Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

Falkenstein had seen enough. There was no other alternative but to circumvent the stalled trains. “We have to avoid these infernal bottlenecks from this moment on, Lieutenant. There is no other alternative but to strike to the east. How far will depend upon how fast the front line recedes. We’ll have to negotiate a dangerously narrow channel between the main battle lines as we head south. First, we have no other choice but travel north, toward Lozovaya, and cross the tracks at the first opportunity.”

“Should we not wait for this tie-up to unravel, Captain?”

“And loose the initiative due to some lieutenant-colonel playing traffic policeman? We could be forced back to Novo-Moskovsk and find ourselves in a traffic jam we could never extricate ourselves out of. We go north, Lieutenant. Follow me, and see if I can’t get us over this choked railroad track.” The officers returned to their respective vehicles and issued the appropriate orders to the drivers.

They drove as far as Lozovaya, which had come under enemy bombardment, and were able to cross the tracks. Despite this shift in direction, away from the main roads, the journey still proved to be torturously slow. Villages continued to empty of inhabitants, and the houses were put to the torch—even the land itself was burned. SS units on horseback, organized especially for the task, set fire to the stacks of grain and hay that dotted the immense fields. Hundreds of these pyres sent columns of thick gray smoke into the sky. Great swaths of unharvested acreage went up in smoke as yellow flames danced across the horizon. Maintaining a lead on the fires proved difficult for the drivers. It took all the effort and skill of Hartmann to work the wheel of the lumbering Hanomag and Vogel in the more responsive scout car to maneuver through this pyromania. Goggles were worn to keep the smoke and dust from singeing their eyes, at least for those of the crew who owned a pair. Scarves and kerchiefs were moistened with water and tied about their faces. Braun joked that they all looked like outlaws in an American cowboy film.

After successfully outracing the fires, the vehicles would become stalled, again, only this time it was amid great herds of livestock: horses, cattle, sheep, even pigs by the thousands. Trotting hooves raised enormous clouds of dust. The effect of these forced mass migrations of animals and humans was not lost on the men. Some were awed and excited by the bizarre drama and others overwhelmed and anxious by the sight.

Voss could remember the early days of the invasion as the Greyhounds pressed deeper into the endless country. As they passed through the collective farms and rural villages, rough peasant hands offered the traditional welcome of bread and salt to the strange young warriors from a land they knew nothing about. Voss and his Kameraden were seen as liberators to these impoverished, half-starved people. With the black-and-white balkankruze emblazoned on tanks and armored cars, the Germans were believed to be a God-fearing army. Crowds would line the sides of the roads as they marched through and greet them with religious icons that had been concealed from the Bolsheviks for almost a quarter of a century. The Ukrainians believed themselves free, finally, from the Soviet yoke of ceaseless toil, arrests, deportations, and executions. Now, two years later, who among them could have possibly imagined that their homes would be razed, their livestock scattered, and they themselves sent off to wander in a desolate landscape with an uncertain future?

As the day drew to a close, the sun set behind thick veils of smoke and dust, causing the light to change radically, an unnatural reddish-brown, like the color of dried blood.

At dusk the vehicles were placed in defensive laager for the night. Sergeant Reinhardt made up the roster for sentry duty; Angst and Detwiler would take the first watch, followed by Braun and Schroeder, and Schmidt and the sergeant would take the last. Voss, Hartmann, and Wilms were to take shifts at the radio.

Corporal Schroeder distributed the field rations. Upon receiving their tins, Angst and Braun joined Schmidt, who had chosen to sit some distance away. He didn’t look up or say anything as the two men approached. Angst sat down on the ground beside him and made an attempt at small talk, but his friend was unresponsive.

“I don’t know how you two can bear to sit any longer,” Braun said, electing to stand while he ate.

“That’s a surprise, coming from you,” Angst chided. “A few days ago, I remember you saying you’d go anywhere on a set of wheels rather than continue walking across this accursed steppe.” He nudged Schmidt to get him to agree, but he ignored the gesture and continued to spoon the tinned beef into his mouth.

