Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

“You’re not getting cold feet, are you Lieutenant?”

“No, sir, but the safest and most logical course of action would be—”

“Good, because Veranovka is our only fallback position.”

Angst and Wilms found refuge inside the truncated fuselage of a downed Junker transport. The tail and flight deck were missing, as was the entire right wing and a small end section on the left. Pieces of the doomed aircraft lay scattered in a wide swath. The midsection was still relatively whole, except for rents and perforations along the port sides and the bulkhead. Wilms removed the radio and set it down on an empty ammunition box, rust showing where the drab brown-green paint had flaked away. A bivouac of sorts had been made here before as either an observation post or as a means of shelter. Empty field ration tins, cigarette stubs, and a pair of muddy socks, the heels and toes completely worn through, lay submerged with more litter in a lagoon of water that had seeped onto the deck.

The rain had stopped some time ago, but the wind became so furious that it was a struggle to walk. They were already done in from traipsing through the mud, and despite shelter halves, their clothing underneath was practically soaked through from sweat. No Russians were found taking cover behind the defile, as Schroeder had suggested there might be. At the last signal contact, the order was to stay put and maintain forward observation until further notice. Angst looked at his watch: sixteen-thirty hours. If Falkenstein did not return soon, he and Wilms and the rest of the crew stood a good chance of spending the night out here. While the signalman fiddled with the radio dial, Angst got comfortable by the port opening that faced east and kept a lookout with binoculars. Visibility extended for no more than a kilometer, where a veil of mist, stirred by the wind, had descended and blanked out the details of the landscape beyond. The thick cloud cover did not improve matters. The wind whistled through cracks and tears in the aluminum skin. After a time, Wilms removed the earphones, careful not to let the trailing wires droop in the puddles of water. “It’s dead out here,” he said, referring to the absence of chatter on the radio. “This whole sector must be clear of Russians.”

Angst hoped that was true. An unusually strong gust whipped through the open ends of the fuselage and caused their shelter halves to flap like sails. “If this wind continues, things should dry up a little,” Angst said, as he struggled to button the ends of his shelter half that had blown open.

“More than likely. We might even see some sunshine by tomorrow,” Wilms replied.

“Good. I was worried my remark was yet another indication of my ignorance of weather conditions around here.” The ugly scene with Detwiler earlier still gnawed at him. Angst had always prided himself on maintaining a certain amount of self-control and decorum, and he was angry for allowing the likes of the machine gunner to get to him. Utter fool that Detwiler was, he should have known to dismiss everything that came out of the man’s mouth.

“How did you come to be here, Angst? Some replacement battalion?” Wilms asked.

“Officially? I volunteered. Unofficially, I was transferred here as a cheap means of revenge to salvage the vanity of a superior officer.”

“A cheap means of revenge,” Wilms repeated, and shrugged. His interest was aroused, and he pressed Angst to tell him more.

Unsure as to why he was indulging the signalman with the details of his farcical military career thus far, Angst said, “I was a lieutenant’s orderly. Lieutenant Nieheus. He was an adjutant for one of the staff officers at division headquarters. I’d been in France ever since the invasion. Then came the occupation. Two years of drill, marches, exercises, and patrolling the beach. We stared at the ocean, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, month after month for an enemy that failed to materialize. The monotony, the boredom was…soul destroying. There were no dividends or amusements. Everyone struggled just to have enough tobacco to help smoke away the terminal hours.”

“Did you visit Paris?” Wilms asked.

“Once. There was an organized cultural excursion for enlisted men. A forty-eight hour pass. We weren’t allowed any time by ourselves, and certainly not to get into any trouble on our own. At least I got to see the main attractions. The Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame Cathedral, the tomb of—”

Wilms interrupted. “What about the women?”

Angst smiled bitterly. “For some. The lower ranks had very few dealings with the locals. Where our company was situated, the villages were few and sparsely populated. I and some of the guys in the platoon would barter for eggs and milk, usually with a farmer’s wife who was older than your grandmother.”

“So what about this superior officer? The one whose vanity you riled.”

“Christ! Are you going to make me recount the entire sorry tale?” It would be laughable, had it not had such tragic consequences, he thought.

“Sure, why not? We have some time to kill, and Schroeder doesn’t expect to hear from us for at least another fifteen or twenty minutes.”

Angst didn’t know why he felt inclined to confide in Wilms, a stranger. He’d not even related the details to Schmidt or Braun, whom he considered friends. “It was during last winter, when the top kick came around the barracks looking for anyone who possessed reasonable typing skills. The clerical pool down at division—most of them had contracted bronchitis. A severe bout was circulating, and headquarters found itself understaffed with so many guys out sick. Some of us from the company, myself included, were sent to fill in temporarily. Any sort of a change was something to look forward to. I wasn’t there long, a couple of days, when Lieutenant Nieheus singled me out. He thought I did a good job, was neat and conscientious. Eventually, he offered me the position as his orderly. His own man had fallen ill and had so far proven to be a disappointment. I accepted, and before long I was reassigned. It wasn’t a bad duty, really, and I was kept on at division, typing reports for the adjutant’s office. Nothing classified, really; it was mostly rosters, schedules, itineraries, and procurements. Of course there was the obligatory boot polishing, laundry, and pressing uniforms. Whenever the lieutenant had use of the colonel’s car, I was assigned to drive him around. Every other week or so, I had to report back to the company for drill, and there were maneuvers now and again, none of it lasting for more than a couple of days. The lieutenant’s duties were broadening not so much at headquarters as outside of it. The colonel had saddled him with assignments that were more of a personal nature. The lieutenant was in good with the colonel, so he told me. He claimed to be liked and trusted, and there was every indication a promotion was due him in the not-too-distant future. What the colonel relied on most was Nieheus’s discretion. You see, the colonel kept a mistress, and there was etiquette to be followed, because he didn’t want some of the other officers within his circle to know about this liaison. A brother-in-law, or maybe it was his wife’s cousin, was on the general staff, so he needed to be very careful. Lieutenant Nieheus scheduled their trysts.”

Wilms scoffed. “Quite a bureaucratic love affair.”

Angst agreed. “The colonel thought he was being very clever. Whenever Nieheus fetched the woman, booked a hotel, or rented a cottage, it gave the appearance that the assignation was his and not the colonel’s. At first Nieheus found the task demeaning and complained of acting as the colonel’s procurer. Despite all the shortages we all had to live with, the lady was kept in a reasonable state of comfort.”