Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

Gottfried rummaged about the downstairs rooms and had turned up a shirt and pair of trousers. Taking the clothing, a metal basin, and a bar of soap from the kitchen, he went outside to a water trough in the back yard. He stripped down and lathered up. Voss remained in the house, so the man could retain some dignity. Why the lieutenant preferred this rudimentary method of hygiene rather than use the indoor bath just off the kitchen, Voss could only wonder. He could only assume it had something to do with the residual effects of shock.

When the signal officer returned, he looked and smelled much better, although he had put on the same soiled field tunic. “I need a comb,” he said, and began another search.

“I was informed by my superiors that the captain belonged to a special intelligence unit. Originally he was in the same division as I, the Greyhounds. Were you aware of that?”

Gottfried did not reply. Unable to find a comb or brush, he passed his fingers through his hair and tried to judge where the part should be placed.

“Wasn’t the captain operating rather far behind the combat zone?” Voss continued.

“The events of the past few days forced the captain to remain this far to the rear. This was the base of operations for the captain and his unit, of which my men and I were a part,” Gottfried replied.

“Then I’m mistaken. I thought you were a separate entity, directly under the orders of Army Group signal intelligence branch. So the listening station is a facet of the captain’s unit?”

“We aided the captain by monitoring radio transmissions, both Russian and our own, listening for specific terminologies.”

“Sounds rather vague.”

Gottfried, who remained kneeling, had begun to sort through the papers that lay on the floor. Voss wondered if the officer was about to start cleaning up the house in earnest. “Captain Falkenstein is engaged in a very sensitive mission. His zone of operation encompasses the entire southern front and beyond if necessary,” Gottfried finally said.

“What is the captain’s mission?”

“I don’t like to speak of it, especially now since it is dark.”

The odd remark took Voss by complete surprise. The day’s events must have affected Gottfried’s faculties more than Voss could appreciate. The signal officer was a technician, not a frontline soldier. The ruthlessness of the skirmish and the strong possibility of getting crushed by the full weight of an armored corps had rendered the man unable to cope. Nevertheless, Voss pressed him. “What has the dark have to do with matters? If the mission is classified…”

Gottfried started to throw papers and clothing around the room. This was not rage he exhibited but rather acute frustration or anxiety. “To speak of the matter is unsafe, that’s all! Now please, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll not say anything further. We’ll return to the vehicle, and one of the men will fix you some coffee.”

This seemed to put Gottfried back at ease. He placed a forage cap on his damp head and was ready to leave. Once they were outside, there was one more item the lieutenant needed to do. “I must bury my staff. I can’t leave those poor fellows lying about in the open.”

“We should wait, Lieutenant. Our situation is far from secure.”

Gottfried would not be placated and immediately set off down the road to a brightly lit farmhouse surrounded with activity. Old women and men milled about the bodies of the dead that lay in neat rows in the front yard. Some were covered and others not. This had become the staging area for the purpose of identification and the focal point for the villagers’ grief. The sobbing was loud and uninhibited. As Voss and Gottfried drew near, they were greeted with stares of hostility and fear.

“Have you seen my men? The German soldiers, are they here?”

The dead were comprised of civilians, Voss could see, and both he and the lieutenant did not belong and were unwelcome. Gottfried’s ignorant questions were looked upon with silent contempt. One of the men stepped from the crowd and spoke directly to Voss. “Raisa Grechko,” he said, and pointed to an outbuilding behind a neighboring house.

“Raisa is there?” Gottfried asked.

“Yes,” said the peasant. “Now let us look after our own.”

Gottfried stormed off in the direction of the small building, and all Voss could do was try to keep up. The weight of the radio had become irksome. “Lieutenant, I understand how you feel, but now isn’t the time.”

Gottfried wasn’t listening. “Raisa Grechko is the local midwife,” he explained hurriedly on the way over, “not well-liked or trusted, because she’s half-Russian, but she’s presided over many difficult births over the years, and the peasants have need of her. Raisa has been in our employ as a cook and laundress.”

On the ground before the open barn door, a small lantern burned dimly. Gottfried did not venture inside but called softly. “Raisa, it’s me, Lieutenant Gottfried.”

A figure seemed to waft out from the darkened opening. Wearing a large white kerchief about her head and a long, light-colored apron, a woman appeared with a spectral flourish. “So, Gottfried, you’re alive. I was beginning to wonder what became of you.” There was the barest trace of humor in her voice.

“Raisa, you must help me find my men…”

“They’re in the barn. Rudi, Helmut and Kurt. I had some of the boys help me cart them over.” As Raisa Grechko spoke she eyed Voss with suspicion. Her face was deeply lined, but Voss guessed the woman wasn’t older than mid-forties. Short and lean, she conveyed an attitude of strong physical determination.

“The Russians took all their documents. Identity tags and booklets.”

“The bastards,” Gottfried moaned.

“And more souvenirs.”

“What do you mean? What souvenirs?”

Voss understood what the woman meant, but Gottfried didn’t—or perhaps he refused to. To clarify matters Raisa touched her nose, ears, and eyes with her large thin hands.

“I want to see them,” Gottfried said with agitation, picking up the lantern, but before he could enter, Raisa grabbed his arm and tugged. “No, Gottfried. Looking upon them changes nothing.” Although she was strong she had difficulty holding on to the slightly built signals officer. Voss went to intervene, and Gottfried swung the lantern wildly, but it did not deter him. Voss managed to clamp down tightly and hold him in place.

“Leave me alone! I must go to them. They were my men. I must.” Gottfried’s sobs were exhausted and tearless.

“It will do you no good,” Raisa said firmly. “Remember them as they once were and not as they are now. I will bury all three, side by side, a cross for each bearing the names. That is all that can be done for them.”

Gottfried shuddered, and eventually the tension left his body. It became easier for him to be led away from the barn door. He sank to the ground; the outburst had robbed him of more emotion. He remained quite still. Voss took the lantern from his hand and set it back down on the ground.

“No matter,” Raisa said. “I know who is who. They were decent boys. Always polite.”

“Could you characterize their deaths? Did they die in battle, or were they executed?” Voss asked the question to determine whether Gottfried’s men were interrogated, shot in the back of the head like the others Junger had spoken of, and then, as a final insult, abused. If they had been questioned, successfully, then the Russians would have direct knowledge of Falkenstein.

“By the condition of the bodies, they died in the fight and then were cut.”

Voss found some relief in Raisa’s answer, albeit small. Their situation still remained tenuous at best.