Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

“Are you sure the owners won’t mind?” Braun asked inanely.

“There’s an evacuation on, remember?”

Taking up their tools, the three set to work. Vogel appeared satisfied. “I’m going back for the captain. See to it that everything is up and placed outside. And be careful,” he admonished them sternly. “There are explosives down there.”

Once the sergeant had left, Braun commented, “There’s no denying who is at the bottom of the pecking order in this outfit.” The room was stuffy, and the work added to their discomfort. They removed their field tunics and grappled with the project. The nails were long and refused to give easily. Prying and pulling, using the axe blade as a wedge, a loud squeal would follow as the nails surrendered from the joists. “No wonder he didn’t stick around,” Braun said between grunts. “Probably nailed it down himself, the asshole.”

Eventually an opening was made, and Braun held the flashlight as Angst leaned in to take a look. Originally the space had been used as a root cellar, and the hole had been excavated to a greater width and depth. A framework of wood slats lined the interior to hold back the soil. A neatly stacked pile was covered with waterproof tarpaulin. Angst grabbed hold of an end and pulled it back, revealing some of what lay underneath. Canned field rations, packages of chocolate, ersatz coffee, even cigarettes. At the base of the pile were wood crates and metal boxes of military issue. Angst began by handing up the smaller items. There were several camouflage field jackets and shelter halves. Having made room he lowered himself into the hole and started to bring up the hardware: first, a model 42 flamethrower with a magazine of rimless blank cartridges for hot firing. “The captain is certainly prepared for all eventualities,” he remarked, as he hauled up the weapon. Four boxes of 7.62 mm for the machine guns; three-bell shaped hollow charged magnetic antitank mines. Next, and very gingerly, he lifted up the three slender metal boxes, each containing a panzerfaust. The mass-produced grenade launcher was prone to mishaps if handled too roughly. More ammunition: 9 mm rounds for the MP40s and a satchel charge with over a kilo of TNT. Last of all was the crate of 20 mm shells for the scout car turret gun. This was heavy. Braun climbed down beside Angst, and both struggled in the narrow space as they lifted. Schmidt caught hold and helped pull the crate out of the hole. Angst asked for the flashlight after Braun climbed back out and took one more look around. That appeared to be the lot.

“A treasure trove,” Schmidt said, as he examined the assortment of field rations. Tinned beef, herring, sardines, canned fruit. He passed the items along to his friends to marvel at. There was a bucket-sized tin of jam and a canister of dried biscuits. “Let’s treat ourselves to something worthy of all this hard work,” Schmidt suggested. Seizing a package of chocolate, he peeled off the wrapping from a square and broke it up into thirds. Pieces of fruit and nuts were imbedded in the sweet, dark chocolate. The taste made them ecstatic. “Tastes like home,” Braun said, and reached to open another, but Angst stopped him. “Let’s not get on the wrong side of the captain” he said, and tossed the litter down the hole. He remembered the tarpaulin lying below and went to retrieve it. When he pulled, something clattered back down. He shined the flashlight to see what fell. A small metal box embossed with a flower and vine motif lay on the soil.

“A cashbox,” Braun exclaimed. Angst went down for it. There was no lock, only a simple latch. “What are you waiting for? Open it,” Braun urged. Angst went to open the box.

“Is that everything, Corporal?” Lieutenant Voss stood at the door. Angst shut the lid and fiddled with the latch. When Voss stepped over, he peered into the hole, looking around until satisfied nothing else remained. “What do you have there, Corporal?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Angst said, and immediately turned the box over to the lieutenant.

“Cart this stuff outside, and get the others to help you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Voss brought the box to the other side of the room and set it on the cold brick stove. He looked inside. A packet of letters bound with violet ribbon. Photographs. These were personal effects belonging to the captain. Snapshots of Falkenstein taken when he was an officer cadet. A studio portrait of him and his bride, heads almost touching, eyes staring with hope and yearning. Toward a very uncertain future , Voss thought. One photograph captured his interest most of all. The captain, arm in arm with two grenadiers, was sitting and leaning on a sidecar-equipped motorcycle, and in the background, vaguely discernible, stood the outline of minarets. On the back was written, “Astrakhan September ’42.” Having intruded enough, Voss placed the letters and photographs back in the box, neatly. He thought it strange to leave such mementos buried. Perhaps this act alone provided better insight into the man than all the stories and fables generated about him over the past year ever could.

Sergeant Reinhardt supervised the loading of the supplies and weapons. The panzerfausts were secured aboard the armored personnel carrier, and after several magazines of 20 mm shells were loaded inside the scout car, Khan saw to it that the crate was tied on to the outside front bumper. The captain then gave permission for the crew to lunch on some of the field rations. “It may be some time before you have the opportunity to eat again. Don’t gorge yourselves.” He had Sergeant Vogel fire up the primus stove and cook up some coffee. “And break out that bottle, Klaus.”

Vogel’s smile was huge. “With pleasure, captain.”

Falkenstein limped over to the house where Voss stood in the doorway. He was given the embossed metal box, which he stared at blandly.

“This is yours, I believe, captain.”

Falkenstein tucked the box under his arm, stepped into the house, and examined the room. There wasn’t much to speak for the man who had once occupied it. Books and technical journals pertaining to his trade; a collection of smoking pipes arranged on a rack; and by the window, on a small writing table, lay a disassembled cuckoo clock and small hand tools. The engineer’s hobby, Falkenstein remembered.

“Shouldn’t something be done with Herr Franz’s things, Captain?”

“He had no immediate family to speak of. Most of his time was spent here in Russia. He followed close on the heels of the army, trying to repair one facility after the next as the Bolsheviks retreated and destroyed everything in their wake. Herr Franz extended his hospitality to my unit this past spring. We were held up, due to the mud. We were welcomed guests, and he spared us no effort when we needed help. I would stop here when circumstances permitted. I would not go so far as to say we were friends, but our respect was mutual. He kept the tractors rolling and the machines operating against impossible odds. If there is to be a German colony in the east, it will be the likes of him that will make it happen. Unfettered by vanity or an inflated sense of self-importance, such as the La Fuehrer we met earlier. Herr Franz defined himself solely by his accomplishments, which is all a man has the right to in this life.”

Voss noticed the captain turning the box over in his hands; whether regarding the delicately tooled work on the surface or contemplating the contents held within, Voss could not be sure, but the officer seemed distracted by the box. “As we leave here, burn everything,” Falkenstein said.

Vogel poured coffee into the deep mess tins. The doors of the armored personnel carrier stood open as the men sat within or stood around the vehicle, eating, smoking, and drinking the ersatz coffee. After they had left the house, Falkenstein invited the lieutenant to have a cup as well. The bottle of schnapps stood on the mudguard. “Show me those cups of yours, men,” Falkenstein announced, as he opened the bottle. Everyone gathered around as the captain applied a liberal dose to each cup. “Let’s see if we can’t make something more out of Sergeant Vogel’s simple brew. Step up, Khan. You’re one of us.” The Mongol’s fierce eyes widened as he accepted the offer. The captain became immediately popular among the men. He was a decent fellow, as far as officers go. Their spirits were lifted as Falkenstein toasted everyone’s health and good fortune. A simple but skillful gesture, this toast, and Falkenstein knew it. He had taken an important first step in transforming a group of strangers into a unit. The men were relaxed and in a good humor. Voss sensed a lot would be demanded of them for that tincture of schnapps.