Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

A stream of traffic flowed south on the Novo-Moskovsk-Krasnograd highway, and it appeared as though the entire population from as far as Poltava were on the march toward the bridge at Dnepropetrovsk. Although the civilians remained on the shoulders, Hartmann did not bother to use the road, as trucks and an assortment of military vehicles were speeding down the middle at frequent intervals. This was the last leg of the trip, and only another twelve kilometers remained. They had made remarkably good time—sixteen hundred thirty-seven hours, when Voss checked his watch. He was pleased. Hartmann slowed the Hanomag as they approached a vehicle that had ended up nose down in a ditch. An order policeman stood by, guarding the wreck. When they drove past, it became very clear this was no ordinary traffic accident. The windshield was shattered, and the upholstery of the front seat was stained red. One of the tires was flat, and numerous bullet holes from submachine gun–fire had drilled the side of the thin metal body. They continued onward; however, Reinhart called out to the order policeman and asked what had happened.

“Partisans,” was the response.

The machine tractor station was well on its way to complete dismemberment. Threshers, balers, and cultivators were hitched to either lorries or tractors and driven away. Tools and farm implements were loaded aboard trucks, and any equipment that was no longer serviceable and had fallen into disrepair was wrecked. The austere dormitory that housed the workers was burning, as were the barns and repair sheds. A labor gang comprised mostly of women from the station and the neighboring villages performed the work, as civilian employees of the Wehrmacht directed the effort. A number of order police were on hand to stand guard against looting and theft.

Machine tractor stations throughout the occupied Ukraine had remained the focal point for economic and political control, just as they had under the Bolshevik system. Providing tools and machinery for the kolkhozes in the immediate area, the station was intended to develop greater efficiency and productivity under the supervision of the Reich’s East Ministry. Voss didn’t know all the particulars, but some reforms had been drawn up to put an end to the kolkhoz system instituted by the Soviets and replaced by “communes” or “cooperatives.” The peasants and farm workers were promised ownership of land, cattle, and a share in the profits after harvest time. These incentives were used to help meet and eventually surpass production quotas. Except for the nomenclature, nothing had really changed, institutionally. Due to the dislocation of the war, the old kolkhoz system had to remain in place for the time being while the East Ministry bureaucrats guaranteed changes further down the road. The single most important task, for right now, was keeping the German army fed and, in so doing, the peasants also.

The armored scout car was parked next to a supply shed, where Sergeant Vogel was busy draining the vehicle’s spare fuel cans into the gas tank. The Hanomag pulled up, and the crew piled out. “The petrol is in there,” Vogel said, indicating the shed. Voss looked inside. Four drums. More than they could possibly haul. Reinhardt had two of the men untie the fuel cans from the front end and sides of the vehicle. “Top off the fuel tank and refill the empties. Schroeder, organize a detail and see if you can scare up some extra containers that can be filled and brought along.”

Hartmann took a funnel and small hand pump from the toolbox, as Wilms and Detwiler jockeyed one of the drums from out of the shed. “Where is the captain?” Voss asked.

“He’s gone to see the engineer in charge,” Vogel said, and pointed to a low-roofed, whitewashed stucco building on the far side of the field near the main road. “The captain told me to take a few extra hands to dig up the weapons cache as soon as you had arrived, Lieutenant.”

Voss singled out Braun, Schmidt, and Angst to accompany the sergeant, then headed for the engineer’s office. On the way he passed a group of women who were smashing to bits the diesel plants of rusting tractors. The women wielded hammers and sledges, their faces red from exertion and blouses darkened by perspiration. Several children milled about, too young to be of any help, kept well away from the flying metal parts caused by their mothers’ earnest strokes. So did Voss. He could not appreciate the value of breaking already useless machinery, other than to make the women needlessly tired and hungry before setting out on the long trek to Dnepropetrovsk. He noticed the children: dirty faces, shabby clothes, and underfed.

“Direktor” was printed above the door in large black letters. Inside Voss found the captain seated in a wicker chair, tapping a slender pointer, the kind used by schoolmasters, against the metal strut of his leg brace. Behind a desk stood a man in a well-tailored suede field jacket and trousers, not the least bit soiled, appearing bewildered as he shuffled through a mountain of requisition forms, work sheets, charts, and inventories.

“There you are, Lieutenant Voss,” said Falkenstein. “Allow me to introduce Herr Moeller, the East Ministry’s agricultural deputy in charge of this oblast.” Falkenstein continued to tap away at the leg brace with the pointer. No doubt his nerves were stretched thin due to having lost valuable time with this detour, despite its importance. Moeller lifted his eyes for only a moment to glance at Voss, who nodded; then he returned to his paperwork. The deputy had the appearance of a typical agricultural leader, or La Fuehrer as they were known, a trifle porcine, near middle age, with a particular look, or an aura, of someone who spares himself no indulgence. His soft, well-manicured hands were slightly soiled with grease. His nostrils flared in distaste.

“I was telling Herr Moeller how I did not envy his task. Presiding over the autopsy of one’s fiefdom must be an acutely painful experience, from a purely financial aspect. Wouldn’t you think, Lieutenant?”

Voss could sense that the deputy was well aware of the low esteem the captain held him in, though he chose to ignore it. Moeller turned to a filing cabinet, opened a drawer, and continued with his sorting. La Fuehrer , a derogatory title used for these so-called pioneers of the eastern frontier, were notorious for their venality. They exploited the local population ruthlessly. There was wealth to be made from the peasants who performed the numbing toil, and the Wehrmacht pressured them constantly for the harvests. Stories of cruelties and excesses circulated about the La Fuehrers’ appetites, especially toward the village girls. Voss could not help but wonder how many shamed young women and girls with half-Moellers tugging at their skirts would be left behind.

“On the contrary, Captain” Moeller said finally, “the financial aspect is nothing by comparison. What is occurring here today is a great blow, not so much for me personally, but for what the ministry is trying to achieve. And need I mention all the troops who have lost their lives?”

“If I did not know better, it would sound as if you are undermining our morale. The tides of war are fickle, Herr Deputy. The army is experiencing a setback.”

“Temporarily, I hope, Captain. And by this time next year, what then? Will the Red Army be pushed back across the Volga or as far as the Urals, perhaps?”

“Your words, if sincere, are an inspiration for us all, but if sarcasm rules your tongue…”

Voss believed it was appropriate to interrupt before something unretractable was said in this verbal fencing match. “Have you further orders, Captain? Sergeant Vogel and several of the men have gone to the farm house to recover the weapons.”