Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

Voss, attempting to remain unruffled, said “We’re overburdened, sir.”

“This is not our fight, Lieutenant. Better game beckons us.”

“We cannot allow the whims of fate to decide for the lives of all these men. It is unconscionable.”

“Damn them to hell! They’re running away. Get them off the vehicle, or I will give the order to have them shot.”

Voss knew that Mad Falkenstein seemed very capable of giving that order at the moment. He shouted over the din and tried to reason with the crowd. “You are impeding our mission and endangering all of our lives. We can’t take you all on. Now move away.”

This language was not nearly strong enough for the captain’s taste. He loomed over the siding like an engorged Cyclops. “Stand clear, or I’ll give the order to open fire on you all.” Most of the squad had their weapons at the ready. Khan, Wilms, and Detwiler trained submachine guns on the crowd. Voss did not move, determined to take no part in it. Resigned, some of the troops hopped off the mudguards, but one fellow, a tall, bedraggled grenadier, stayed and challenged the officers. He stood face to face with the captain and sneered, “There are more of us than you. We could take over your vehicle. What have we got to lose? We’re getting slaughtered out here.” Voices shouted in agreement, and the troops started to advance on the Hanomag once again. With lightning speed, Falkenstein drew his P-38 and pressed the muzzle to the grenadier’s forehead. “Incite mutiny, dog, and you will be the first to fall.” Shocked rather than frightened, the grenadier let go of the siding and jumped down. One by one the others followed.

Hartmann called out from the driver’s cabin, “Captain! Lieutenant!”

In the dwindling illumination of the flares, an armored infantry vehicle flanked by two T-34s drove by in a northwesterly direction. “They haven’t seen us,” Voss said, relieved.

“Let them pass. We will have to evacuate this sector.” Falkenstein felt cheated.

“It might be too late,” Reinhardt countered. A third T-34 bore down upon their position.

“Get the panzerfaust, Sergeant,” Voss said. “We can’t outrun it now.”

“Our antitank weapons are too few to waste on this lot,” Falkenstein protested.

Despite the captain’s frustration, Voss remained firm. “Get into position, Dieter.”

Falkenstein had no choice but to concede. He nodded his assent, but Reinhardt wasn’t waiting for the commander’s go-ahead; he’d already opened the crate and lifted the grenade launcher carefully and exited through the crew compartment doors. He mounted the hull that lay over the depression, took cover behind the cracked turret, and maintained the picture of absolute coolness to the crew as the Russian tank came within range. He hugged the launching tube under his right armpit and looked through the vertical sight and past the squat, hollow charged explosive mounted at the front end. The T-34’s hull machine gun fired in short bursts as it drew near. Nerves were strained inside the crew compartment as everyone waited for the sergeant to fire. The tank was well within the sixty-meter maximum target range, but still Reinhardt waited. “Come on, just a few meters more” he said, quietly. The tank had gotten so close he could hear, above the sound of the diesel, a round being slammed into the breech. He could wait no longer and pressed the firing lever. A white shaft of flame belched from the rear of the tube as exploding gases sent the projectile smashing into the center of the sloping front hull. A loud thud was followed by a grating bang. The T-34 lurched and then stopped. Nearby, the 20 mm gun on the scout car spewed a series of bursts of armor-piercing rounds that chewed away at the tank’s skin. Small flames appeared along the left side of the vehicle, but mostly it was thick smoke that billowed out. The turret hatch cover swung open, and a crewman leapt out. He started to run for all he was worth but slipped and fell facedown in the mud. Frantic, he struggled to put as much distance between himself and the tank as it burst into flames. The crew laughed and jeered at the Russian’s antics. Detwiler swung the machine gun around on the rear bracket mount and took aim. “Let’s see if this can make him dance.”

Falkenstein ordered that no one shoot. “I want him alive. Khan!” The Mongol swung himself over the side in one move, landed upright, and ran effortlessly through the mud after the Russian. Falkenstein turned to Voss. “We will rendezvous at Veranovka as planned. No doubt your appetite for rescue is far from satisfied. God help you, should this vehicle break down under the weight of rabble you collect along the way.”

Voss saluted. “I understand perfectly, sir.”

Falkenstein returned the salute, curtly. Barking at the crew to make room, he pushed his way to the compartment doors. Schroeder had since exited the scout car and watched as the captain stepped down. Their eyes met. “Why are you frowning, Corporal?”

“I still have the stomach for a fight, sir.”

Falkenstein smiled. “There’s always tomorrow. We will try again, you and I. Red Vengeance won’t forget us. Mark my words.”

Pleased with the attention the captain had bestowed upon him, Schroeder boarded the Hanomag. Reinhardt climbed down off the hull, flung the used launching tube aside, muttered “Sir” to Falkenstein as he passed, and followed the corporal into the crew compartment, where he was greeted by all with slaps on the back and words of admiration for a terrific kill. Gears strained as the armored personnel carrier shifted in reverse and then heaved forward as it rocked across the soft, uneven earth and groaned under the added weight of more men and equipment. Falkenstein limped over to the scout car and watched as the vehicle drove away. “Don’t think you have gained the upper hand with me, Herr Voss…” Above the sound of the rattling engine, Vogel sat at the wheel and listened to the captain’s muttering through the opened side port. “…Out here I am lord and master. There are no other loyalties. Only total commitment to me.”

The enemy penetration, such as it was, fizzled out as quickly as it had begun. Falkenstein could only shake his head in wonder at the rout the diminutive action had produced, more so for his own command, as the opportunity to engage Red Vengeance was lost. Several flares burned weakly in the sky some distance away, yet the light produced was enough for him to watch as Khan dragged the Russian crewman along by the scruff of the neck and placed him, like a dog to heel, at his feet. Under the padded leather tank helmet, a set of eyes shone brightly from a mud smeared face. Despite the grime, Falkenstein saw that the crewman was young. He recognized the look he received, having witnessed it countless times before—defiance, even with Khan’s curved blade poised at the Russian’s throat. “Whether you live or die makes no difference to me, but it does to him,” Falkenstein said, indicating Khan. A glimmer of surprise betrayed the crewman’s poise. The captain’s use of his native tongue was far from perfect but his intent was made very clear “Answer my questions, and at least I can intervene on your behalf.” The crewman barely nodded, but it was enough for Falkenstein to continue. “Tell me everything you know about Red Vengeance. Where did it go?”

“You know all there is to know, German, probably more than I.”

“This is not a game. We have all run out of time. Now, answer my questions. What armored unit is Red Vengeance usually attached to? Has it gone to ground, and if so, for how long? Where and when will it appear next? Admit to me: whose control is it under?”

The crewman appeared momentarily confused by the barrage of questions. He took a deep breath and then became remarkably composed as his mouth curled into an icy smile. “Red Vengeance is a myth you Hitlerites made up for yourselves. The Red Army is defeating you, so you heap all your fears on one improbable machine. I personally don’t believe anything said of Red Vengeance. It’s an invention. Your invention.” The Russian laughed.