Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

“Sounds like a good idea to me” Braun said.

“No more wisecracks from you, Braun. Get that machine gun set up with Detwiler, behind the hull of that tank. Spread out, all of you!” he screamed, nearly hysterical. “Wilms, Angst, forward patrol.”

“What about the mine field?” Wilms asked.

“I’m not asking you to go beyond the wire. There’s a defile about two kilometers out to the northeast. The captain showed me on the map. The Russians can easily take cover there. I don’t want any surprises, understood?”

“Jawohl, Herr General,” Wilms muttered, not quietly enough. Schroeder closed in on the signalman. He appeared on the verge of causing bodily harm if pushed too far.

“What did you say?”

Chastened, Wilms stammered. “N-nothing, I only meant…”

“Take the radio, Wilms, and get moving. You too, Angst. Report in at fifteen-minute intervals. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, Corporal.”

Angst held the radio, buttoned up in its waterproof covering, as Wilms slipped his arms through the shoulder harness. As soon as Schroeder left, Wilms said, “He’s getting worse as time goes on. Of all people the captain had to leave in charge. Give a little man authority, and see if you’re not thrown headlong into the abyss.”

Angst could not help but smile and think that the signalman’s words would be the epitaph for their generation. Wilms tucked a small kit bag that contained the headphones and microphone under his shelter half, as Angst wound strips of cloth and rope around their boots to keep them in place while they slogged through the mud. They sank down well above their ankles, and an obscene sucking noise was heard each time they lifted their feet. The rain had let up, but a strong wind blew with considerable gusts. The odor of rusting metal filled the air, and the taste of sour decay and old death. Aside from the rotting tanks and vehicles, there was the litter of field equipment scattered over the ground: helmets, cartridge pouches, gas mask canisters. Then there was the grisly sight of skeletal remains, draped in tattered uniforms, that had risen out of the rain-drenched earth. The ground was pockmarked with shell craters that had become flooded with yellow-brown rainwater. Carefully, the two grenadiers edged around the rims of the craters—one misstep, and they would plunge into the sludge. The sky was laden with clouds so thick, it churned like the sea. Almost green in color, the light from the cloud cover cast an eerie pallor over the land. This was the best and only place the captain had for them to find cover, a landscape of doom. Angst was more appalled than uneasy or afraid. There is no turning back now , he thought, no retreat left open for us. No hope left. We’re all doomed . The best and only thing he could do was place one foot in front of the other, get close, closer still, and have it over with.

Despite the lack of weight, the scouting mission progressed slowly as Hartmann worked the Hanomag over the soft ground. Voss noted the time and discovered two hours had elapsed since they had left the squad and the 222 behind. The rain had let up, sort of; periodically, a light shower would fall for a minute or two and then end abruptly. But the wind had increased in strength, causing the tarpaulin to flap madly and the ends to become undone. Voss untied the loosened ropes and folded the waterproof canvas as best he could, while Khan sat on the bench, arms folded, either sleeping or in some state of temporary hibernation. The captain remained at the bow machine gun with a pair of field glasses and maintained a vigil over the ruined countryside with his one good eye. They traveled across acreage that had been burned some time ago, immense fields of wheat or hay, and the odor of burnt straw was still strong. The tracks of the vehicle churned through the blackened, sodden clumps of wet ash. Voss joined the captain at the bow machine gun and, using his own binoculars, focused the lenses on where the scorched, wet earth intersected with the boiling sky. After several minutes he grew weary, as the wind continued to buffet him. “Where are we going, sir?”

Falkenstein did not waver. Standing straight as an iron rod, as though he had been welded to the deck, he did not even shift or lose balance as the vehicle plunged through the swells and currents of mud. Finally, he said, “I am alone. Cast off. Forgotten. Perhaps it is all for the best. At least I have freedom of movement, or the illusion of such.” He lowered the field glasses and grinned at the lieutenant’s bemused expression. “My contact at Army Group headquarters has been reposted. He was the very last of a woefully small staff. With Gottfried failing to materialize, and no monitoring apparatus, his was the only voice that remained. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Now there is no one. Someone, possibly the field marshal himself, thought it vital to have a representative close at hand, in Melitopol, when Tolbukhin’s offensive begins in earnest. He is to coordinate with Sixth Army and the Seventeenth in Crimea, if the line does not hold and the peninsula is cut off. You can imagine my surprise—no, shock—when I arrived at Hollidt’s headquarters to requisition the fuel and to discover my associate there. Well, at least he was instrumental in avoiding the paperwork necessary to secure the gasoline. Without him, I don’t think I would have managed a drop. I am a nonentity as far as Army Group is concerned. So, you understand, Voss, we are now on our own.”

The question Voss had originally asked remained unanswered, but the captain’s explanation clarified the reason for the dark mood he exhibited after his return from Melitopol. Normally, Voss would be moved to say something to soothe the worries or disappointments of a commanding officer who confided in him and help bolster his morale. In this instance, there was the need to assure Falkenstein he was not alone, that he and the crew were with him, but Voss lacked the heart to do so. Not for this officer. Not for this man.

“Tell me, Lieutenant, and please be candid. Should something happen to me, would you continue with the mission on your own?”

“I will follow my orders, sir, whatever those orders may be.”

“Yes, of course. As I would have assumed…”

“But allow me to add that you, captain, are the mission. Stand or fall. Succeed or fail, this mission and your entire being are intertwined like the strands of a rope.”

“Then I should take care so as not trip over—or worse, hang myself by that rope, eh, Lieutenant?”

The armored personnel carrier slowed, and Reinhardt squeezed out of the co-driver’s seat and into the crew compartment. “One thousand meters to the east,” he said, and took his position at the bow machine gun. The two officers raised their binoculars and saw a farmhouse and barn, with a vehicle parked out in front. They agreed it was a Kubelwagen. Hartmann drove slowly and detoured in a wide arc so as not approach the buildings head on. The machine gun swiveled on the coaxial mounting as Reinhardt took aim. Closer inspection revealed two German soldiers milling about the wide entrance to the barn. The four tires of the Kubelwagen were half-submerged in the mud. Still cautious, Reinhardt kept his finger on the trigger.

The armored carrier pulled up in front of the ramshackle barn. A group of eight grenadiers roused themselves as Hartmann eased the vehicle inside. The men looked miserable, faces drawn with fatigue, wet uniforms and boots encased in mud. The interior of the barn reeked with urine. Irritated at having to move out of the way so as not to be crushed by the armored vehicle, and despite their exhaustion, they possessed the strength of nerve to look upon the officers’ arrival with insolence. Khan peeked furtively over the edge of the siding, as though he was unwilling to reveal too much of himself.