Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

With the 222 being the faster of the two vehicles, it was Falkenstein’s intention to reach the station first and secure the fuel. He could then wait for Voss to catch up.

Suddenly there was an interruption, as an NCO from the Pioneer Company knocked at the door. “Excuse me, Captain, but how long do you plan to remain here? We have orders to torch the village.”

“Could you at least wait until I am safely out of the building?” Falkenstein screamed.

Dumbfounded by the near-hysterical manner in which he’d been addressed, the Pioneer sergeant remained rooted in the doorway.

“If you will permit me a few minutes to put some things in order,” Falkenstein added in a more civil tone.

The sergeant backed away, threw up his arms in frustration, and stormed off.

“There is another matter that could affect us, directly,” Falkenstein said gravely. “Early this morning, Voronezh Front broke through the right flank of Eighth Army.”

“How deep is the penetration?”

“That is a question I have yet to have answered to my satisfaction. I spoke to a colleague at Army Group headquarters. An all-out thrust by the enemy to secure the rail junction at Krasnograd is the assessment.”

The tractor station was close to the boundary of the Eighth Army sector, and the junction at Krasnograd, Voss judged by the map, indicated a distance of over sixty kilometers further north. Falkenstein continued to study the map with rapt intensity. He seemed to think if he gazed hard enough, his needs would be solved and any doubts diminished. The captain wanted both—to secure the supplies in the north and, to head south, where the demands of the mission dictated him to be. Without Josef and Andrei and the Ford that wasn’t going to be possible. He looked at his watch. “Zero nine hundred hours. No matter how late we leave the station, we will drive for as long and as far as possible. I don’t want us to get embroiled in any holding actions, should the situation deteriorate for the Eighth Army. Is that understood, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.” Voss then synchronized his wristwatch, so the time was the same as the captain’s.

Handing over the map he had just outlined, Falkenstein said, “Take this as your guide in case you have any difficulty.” He then had Voss help him clear the table of more maps and papers and stuffed it all into a leather case.

The engineers from the Pioneer Company had arrived as the two officers left the cottage. More than half the village was already burning. Smoke boiled thickly as orange flames lapped the desiccated wood. One spurt from a flamethrower on the plank siding or the roof, and the houses became engulfed in seconds.

Vogel fumbled with the field telephones; one was from the captain’s headquarters and needed repair, and the other was from Gottfried’s billet. He placed both in the tool storage bin mounted on the left side of the armored scout car. Lieutenant Gottfried finished coiling the line on to the cable spool and gave it to the driver to put away. When he saw Falkenstein and Voss approaching, he wished them luck.

“Try to arrange things in Zaporozhye as quickly as possible,” Falkenstein said. “The frequency and codes are still in your possession?”

“Of course, Captain. It may take a few days, but I will have the equipment and operators standing by. Good-bye, and may you remain safe.”

Without another word Falkenstein entered the scout car through the small side hatch door on the co-driver’s side. The signal officer smiled sadly. “Watch over him, Lieutenant Voss. Do that for me, won’t you?”

“I will, Lieutenant. I’ll look forward to hearing from you on the radio.” Voss then left for the Hanomag and snapped out the order for the crew to get aboard. Hartmann had the engine turned over as Voss climbed into the crew compartment and took his place to the right of the bow machine gun. The vehicle felt cramped for a change, now that he was in command of a full squad. The dirt road that ran through the village was again crowded with supply company troops, Hiwis, indigenous auxiliaries, and their families; the peasants, refugees now that their homes had been set ablaze, trudged sullenly through the dust and smoke. The armored personnel carrier followed the scout car as it eased into the traffic of horse-drawn carts, trucks, and panje wagons. The fires added an oppressive heat to the air, as all the houses had gone up like tinder boxes, crackling loudly and throwing showers of orange cinders across the road as the burning walls buckled and burst. The engineers had entered the orchard and subjected the trees to their flamethrowers. The acrid odor of fuel masked the delicate fragrance of fruit and leaf as the gnarled, blackened limbs seemed to reach skyward like supplicants horrified by their immolation. Above the noise of engines, whinnying horses made skittish from the fire, and spitting embers, a familiar strain could be heard. A landser driving a panje wagon kept time with a branch whip on the rump of his horse. His hair was as red as the flames and his pale blue eyes watery from the smoke; he sang in a strong, clear, if not melodious voice, Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” The troops on foot, in wagons, and in trucks joined in, and within moments almost the entire body became one great chorus. Even the crew in the Hanomag stood up and began to sing.

Enthralled by the spectacle, Voss remained silent. This was not the first and would not be the last of many fires. Time and again he had witnessed and contributed to similar scenes and had reacted with loathing, abhorrence, even numbness. And there were times, like now, when he could be seduced by the distressed beauty. My God , he thought, awestruck, how we have become such masters of terrible powers .

Voss maintained visual contact with the command vehicle as far as the Pavlograd-Kharkov rail crossing, when the 222 accelerated and finally disappeared from sight. The slow-going Hanomag could not even keep up with the dust left in the scout car’s wake. Falkenstein insisted on avoiding the main highways and rail junctions, not only to circumvent any possible congestion but also—mainly—to avert a fate like the one that had befallen the two Hiwis driving the old Ford. On more occasions than he cared to remember, Falkenstein had been redirected from his purpose to aid some detachment or other during an emergency in a sector he had been operating in. Doing so would invariably cost him in supplies, ammunition, personnel, and time. That was why he chose to go cross-country, he explained to Voss, to avoid delays at all cost. He would secure the gasoline first and then wait for the lieutenant and his crew to catch up. The hulking armored vehicle meandered over the dirt tracks across the exposed countryside, through streambeds, in and out of shallow gullies, and past settlements and small villages. The peasants were packing up and leaving. Panje wagons and small herds of livestock had become frequent sights along the dusty roads as the day progressed. The retreat involved more than the sum total of troops, arms, and material of an army group. A directive had been put into effect since the eighth of September to pillage and lay waste to the entire eastern half of the Ukraine. All agricultural produce—grain harvests, fruits and vegetables were to be gathered and shipped west by road or rail. Livestock—every pig, chicken, cow, and horse were to be rounded up and herded to the west and dispersed once on the opposite bank of the Dniepr. Farm and production equipment and facilities for food processing were to be dismantled; industrial works, factories, and mills were to be stripped of machinery and hardware. Essentially, anything of value was to be transported across the Dniepr. The emptied plants and buildings, storage installations, and centers for supply and distribution were to be left in ruins. Most ominous of all was the creation of a “sterilization zone” to extend some twenty kilometers east of the river. Every town, village, barn, and shack was to be leveled. Railroad tracks ripped apart and bridges blown up; wells poisoned and trees cut down. What could not be carted away was to be demolished, set ablaze. The Red Army was to enter a wasteland where nothing remained intact, not a roof for shelter against the elements, not a kernel of grain to eat. Under these conditions, it was believed by higher authorities, the advance of the combined Soviet fronts would be forced to slow down. This directive—Scorched Earth, as it was officially known—originated directly from the Reich Chancellery in Berlin.