Peter Idone: Red Vengeance

“Have you noticed that tank parked far to the rear?” he asked Pieper.

“I most certainly have.”

“A radio vehicle?”

Pieper shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

The sight of the vehicle caused Naumann unease, but he hadn’t a clue as to why. He had spotted the tank through the fire control optics, and although he had believed it to be a KV1 or 2, now, on closer inspection, the outline was all wrong. He tried to make sense of the details using binoculars. The vehicle had remained front forward about two kilometers east of the ravine, outfitted with what appeared to be camouflage netting, and was modified in some way.

“Why does it stay put like that? It hasn’t budged.”

“I don’t know,” Pieper replied, equally intrigued.

“Well, it’s just plain queer, if you ask me. Like somebody’s fat, malevolent stepmother decked out in lace.”

Pieper smirked at the allusion but said nothing. It did strike him as strange, and for some reason, the tank’s presence unsettled him.

“Should I send over a round? Let it know we mean business?” Naumann asked.

“Don’t bother. At this range you would only be wasting ammunition.” Besides, it would do no good , Pieper thought; for a reason he could not explain, he had no desire to tangle with this particular tank. It was a T-34. That much he was sure of.

Bodies lay everywhere. Piles of dead were heaped only a few meters from trenches and dugouts. Wounded Russians, teeth bared, stared back at the grenadiers, who could only watch in disbelief from the loopholes of their gun pits. Even the most horribly mutilated did not cry out or moan. Missing an arm or leg, spilled entrails, or flesh wounds, they grimaced and snarled. Angst was overwhelmed. In a nearby emplacement, a machine gun team removed the warped, overheated barrel of an MG42 and replaced it with a new one. Angst was certain the gunners were going to open fire on the wounded Russians, but they didn’t. Old hands at this sort of thing, he guessed, numb after years of combat. Silent and methodical, the machine gun crew went about their task. Angst envied their numbness. The lines were not overrun—but just about. The nauseating odors of burning petrol, blood, and feces filled the air.

“Is it always going to be like this?” Angst heard Paul Hermann cry.

“Ivan doesn’t fool around,” Schmidt answered.

No, he doesn’t , Angst thought. From what he heard upon his arrival and what he had witnessed since, the Russians would contest every meter of ground and accept criminal numbers in casualties. There was no way to prepare oneself mentally for these mass attacks. Human waves lunged recklessly at thinly held defensive lines. The onslaught could be slowed down temporarily, but not stopped. The sheer volume of men and machines will crush us . Angst reacted viscerally to the thought and shivered involuntarily. This was a far cry from “blitzkrieg,” the well-oiled, fast-paced machine warfare he had experienced in both Poland and France—a fluid, mobile procedure, a progression of achieved objectives. Officially, the Russian front was considered positional warfare. It was a slugfest. Whoever endures the slaughter wins . This was as bad as anything said or rumored about the war in the east. Now that he was here, in the thick of it, it was worse than anything he could have imagined.

Something rattled from behind. Angst fumbled for his carbine and turned about aggressively. It was only Braun, his assault equipment jostling as he walked. Calmed by the sight of his friend, he asked, “Any casualties on your end?”

Braun shook his head. “No. What about you?”

He followed Angst’s gaze as it settled on Old Max, who lay in the trench a few meters down from his gun pit. The sight of the dead grenadier merely affirmed what Braun had said earlier, but he derived no satisfaction from the foreknowledge of Griener’s certain demise. And it wasn’t as though Braun had preordained any of it, although he felt a little guilty. He did not speak of the matter but instead said, “It got quiet all of a sudden.”

“Yeah,” Schmidt called over. “Ivan’s cooking up another brilliant scheme.”

“Like a full frontal assault,” Braun responded in a cynical tone. “Now, that would really surprise the shit out of us.”

Paul Hermann laughed hoarsely as he stroked his cheek against the warm barrel of his carbine.

Hofinger signed off of the transmitter. By the expression he wore, Pieper judged the conversation with the liaison officer had not gone well.

“Expect delays for any further air support. There aren’t enough planes for the sorties requested. When the ground support aircraft return to base to refuel and rearm, missions will be decided by the degree of urgency.”

“Did you tell him this was urgent?”

Hofinger nodded. “The entire line is clamoring for help. We have to sit tight and wait our turn.”

Pieper grunted. Further air support? We have yet to receive any. Sit tight? Our seats are on fire. The hiatus, which lasted for thirty minutes, came to a rude end. The ground started to erupt around the assault gun. An infernal noise echoed throughout the interior as shell fragments and clods of dirt pounded the outer hull. The assault gun had been spotted by Russian forward observers and their artillery had managed to zero in.

“Get us out of here!” Pieper shouted.

As Kurowski lurched into reverse, Hofinger was nearly thrown to the deck. One round landed so close, the assault gun bucked wildly. A section of extra-added frontal armor was shorn off. The men collided, as elbows and knees made contact with each other and, more painfully, with the metal parts of the fighting compartment. Kurowski was having a difficult time repositioning the vehicle away from the creeping artillery barrage. While in reverse, he wove about as fast as possible, his teeth clamped tightly on the bit of a briar wood pipe. Saliva ran down the stem toward the unlit bowl and whistled as he breathed heavily from the exertion. So far, any hits to the vehicle had caused only superficial damage, Kurowski noted. The indicator gauges on the panel read correctly; oil pressure hadn’t redlined; and the engine, despite the strain, hadn’t overheated. But it was proving to be one hell of a ride. Through the headphones, he heard the gun commander’s voice ordering an immediate and stable firing position. Kurowski braked hard. The Russian armor and infantry made use of the artillery cover. Two tanks had subsequently emerged from the ravine. More followed. Pieper ordered high-explosive rounds. He wanted to tear as many holes in the infantry lines as possible in the short space of time available. Hofinger and Naumann managed to load, target, and fire eight rounds at their own discretion when time had finally run out.

“Armor-piercing, Hofinger! Target approach estimated at four hundred fifty meters. Kurowski, traverse left forty degrees. Naumann!”

Naumann sighted and adjusted the gun mount wheels by slight increments. “Target.”

“Fire!”

The round struck the oncoming tank at the precise moment its 76 mm cannon fired. The crew heard the projectile whistle over the bow. The T-34 burned. One of the Russian crewmen escaped out of the turret hatch, leaped off, and ran for safety within a shell crater. The next tank had come to a full stop to concentrate its gun layering from a stationary and thus more accurate position. Yet another tank had exited the ravine, one Pieper hadn’t seen, and fired as it approached. The shell fell off target, but the distraction was effective. Pieper turned his attention back to the other tank, which had advanced to a distance of six hundred meters. It stopped, fired, and scored a goal. The shell struck a glancing blow to the armored apron and burst. The tank resumed its advance.