Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

“There are two new men,” Reinhardt said. “Help them with the aft machine gun from the vehicle, and set up a position on the south side of town. Then get over to the depot and keep watch.”

“Yes, Sergeant.” Angst turned to the captain and the lieutenant, saluted again, and cut across the square to where the Hanomag was parked. He was relieved not to be in for some form of punishment, at least for the moment; not that the sergeant would be reticent to describe Detwiler’s actions or his own lack of maintaining discipline. More urgent requirements needed attending to first, and Angst had no doubt that the matter would be dealt with, eventually.

At the vehicle, Hartmann introduced the new machine gun crew, Fritch and Herzog, who were weighted down with the MG34, a spare barrel, and boxes of ammunition. “You will want to dig in really deep,” Hartmann said, as he removed the clamps from the long-handled shovel mounted on the fender and gave it to Angst. The driver also provided them with a section of tarp, binoculars, and a Very pistol with several signal and illumination flares. His arms loaded with the extra gear, including an entrenching tool from his own personal equipment, Angst led the way down Old Cart Road. “What’s the idea of fortifying this place?” asked the one called Herzog. “Aren’t you crossing the river?”

“Not anytime soon. Nobody asked you to tag along, but now that you’re here, you belong to the captain.” Angst was in no mood to exchange comradely banter with the two men. He remembered Herzog from the night before; he was among those who tried to force their way aboard the vehicle and had nearly gotten them all killed. Herzog was wearing a forage cap, having either lost or thrown away his helmet. Neither man possessed a rifle. When they had walked halfway toward the railroad tracks, Angst steered the two grenadiers off the road. The houses, blackened piles of rubble, were few and spaced well apart. They walked south for another hundred meters, beyond the farthest outlying barns and shacks that had been reduced to cinders. Angst stuck the blade of the shovel into the soft ground, dropped the tarp and extra equipment, and removed the entrenching tool from the leather case attached to his belt. The view of the steppe was open for a number of kilometers, until the mist obscured the view in the distance. Fritch was of the opinion that this position was too vulnerable. “There’s no place to fall back to if we’re overrun.”

“You won’t be forgotten. Send up a red flare, and the Hanomag will pick you up.”

Fritch did not appear convinced; nonetheless, he set down the MG34, took up the long-handled shovel, and started to dig. Angst stood there, not moving. Reluctantly, Herzog picked up the entrenching tool. The two grenadiers looked every bit as tired and miserable as Angst felt, but still he was not inclined to help them. “What are you going to do?” Herzog asked. The question annoyed Angst, as he felt he did not owe these men any explanations. “I’m headed for the repair depot. Some of the crew is setting up an observation post.”

“What if the Russians come before we’re ready?”

Angst was not disposed to hand-hold two strangers or fight alongside them. He wanted to be among his friends. “Then this machine gun will be very useful,” he snapped. He left them to their digging and headed for the railroad tracks.

Coming to the gravel road, he turned and walked as far as the machine shop situated between the repair garage and the maintenance building. Schmidt waved from the window socket; the glass panes of the metal sash were either broken or missing. Low in height, the shop building was stoutly constructed of cement block. The concrete floor was stained with grease and oil and littered with a mix of small, worn machine parts and dirty rags. The skylight in the ceiling leaked. “That smell is giving me a headache,” Schmidt complained, referring to the pile of smoldering railroad ties. The slight wind was enough to stir the plume from the equipment dump east of the tracks.

“Where’s Braun?”

“Scrounging for fuel. He was here a little while ago and then took off again.”

Angst told Schmidt of what he had found at the house while searching for the captain’s headquarters and described the short-lived tryst Detwiler had with the Russian woman. “Considering the strain we’re under, day in and day out,” Schmidt remarked, “it’s no wonder a man should want a release.”

Angst was appalled. “That outlook is surprising, coming from someone as moral as you.”

“I’m not condoning it, but I can understand how such passions can inflame a man. He could be dead at any moment, so why not take advantage of the situation? You hate Detwiler a lot. Too much, in fact. If it was anyone else, you might be more sympathetic.”

“Reinhardt threatened to send him to a penal battalion.”

“Officially, we’re not supposed have intimate relations with so-called subhumans . From an ideological point of view, it is considered racial defilement. Our National Socialist masters like to think they have us all on a short leash, and for the most part, they do. But out here, as long as there are no party members or political officers about, the tendency is to look the other way. At least I haven’t heard of any punishments meted out for that sort of thing. I think Detwiler has the greater worry of being charged with dereliction of duty. And you, too, for that matter. It all depends on what happens here. Once we’ve returned to our lines, I doubt if Reinhardt will give too much consideration to the matter.”

“From my experience, you can never tell with a sergeant.” Angst gave Schmidt his binoculars. “I’ll see if I can lend Braun a hand.” He left his friend, feeling a trifle disconsolate. So, I hate Detwiler and find him disgusting. So what?, he thought. Schmidt was too understanding, especially for a Catholic. At least the ones he knew. The street and paths between the workshops and tool sheds were deeply rutted. The small buildings were constructed of wood slats, tarpaper, or tin; only a few were built with corrugated metal or brick. The structures were empty, except for work tables saturated with machine oil and covered with metal filings. Rusting cans, the labels obscured by dry streaks of paint, remained on the shelves. He spotted Braun turning the corner from a narrow passageway and called his name. The grenadier stopped short, looked relieved when he saw it was Angst, and signaled him to come over.

“Did you find any gasoline?”

“Something much better,” Braun said, his body tense with excitement. He had Angst follow as he backtracked down the narrow passage and stopped at a brick workshop that stood on the corner of the muddy street. Undoing the short length of chain looped through the hasp, he opened the double doors just enough to allow them to enter. “Careful, Wilms is on the water tower, and I don’t know if he can see us.” Inside, something bulbous lay concealed under a heavy tarpaulin. Rubber wheels could be seen where the edge of the cloth fell short of reaching the ground. Braun pulled a section of tarp aside and revealed the Volkswagen underneath. “We were saving up for one of these. Papa was, anyway. I’d contribute a few marks when I could. He’d buy coupons every month, religiously. Then along came the war, and production went on hold.” Braun gazed upon the automobile with awe. The dull black finish had been scraped along the door and fender, and there were a few dents in the body. The treads were worn, but the tires were firm to the touch. “We were nearly there, too, almost paid up in full. I deserve this one.”

“Do you plan to drive it across the Dniepr? I hear these things can float.”

“As soon as this business is finished, I have a mind to do just that, but don’t tell anybody.”