Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

The corporal stopped what he was doing long enough to salute and say, “Good day, Lieutenant.” The signalman was in his early twenties and appeared confident and almost happy with excitement.

Beck handed over the map, which detailed the kolkhoz and the surroundings where Voss would be operating. “Now remember, the Russians are well south of the agricultural settlement. What you need to be wary of are the small, scattered units strung out along the way.”

Preparations were nearly complete. Voss went to place the map in a map case stowed up front by the co-driver’s seat. Beck stopped him. “Before you go, I have one thing more. I’m trying to secure some air cover for you, should the need arise—an He129 from a tank killer squadron to remain on standby for you and your men. It isn’t much, I know, but it could come to your aid within minutes of the first sign of trouble.”

Voss could not help but wonder if the offer was legitimate or if Beck was simply trying to soothe him. “Let me know when the offer is set in stone. It would benefit the men to know for certain.”

“Yes, absolutely. I’ll keep the pressure up. I’ve an old school chum on the Geschwader operations staff. If anyone can do something for us, he can.”

“Allow me a moment with my men, Captain, before we move out.”

“Certainly, Voss, and the very best of luck to you.”

They shook hands, and Beck returned to the armored radio vehicle. Reinhardt was fitting a belt of ammunition into the feed of the bow machine gun as Voss stepped up into the crew compartment. “What’s going on, Lieutenant?” With all the recent activity swirling about the vehicle, the sergeant sounded concerned. The extra radio equipment alone told him that something very different had been tailored for them.

“As my father used to say, Sergeant, men who perform hard work and do it well, and without complaint, aren’t rewarded with rest or relaxation. They are provided with more work. So it is in our case.”

Voss’s father had been an architect. He passed away back in ’36. His blood pressure got the better of him. He was a driven man, a characteristic that made him a difficult figure to live under, and Voss worked hard to keep the trait from flourishing in himself. He did not think the workers in his father’s employ appreciated the fanatical attention to detail he had exhibited. But Voss could not deny his father was a supreme craftsman. The memory caused him to smile.

Hartmann joined them and buttoned up his field tunic; Junger had taken a seat on the bench nearest the radio and waited for the briefing to begin.

“We have been ordered west into territory still occupied by the enemy. I won’t try to brighten the picture for you. The danger we face will be very great, indeed, but my intention will be to elude the Russians as best we can, for as long as possible.” Voss then sketched out the details of the mission. Their faces did not betray much, but Voss could sense what the men were thinking. They were in for the time of their lives. The only bit of information that seemed to brighten their spirits was that the advance units were expected in their vicinity at some time tomorrow.

“This is Corporal Junger. He is temporarily assigned to us as our signal specialist. Captain Beck holds the corporal in high regard.”

“We have already met, Lieutenant,” Junger said with enthusiasm.

“I hope you’ve had plenty of sleep,” Hartmann said to the youth. “It’s going to be a terribly long day.”

Junger shrugged and smiled. He did appear more alert and less unkempt than the rest of them.

“Well, then, shall we get on with it?” Voss asked.

The crew agreed. “I’ll take the wheel,” Reinhardt said to Hartmann, who welcomed the change. Temporarily relieved of duty, he sprawled out on the bench facing Junger. “Wake me up, kid, when it’s time to man the bow. And you can work the thirty-four aft,” Hartmann chimed in, referring to the machine guns mounted on the vehicle. The youth nodded and took note that Hartmann did not say “if” but rather “when” the time came. There were bound to be plenty of opportunities for trouble. Some of Junger’s enthusiasm started to dissipate.

Voss lowered himself into the co-driver’s seat. The space was a little more cramped due to the extra radio gear jutting out from behind and to the side of the seat. The vehicle’s limited range set was mounted above the gauge indicator panel directly in front of him, and on the armored siding to his right, set in a bracket, was the portable transceiver.

Reinhardt started the motor. “Falkenstein,” he said with amazement. “I can understand why headquarters would take an interest. He was a favorite son of the Sixteenth.”

The compact, muscular Westphalian had served under Voss for almost a year and a half. He and Hartmann were the only two who still remained from the original crew, since Voss had been transferred to the regiment’s reconnaissance unit.

