, quite remarkable. The listening post no longer responds to our calls, though, and I fear it has been overrun by the enemy operating in the area. We don’t know if Sundial is out of the picture, yet. The signal equipment aboard a Two-Twenty-Two scout car isn’t powerful enough to reach us here, as you well know.”