Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

Voss signed off. It was Falkenstein who deserved the praise. He felt his own contribution to be minimal. All he and the crew did was risk annihilation, at the behest of others, and they did so without a word of complaint. Fate, luck, even the grace of God had spared them, so far. The captain had taken all the risks. How did he manage to elude the Russians for so long, Voss wondered? Where could he have possibly hidden, so totally exposed? The captain must be a tactical genius with nerves of steel.

They returned to the kolkhoz only long enough to drop off Lieutenant Gottfried. Voss wanted to return to the main road, the northern route that crossed the Samara and continued on to Lozovaya, and watch out for any signs of enemy traffic. Excited over their safe return, the signals officer extended an invitation to Voss and the crew to share his billet, should the opportunity arise. “But first I must see to the captain and make sure his quarters aren’t appropriated by the others.”

The “others” Gottfried referred to were staff officers and NCOs scouting for suitable quarters of their own. Supply units had begun to trickle in with panje wagons and carts heaped with equipment and pulled by the diminutive yet tireless steppe ponies. Signalmen from an antitank battery were stringing phone lines. The 50 mm Pak38s were on the way to support this sector. There were no trucks, and the guns had to be drawn by horse teams. An officer attached to the battery tried to requisition the armored personnel carrier as a prime mover and help bring up the guns, but Voss had to deny the request. “I’m under strict orders from my Combat Group. Besides, we haven’t the fuel to burn for such work.” He was polite but firm; nonetheless, the officer threatened to inform his superiors. “By all means,” Voss replied. “You can use our radio.” Frustrated, the officer stormed off.

“We won’t get a billet of our own at the rate this bunch is moving in,” Hartmann said, dejectedly. Voss could see the expressions of disappointment in the men’s faces. At the risk of catching lice, they would all beg for a night’s sleep in a bed for a change. Not to mention a bath. His men deserved as much, but he had to maintain vigilance so their morale did not falter. He tapped the narrow roof over the driver’s compartment. “Gentlemen! This is our home. The open steppe, freedom to move, and left to our own resources. We wouldn’t have it any other way.”

They returned to the main road and patrolled a twenty-kilometer stretch of the Samara. By midafternoon, two T-34s, a halftrack, and a number of motorcycles were observed on the west bank of the river. The small unit might be the reconnaissance arm of a larger force, but Voss did not believe this was the case. What were the Soviets doing eight kilometers upriver from the bridge crossing? A large detachment would storm across the bridge—quite easily, in fact, because he knew sufficient artillery or panzers were not in the area to counter such a move. This unit was cut off, Voss knew, and was seeking a suitable place to make a crossing; and geographically, the only logical place was two point five kilometers north of the kolkhoz, the very spot where he and the crew had crossed when they had made their initial approach the evening before. Voss established radio contact with the artillery observers in the area and alerted them to the threat as he watched the motorized unit pull back and out of sight. Later, he received word that his assessment was correct. When the mechanized probe ventured too close, the few Pak38s dug in and, well-camouflaged near the village, had opened fire. Their noses bloodied, the Russians retreated. The real action occurred further to the south, as distant rumblings from tank and artillery fire continued without interruption throughout the evening. The airwaves were flooded with messages, orders, situation reports, and countermanded orders. The Soviet armored corps were receiving a much harder blow than anticipated as they attempted to return to South-West Front. Judging by what was monitored on the radio aboard the Hanomag, the situation was tense, but the antitank batteries and self-propelled guns of First Panzer Army maintained the upper hand. Now that the sector Voss operated in had quieted down, full attention was paid to the threat from the east.

At twenty-four hundred hours, a radio transmission from Blue Flower was received. Dragonfly was ordered to stand down until further notice, barring any emergency. The men were pleased, and Voss decided to take Lieutenant Gottfried up on his offer. Despite the late hour, the village was active. Practically every house and barn had been turned into a temporary headquarters or billet for one unit or other. Hartmann parked the Hanomag adjacent to the Ford at the rear of the house. Gottfried, shirttails hanging loosely outside his trousers, greeted them at the door. “Josef, Andrei, and I have been assisting the signal company in establishing communications throughout the village. They’re still busy stringing line. Indefatigable, those Hiwis, not unlike the Red Army.” Gottfried went on to inform them that the Twenty-Third Panzers, in concert with the Ninth Panzer division, had finally sealed the breach. “There are still a few kinks in the new defensive line, but for all intents and purposes, that yawning thirty-kilometer hole has been sewn.” Before the lieutenant would show where Voss and the crew could wash up, he wanted them to join him in a toast to celebrate the achievement. Although Voss considered the situation for the two armies precarious and any celebration premature, he kept this sentiment to himself. Everyone was in a good mood. There was breathing space for a day or two; what did it matter? They might as well enjoy it while they could. More importantly, he did not want to utter any demoralizing remarks to his host or the men. Gottfried brought out the half-bottle of kirshwasser and poured a glass for all. He raised his glass and proposed a toast to the strategic genius of Field Marshal von Manstein and the generals in the field who, yet again, averted disaster despite overwhelming odds; also to the health and safety of Captain Falkenstein; and, not least of all, to Voss and his brave crew.

“Prosit!” they said in unison and tossed down the sweet and fiery liquor. All except one—Junger. “Excuse me, Lieutenant, but you forgot to toast the Fuehrer.”

Gottfried looked at the young panzergrenadier quizzically. “Did I?”

“I think the lieutenant planned to toast the Fuehrer on the next round,” Voss said, in an attempt to smooth over Gottfried’s lapse. “Drink up, Junger, or you will miss out.”

Voss believed he recovered the awkward moment adequately. Through innuendo, he become aware that some at Army Group headquarters and a number of divisional commanders were not terribly keen about the Fuehrer, since he had taken direct control of the war in the east. Every move, strategy, and decision could not be made independently in the field but had to be cleared through General Staff Headquarters first. Von Manstein and his generals would have to argue every point of their reasoning and the need to act quickly and decisively to the vacillating c-in-c. Hitler’s meddlesome behavior was costing too many lives due to his refusal to yield a meter of ground. To be hamstrung by these inadequacies offended these experienced and seasoned officers. Junger was still fresh with the creed of the Hitler Youth that had been forged into his soul. In time, the young grenadier would realize for himself that he was fighting for his own survival and that of his Kameraden, and that the Fuehrer’s headquarters was far removed from the day-to-day savagery he was made to participate in. At least, Voss hoped the youth would come to make this realization. So, indulging him, they offered a toast to the Fuehrer and the Reich on the second round. After they drank, Gottfried made apologies for Captain Falkenstein, as he could not join them. “He would like to thank you personally, Lieutenant Voss, only the captain is done in. He’s been awake for days.”