Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

His thoughts now turned to the women he had known, although intimacies were few; quiet interludes at a café, sing-a-longs at the local beer garden. Even the women he had never met but remembered and were striking for one reason or another. The young brunette with emerald green gloves that traveled up her arms practically to her shoulders as she entered a theatre with her lover or husband; glimpses of others walking down the street, or in church where he studied the structure of their solemn faces and tried to imagine their bodies by the outline of their clothing. Strangers, yet etched deep in his memory. Finally, as he spread himself out, trying to avoid the roots that knuckled above the ground, he contemplated Falkenstein. He didn’t know what to make of the man whom he’d risked his life to find. Cold. Aloof. The major, a superior officer and undoubtedly a strong supporter, was tolerated as one would an attention-seeking lap dog. It was the reaction to the news of the impending retreat that surprised Voss the most. Subtle but unmistakable. What every grenadier saw as his salvation, Falkenstein regarded as a nuisance. He thought he was reading too much into it and judged the captain unfairly. Gottfried described the captain as thoughtful of the men under his command, Hiwis included, and he spared no effort in keeping them well supplied.

A steady booming sounded in the distance. The front, Voss was reminded, was not as far away as he would have liked. He felt oppressed by the enemy’s proximity; nonetheless, he yielded to the liquor and the fatigue of his body, and his eyes closed.

Angst had barely escaped the ordeal. Discipline crumbled as the T-34 persisted with constant shelling and machine gun–fire, and after the tank had found a way into the ravine, everything fell apart. They all ran, and the motto was “save your own skin and to hell with all else.” If someone fell, too bad; nobody looked back. Seidel and Wahl fell. So did Richter. Ganz and several of the panzergrenadiers from the escort were missing and presumed dead. During the confusion, Angst had lost sight of Lev and Mykola. He could not bear to think of what had befallen them. Daryna could no longer worry over the boys, and she was incapable of protecting them from harm. She ran for her life like the rest. Overcome by terror, the girl had lapsed into shock. By the time they were intercepted by the tank battery from the Twenty-Third Panzers, she couldn’t speak or even respond with gestures; she would only stare, blank and empty. Daryna had left the world.

When it was all over, there was no sign of the Russian tank anywhere. Schroeder explained, breathlessly, to the tank battery commander that Red Vengeance had been hunting them for the past two days. The tank commander wasn’t entirely convinced, but after listening to specific details and seeing for himself the terrified state the battle-hardened panzergrenadiers were in, he eventually believed enough to take some action. First, though, he had the squad of survivors brought to an aid station for treatment of minor injuries. Angst had the gash on his arm properly tended to and dressed, as it had begun to fester. Still considered fit for duty, he was released, as were the rest of them—Braun, Schmidt, Detwiler, Wilms, and Schroeder.

After Daryna was left in the care of the medical orderlies, Angst inquired what would become of her. If there were room when the next truck arrived, she would be taken back further to the rear with the next batch of serious cases, he was told. Eventually, she would be placed with the civilian conscripts employed by the division—in other words, a work gang. The orderly explaining all this to him hoped she would snap out of it soon, because there was no telling where she would end up.

Upon leaving the aid station, Angst and his companions fell in with the panzergrenadiers supporting the armor; there was still a lot of activity, as the divisions from the north and south fought to close the gap between the two armies. Luckily for Angst and the squad, they were taken out of the line at the end of the day. An officer from the division intelligence staff had summoned them. Overweight and smelling like a distillery, the officer, a major, had asked them all to give a rundown of events since leaving the Tortoise Line. He said very little as another officer wrote down their statements. When the interrogation ended, the major made arrangements that the entire squad be taken out of the front line and, barring a catastrophe, excused from combat duty for the time being. They were sent further to the rear and placed with an artillery battery. Fortunately, the sector was relatively quiet. Upon their arrival, they dug slit trenches and foxholes for themselves a short distance behind the guns. The rings of fatigue that encircled their eyes had grown darker. Uniforms coated with a thick layer of dust and underclothes stiff with dried sweat and grime chafed at their skin. They had fought too hard and walked too far with no sleep and no food. Numb from the expenditure, the only thought that registered was that they were still alive; in and of itself, that was the only success that could be gauged.

Late in the afternoon, a second lieutenant arrived, looking for the squad leader. He was from the artillery commandant headquarters. Schroeder had informed every officer that would listen that he had taken over command of the squad after all the NCOs had been killed. He went with the lieutenant, who didn’t explain why or where (and Schroeder knew not to ask). He had been gone for several hours when a runner, assigned to the artillery observers, scurried up to where they had dug in. He announced that Corporal Schroeder’s squad was to pack up their gear and follow him. Assailed with a multitude of questions, the runner remained crouched, trying to keep from being fully exposed. The position was not so far back that a stray shell from enemy artillery couldn’t reach them. An occasional round would scream in and crash down; luckily, the harassment fire was few and far between, and the shells didn’t land too close. Nevertheless, the runner was unnerved and anxious to leave. He didn’t answer any of the questions the squad hurled at him, namely, when were they getting something to eat, and how long would it take to get sent back to their unit? The runner merely snapped at them to hurry it along, which only brought on another round of gripes and grumbling.

Braun had since replaced Ganz as the number two gunner on the MG42, a role he clearly did not enjoy. He had to carry the sling of replacement barrels and lug the ammo boxes for Detwiler, who took every advantage of having someone to boss around. To lighten the load, Angst and Schmidt offered to take some of their friend’s gear and his rifle. They climbed out of their holes and followed the runner down the railroad tracks. The artillery command had set up headquarters a couple of kilometers further down the line, but the runner didn’t lead them that far. Instead, after walking only half a kilometer, he made them stop at a ganger’s hut, a small wood structure with a rusting tin roof. An armored scout car and a foreign-made truck were parked nearby. The runner told them to wait and entered the hut. He remained inside for only moments, then he exited along with the second lieutenant from before. Again they were told to wait; the corporal would be finishing up presently. Angst spoke up. “What’s this about, Lieutenant?”

“I can’t answer that question, Corporal, but I’m sure you will be briefed at the proper time.” Then, followed by the runner, the junior officer receded down the tracks.

“Are we in some kind of trouble, do you think?” Schmidt asked.

Angst could not think of anything offhand. “I’m sure Schroeder is putting whoever is asking the questions into perspective.”