Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

Reinhardt gave the lieutenant a sideways glance, who was smiling. “Something good must have happened for you to wear such a face.”

Voss read the message aloud and added, “Whatever Malinovskiy’s objective is, his tank corps will have to operate solely on what’s in their possession.”

“That’ll dull their edge.”

It most certainly will , Voss thought, lightheaded with relief. He could now disassociate himself from the foul, bleak mood that had descended upon him since the briefing with Beck and Hahn. This small bit of information helped to dissipate those feelings of loathing and jealousy—and, more importantly, impending doom. They were far from being free and clear of danger, but he and the crew were granted more of a lease on life, or at least the potential. And in this wretched business, Voss had so bitterly come to learn, potential was all a man could possibly hope for.

Afaint gauze of smoke hovered directly over the kolkhoz. Three kilometers away, the Hanomag was parked in a field that had since been harvested of sunflowers. The stalks lay in piles, which served as adequate cover for the vehicle, but many of the crisp brown, headless plants were still rooted in the ground. Voss stood on the engine cover and observed with high-powered binoculars. No obvious damage to the houses or farm buildings could be discerned, but there was a definite aura. He had sensed this before on occasion, a residue of violence and death lingering about a place that was felt before actually seen. If there were any enemy troops, a defensive cordon had not been established. There were no signs of vehicles, mortars, or machine gun emplacements—unless the Russians were dug in so deep and hidden within the confines of the village, but Voss had his doubts. Why should they bother now, after acting with impunity far behind the lines over the past several days with no German force available to counterattack? They know how weak we are , Voss thought. What he did see were civilians, peasants, individually and in small groups, walking aimlessly about the outskirts of the village. What are they looking for? he asked himself, and then realized they were drifting back. Chased away when the Russians descended, they now believed it safe to return. Voss had originally planned to infiltrate the village well into the night, but now, with an hour of light remaining, he wanted to utilize the time. The trip had gone surprisingly well. Except for the dust kicked up by intermittent enemy vehicles seen on the horizon, there were no incidents. He stepped across the hood and climbed into the crew compartment next to Reinhardt, who now manned the bow machine gun. Reinhardt had switched places with Hartmann earlier, once the last few kilometers to the kolkhoz had been reached. Engaging the release mechanism of the coaxial gun mounting, Reinhardt easily swung the MG42 from left to right.

Voss was so fatigued he had to wrestle with behaving recklessly. He wanted to get on with whatever fate had in store, sooner rather than later, but he stifled the urge and decided to play the situation strictly by the book. He consulted the map. Two kilometers to the northwest there was a negotiable crossing. Once on the opposite bank of the Samara, they could make their approach, using an orchard for cover. Beck’s map was surprisingly detailed. Combat Group intelligence was well informed about this particular kolkhoz.

Hartmann drove slowly down the footpath that cut across the field and gravitated closer to the riverbank. The Samara was narrow, about fifteen meters in width, but the escarpment on either side was a bit severe. Eventually the terrain dipped radically, then flattened out. The ground was muddy and churned up at this point, where a number of vehicles had crossed recently. Voss didn’t see any evidence of tank track impressions, only treaded tires. The water was shallow and covered the road wheels of the personnel carrier only by half. On the opposite side, Hartmann drove straight for the orchard, a gray-green haze in the dusky light that lay a quarter of a kilometer away. He then turned down one of the lanes separating the fruit trees: apples, the small, mealy, yellow variety, many of which had simply fallen to the ground. A sign was tacked to one of the trees indicating the direction to the beehives. Voss and the crew were sure to keep well away. The orchard wasn’t large, although it covered several hectares; it ran parallel to a part of the village on the opposite bank. Aside from the dividend of honey, the orchard provided fodder for the livestock in the area—pigs, most likely, Voss assumed. They had traveled deep into the orchard when Voss told Hartmann to stop and turn off the motor. The symmetrical layout of the trees and the oncoming darkness would obscure the vehicle from unfriendly eyes. Everyone kept still and listened; all was quiet, except for the chirping of birds. Ordinarily, if he had a full crew, Voss would send in a two-man reconnaissance party. Since there were only four of them, he could only send in one, and he took it upon himself to perform the task.

“I’ll take the portable and scout around. Should I meet any resistance and be unable to return, take whatever measure necessary to ensure your own safety. I’ll put it in writing that you acted solely on my orders.”

Junger stepped away from the aft machine gun. “Excuse me, Lieutenant, but I’ve done this sort of thing before. That’s why Captain Beck had me come along.”

Voss had the portable transceiver already in hand. “Your skills will be better served—”

Reinhardt interrupted. “Junger’s right. We might as well make use of him.”

Voss wavered. The signalman was still fresh and far more alert than all of them. He relinquished the transceiver as Reinhardt took hold and helped Junger slip his arms through the shoulder straps and shift the weight comfortably on his back. Junger replaced his helmet with a forage cap and adjusted the earphones on his head. As for a weapon, all he carried was a Walther P-38. The light was ebbing quickly.

“Report in at one quarter hour from now,” Voss instructed him.

Junger looked at his watch. “I might need more time, lieutenant, depending on what’s going on and finding a suitable location to radio from.”

“Very well, but no more than half an hour at the most. Are we clear on that point, Junger?”

The youth agreed and climbed over the siding to avoid the creaking hinges of the crew compartment doors. Junger flitted swiftly between the trees with the microphone, trailing a short length of wire to the transceiver in one hand and the pistol in the other. Voss watched, his stomach tightening into knots, as the lone scout became engulfed by the deepening twilight.

Forty-five minutes had passed, and the level of anxiety inside the Hanomag was high, yet everyone aboard remained disciplined. Ears strained at any sound that might indicate trouble. One minute longer was all the time Voss would allow before he’d gear up and go in to see what happened to Junger. The radio crackled, and he lunged upon it.

“Striker One calling Striker, come in, over.” Junger’s voice was quiet but his diction was clear.

“Striker here. What is your situation, Striker One?”

“Sorry for the wait. After snooping around, a group of children began following me, and then some women were jabbering away. Had a devil of a time cutting loose.”

“Any unwelcome visitors, Striker One?”

“Negative. They had all gone by oh-sixteen-hundred hours, but signs of occupancy are everywhere. A number of houses are shot up. One house or barn is burnt to the ground. Used as a fuel dump, it seems. Several destroyed vehicles. Trucks mostly No armor.”

“Casualties?”