“That was before the seat of my trousers got stuffed up my asshole from all this sitting and bouncing. It will take a plumber’s tool to yank it out.” Braun laughed uproariously at his own joke. Angst found the thought rather amusing, but Schmidt looked up with disdain. “Must you always talk like that? Can’t a man simply eat in peace?”

“Talk like how?” Braun asked, bemused.

“Your language. Every word that spills out of your mouth, which really doesn’t amount to anything worthwhile, is spoken in the crudest terms imaginable.”

Braun dismissed the severity of the tone and shrugged. “I’ve always considered it a charming aspect of my friendly personality.”

“Well, you’re wrong. You’re neither friendly nor charming,” Schmidt said, tossing the empty tin aside. “You are rather a bore.” He got to his feet, grabbed his carbine, and walked off. Braun called after him. “What is the matter with you? Where do you think you’re going?”

“Picket duty,” he yelled back.

“That’s hours from now. Besides, Angst has the first watch.”

Schmidt turned, gestured obscenely, and continued walking. Braun was befuddled by the behavior. “What’s eating him all of a sudden?”

“I’m not really sure,” Angst said. When not in a general state of apathy, everyone was prone to moods of either depression or fits of elation, either of which could manifest itself in the extreme. Schmidt, he had noticed, had been sullen and uncommunicative throughout the course of the day.

“Since when has he become so sensitive about my language? I’ve heard him curse a streak when the occasion warrants.”

“There might be more to it than that.”

“What then?” Braun was genuinely perplexed.

“A lot is happening all around us. More than some of us can cope with at one time. It’s making us all a little edgy,” Angst told him.

“Some more than others, I fear.”

“He’ll come around, eventually.” Earlier, as they sat in the Hanomag Angst had caught sight of Schmidt fingering the beads to his rosary, but he did so unobtrusively, as if he did not want the other crew members to see.

“He had better get over it,” Braun said, irritated, “and the sooner the better. It’s no joy for me either, living in cramped quarters with Schroeder and the rest of those panzer boys. We three have to stick together. Schmidt ought to realize that.”

“I’m sure he’s aware,” Angst said quietly. He looked at his wristwatch. Guard duty was drawing near. He had time for a cigarette before it became completely dark. He smoked about half and gave the rest to Braun. “See you in the morning,” he said, and walked in the direction of where Schmidt was standing. In the distance, small tongues of flame licked the darkness. His friend stared intently at the display. “How are you feeling, Willi?” Angst asked. When Schmidt turned, his face was no more than a pale blur. Angst could sense that he’d been crying. He did not say anything at first but turned back again to watch the flames, some far off, some closer. They were surrounded by a great ring of fire. Then, after a minute or more, he spoke. “I sometimes wonder if we fight this war on some other world…that this sad, wretched country is not of this earth but exists some millions of kilometers away. Something is taking place here, and I have difficulty expressing it to myself, let alone to someone else. Even a friend. Something more than what meets the eye.” He sighed, exhausted, but drew a deep breath and continued. “‘The trumpet of the first angel has already sounded. Hail and fire has been hurled down upon the earth.’ The apocalypse. Do you not believe it to be so, Johann?” Angst was chilled by the thought. This was a belief he had been running away from since childhood. “You push the thought away, don’t you, and tell yourself this is not happening, not in your lifetime?” Schmidt went on. “But deep down you know it is here, now, and there is no turning back. Wading through blood and fire, we convince ourselves that nothing is unusual. Horrible, yes, men and armies can tolerate so much horror, but never do we admit to the unusual. This is not only a country put to the torch—an entire world is on fire, and we refuse to see beyond the narrow focus of our rifle pits. But you know, as every soldier at the front knows. You might not see the entirety of the drama unfold, yet you sense it deep within your soul.”