Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

Outside, telephone cables ran from the house all the way to Falkenstein’s cottage headquarters. The burned-out signals truck remained in the field, but the debris had been gathered into a pile. A narrow footbridge spanned the river near the pale yellow cottage, and the 222 was parked out in front. A sergeant dressed in mechanic overalls was in the turret, oiling the 20 mm cannon. He saluted lazily as Voss approached. “The captain is inside. I’m his driver, Klaus Vogel.”

“Voss.” He returned the panzer sergeant’s salute with equal laziness.

“I know. You and your crew, yesterday… Thanks. Go ahead in, Lieutenant.”

The door to the cottage was open, presumably to allow air, but Voss knocked all the same and then entered. Falkenstein sat at a long plank table, covered with maps and papers and two field telephones. A cluster of flies buzzed around the leavings on a tin mess plate. Falkenstein looked up and, without self-consciousness, adjusted the upturned eye patch back over the rheumy socket.

“Good morning, sir,” Voss said, and saluted quite sharply this time.

Falkenstein returned the salute as a matter of course. “Be seated, Lieutenant, by all means” he said, indicating one of two chairs on the opposite side of the table from where he sat. The room was a trifle close and dark, as the small windows at the rear had been covered with yellow paper shades. A narrow bed stood at the far wall with a crisply folded blanket on the straw mattress. A large map of the Soviet Union was tacked on the wall beside the bed, and under it was a shelf containing a number of personal items such as soap, a washcloth, and other toiletries.

“I want to extend my gratitude, Lieutenant, for maintaining a dangerous vigil on my behalf. To stand fast while an enemy mechanized corps steamrolls about the countryside is not an enviable position to find oneself in.”

“On the contrary, sir, the whole of First Panzer Army is indebted to you. For my part, I did rather little.”

Falkenstein dismissed the statement with a simple gesture. “I only made the best out of a miserable situation for as long as fate allowed. As for you, Lieutenant, I believe Colonel Hahn sent you to make the last radio transmission of your young life, and you know it.”

The word “young” struck Voss in an odd sort of way. He was twenty-five years old and felt ancient. Falkenstein was five or six years older, he guessed, and appeared at least a decade older than he actually was. This is what war in the east does to all young men , he thought. The rigors of combat, exposure to the elements, the constant fear and anxiety not only for oneself but for the welfare of the men one led. The wounds received from past engagements. The captain’s face was darkened by a beard of at least a week’s growth and highlighted by gray, which only added more years to his appearance. They had both been robbed.

“Allow me to bring you up-to-date, if you have not been already,” Falkenstein continued. “The Soviet Tank Army managed to slip through to the east early this morning. There was a narrow gap in the Sixth Army line, and the enemy took full advantage.”

“That is unfortunate, sir.”

Falkenstein shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. “They received a hard knock as they made that voyage back home. A spectacular armored thrust, and for all the effort, what did it achieve?”

“The Russians know how weak our armies are, for one,” Voss replied.

“Malinovskiy and Tolbukhin could have studied their own field intelligence reports and answered that question for themselves.”

“Whatever the reason, they destroyed most of my company and your command. I’m sorry, Captain.” Voss wished he had not made the remark as he watched Falkenstein turn ashen.

“My command, yes. Now at least we can deal with the Russians coming at us from one direction, rather than having them at our backs as well.”

Politely, Voss agreed, but silently he cursed himself for speaking so insensitively. Had he not been so fatigued, he would have never have broached the subject. Every officer was reeling, both psychologically and emotionally, over the loss of his troops. Falkenstein offered him a cigarette, which he accepted gratefully, and he self-consciously tried to control his shaking hand while he lit the captain’s and his own. At that moment a motorcycle screeched to a halt outside the cottage, and a boisterous voice began to call the captain by name.

“What on earth is he doing here?” Falkenstein said. The interruption was a welcome relief to the uncomfortable silence, as far as Voss was concerned. He would use it as an excuse to leave, but before he could get out of the chair, a major dressed in panzer black swaggered jovially into the room. His complexion was as pink as the piping on his uniform. “Hans! I’ve had a devil of a time finding you.” The major carried a bottle of brandy by the neck and set it down loudly on the table. Voss stood up at attention.

“Lieutenant Voss,” Falkenstein said, still seated, “allow me to introduce Major Beutel. Herr Major is with the headquarters staff of Twenty-Third Panzer Division.”

“Herr Major…”

With a gleeful smile, Beutel took Voss’s hand before he could salute and shook it vigorously. “So you’re the young lieutenant with ice coursing through his veins. A spectacular job.”

“No, really sir, I…”

“Nonsense, there’s no need for modesty. A fine show all the way around, bringing our Hans back to us safe and sound. I liaise quite frequently with Colonel Hahn when our two divisions are operating in tandem. He told me all about you. Now, find us some glasses, Lieutenant, and let’s have a toast to our good fortune.” Beutel winked. Falkenstein indicated a sideboard to his left, where several mess kits lay drying on a wash towel. He brought over the only two glasses and a regulation tin mug and lined them up on the table. “This will go straight to my head at this hour,” he said.

“That, Lieutenant,” the major said, as he plucked the cork from the bottle, “is the whole idea.” He poured liberally and passed the drinks around. Raising his glass, he said, “To the men of the hour. Prosit.” The first to drain his glass, Beutel refilled it. Alcohol had become the necessary balm needed to recover from the omnipresent dangers and to aid in forgetting what inevitably lay ahead. Voss was convinced that, should he survive the war, he and his fellow officers would spend their remaining years as hopeless drunkards. The major was well on his way. Broken capillaries webbed the nose and cheeks of his pork pink face. “Come on, Hans, drink up. To our safety, to defensive mobility, and the retreat across the river.”

Aroused by the offhand remark, Voss asked expectantly, “Is it on? Are we to cross the Dniepr?”

The major tapped the side of his ruined nose. “It’s not official yet, but a lot of talk’s circulating. Von Manstein has been in communication with von Mackensen, and Hollidt and I know that my general, von Vormann, has been discussing the matter with your general, Count von Schwerin. It is unavoidable. Now that we have evacuated the Don Bas, what possible good can be achieved, exposed on the steppe as we are? This front can’t be maintained, and command regards it as a temporary holding position. As far as von Manstein is concerned, the withdrawal to the Dniepr began on the eighth of September. Even the Fuehrer has finally seen the handwriting on the wall. Promise me you won’t breathe a word of this.” Voss made his promise with a solemn nod of the head, although Falkenstein remained impassive. The major’s confidence did not appear to bring him any joy. “You look terrible, Hans,” Beutel said cheerily, and poured more brandy for Voss and himself.

“Sleep escapes me,” Falkenstein replied, as he drew his glass away just as the major was about to fill it.