Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

Voss understood. It could wait until morning. The party broke up, and Gottfried showed where the men could sleep. “Let’s not forget that we will have to take turns monitoring the radio,” Reinhardt announced. “Do I have any volunteers?” There was a groan of disapproval, but Voss elected to take the first watch, despite the sergeant’s protest. “Get some sleep, Dieter. All of you. I’ll wake you when the time comes.”

Boarding the Hanomag, Voss tidied up some of the loose odds and ends that lay on the seating and the deck and then settled down at the radio. He put on the earphones and amused himself by scanning the different frequencies. The Russians were still chattering away, and by the tone, their feathers had been ruffled. In spite of the panicky voices in his ears, he began to doze. Then he heard moans, loud and prolonged, like someone trying to extricate himself from a nightmare that wasn’t quite finished with him. But it wasn’t his nightmare or his moans. He removed the earphones and stood up. Lights flashed far beyond the perimeter of the village, to the south, followed by a rumbling echo like a distant thunderstorm. Only this storm was of a different character, where the scent of rain isn’t carried on the wind but supplanted by the smell of fear and blood. The Russians were having another go at trying to punch their way through. Then he heard it again, the short, terror-stricken screams, like some hurting animal infuriated by the pain. The sounds came from the grimy yellow cottage diagonally across the field near the riverbank. A voice, foreign and excited, barked. The door opened, and light spilled out as a form staggered into the night. Voss took the binoculars so he could better see what was going on. It was Falkenstein who limped back and forth in front of the cottage like a maimed feline. The long blanket draped around his shoulders gave the impression of a medieval monk. Another form left the house and joined him. He wore the regulation gray-green uniform but without piping or insignia. A Hiwi. The nose was sharply pronounced and set in a wide face. The individual was not tall, but he gave off an impression of strength, even power. His head was covered with hair that was a trifle too long and stuck out at odd angles at the back and sides.

“You heard it as well.” Gottfried stood beside the vehicle, right below Voss, and looked in the direction of the cottage. Voss lowered the binoculars.

“Is something wrong with the captain?” he asked.

“He is plagued by dreams. Nightmares,” Gottfried informed him.

“Aren’t we all?”

“The captain more than most.”

“And who is that Hiwi?” Voss asked.

“Khan. Not an ordinary Hiwi, but the captain’s bodyguard.”

“Bodyguard?”

“It is a role Khan has more or less invented for himself. The captain secured him through the black market some months back. You understand there are Russian prisoners who are recognized for their talents, and instead of being turned over to the authorities, a network of middlemen barter and trade with field commanders for their services. Although, if you listen to Khan, it was he who sought out the captain,” Gottfried explained.

“Rather impertinent fellow,” Voss commented.

“He is of the aboriginal tribes from the Lake Baikal region near Mongolia. A Buryat. Something along those lines. We refer to him simply as the Mongol.”

They watched as Khan continued to minister to the needs of the captain. There was a pathetic quality to the manner in which the Mongol doted over him; Voss found it a little unsavory. Arms spread apart like wings, Khan hovered and cooed like a hen giving succor to a chick. Eventually, he led Falkenstein back into the cottage.

“He hates the Bolsheviks with a passion. His devotion to the captain is absolute, and to the mission as well.”

“What is the captain’s mission, exactly?”

Gottfried kept still for a minute. Finally he said, “You asked that question once before.”

“Yes, and it was never answered to my satisfaction, so I’m asking again.”

“Captain Falkenstein pursues a terrific evil. A thing so dreadful it threatens all the armies here in the east. I don’t mean to imply the combined Soviet Fronts, Lieutenant Voss. I am speaking of a single entity. Something so terrible…horrible. Such words have no meaning in confronting the essence of something so unnatural. To speak its name aloud could summon it, here and now, and bring disaster upon us all.”

Voss would not attempt a remark or demand clarification for what he had just heard. He would not even attempt to digest the words. It was quite clear to him the signal officer’s mental condition had not improved any in the intervening hours from when they first met. The light within the cottage was extinguished. Now that the captain’s nightmare had passed, Gottfried seemed assured he could go to bed. He bid Voss goodnight and returned to the house. Left alone, Voss could only wonder about the captain and the disparate bunch he commanded. What in God’s name has the man been up to these past months? Beck knows, only he is reticent on the subject. So does Hahn, but the colonel is too arrogant to waste his breath on an explanation to a nonentity junior officer like me. Does Falkenstein even know? One thing he was sure of was that out of all the senior officers operating in the field, Captain Falkenstein appeared to be the one with the most freedom of movement, seemingly answerable to no one and yet capturing the interest of everyone.

“Lieutenant… Lieutenant Voss?”

Voss awoke on a bed, the mattress lumpy but soft, and could not remember getting there. Junger stood over him with the shyness most people have when they wake someone who is not an intimate.

“What is it, Junger?”

“Captain Beck radioed. We’re to return to Combat Group headquarters by fourteen hundred hours, sir.”

Voss sat up. He had removed his boots, belt, and holster, but remained completely dressed. “Where are they now?” He reached over and tugged on his boots. He felt as though he’d been flung off a speeding train.

“Not far from where we left them the other day. I have the exact coordinates. There’s breakfast, sir.”

“Thank you, Junger.” He cinched his belt and left the room as the corporal led the way. Something smelled good as he descended the narrow staircase that led immediately into the pantry. The men, including Gottfried and Josef, were seated at a table as Andrei served up eggs and sliced Jerusalem artichokes. Reinhardt and Hartmann stood up as Voss entered, but he motioned them to remain seated. They were clean-shaven, which caused him to pass his hand self-consciously over his bristled face.

“The captain would like a word with you, Lieutenant, as soon as you are available,” Gottfried said.

“I’m available now.”

“Please, eat with us first,” Andrei suggested as he thrust a plate and cup of coffee into his hands. There was a glaze of honey over the Jerusalem artichokes, to Voss’s obvious surprise and delight. Andrei took notice. “The Reds took off with most of the chickens and produce, but they didn’t bother the hives.” Voss took a mouthful, indicated his approval to the Russian, and turned to Reinhardt. “We’re expected back.”

The sergeant nodded. “I’ll see to it that all the chores are taken care of. Vehicle maintenance, weapons, and equipment.”

“Utilize the remaining time to get as much rest as you can. This won’t last.”

“Too bad. One could be lulled into a state of tranquility very easily,” Hartmann commented.

“Keep in mind the front is only a few kilometers away.” Voss finished his meal in silence as the men around the table smoked and engaged in small talk. He finished his coffee and was anxious to leave.