Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

“That’s not hypocrisy; everyone does that. Those are merely soldiers’ amusements,” Schmidt said.

“But I don’t think about God until I’m in mortal fear of my life, and then I go running like some child hiding behind his mother’s skirts. My lack of conviction upsets me at times. You don’t know how it can make me suffer. And don’t think I’m making a joke of this, because I see Angst is smiling.”

Angst shook his head. “I was only thinking of something my father once said—that as creatures of intellect, human beings needed to invent God and thus an afterlife, despite their better judgment.”

“Is your father an atheist?” Schmidt asked with concerned seriousness.

“No, not really. He’s more a humanist, if anything. He believes in man’s better nature, although that expression has become somewhat stifled at this point. It’s an ongoing process that has to evolve. Father said no other animal has the awareness of its own mortality…that someday it will die. Not like us. Some belief had to be created to quell that unbearable knowledge. He’d go to church, on occasion, mostly to please my mother. She, on the other hand, went every Sunday and observed all the holy days, and she made my sister and me go as well. In one of her last letters, she wrote that Father had been going to Mass with her more often than not. I guess the point I’m trying to make is, the times have grown so very dark for the best and the worst of us. Don’t be so hard on yourself, Freddy, for your lack of convictions. There are some terrible ones at work in the world right now that aren’t worth having.”

“It quiets me,” Schmidt said. “This war has become our Calvary. I can’t say going to service gives me strength or peace of mind—I possess neither—but it makes me prepared.”

“Prepared for what?” Braun asked, his voice almost hostile.

“I don’t know. Certainly not dying, if that’s what you’re thinking, because more than ever I want to get out of this war alive and preferably in one piece. Perhaps I’m preparing myself to accept that this may not happen, and that I do not falter or become bitter, and that I never lose hope.”

Braun chuckled, even though he was not immune to his friend’s words. “Jesus, Wilhelm, you are praying for way too much.”

“Endure that you may continue to endure. Hope that there is still hope. That’s all we have going for us now.” Schmidt ceased talking. Down below from where they sat, Schroeder replaced the oversized funnel back in the toolbox on the fender. When finished, he closed the lid and climbed into the vehicle and inspected how well the equipment had been tied down. There did not appear to be any fault. “Everything seems to be in order…what are you three up to?”

“We were having a philosophical discussion,” Braun said earnestly, “about fate and its influence on paganism, religious belief, and hypocrisy. Or do I mean that the other way around?”

Schroeder regarded them all sourly. “So far you have proven to be more trouble than you’re worth. Especially you, Braun. The captain put me in charge of you, and I won’t let him down—and I won’t allow you to put anything over on me in the process. Just you try it and see what happens.”

“I think you can unburden yourself of some of that responsibility as of this moment.”

“Oh? And how did you come to reach that conclusion, Angst?”

“Because there’s a lieutenant and a sergeant in charge of us now. So if you want to order any of us about, why don’t you go to the end of the line and wait your turn?” Angst felt good for speaking up. It helped make up for keeping silent in the truck the day before. Not that his words would have changed anything. Schroeder looked like a thermometer left in the direct sun. He was ready to blow when a paroxysm of anger, greater than what he could possibly muster, discharged from out of the cottage. The noise was so frightful, all voices were silenced. The rear door of the main house swung open and banged shut as Lieutenant Gottfried scurried past the armored carrier and made his way toward the captain’s quarters. Voss intercepted him halfway across the yard. “My God, whatever is the matter?” Voss asked, almost tempted to un-holster his pistol, the sound had unnerved him so.

Gottfried stopped short. “I tried to explain the situation, but it is completely out of my hands. There is nothing I or anyone can do to make it right.”

“Will you please make sense, Lieutenant? Tell me what has happened.”

Gottfried took a breath. “The captain sent Josef and Andrei to recover a cache of fuel and supplies, but they were stopped and diverted to Pavlograd. Their truck has been commandeered. Thirty Corps needs every available vehicle to assist in the evacuation of the city. Josef finally managed to radio and inform me of what happened. I, in turn, told the captain. No doubt you heard the result.”

“Is there no one at Corps or Army Group that can help?”

“I tried. Do you think anyone is willing to invest the time to bother about a single truck and a couple of Hiwis, with all that is going on? I was laughed off the telephone. At least I saved the captain from that humiliation.” Gottfried added, sheepishly, “The captain frightens me when he becomes angry.”

Voss hoped such outbursts did not occur often. “Let me see if I can help sort things out.”

Relieved, the signal officer was more than grateful to stay put. When Voss entered the cottage, he found the captain leaning over the table, head bowed. The field telephone lay on the floor and the receiver in the far corner of the room, its line completely severed. Sergeant Vogel was packing the captain’s personal gear and clothing and carried on with the discretion of a majordomo.

“I have just received regrettable news,” Falkenstein murmured.

“Lieutenant Gottfried informed me, sir.”

“Josef and Andrei left hours ago. It was our plan to reunite with the supplies…what are your fuel and ammunition reserves?”

“Two thousand rounds for the machine guns and some extra ammunition for the small arms. Several grenades.”

“Antitank mines? Panzerfausts?”

“No, sir. We left all antitank weapons with the battalion before our departure.”

“Inadequate, as I had guessed. And your fuel reserves are no better, I’m sure.”

“I have no reserves of fuel to speak of, sir.” Voss did not need to remind the captain that the responsibility for outfitting the unit was his alone. “The only alternative is to retrieve the supplies ourselves. Where is the cache hidden, sir?”

“A machine tractor station off the Novo-Moskovsk-Krasnograd highway. The petrol is there, enough to keep us on the move for days. Without it we can expect to be at the mercy of the supply companies, and you can be sure they will be among the first to cross the Dniepr.”

Voss grasped the dilemma. With the retreat in full swing, supplying mobile forces engaged in defensive actions would be a serious challenge. Available stocks would go directly to tanks and assault guns.

“There is a farmhouse nearby,” Falkenstein continued, “where the chief engineer of the station resides, Hubert Franz. He’s an acquaintance who has offered valuable assistance in the past. The extra supplies, most importantly antitank weapons, are hidden in the house. I was in contact with Herr Franz via radio last night. He said the fuel would be kept safe and made available for the Hiwis upon their arrival.”

“If we were to leave now, what would you estimate our travel time?” Voss asked.

“Depending on the cross-country route, at top speed with little or no deviation, late afternoon or early evening at best.” Falkenstein took a charcoal pencil and began to outline a route. Upon leaving the kolkhoz, they would take the Lozovaya highway and proceed north for ten kilometers and then detour to the west, crossing the Pavlograd-Kharkov rail line. There were no roads to speak of, only dirt tracks that passed through the villages and cut across the fields. After forty kilometers Voss would come to a fork in the road. The sign would read “Pereshchipino.” He was to take it, heading northwest for another twenty kilometers, until the road forked again. “Take the left fork. It will continue due west and eventually intersect with the Novo-Moskovsk highway. The machine tractor station is here, another eight kilometers north.” Falkenstein pointed. The tractor station was south of the Orel River near the village of Golubovka. “Whatever you do, Lieutenant, don’t miss that left fork. The Pereshchipino road winds along the south bank of the Orel and will only add unnecessarily to your time.”