Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

They all looked to Angst to continue, but it was Voss who spoke. “The enemy knows we’re making for the river in retreat.”

“And if this propaganda slows them down any,” Angst said, “a fortified eastern wall isn’t something I’m willing to gamble on.”

“Christ, Angst! Why don’t you try boosting our morale some more?” Detwiler said angrily.

Eager to hear the lieutenant’s interpretation, Schmidt asked what he thought about the leaflet. Voss doubted if any such construction had begun on the opposite bank of the Dniepr; nonetheless, he was not about to shatter their illusions with the hard reality of truth. They should consider themselves fortunate if a slit trench or foxhole had been prepared for them. More than likely, they would have to dig one for themselves.

“Keep moving, and don’t cluster around like this. We’re too exposed.” He rolled the leaflet into a tight little ball and tossed it into the wind.

A bizarre sight greeted the patrol upon their return to the village. The gelding lay on its side, throat slit, and the antler-handled knife was stuck upright in the gore-drenched soil. Hands and face smeared in blood, hair matted with sweat, Khan struck the drum and whipped his flanks, first one thigh and then the other, between each drum beat with the long rib bone. Legs bent, he leaned forward and rocked back and forth; and, as he maintained this difficult posture, his feet mimicked a gallop while running in place. A stream of guttural cries poured from his frothing mouth.

“That pantomime has gone on since you left,” Reinhardt said when the squad, hot, tired and thirsty, gathered around the parked vehicles. He wiped his hands clean of grease with a rag spotted with gasoline.

“The Mongol’s knife flashed sunlight, and like that,” Hartmann said, snapping his fingers, “he drove it into the horse’s neck. Tried to run, but hobbled as it was, it started to buck. He tugged on the blade, making that ugly gash. It keeled over, the life gushing out, and lay there with its legs jerking in spasms while that fucking savage took a bath in its blood.”

The men grumbled their displeasure at the spectacle. “It’s sinful enough we kill our fellow man, but to destroy some harmless, trusting beast is senseless cruelty,” Schmidt said, genuinely saddened.

“I’ll tell you what’s senseless. This fucking war and the unit we’ve ended up in,” Braun said, giving Schroeder a foul look. Voss had overheard and turned on Braun with a controlled vehemence. “That remark is going to cost you dearly, grenadier.” He then asked where the captain was, and Reinhardt pointed to the schoolhouse. “He’s shut himself away the whole time.”

Voss went over to the scout car, where Vogel tinkered on the motor with last minute adjustments, his back turned to the atrocity. “Can you tell me what that is supposed to mean?”

Vogel did not raise his head, merely concentrating on the idling sound of the engine. “No, Lieutenant.”

“I find that hard to believe, Sergeant, as you spend more time than most with the Mongol.”

“I’m only the captain’s driver. I follow his orders. Anything else is not my concern.”

“If only I could be graced with the same luxury of selection,” Voss said and then stormed into the schoolhouse. Falkenstein sat at desk; a map lay open, which he studied, his eyes transfixed. He did not look up when Voss noisily entered the room.

“I wish to inform the captain that the men are distressed over the hideous antics of your orderly.”

“Do you hear that?” Falkenstein said, as the drum continued to beat, but the pauses in between grew longer. “The sound of creation. The beginning of the world and its passing away. Over and over. Infinite life and infinite death.”

“The butchering of that poor animal is needless and cruel. The men have said as much,” Voss told him.

“Your men should hold their tongues about things they cannot hope to grasp.”

“Then why expose them to a barbaric practice, if there is no intention of an explanation?”

Falkenstein was willing to overlook the anger in the voice of his sub-ordinate this one time. Calmly, he began to explain. “Among Khan’s people, it is a customary practice for the shaman to offer up a horse in sacrifice. He mounts the animal’s spirit and rides to heaven or some lofty place, where an assortment of gods dwell. I don’t quite understand the cosmology. Revelations unfold from these encounters with the gods or spirits that will aid him and whoever he serves in this world—which, at this moment, happens to be me.”

“And you believe this?” Voss asked, incredulous.

“What I believe, in this instance, has little bearing. Khan believes in a world we cannot see and have no notion of. He and his people have ventured into this other world for generations, since before the last ice age, I would imagine.”

“And we are men of this age, in a world of rational thought and technology, not drums and blood sacrifices.”

“I’m not so sure that is true, Lieutenant.”

“Disagree if you must, but I consider it unwise, even dangerous, for the captain to be taken in by some primitive whose culture is completely alien and quite possibly hostile to our own. I ask you to free yourself of Khan’s influences before your safety is at risk.”

“Perhaps you fear more than just my safety is at risk?” Falkenstein suggested.

“I don’t know what you mean by that question, sir. All I ask is that you consider the effects of an alliance with the likes of Khan could have, not only for yourself, but also for the men and this mission.”

“As far as this mission is concerned, Khan is an instrument I cannot well do without. His interpretation and his powers will only aid us through this ordeal. Don’t think for a moment that I’m unaware of the odds, but with Khan, there is a greater chance of success. You have yet to grasp the uniqueness of what we are up against, Voss. We face a power greater than what we are willing to accept. I would go so far as to call it occult. Red Vengeance is not simply a machine of war. It is a construct, a construct of evil. Khan understands this and knows what it is capable of. This evil has robbed him of his land and oppressed his people, and, given the opportunity, will bring cataclysm to our homeland. Khan does not assist me purely out of selfless motives, but he does recognize in me a kindred spirit, one who has taken a glimpse beyond this world, of reality itself, to see Red Vengeance for what it truly is.”

“Then I can only hope the shaman’s incantations can penetrate the armored hull of Red Vengeance with greater accuracy and effectiveness than the weapons at our disposal.”

“Don’t mock, Lieutenant,” Falkenstein said. “I will utilize both…weapons and magic.”

Khan’s spirit ride had come to an end. He collapsed on the ground and rolled about in a fit of ecstasy that bordered on obscene. After several minutes of these gyrations, he recovered and gathered knife, drum, and rib bone. He looked ghastly when he approached the scout car, the horse’s blood already caked on his face and hands, sweat foaming throughout his shaggy black hair, yet he seemed strangely invigorated. Falkenstein was waiting for him. “What have you learned?”

“There is much rain to come, Captain. Your journey will prove trying and slow.”

“This journey has been slow since the outset and tries me in every way! What else?”

Khan shook his head. “There is no more. Only rain. Black clouds filled with rain.”

“Is it an evil omen? What does it mean?”

“It means nothing. Only rain.”

Falkenstein nodded, but with abject disappointment. What he had hoped to hear from the shaman’s symbolic journey was some word of Red Vengeance or a sign that he was on the path that would eventually lead to success. Instead, he received an unsolicited weather forecast and an impression, as far as Voss and the crew were concerned, of the unsavory company he kept. Khan climbed aboard the scout car and disappeared down the turret, a jinn returned to its bottle. Falkenstein cast his one good eye skyward to an ocean of blue—not a cloud to be seen. He muttered a curse and gave the order to move out.