Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

Reconnaissance Group Falkenstein had entered the Sixth Army zone of operations once south of Zaporozhye. The weakened corps, with little armored support, would have a difficult task defending the Wotan Line, which ran from the city and its great dam and hydroelectric works for one hundred forty kilometers, past Melitopol, to as far as the Sea of Azov. The line had been established to bolster the Crimea and prevent the Seventeenth Army from being cut off and isolated. Now, on the verge of the Nogay Steppe, the effect was not lost on the crew, especially Angst, Schmidt, and Braun. Their battalion—whatever was left of it, along with the other regiments and divisions that the Sixth comprised—was expected to hold back the armies of General Tolbukhin’s South Front in the boundless reaches of an arid, desolate wasteland. The Wotan Line consisted of no more than a hastily excavated ditch, which was to serve as an antitank trap with a series of trenches, foxholes, and dugouts positioned in front. There was no natural cover or high ground, and the artillery emplacements all stood exposed. This pathetic attempt at fortification was considered part of the vaunted “eastern wall,” and if some of the crew held any illusions about the protection offered by the defensive line, those illusions were irrevocably shattered. Angst no longer doubted that the Reconnaissance Group held out the better alternative.

The civilian exodus had thinned out considerably; there were only the stragglers from unnamed villages and kolkhozes further east, which were now under the control of the Red Army. Women plodded across the hot dirt tracks and dusty roads, their blouses and headscarves darkened by sweat, and urged their youngsters along as they tottered on wobbly legs. Among these mothers and children were the mill workers and dockhands, young boys and old men, from as far away as Mariupol, which had fallen to the enemy over a week earlier. An emaciated horse pulled a cart that had since become a hearse; furniture and baggage was jettisoned by a peasant couple to make room for the sick and elderly who had succumbed to the heat and rigors of the journey.

After maintaining close proximity to the Wotan Line, the vehicles began to veer back toward the east. At least Falkenstein, in the lead, did so; the Hanomag merely followed. Voss opened a map to get a fix on their location. They traveled along the Mololchnaya River, which was actually no more than a stream, the only natural barrier in this bleak territory. Infantry units were dug in behind the west bank of the river, still vulnerable and indefensible. The vehicles kicked up enormous clouds of dust, as the landscape was utterly barren, practically a desert. Voss wondered how far the captain was willing to take them. Blatantly obvious targets that they already were, to continue to drive this far to the east was to beg the enemy to spot them. Voss raised the command vehicle on the radio. “Two-Five-One to Sundial, come in, over.”

“This is Sundial. Go ahead, Two-Five-One.”

“Indication suggests a heading east by southeast of Wotan position. Will Sundial confirm this heading as actual, over?”

“Sundial confirms.” It was Falkenstein’s voice.

“Two-Five-One wishes to inquire as to eventual destination by this heading, over.”

There was a pause. The receiver crackled. “Smoke observed approximately ten kilometers due east and will investigate. Sundial out.”

The cause for the smoke, a thin gray coil that snaked its way into the sky, soon became apparent. A small motor column had come under an air attack. Staff cars and trucks littered the dirt road with blown-out tires and cracked engine blocks from the armor-piercing rounds of the Stormovik cannons. Charred bodies lay near the wrecks that still burned. A corpse remained upright in the driver’s seat of a truck, the blackened skeletal hands fused to the steering wheel. The few survivors milled about listlessly through the scattered debris, their mouths agape and uniforms torn and singed. They stared vacantly as the Reconnaissance Group pulled to a stop. They were file clerks and orderlies from a headquarter staff, one of the men explained. Out of the eight survivors, he seemed to have his wits about him still. The main combat arm of the division was not too far behind. Two of the staff members had suffered burns on their arms and hands. The lieutenant had Schmidt and Braun break out the first aid kits to salve and dress the wounds. The rest of the crew took up defensive positions and watched for the possible return of enemy ground assault aircraft. Every machine gun was brought into play, including the 20 mm cannon in the scout car turret. Khan adjusted the mounting so the weapon could be fired at a higher-angle trajectory. Vogel left the vehicle and, with fuel can and hose, siphoned the fuel from the vehicles that had not burned. The captain raised himself up in the turret and scanned the sky with binoculars. Sheaves of typewritten pages blew across the ground, causing Voss to suggest, to those who were not injured, that they retrieve the scattered files.

“There’s nothing important written on any of it,” said one of the clerks. “Nothing strategic, only copies of requests for supplies and inventory lists. Things we never received.”

“No matter,” Voss said, “the Russians could find something important.” The men needed a chore, a focus, to help rouse them out of their shock-induced torpor. Voss began by picking up the papers a page at a time, and the corporal he was speaking to started to help. Others followed as they chased the papers across the windswept ground.

“That’s it, clean the place up. You’ve kept these records for quite some time now, and it would seem a shame to let it go to nothing.” The captain had signaled for Voss to join him. He’d been questioning one of the survivors and dismissed him as the lieutenant approached the scout car. Falkenstein looked down from the turret, looking like a vulture in its nest. “You see that vehicle?” Falkenstein said, as he pointed to a smoldering heap, a staff car reduced to an unrecognizable mangled pile of metal. “The officers were in that, including a major from corps staff. He needed a ride, apparently.”

“We can take them back with us to the Wotan position,” Voss said, indicating the survivors.

“That won’t be necessary. The fellow I just spoke with said that a baggage company was not far behind. They can scoop them up. There is nothing more for us here.”

“They might have come under attack by the same aircraft. There is no guarantee…”

“No, there isn’t. The same could happen to us, if we’re not careful.”

“At least allow me to take the wounded back.”

“Detours, extra weight, and a profligate waste of fuel will endanger us all. Bear that in mind at all times, Lieutenant.”

Voss swore to himself that he would never forget it.

Rhinos. Elephants. Panthers and Tigers. A menagerie of armored animals had gathered into a small herd north of Melitopol and awaited redeployment. This mixed species of enormous, plodding vehicles with long-range, large-caliber guns was to defend the city against the Russian South Front steamroller when the time came.

After the survivors of the destroyed motor column were left to fend for themselves, the Reconnaissance Group continued further south to the outskirts of Melitopol, where defensive preparations were in full swing. Voss had assumed the plan would be to patrol the Azov coast for as many kilometers as time and circumstance would permit, in case another armored creature, Red Vengeance, was found basking in the sun and revitalizing itself by the offshore breeze. As it turned out, this was not to be the plan at all. Falkenstein had become alarmed by the low reserves of fuel and would not risk begging and cajoling the limited supply units or chance petrol browsers operating along the Wotan Line. He had the crew turn over all the empty fuel cans, and once they were lashed to the scout car siding, he set off for the heart of the city in search of a petrol dump.