Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

“Forget it,” Wahl said, and kicked dirt over the brain, hiding it from view.

Angst breathed deeply and took a moment to settle down. When he looked around, to get his bearings, he became totally confused.

“Where’s the dugout?”

Wahl pointed down the trench to where a ruined T-34 lay smoldering not more than a hundred meters away.

“Took a direct hit from that monster. There was a cave-in, and I barely managed to dig my way out.”

“And Seidel?”

“Making a sweep to find who’s left. Needless to say, I lost the connection to the command bunker. Ivan washed over us bad this time.”

We’re not supposed to be alive , Angst thought, not the squad or the platoon . He heard his name called. They both turned and saw Braun make his way over to where they sat. Braun appeared as though he had been trampled.

“We have a problem,” Braun said, as he collapsed into the soft earth, exhausted. “The Russians are inside the trenches.”

Wahl gasped. “How many?”

“Lindenberger got his head knocked off by a shovel,” Braun continued breathlessly, “and Sauer took one in the shoulder.”

“How many are they, and where?” Wahl asked.

“Minnesinger pushed them out of the strong point and into the trench linking second platoon.”

“How many?” Angst asked this time, with impatience.

“I don’t know. Twenty-five. Thirty, maybe. Minnesinger is itching to mount a counter attack before they get established.”

“Why doesn’t he call in for artillery support or the assault gun?”

“Because he’s fuckin’ crazy,” Wahl said.

Braun shook his head. “We’ve lost all communication. Besides, there isn’t time. Minnesinger says if the Russians launch another attack before this mess is cleaned up, they’ll roll straight over us for certain.”

And should the counterattack fail? Angst didn’t want to contemplate that possibility. “Find Seidel and the both of you cover the communication trench to the third platoon. Have a runner inform Lustig, should this thing get out of hand.”

“I’ll tell Lustig myself if I have to,” Wahl said, and ran off.

Braun and Angst returned to the rifle pit where Schmidt lay, stretched out and drinking deeply from a canteen.

“Stay here,” Angst told Braun. “In case the counterattack falls short, you two will have to slow them down until help arrives.” Schmidt, if he listened, did so with an air of relative unconcern. He was busy satisfying his thirst.

“Make that last. There won’t be a resupply of water anytime soon,” Angst cautioned.

“Do you really think that matters to me now?”

Angst turned to Braun. “Nothing I’ve said seems to have made much of an impression on our friend. Should I be worried about him?”

“He’s a sensitive fellow,” Braun replied, “but resilient. He’ll pull it together.”

Angst hoped he was right. He set off down the trench, grim at the thought of having to confront the enemy at close quarters. Along the way he passed a headless torso that lay in a rifle pit. Lindenberger. Two Russians lay nearby, shot so many times their bodies were beyond recognition. Angst wondered which one had actually wielded the shovel. Not that it mattered now. They both got caught and paid the price.

The trench zigzagged for another twenty meters before he reached the platoon’s main dugout, where he found Sauer. Keller, a rifleman with Minnesinger’s squad, knelt beside Sauer and changed a saturated field dressing with a new one. A sizeable chunk of meat had been shot away where the neck and shoulder joined.

“The artery is still intact,” Keller offered, when Angst looked in. Sauer exhibited a baleful look of incomprehension as he sat upright, almost completely bared to the waist, his pale skin smeared with gore. Keller shook his head sadly. “I should get him to the aid station, only Minnesinger said there isn’t time.”

“Finish up with him, and let’s go,” Angst instructed him.

Keller taped the dressing and helped the wounded gunner to lie back.” Take it easy,” Keller consoled. “I’ll get back to you soon.”

Angst grew impatient and left the dugout. He wanted to get on with whatever needed to be done before he lost his nerve completely. He joined the first gunner, Ehrling, in the machine gun emplacement. He had removed the MG42 from the continuous firing mount and laid it on the top of the sandbags, the muzzle pointing in the direction of the platoon strong point’s inner ellipse. Halle stood several meters down from the emplacement with a satchel of grenades hanging from each shoulder. He reminded Angst of a milkmaid.

“You come for the party?” Halle asked when Angst drew up beside him. Angst nodded. “I get to throw the grenades,” Halle said, and shrugged. “I don’t mind. I got a good arm.”

Further down, where the trench began to narrow and then turn, Minnesinger lay on his stomach next to Richter, who sat up against the trench wall, facing in Halle and Angst’s direction, cradling a Soviet Pshagin submachine gun on his lap.

“Why not keep the Russians contained in the trench for now,” Angst said, “And let Frank’s mortars at second platoon to flush them out?”

“Their equipment didn’t do so well through the opening barrage. Before losing contact, Franks called to tell us not to expect any support” Richter explained.

What rotten luck , Angst thought. It always happened, at every moment of crisis—either mortars or artillery were out of ammunition or destroyed, and signal communication was out. “They’re awfully quiet,” he commented.

Halle agreed. “More often than not, they’re hurling threats and obscenities when this close. A minute ago it sounded like they were arguing among themselves.”

“Braun mentioned there were about thirty.”

“Braun’s in a shit-ass panic to come up with that,” Halle said, and laughed nervously. “Try about half that number.”

Angst hoped the grenadier was right and wasn’t trying to convince only himself. He squeezed past and joined Minnesinger further down the trench. The platoon leader’s face had turned a deep, unnatural shade of red due to overexposure to the sun and heat. Richter stared intently at the opposite wall of the trench. Imbedded in the dirt, at eye level, was a small shaving-kit mirror. Any movement down the ten-meter length of trench would be detected.

“Ivan’s right around the corner,” Richter said as Angst came up, not relinquishing his gaze from the mirror. A stick grenade lay beside him.

“What are they waiting for?”

“They’re blind and probably without leadership” Minnesinger said.

“Or they would have been pressed into a move by now,” Richter added.

“My squad is in place,” Angst informed Minnesinger. “The trench to third platoon is covered.”

“Good. Help Ehrling with the machine gun. I don’t want Ivan climbing out and ambushing us after we make our move.”

Angst nodded. Then Halle eased his way further down the trench, followed by Keller, who gripped an MP40. Minnesinger laid out the plan. He and Richter would go in first. Halle would stay close with the grenades, to throw as needed after the opening act. Keller was to provide covering fire with short, continuous bursts. The platoon leader said to Angst, “When you hear the first grenade that will be the signal to open fire with the machine gun. Once Ehrling has it under control, I want you to take up the rear.”

Angst understood. The dreaded moment of anticipation had arrived.

“Remember,” Minnesinger added, “don’t crowd each other, and don’t lag behind. No more than five meters apart.” He took two stick grenades from Halle’s satchel and tucked one in his belt and held the other as he unholstered his pistol. It was time to clean house. Angst returned to the emplacement. Several belts of ammunition had been linked together, and the MG42 stood loaded, with the short bi-pod at the muzzle end set in place. In the space of time it took to unscrew the cap at the end of a stick grenade and pull the fuse cord, the counterattack began. Halle threw the first grenade, and Minnesinger followed immediately with the second. When the explosions occurred, it had the sound of one enormous blast. Then they all crawled down the trench at unbelievable speed, elbows and knees working furiously, helmets bobbing on their heads. They looked like turtles in some mad race. Keller hung back and fired above their heads as the bullets slapped into the wall of dirt where the trench turned sharply at a ninety-degree angle. He stopped shooting to allow Halle to stand up and throw another grenade. Halle threw high, completely out of the trench, and it landed back inside the trench on the far side of the turn. A flawless throw. Smoke and debris vomited out from around the turn. They all followed Richter as he turned the corner and fired long bursts from the Pshagin submachine gun.