Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

The vehicles had returned to the town square and parked when Yvgeney stepped forward to greet them. As the crew piled out of the Hanomag, the auxiliary policeman latched onto Voss, and in a pitched, weaseling voice, he demanded some consideration for his predicament. He had not been fed; in fact he was refused, outright. It was not fair to be treated so unkindly; after all, he was an ally of the Germans. Voss cringed from the Ukrainian’s touch. The stench of vomit clung to the man’s breath, and the odor of alcohol exuded from every pore. Voss then erupted in a fury the crew—even the old hands, Reinhardt and Hartmann—had never witnessed before. “Get away from me! I want nothing to do with you or your wretched comrades! You’re on your own, do you hear? Find your own food and don’t dare to beg or steal a morsel from my men, or I will shoot you myself. I told you to cut down those corpses and tear down that gallows. I don’t want to see a single dead body hanging or littering the streets. Bury them! Bury them all, or I will kill you, do you understand? I will kill you! Now, get out of my sight!” Voss slumped against the fender of the armored carrier, his chest aching from screaming so hard. Cowed by the ferocious outburst, Yvgeney shrunk back. Angst removed the shovel and pickax from the fender on the opposite side of the vehicle and threw the tools at the Ukrainian’s feet. Whining quietly, he picked up the shovel and pickax and staggered off.

“Dumb son of a bitch, you don’t know how lucky you are,” Angst said, and immediately set off for the observation post on the east side of town. Braun followed, but the two did not speak. The color had returned to Braun’s face. There was little either could say, feeling so overwhelmed as they were. Angst would have done anything for a drink, to get drunk and forget. As they neared the supply dump, the motorcycle remained where it had originally stopped. One of the machine gun crew, Herzog, sat in the sidecar with his head thrown back, mouth open and snoring. Angst shook him brusquely. “Wake up, loafer.”

Bewildered, Herzog opened his eyes and closed his mouth. Reaction time not to his liking, Angst took hold of the man’s tunic and yanked him out of the seat. “Get up! And while you’re at it, explain why you’ve left your post.”

Herzog collected himself. “We were called in. All advance positions were to fall back. That was the order we received.”

Angst remembered the radio call the lieutenant made as they set out earlier. “That doesn’t apply any longer. Find your number two, and get back to your hole.”

“What’s the idea of manhandling me that way, Corporal?”

“Nobody ordered you to fall asleep, did they?”

Herzog gathered the shelter half that lay over the seat of the sidecar. “What happened, by the way?”

“Nothing. False alarm,” Angst lied.

“Pity that Oberschutz doesn’t know that.”

“Speaking of whom, what did you do with the body?”

Herzog pointed to a ruined farmhouse near the edge of the road. “Me and Fritch dragged him in there and covered him up.”

Again, Angst ordered the gunner back to his hole. Herzog uttered an expletive as he traipsed away. Although he didn’t hear what the gunner said, Angst knew to take offense. He picked up a hand full of moist earth, squeezed it into a ball, and was about to throw it when Braun stopped him. “Leave him alone. Let’s get back to the observation post. Schmidt’s waiting.”

“Let him wait. I want to see if this thing is serviceable.” He leaned on the handlebars and looked the machine over. Splattered with mud, sidecar dented and pierced with several bullet holes, the seat and flooring appeared to be stained with dried blood. He unscrewed the gas tank cap and rocked the motorcycle, listening as the gasoline sloshed around within the dark hole. “A third full, at least. Good.”

“Good for what?” Braun asked, confused.

“A joyride. Want to come along?”

Braun was in no mood. “I’ll see you back at the observation post.”

Joyride . Angst knew he would never feel joy ever again. Instead he would feel anger, as he did at this moment. Anger at having to be in Russia, or wherever this dirty little backwater was. He had anger for Lieutenant Nieheus and the miserable fix he’d gotten them both into. He was angry at the slaughter by the river and all the terrors he had witnessed since his arrival; anger at the fear, humiliation, and disgust it stirred within him. He kick-started the engine and climbed on to the saddle. The vibration on his rear end and lower back was a pleasant sensation. He was determined to stop thinking about all of it. He only wanted to ride…in enormously wide circles, spanning the globe, and not ever have to think again.

Entering the captain’s headquarters, Voss removed helmet and goggles and set both noisily on the bar counter. Falkenstein was already seated in the armchair, speaking with Schroeder on the field telephone. He appeared relaxed, legs crossed, a pad and pencil in easy reach on the table. He was having a discussion about field rations and who did or didn’t have an appetite. The relaxed tone of the conversation, under the circumstances, struck Voss as terribly odd. Having other concerns weighing on his mind, Voss opened the leather portfolio and thumbed through the numerous intelligence reports, schematics, and stats of the T-34, and testimonies of witnesses who survived encounters with Red Vengeance. Material he had read, and would read again, if only to find some clue or detail he might have missed. Perhaps Red Vengeance, despite standard outfitting, was manned by a crew of five, as German panzers were, thus allowing the commander to observe the action and be free to direct maneuvers and fire missions. The papers rustled loudly in the quiet room as he feverishly searched.

“You won’t find anything in that file to help you with what you saw today, Lieutenant.” Falkenstein had hung up the phone and regarded him with mild amusement. Voss was unwilling to give up so easily. There had to be an explanation, logical and sane. There had to be a reason why Falkenstein and Khan had believed it possible that Red Vengeance had become as submersible as a U-boat. Then it dawned on him what it was. He had figured it out for himself. “June, nineteen forty-one. Do you remember, Captain? A panzer regiment crossed the Bug River, at a depth of over four meters. The tanks drove blind, totally submerged.”

“I’m aware. All the tanks were made operational well in advance. Tests were conducted beforehand to iron out all the problems.”

“There were reports the Russians did something similar when crossing the Desna River. Every seam and opening on the turret and hull made waterproof with pitch and oiled canvas. The tanks were transformed into submarines for a short while, at least. I believe the crew of Red Vengeance did the same, only better, allowing the vehicle to remain submerged for a much longer period. You agree it’s possible in theory.”

Exasperated, Falkenstein went for the note pad and pencil on the table. “There is no crew. There never has been. The best we can hope for is that it operates on remote, directly from the Kremlin, by Stavka, or perhaps Stalin himself.”

Falkenstein was deadly serious. Voss did not really want to hear what was the worst that could be hoped for. However, he asked just the same, if for no other reason than to gauge to what degree of illness the captain’s mind had succumbed. “And the worst would be, sir?”

“I need to impress this single important fact upon you. The tank is empty, Voss. It is about time you get used to the idea.”

“A mindless juggernaut.”

Falkenstein smiled and stared up at the ceiling. “If I remember my studies, it has been a number of years…comparative mythologies…a lecture given by Professor Rittenauer…what was it he went on about… oh yes! The juggernaut was the chariot the Hindu god Krishna rode upon, and the faithful threw themselves under the wheels and were crushed. So the story goes. I don’t think that scenario applies in this case—quite the opposite, in fact. We will expend every effort to stay out from under the wheels of Red Vengeance.”