Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

Two men leaned against the side of the truck and smoked, obviously bored with the long wait. There were quite a few butts littering the ground at their feet, and they regarded the squad’s arrival with passing interest. The one dressed in soiled mechanic overalls was a sergeant, Angst saw, and the other dense, fireplug-shaped fellow with a thick moustache, despite the Wehrmacht-issue fatigue dress, was Russian. He became aware of Angst and Schmidt’s stares and, rather than take offense, smiled quite welcomingly. In heavily accented German, the Hiwi said, “Good day, Soldaten . My name Josef.” They introduced themselves to the Hiwi and the sergeant, whose name was Vogel.

“What’s your outfit?” Angst asked.

“Recon-Intelligence.”

“With the Twenty-Third?”

“No. We’re special. If we answer to anyone higher up, it would be to Army Group.”

Braun had just approached and heard what the sergeant said. Out of breath, he dumped the load of ammo boxes and quiver of barrels loudly on the ground. “They’ve got Russians working at Army Group intelligence,” he said caustically. “No wonder we’re getting whipped.”

“Josef is only a driver,” Vogel said, unruffled by Braun’s thoughtless remark, and patted the side of the truck. Then he pointed to the 222 armored scout car. “That one is mine. I’m Captain Falkenstein’s driver.”

“Is that name supposed to mean something to me?”

“I gather it will, in time.”

Before Braun could say anything more (as he was sounding hostile and could land himself in trouble), Angst interrupted. “Do you know what this is about, Sergeant? Why have we been summoned?”

“Nobody tells me anything, and I don’t know anything. This is, after all, intelligence.” Vogel smiled.

Braun leaned over toward Angst and whispered in his ear, “Fucking comedian. I don’t trust that in an NCO.”

Something of a disturbance occurred over by the scout car. Detwiler had been circling the vehicle as if appraising the worth of a stud horse or prize bull. He pressed his face close to the opened side port and peered in. “Hello in there. Machine gunner Ernst Detwiler. Pleased to meet you.” He could barely make out the whites of a pair of eyes that stared back from within the darkened interior. “Hello, I said. Don’t care to introduce yourself? That’s not good manners.” There was a growl, followed by a bark so loud and piercing, it caused him to jump back. “Hey,” he shouted, as the barking continued, “what have you in here, a Doberman?”

Vogel and Josef laughed, but their faces turned serious when Detwiler poked the muzzle of the MG42 into the port opening before the armored shutter had time to close. Whatever was inside took hold of the barrel and tugged violently. Detwiler needed both hands and all his strength just to maintain his grip as the weapon began to disappear into the port. He wriggled back and forth like a hooked fish, yet the more energy he expended, trying to extricate the machine gun from the clutches of whatever was inside the scout car, the less it was under his control. Finally, he lost his grip completely, and the momentum forced him to the ground. The gun flew out of the port like a gob of spit and nearly brained him.

“What sort of a creature have you got in there?” Detwiler bellowed as he picked himself and the MG42 up from the ground.

“That’s Khan, the captain’s scout,” Vogel said.

“The captain’s dog, I would say!”

“No, I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Vogel said in a more serious tone. “He’s a shaman.”

“A what?”

“A shaman,” Vogel repeated. “Like a witchdoctor or medicine man.”

“Yaps like a dog, I tell you,” Detwiler grumbled. He worked his arms and shoulders around in circles after having been twisted about so roughly.

“Lucky the gun wasn’t loaded,” Angst said.

“Yeah. Detwiler’s stupid enough to pull the trigger,” Braun commented.

“Wouldn’t have made much of a difference to Khan,” the sergeant assured them.

“How do you figure?” Wilms, aroused by the excitement, had come over and wormed his way into the conversation.

“Khan is in possession of some kind of magic. I don’t know how it works, but I’ve seen him survive a hail of gunfire without as much as a scratch.”

Braun was annoyed. “What sort of proof is that?”

Wilms agreed. “We face a shit-storm of lead and steel every day. See any of us bleeding?”

“Have it your own way,” Vogel replied. “I’m talking about point-blank range with a Pshagin. All it did was knock him over. Nothing penetrated. I witnessed it myself.”

Angst didn’t know what to make of the game the sergeant was playing at, but spinning a fantastic yarn to weary grenadiers apparently amused him in some way.

“Why won’t he show himself?” Schmidt inquired.

“Don’t waste your time, Willi,” Angst said. “It’s all a crock. The sergeant is having us on.”

Vogel shook his head earnestly. “No, I’m not. Khan rarely leaves the vehicle, and when he does, it’s usually at night. I’ve known him to spend days on end in the gun turret.”

“Must smell like a kennel in there,” Detwiler said, belaboring the canine theme.

Vogel took a more serious tone. “We’ve penetrated thousands of kilometers and have yet to reach the heart of this country. There are people and things here that we can’t explain or comprehend. Strange and some wonderful things, I should imagine.”

“I for one have seen more of my share of Mother Russia,” Braun said, “and with the route this war’s taken, I’ll get to see her all over again.”

“Amen to that,” Schmidt affirmed.

They all ceased talking as Schroeder came out of the ganger’s hut. “Get in the truck,” he said, in his uniquely disdainful manner. When Detwiler asked where they were going, Schroeder kept his eyes fixed on the ground and said again, “Get in the truck.”

Gathering their gear, they climbed onto the flatbed. The machine gunner made sure he got a place in front so he could lean against the cab’s rear wall and saved the place beside him for Schroeder. The rest made themselves as comfortable as possible, using packs and shelter halves for cushioning and support.

“Wherever we’re going is fine by me,” Braun announced, “providing it’s on a set of wheels. Anything’s better than marching around this infernal steppe on foot.”

“We’ve been assigned to Captain Falkenstein’s unit,” Schroeder informed the group.

“By whose authority?” Angst asked.

“A lot has happened over the past few days.”

Angst objected. “Our place is back with battalion.”

“A lot of units have broken up due to the withdrawal and are being reassembled as best as possible. It’s only temporary, the captain told me, until the new defensive line is reestablished and command figures out what the hell it’s doing.”

“Who is he, and what does he want with us?”

“We’ll be providing security for the captain’s ongoing reconnaissance mission.”

“What does the mission entail?”

“He did not see fit to give me all the details, Angst. Don’t worry, you’ll be returned to your outfit soon enough, although I doubt if there’s much of a battalion left to speak of.”

Angst could not help but think the corporal knew more than he was saying. The squad all turned to look as their new commanding officer left the ganger’s hut, a leather portfolio thick with papers tucked under his arm, and limped over to the scout car.

“What a scarecrow,” Braun muttered.

Falkenstein signaled to the Hiwi, who jumped into the cab and started the engine. Exhaust fumes filtered up through the seams in the flatbed. Refusing any offer of help from his driver, the captain squeezed into the small side port hatch of the scout car, quite skillfully despite his disability, and disappeared behind the armored panel door.