“Please be blunt, Sergeant.”

“This could turn out to be no more than a bone-collecting mission.”

Silently, Voss agreed. And why should we risk our necks in the process? he thought, especially after all they had been subjected to—not only over the past forty-eight hours but all along. Yet, he had to consider Falkenstein’s predicament. What if he was cut off, surrounded? Wouldn’t he want to make contact with friends? In a similar situation, Voss himself wouldn’t expect deliverance, but he would at least want to know his efforts were not in vain. “Perhaps; it may not be. Let’s find out for ourselves.”

As Reinhardt started to drive out from the laagered mobile headquarters, Captain Beck could be seen waving his cap. “Good luck, Voss,” he called out, adding something about the Luftwaffe, but Voss couldn’t hear. Promises yet to be fulfilled just weren’t important to him now. Suddenly, he became envious of Beck, loathingly so. He was jealous of anyone who had a position on staff. Divisional command, especially operations and intelligence, worked very close to the fighting in the Greyhound division. Not even the Count spared himself in difficult times such as these. Just to be even one step away from the horrors he had to face on a daily basis would be a welcome relief. Why must it be me and not Beck who has to embark on this shitty trip? he thought, angry with jealousy. We are really in for it this time. Worse, possibly, than anything we’ve managed to survive so far.

The Hanomag pushed along at the top cross-country speed of between fifteen and twenty-two kilometers per hour. It was still midday, but over sixty kilometers had to be covered, and Voss wanted to reach the kolkhoz while there was still some light left. They raced against the sun. The driver’s compartment was uncomfortably warm, and Voss leaned sluggishly into the thinly cushioned seat. The map case lay open on his outstretched legs with the map Beck had provided. Falkenstein , he mused, Falkenstein . The captain was considered a legend throughout the “Greyhounds,” as the Panzergrenadier Division had become known, due to the tactical symbol of the lean racing dog that adorned the motorcycles and reconnaissance vehicles. No unit or single individual in the Wehrmacht had penetrated the furthest eastern boundary during the course of the war in Russia, except Falkenstein. Judging by the progress of the war, no one would duplicate or better that accomplishment. One year ago, in September of ’42, the division had been headquartered at Elista, that exotic frontier city of chiming bells, spinning prayer wheels, and deep, sonorous Buddhist chants on the Kalmyk Steppe. The Greyhounds’ mission was to protect the exposed flanks of the First and Fourth Panzer Armies. The stretch of the front line was in excess of three hundred kilometers. At the time, Stalingrad was well into its bloody infancy when Falkenstein set out on a long-range reconnaissance mission. With a small force of sixty men, the motorized unit traveled 150 kilometers deep inside enemy territory, to the outskirts of Astrakhan, where the Volga estuary drained into the Caspian Sea. Early into the journey, the recon force separated. The main body had come under attack, and a skirmish ensued. A junior officer had been seriously wounded and was returned to the reconnaissance battalion’s base of operations. A detail brought him back. This camaraderie was typical of the Greyhounds. Every man mattered, and despite the difficulty or danger, no effort would be spared to save or recover a life. The operation continued. With their Kalmyk guides, the detachment penetrated deeper into the flat, seemingly boundless steppe. Falkenstein personally led the final advance toward the Volga delta. The heavier vehicles could no longer negotiate the silty ground and reed-covered dunes. Armored scout cars, personnel carriers, and trucks were to be left behind as a small squadron of motorcycles was forced to make the final bound. They made their way resourcefully, pushing and grappling the motorcycles and sidecars over the dunes. Eventually, Falkenstein saw the minarets of the city. Details of the defensive bunker network could be discerned through binoculars. The construction appeared modest at best and seemed undermanned. No sizeable force threatened the army, should it decide to strike out for the coast. The men rested, took photographs, and made note of the conditions and features of the terrain. There was a final detail tacked on to the story, considered by some to be apocryphal, and its veracity had never been confirmed. It was said that Falkenstein had dressed in local garb and infiltrated the city to glean some useful intelligence. Whether true or not, this only added to the captain’s legendary status and made for an exceptionally good yarn.