Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

“As bad luck would have it, this is where the tanks will come out from,” Lustig said.

Schroeder studied the map. Judging from the balka’s course, the entry points were abundant—a total of seven points in a three-kilometer span. Getting out was another matter. Aside from the position Lustig had shown him, another exit was a half-kilometer north of the first company. The only other exit was somewhere within the third battalion sector on their right flank. Despite the information the map provided Schroeder asked, “Why here at this exit specifically”?

“If the Reds expect to roll up the rest of this divisional sector, they will have to start here first. As soon as we’re out of the way, both flanks will easily fold. It’s that simple.”

“Nothing is that simple.”

“You’re right, Corporal, but in this instance, it is as simple and real as it gets.”

Schroeder looked at the map again; his temples throbbed. “Raise Pieper,” he said to Wilms. “I want confirmation on this.”

Tactically, the assault gun commander was in charge of the situation; no matter what the rank of the infantry officers, all decisions were subordinate to him. The integrity of the assault gun had to be maintained.

“Where is the assault gun now?” Lustig asked.

“Two-and-a-half kilometers to the rear.”

“Captain Raeder made the suggestion that the assault gun advance near to the boundary of the battalion command strong point. The force covering that position is at platoon strength at best,” Lustig said.

“So he told me. Your captain is convinced the armor intends a shallow penetration,” said Schroeder.

“I think he’s right. The Russians will concentrate on us, here, and once they’re through…”

“This layout really stinks,” Schroeder said caustically. “I can guarantee this whole sector will be crawling with Bolsheviks once the show starts.”

“I got him,” Wilms called out, and passed the headphones and microphone to Schroeder.

Lustig eased out of the observation post dugout and knelt beside Angst, who was seated nearby.

“Is what he said true, Sergeant? Will the Reds overrun our position?” Angst asked.

“They haven’t yet. Besides, once that assault gun knocks out a few of their tanks, they’ll have a change of heart. I’ve been in a lot worse scrapes than this.”

Yeah, Stalingrad , Angst thought. Only it didn’t turn out well for the Sixth Army—and probably wouldn’t for this army of General Hollidt, either, which bore the same unlucky number. Lustig had been wounded at Stalingrad and was one of the lucky ones to have been airlifted from out of the encircled city before it fell. He represented a core group of officers, NCOs, and enlisted men who had survived “the cauldron” and now formed the recently re-designated Sixth Army. The sergeant had a reputation for being very demanding of those under his command—and also of himself. He possessed the lowest casualty rate in the battalion, up till now. Every platoon had been whittled away by the Red Army’s unyielding pressure.

“Get back to your squad,” Lustig said. “Take Old Max and Paul Hermann with you. They’re waiting over by the bunker.”

Angst obeyed. He found the two grenadiers lounging on the upper steps of the bunker, trying to stay out of the heat. Angst leaned in and jerked his thumb. Reluctantly the two grenadiers, one too old and the other terribly young, picked up their rifles and followed Angst down the trench. Max Griener was far more animated now than when Angst had last seen him. Originally assigned to a butcher company, Griener had been sent to the front line along with the latest batch of comb-outs. Division was scraping the bottom of the barrel, if only the likes of Max were left to draw from. He complained of rheumatism, and the sort of butchery he now had to partake in was something other than he was accustomed to. Paul Hermann was a replacement who had arrived only two weeks ago. Possessed with a nervous disposition, the youth didn’t do much to bolster the strength or effectiveness of any rifle squad and was passed along throughout the entire company. Since his arrival at the Mius position and the subsequent fall back to the Tortoise Line, Hermann had taken to throwing up constantly. He had become weak from the continual exertions of heaving and vomiting. It was an effort for the boy to carry a rifle and full equipment; nevertheless, Angst nudged him along while trying not to be heartless about doing it. They ran across Seidel, who had just added the finishing touches to his cable repairs.

“This does it,” he said, as Angst and the others passed. “Next time, Wahl can fix his own damn phone.”

Seidel gathered several more lengths of phone line, along with pliers, splicing tools, and tape, stuffed it all into a kit bag, and trailed behind. When the group approached the signals dugout, they found Wahl at the field telephone, chatting away contentedly. He gave the thumbs-up to Seidel.

“Jam that finger up your ass, for all I care,” Seidel said, and dropped the repair kit inside the dugout entrance. Wahl didn’t put up the phone, but his expression definitely conveyed hurt at the remark.

Angst pulled in at Schmidt’s rifle pit. Braun lay beside him, legs crossed, casually smoking a cigarette. He took one look at Old Max and Paul Hermann and spat. “Is this your idea of reinforcements?” he asked in disgust.

“Lustig sent them along.”

“Look, Hermann can’t even keep the saliva in his mouth,” Braun guffawed. Self-conscious at the derisive laughter, Paul Hermann wiped his chin.

“Any word if we’re pulling back?” Schmidt asked.

Angst shook his head. “Not that I heard.”

“A tactical retreat would make sense, don’t you think?” Braun asked. “Our position is tenuous at best, if the rumors are as bad as I’ve heard.”

“What rumors?” Angst became alarmed. He had not uttered a word, and yet the grim picture Kessler described had begun to seep out from the depths of the bunker outward, changing subtly, desperately, as the rumor passed to each ear.

“Come on, Angst. The Reds are in front, behind, and on either flank. We’re surrounded.”

“There’s no truth to that. I don’t know where you got your information, but it’s wrong. I suggest you stop repeating it.”

“Even so, like I said, tactically it would be better to pull back and shorten the line.”

“I’m sure headquarters would be interested in your opinion,” Schmidt chided.

Angst wanted to change the subject. “Who’s in charge of the platoon, Minnesinger?”

Schmidt nodded. “His squad is relatively intact, including the machine gun crew, Ehrling and Sauer.”

That made sense, Angst thought; Minnesinger was the sergeant’s right hand. “Anyone know how second platoon shapes up?”

“That kid Lindenberger did a tour,” Braun said. “There are two rifle teams at half strength each, a reinforced squad strongpoint with two mortars and a machine gun emplacement, and a couple more rifles. Frank’s in charge.”

The numbers indicated to Angst that second platoon had been reduced by almost half since their short stay at the Tortoise Line.

“All right. Let’s get back to our holes. Let’s go, Braun. Things are going to get hot for us very soon.”

Braun elbowed Schmidt as he wormed his way out of his friend’s gun pit. “Stay ferocious, Kamerad .”

Angst then showed Hermann and Griener to their rifle pits, situated between Schmidt’s and his own. After he made sure they had both settled in, he continued on. Braun occupied the next firing station up from his. They walked the short distance of trench line together. Braun touched his arm and spoke quietly. “You plan to babysit those two?”