Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

After several hours the scout car returned, having achieved success beyond imagination. Every empty container filled to the brim and two more fuel cans added for good measure. When asked how he managed to secure so much gasoline, Falkenstein responded curtly, “A colleague. I ran into him quite by surprise.” The captain did not share the crew’s elation; rather, he was in a terribly foul mood and short of words. Vogel seemed cowed as he helped load the fuel cans back on to the outer hull of the Hanomag. He did not relate what the matter was, or why the captain’s humor had turned so murderously dark.

Falkenstein ordered an abrupt return to the north, giving neither reason nor explanation. Before the crew had completed tying down the fuel cans, the command vehicle sped off back in the direction from where they had spent so much time and energy leaving.

The rain had come, just as Khan had predicted. The cool showers delighted the crew at first, as their faces turned to the sky with opened mouths, drinking in the heavy drops and inhaling the moist, cool air. The choking dust had settled, and the brutal summer heat had finally ended. The dark gray sky rested tired eyes that were nearly poached in their sockets from the long months of glare. Clothing became soaked, but no one seemed to mind, since it relieved their irritated flesh. The enjoyment did not last for long. Thunder rolled across the steppe and brought colder temperatures and torrential downpours. Tarpaulins were draped over the personal equipment that hung from the armored siding, and a large section of the waterproof canvas was fastened to the top of the crew compartment superstructure to keep out the rain. The crew hunkered down under the canopy, wrapped in camouflage shelter halves and field jackets for extra protection. The rich Ukrainian earth drank its fill, and once the saturation point had been reached, the mud materialized: a thick, deep, glutinous mass that clung to everything and everyone. The retreat came to a standstill as the dirt roads and trails turned into seas of black mud. Trucks and lorries sank to the axles. Teams of horses harnessed to wagons or artillery pieces struggled under the loads, urged on by whips and curses, and got nowhere. Infantry support guns, including the long range Eighty-Eight’s, were abandoned and destroyed by engineers. Troop columns waded through the mess and had their boots yanked off their feet at every step. The ground seemed to grab hold of entire armies and suck them under. Only the small panje horses, native to the region, were capable of negotiating the quagmire with relative ease. High-ranking staff officers abandoned their hopelessly stuck vehicles and opted for a lift on a wagon or cart pulled by these versatile steppe ponies. Some tracked vehicles could make it through, although not without some difficulty. Hartmann made sure to keep the Hanomag off the festering mud roads and drove over the sparse ground cover wherever available, having to compete against the heavy armored tanks and assault guns that sought the same ground. Falkenstein’s scout car operated in fits and starts over the spongy terrain, until the going had become so bad the vehicle had to be towed for long stretches. The Hanomag’s steel cable towline and winch were put into service and affixed to the 222’s front end. Even this did not meet with total success, as the mud was too deep, and the captain’s vehicle went down like a sinking ship. The crew, including the lieutenant, clamored out of the personnel carrier with shovels and entrenching tools and dug around the tires of the armored scout car. They labored hard and furiously, for the muck would seep back into place after every shovelful that was removed. When some headway was reached, the floorboards salvaged from the engineer’s farmhouse was laid down under the tires to provide the traction the scout car needed. Vogel gunned the engine, moving several meters, and Hartmann took up the cable slack and pulled with the formidable power of the winch. The vehicles rode for a short distance—an eighth of a kilometer was considerable—until the scout car began to sink, and then the men would have to repeat the work all over again. The rain pelted loudly on their shoulders. Falkenstein, his long, rubberized riding coat buttoned to the neck, shouted directions from the turret.

“Why can’t the captain and that blasted Mongol of his get out and lighten the load some?” Wilms muttered.

“Why should they,” Braun retorted between grunts, “when they have a team of animals that can sink up to their asses for them?” Schroeder then threatened to strangle whoever dared to speak next.

The battle in this morass continued for a while longer, until Hartmann reached ground firm enough to tow the scout car without impediment. Depleted from the effort, the men trudged back into the crew compartment, covered in grime. The benches, deck, and equipment—the mud was everywhere, and there was no escaping the mess.

Life within the cramped space of the armored personnel carrier took some getting used to for the infantrymen. The novelty of transport had worn thin by the third or fourth day. A dichotomy was established at the outset of the journey, with Schroeder, Wilms, and Detwiler seated on one side and Schmidt, Braun, and Angst on the other. An invisible line ran down the length of the compartment, a boundary that would not allow even their knees to touch. When there was no threat or alert, the crew would either stand or sit on the top edge of the armored siding, feet resting on the benches, and watch as one featureless kilometer receded after the next. These occasions were rare, as there were always duties to perform: lookouts, manning the bow and aft machine guns, and taking turns at the radio. The lieutenant would be among the crew, sharing the same duties when not in the driver’s section studying maps or reading from the file the captain had loaned him. Sometimes he drove the vehicle to dispel his boredom, but this was not often, as they traveled too close to an ever-shifting front line and had to rely on the expertise of the primary driver. Sergeant Reinhardt ruled the disparate group firmly, having become something of an expert at reining in the temperaments of men occupying close quarters for long periods of time. He understood when and for how long a man should be allowed to gripe about the heat, dust, and smoke; and the appropriate time and place for banter and a little horseplay. Yet, the sergeant was no fool; he perceived the undercurrent of animosity that existed between the escort grenadiers and the infantry rifle squad but allowed no opportunity for it to fester. He made them work, even when there was no work that needed to be done, on a host of chores: cleaning rifles, counting machine gun rounds, polishing mess kits if necessary. He allowed them to turn most of their ill feelings toward him, knowing it could go no further because he was their sergeant, the very symbol a grenadier despised and feared when there was no enemy about. All in all, the crew members settled into their new situation and were generally well-behaved. After a high state of alert had been maintained for hours, even days on end, the men remained quiet with their thoughts. Now, after three days of relentless rain and mud, complaints and ill temper were on the increase. A pronounced despondency and frustration had enveloped the crew. Reinhardt and the lieutenant were not immune, but they worked harder at trying not to succumb and demanded as much from all onboard. Damp, steaming uniforms, clammy skin, and itching scalps only added to an unpleasant tropic zone created by the body heat generated under the tarp. The musky odor of wet wool, sour breath, and confinement was a breeding ground for hostility. This was Angst’s first experience with the Russian mud. The rest of the crew had all previously been baptized by the mud season, and their memories had been affected so greatly that the experience was looked upon with dread. It seemed as if no time had elapsed since the raputitsa —the spring thaw, as it was known in Russia—back in March, and now the fall mud was upon them; it was shorter in duration to be sure, but no less difficult to endure. Toward the end of September, the vehicles of the Reconnaissance Group were fortunate to progress five or six kilometers a day in such weather. Falkenstein and the rest of Army Group South were under assault from “General Mud.”