Peter Idone: Red Vengeance

The battalion command bunker lay six hundred meters to the rear, and the only access was a wide but shallow communication lane that snaked through mine fields and nests of barbed wire. Angst scurried along, bent at the waist, so as not to be exposed. The lane had become a temporary repository for the dead. Corpses lay on either side, pushed apart so as not to obstruct foot traffic. The German dead were covered with shelter halves or blankets—Angst had counted thirty so far—whereas the Russian dead were stacked like cordwood to economize on space. The numbers were an indication to Angst as to how many of the enemy had penetrated the company strong points. There had been some costly “housecleaning” all through the day and night before. Teams of stretcher-bearers collected the German dead on stained canvas stretchers to make yet another long trek to the rear area for transport to the burial site. The grim chore fell to the Hilfswillige —helpers, Red Army deserters who had thrown in with the Wehrmacht rather than be sent off to a prison camp or forced labor gang. The Hilfswillige, or “Hiwis,” as they were called, worked as cooks, drivers, ammunition carriers, medical orderlies, and, in this instance, casualty removal personnel. With the ever-increasing deficit of manpower, most of the personnel in the service and supply companies had been combed out and sent as replacements to the front line for combat duty. Now the Hiwis were entrusted with these tasks. They carried out their duties reliably and, when treated fairly and decently, exhibited a high degree of loyalty to the German officers and enlisted men. Although it was rare, some Hiwi units served in a combat roll; their contempt and hatred toward the Soviets was especially acute.

Angst had entered a section of the access lane so broken up by shell craters that the route was impossible to follow. The Hiwis seemed to know where they were going, so he fell in line with the grim procession of stretcher bearers as they trudged through the gouged earth. Eventually, they followed a detour through the artillery area, which was situated a little in front and to the right of the battalion command strong point. Most of the heavy-caliber mortars and several 50 mm Pak38 antitank artillery had been put out of action by subsequent enemy bombardments. The ruined gun emplacements still smoldered. There were not enough mortars left to lend support to a single company, let alone fulfill the requirements of an entire battalion. An artillery spotter had set up an observation post for himself in the communication trench, which had narrowed considerably. He hefted an enormous pair of binoculars to his eyes. The trench was crowded with a squad of heavily armed panzergrenadiers straining under the weight of weapons and assault packs. Faces grimed with soot and streaked with sweat, uniforms coated with dust, they breathed heavily from overexertion, and their bodies exuded a rough odor. Some had lain down on the trench floor to cool off in a narrow band of shade, but the sun had reached a point in the sky where it had become impossible to escape.

The artillery spotter, a slight man in his late thirties, conversed with the several grenadiers immediately around him in an easy manner. He was without a field tunic, and the underarms of his faded gray-green shirt were stained white from body salt. Frayed suspenders held up an oversized pair of regulation trousers.

“The battery has a full complement of projectors,” the spotter was saying, “but only enough rockets for one complete salvo. Then we’re out of ammunition.”

The spotter was from the Nebelwerfer battery, Angst thought, the one Kessler had mentioned.

“I suppose you’ll give it to the Bolsheviks all at once and in a hurry,” one of the grenadiers commented.

The spotter agreed. “All the projector teams, loaders, and magneto operators will be joining you fellows in the trenches after we shoot our bolt. Until the battery is resupplied, anyway, and that isn’t likely any time soon.”

“You’re not attached to the assault gun escort by any chance, are you?” Angst interrupted. He was set upon by a number of quizzical looks.

“Who wants to know?”

“My CO sent me over to find the officer in charge and bring him up to company headquarters.”

“That would be me,” said a corporal, who elbowed his way past the artillery spotter. This must be the “snot-nosed corporal” the captain spoke of , Angst thought.

“Where’s the rest of your platoon?” Angst asked him.

The corporal frowned. “We started out with a second lieutenant and thirty men. Keeping that left flank from crumbling cost us dearly. The rest are over at battalion. There are fourteen of us left. Your CO will have to deal with me.”

“We lost our lieutenant, too,” Angst said. “My platoon sergeant has assumed command.”

“What can I tell you? It’s been a bad day for officers.”

“For everybody,” Angst muttered, and then introduced himself. “I’m Angst, from first platoon,” as he extended a hand.

The corporal shook hands and surrendered his name, it seemed, almost reluctantly: Schroeder. He was a couple of years younger than Angst, around twenty-one or twenty-two, and judging by the medals that adorned his tunic, the young corporal had accomplished much. He had been decorated with the Iron Cross First Class and the close combat medal. Sewn on the tunic sleeve were two cloth badges, both of the silhouette of a tank against a silver background. The badge was awarded for having destroyed an enemy tank single-handedly. The corporal had performed this action twice.

“What kind of strength are you up against?” Schroeder asked.

“A battery or more. There wasn’t an exact count when I left. Sergeant Lustig can fill you in.”

“I’ll do well to see for myself,” Schroeder said, scowling. He called out several names. “Wilms, Detwiler, Ganz. You’re coming with me.”

A signalman and a machine gun crew stood up and collected some of the gear they had shed. Wilms, the signalman, slipped his arms through the shoulder straps of the transceiver. The easily transportable set had a range of four kilometers and maintained direct two-way communication with the self-propelled assault gun. The base of the meter-long aerial tilted at a forty-degree angle. Wilms had to be careful so he didn’t poke anyone in the eye. The machine gunner, Detwiler, draped two fifty-round belts of ammunition around his neck and hoisted the MG42. With powerfully built arms and shoulders, he seemed to tote the weapon effortlessly. The second gunner, Ganz, was older and slighter in stature but was the pack animal of the duo. He was made to carry an ammunition box in each hand and a sling containing extra barrels for the machine gun, once it became warped from overheating.

“If I’m not back in time,” Schroeder said to the grenadiers who stayed behind, “return to the battalion command post and take your places with the others. You know what to do.”

Angst started to lead the way back to the company strong point with Schroeder following close behind. A grating screech rumbled overhead as a 120 mm mortar shell fell out of the sky. Everyone ducked down and tensed for the loud crash that followed. “We’ve been getting the shit knocked out of us,” Angst remarked after the explosion. “It is a relief to know an assault gun is on the way.” Schroeder did not comment; he merely regarded Angst with a pinched, mean face.

Lustig was in the forward observation dugout beyond the bunker compound. He greeted the escort grenadier corporal but came immediately to the point. “There are eleven T-34s and two KV1s,” he informed Schroeder, and passed along the map that detailed the entire battalion sector. More importantly, the map included the course of the balka that lay before the main line of resistance, the former out-post position. Penciled circles indicated actual and possible points of entry into the balka from the eastern side. Exit points were marked with an X. One exit lay directly before the second company sector.