Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

“I won’t say a word, but you will need gasoline, and the captain will want whatever is left for the Two-Twenty Two before he surrenders a drop to you.”

Braun smirked. “To hell with Falkenstein and his precious gasoline. I don’t need it. The fuel tank is half full, and it works. I started her up, and the engine turned over, nice, but now I don’t want to take any more chances.”

“You won’t be allowed to keep it.”

Braun grew immediately despondent. “I know, but still I earned the right to drive it back to our lines, south, back to the regiment. You, me, and Schmidt.”

The idea was pleasant to consider, but wholly impractical, Angst thought. But somebody had to remain hopeful, and today, at this moment, it was Braun’s turn.

“What do you think our chances are of getting out of here, Johann?”

“I’d settle for fifty-fifty, but I think it’s less.”

Braun considered the odds. “Fifty-fifty…this mission has been a lark from the very beginning. I wish I’d never laid eyes on Falkenstein.”

“You were all fired up to be one of his tank killers, from what I recollect, waving your rifle around and shouting ‘Death to Red Vengeance.’”

“Everyone was caught up in the excitement. So were you. The schnapps helped me along. What’s your excuse?” Braun pulled the tarpaulin over the Volkswagen. It seemed an angry gesture. When Angst tried to lend a hand, his friend’s gruff manner indicated he did not need any help.

“I think we’re guaranteed plenty of excitement before this is all over,” Angst said.

Braun remained silent. Once the car was suitably covered, they left the workshop. Braun replaced the chain, as a precaution, not that it could effectively bar entry. Without the chain, the weight of the doors made them tend to swing open. The car would help to keep some hope alive, Angst thought, as they walked back to the machine shop. It was reassuring, at least for Braun’s sake, to know that they possessed the ability to speed out of this accursed, tormented land.

The women had moved several more pieces of furniture into the parlor, including a paraffin lamp and even a lace doily for the armchair. The few extra items available transformed the former officers’ club into a respectable, if sparse, middle-class sitting room. Valeria moved about dully, if at all, only due to Elenya’s constant prodding. They had carried down a cot from the upstairs crawlspace—nothing more elaborate than a strip of canvas attached to a folding wood frame—and set it up in the storeroom. Now emptied of all the useless items that had previously occupied the room, the space could serve as the captain’s sleeping quarters. A gray wool blanket lay folded neatly on the cot.

Vogel repeatedly made trips back and forth from the command vehicle, hauling some of the captain’s personal equipment. Mueller had helped set up the field telephone and began the project of laying cable from the spool. It was decided to set up the second terminal with Schroeder at the workers’ settlement for the time being. There wasn’t enough line to reach that distance, so the young grenadier was given the added task of salvaging line from downed poles to supplement the length. Falkenstein hobbled into the parlor and set his map case, folder, belt, and pistol holster on the bar counter. If the women expected praise for their efforts, they were disappointed, as the captain ignored their presence. In the foyer Voss examined the women’s identity papers. The locals did not interest him. No mystery, there. Elenya was an ethnic Russian who came from the industrial city of Kirovy Rog; Valeria was more local, originally from a village west of Zaporozhye. Neither of the two women had party affiliations or held a post of any importance. Both had been in the employ of the Wehrmacht since late 1941 as cooks or factory help. An alleged theft of produce warranted a short detention for Elenya, and apparently some deal was brokered that landed her in the occupation she now found herself. The young Ukrainian girl, Valeria, was simply the victim of unfortunate circumstances. Her status as an “entertainer” did not evolve until shortly after her arrival at Veranovka some months ago. Monika Glammers, on the other hand, was something quite different. A graduate student at university when the National Socialists came to power, she was something of a socialist. Near the end of 1934, she was finally arrested and sent to a Wilde Laager for political and religious opponents of the Reich. Then three years at a concentration camp, where she learned her new trade by servicing camp personnel. The SS must have tired of her, as after the war broke out, she was invited to work for the army. Voss pulled her aside. “You’re political.”

“I’m chattel, now, bartered among rear echelon officers until finally ending up here.”

“Your papers indicate clearly—”

“Do you wish for me to give all the sordid details of what I have been doing for the past ten years of my life, Lieutenant?”

“I don’t have the stomach for it. I know all I need to know, which is that you are not to be trusted. The story you cooked up with your associates is fallacious.”

Monika gave no clear indication of a reaction. She simply shrugged and said, “How so, Lieutenant?”

“Don’t be disingenuous, Fräulein . I don’t believe for a moment that you were overlooked during the evacuation of Reichsbahn personnel and became stranded here. I suspect you planned it that way. The three of you hid out with the intention of turning yourselves over to the Russians upon their arrival, only your plan backfired. Instead of throwing yourself at the mercy of some enlightened Red Army officer, you hid from the Einsatzgruppen when they showed up. Your documents would probably prove useful, if examined by a sympathetic Russian officer. You, a victim of the Reich, thought they could extract some propaganda mileage out of your defection. Not to mention your willingness to cooperate with any information of a strategic nature, no matter how remote, that might prove helpful.”

“As your mind is already made up about me, and I can’t prove otherwise, what do you intend to do?” Monika asked wearily.

“This Reconnaissance Group is still involved with operations. I have neither the resources nor the facilities to keep all three of you under armed guard, despite my suspicions. As of this moment, your survival depends solely on how you behave. No matter the political or philosophical differences we have, all our lives are at stake. Do I make myself clear?”

“I think I understand you, Lieutenant. How I proceed from this moment on will determine whether or not I will be shot.”

“You need not sound so melodramatic, Fräulein Glammers, but don’t think for a moment I wouldn’t carry out such action personally, should the safety of my men become jeopardized.”

“I’m beyond melodrama, Lieutenant, being somewhat astute of martial justice and what to expect. After all, I have lived under its heel for quite some time.”

“So, we understand each other. Good. Now, on to more immediate and practical matters. As a resident, you must have some knowledge of the town. Are there any stores of provisions or fuel, a cache that might have been left behind during the evacuation? A place where my men could search?”

“The local harvests were carted away days ago. The cold cellars could be searched for any food the locals might have left behind, but I doubt there is anything left. Whatever they possessed had to be raised on their own. The authorities gave nothing away.”

Searching the cold cellars would be a start. Voss thought to organize a detail that would include the women. They might be able to recover just enough foodstuffs left behind to supplement the field rations that had run low. There were extra mouths to feed, and a hot meal would serve as something of a morale boost. “Where was your billet, Fräulein?”