Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

“What unit do you men belong to?” Falkenstein called down.

One grenadier came forward from the darkened rear of the barn as the other men stepped aside, deferentially. He was either their leader or had simply elected himself as the official spokesman of the group. “We don’t have an outfit. At least none to speak of. We’re stragglers.”

“And nothing more?” Falkenstein prodded.

“We’re not deserters, if that’s what you’re getting at. The lieutenant colonel will vouch for us. He’s allowed us to stay here and rest before it’s time to move out. Which is impossible to do now,” he said, indicating the enormous Hanomag that was parked where most of the men had been lying down. Falkenstein and Voss climbed out of the crew compartment.

“Is that the lieutenant colonel’s car out front?” Falkenstein asked. Heads nodded in affirmation. “What division?”

“Some headquarters or other. What difference does it make? We’re all stranded,” said the spokesman. Voss was about to discipline the man for speaking to a superior officer in such a disrespectful manner, but Falkenstein, unusually calm, had him ignore the remark.

“Obviously, these gentlemen are all too miserable for anything to matter, Lieutenant.”

A face, bright with inquisitiveness, peered into the barn. It belonged to a lieutenant, slightly built and round-shouldered, who wore an ill-fitting winter coat that was soaked with at least ten liters of rainwater. The hem practically touched the ground. He extended an enthusiastic welcome as he entered.

“What headquarters is this?” Falkenstein asked, dismissing the junior officer’s pleasantries.

“Lieutenant Colonel von Helmansdorff. Not exactly a headquarters, but rather a place we have gotten stuck, more or less. The car ran out of gas quite literally where it now stands. I’m Kreutzer, the colonel’s adjutant.” Lieutenant Kreutzer went on to explain that the lieutenant-colonel was attached to First Panzer Army staff and had volunteered to go out into the field to keep headquarters appraised of the fighting capacity of units still in withdrawal. Most, if not all, the corps and divisional headquarters staff members had already crossed the river and deployed on the west bank. “Now this weather has caused us to get bogged down and lost, along with part of a regiment that’s dug in a few kilometers further east. The radio no longer works, so we can no longer communicate with Army headquarters—or anyone else, for that matter.”

“You said part of a regiment. What about the other part?”

“Haven’t a clue, Captain. Patrols have been sent out to make contact with our neighbors on either flank, but they have yet to report back. Did you happen to cross paths with anyone on your way here?”

“We haven’t seen a soul. The lieutenant and I have embarked on the same goal,” Falkenstein told him.

“Do you know who is operating in this sector?” Kreutzer’s question sounded desperate.

“Other than us and this lost regiment of yours, only the Russians.”

“Well, no matter. The colonel has taken it upon himself to remain until the regiment links up, or we cross the river. Whichever comes first,” Kreutzer said, beaming with pride.

“Under the circumstances, I don’t see you having much choice in the matter,” Falkenstein said.

Suggesting that they must be wet and uncomfortable, Kreutzer invited them both inside. They followed the lieutenant into the farmhouse, quarters that were little better than the barn. Moist earth oozed through the seams in the floorboards, and the roof leaked, but at least it was warm. The small brick oven was fired up, and a kettle steamed on the hearth. Lieutenant Colonel von Helmansdorff was preparing tea, emptying the meager remains of a packet with a wet clump of previously brewed leaves, and spooned the mix into a mess tin. A noticeable sigh of relief escaped his lips when the officers entered. Kreutzer began to make introductions, but the colonel allowed him no opportunity. “Has one of my patrols made contact with you? Is that why you’ve come?”

“Reconnaissance Group Falkenstein. This is my second-in-command, Lieutenant Voss.”

“Captain Falkenstein has not made contact or seen any of our patrols,” Kreutzer told the colonel, whose expression promptly turned worrisome.

“It is a pleasure, gentlemen. Where have you come from, Captain? And to what unit are you attached?”

“The lieutenant and I have recently returned from the south, and I’m not attached to any specific combat group or division. Ours is an autonomous unit.”

“An autonomous reconnaissance group? Well, I suppose anything is possible these days. But we are having an absolute time of it, aren’t we, Captain? This weather! Autumn mud, and so soon. It’s nothing short of a disaster. Now please, gentlemen, take a seat,” von Helmansdorff said, indicating the stools and benches around the table. Falkenstein sat down and placed his leather folder on the table, strewn with maps and a variety of papers, some of which were stained with coffee or tea and smudged with tobacco ash. There was also a field telephone, its cable trailing to the back end of the small, impoverished dwelling and out a window. A paraffin lamp burned dimly.

Falkenstein took in his surroundings and said, “Remarkable to find a house that still stands.”

Von Helmansdorff agreed. “I imagine the rigors of survival have ruled out exercising all the directives laid out in the withdrawal orders. At least where it doesn’t pertain strictly to strategic objectives. Fortunately for us, the Kubelwagen gave out where it did.” The kettle belched puffs of steam. “Fix that for me won’t you, Kreutzer? The captain and the lieutenant could surely use a cup of tea.”

Falkenstein waved the offer aside. “That won’t be necessary. Lieutenant Voss and I would not want to infringe on your ration allotment, meager as I’m sure it is.”

Von Helmansdorff insisted. “Nonsense. If fellow officers can’t share a cup of weak tea, then what is the point in subjecting ourselves to all this.”

Voss smiled in agreement. The lieutenant colonel appeared heartened by the company. He looked to be in his early fifties—probably a reservist, Voss figured. The officer carried a little more weight than he should have, but it was beginning to shed rapidly due to recent privations. Flesh hung loosely around his neck and cheeks, and he’d not used a razor in several days, which added to his worn appearance.

“The lieutenant mentioned you lost contact with some of the regiment,” Voss said.

“Yes. Between the Russians and this weather, it’s made a fine muddle of things. We must be further east than any regimental group in the army’s sector. The initial goal was the bridge at Dnepropetrovsk, but that’s not feasible now. Our only hope is the ferry operating south of the city, if it’s still operational.”

Falkenstein lifted the receiver of the field telephone a few centimeters off the cradle and set it down again. It seemed a bored gesture. “A direct line to the front, I gather.”

Von Helmansdorff nodded. “A cable was strung soon after our arrival, only now it’s dead. Either it was the Russians or the weather.”

“Certainly it’s the weather, sir,” Kreutzer said, setting out the cups. He then carefully poured the tea, using a folded piece of gauze as an improvised strainer. Reaching into a tunic pocket, von Helmansdorff brought out a shiny flask and let several drops fall into his cup. He held up the flask as an invitation to his guests.

“I no longer drink alcohol,” Falkenstein said, curtly.

Eyes widening, Voss said, “If I may, Colonel, I’d be most grateful.”

Von Helmansdorff obliged. “To add a bit of flavor and keep the chill at bay, you understand,” he said to Falkenstein, aware of how closely he was being scrutinized.