Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

The captain’s words, his very existence turned Voss’s blood murderously cold. If he had any doubts as to what course of action to pursue, those doubts were now dispelled. He picked up his helmet and goggles and started to leave.

“I’ve insulted you, Voss.”

“No, Captain. I simply haven’t the time to argue semantics.”

“Don’t go. There is more we need to discuss, to plan and strategize.”

Voss stopped in his tracks and turned. “What possible strategy could we formulate to combat a tank that hides itself at the bottom of a river and can appear and disappear at will, or can function without a crew but operates under the direct influence of Stavka or the party chairman? Or for that matter, the Devil himself? Tell me, Captain, what strategy is there? Give me your orders, and I will carry them out.”

“You mock me, Voss.”

“Not I, Captain. How do I go about destroying a machine governed by unseen, supernatural forces?”

“You saw what occurred at the river. Answer that question for yourself.”

“I can’t!” Voss had screamed the words. The volume of his voice, the rage and frustration, shocked him.

“It’s not that you can’t, Lieutenant—you do not dare. I come from the unique advantage of having engaged Red Vengeance—”

“And lost!”

“No, Lieutenant, I survived. I am beyond panic and fear. Red Vengeance does not frighten me. After many months of pursuit, it has finally grown weary of me. Why do you think it submerged in the Dniepr upon our arrival and did not attack? Coldly, methodically, we can grind the beast down and dismember it piece by piece, but we must operate in concert with a cool mind and a steady hand.”

“Perhaps there is a cool head and a steady hand among the crew, but I doubt it,” Voss replied. “I do have one question, though. Have you ever intimated your notions concerning the true nature of Red Vengeance to either Colonel Hahn or Major Beutel? Or anyone associated to this mission, your contact at Army Group headquarters? Have you ever revealed the demonic forces that you believe govern this machine?”

“Your question has no merit, Voss, but I will humor you with an answer. The officers involved are concerned strictly with results. They are not interested—indeed, they should not concern themselves with the notions or beliefs of their instrument, me, Hans Falkenstein, in achieving those results with success.”

“Just as I thought. Now, if you will be kind enough to excuse me, Captain, there are some details I need to attend to.”

A look came over Falkenstein that could be interpreted as one of either disappointment or loathing, Voss could not be sure of which. His voice flat, Falkenstein said, “As you wish, Lieutenant, see to your business.”

Reinhardt could barely concentrate on what Mueller was talking about. The young grenadier seemed very upset, and Monika Glammers stepped in to aid his account of what had occurred after they had sped off to the river. The detail under Corporal Schroeder’s command had eaten all the food, at least all that was cooked by the women. Once the stew was prepared, Monika and Mueller decided it was time to make the rounds with the intention of doling out a small but equal portion to everyone. Their first stop was the workers’ settlement. The senses of these men were sharpened like any hungry, feral animal. They came running, spoons and mess tins in hand. Monika was surrounded and was forced to serve up in the middle of the road. She hadn’t yet dipped the ladle when so many greedy hands grabbed the pot away. Mueller tried to maintain control but was pushed aside. Not until the corporal arrived was a modicum of order restored. There was very little that remained in the pot, so the corporal took the last for himself and Detwiler, who had stayed at his post. “Not the miracle of the loaves and fishes, was it?” Reinhardt commented. “Why didn’t you contact the corporal by field telephone and warn him you were on the way? You saw what those fellows are like.”

“Yes, Sergeant, only I thought it would save some time. After you’d gone, I thought an attack was imminent.”

Laid out on the bench were two tins of herring, chocolate, some rusks, and a tin of jam. The coffee was kept warm on the primus stove. “That’s the last of it, then?”

Monika Glammers nodded. “It’s not enough to feed the rest of you.”

The very least of our problems , Reinhardt thought. It was all so unimportant. Mueller looked sick with worry as he completed his report. If they only knew what might be in store for them… but Reinhardt did not say. He did not possess the language to describe what he had seen. In any case, on their return, Falkenstein had radioed the lieutenant and ordered strict silence on the exact nature of what was encountered by the river, for the sake of morale and to avert panic. Reinhardt could see that Mueller was expecting to be disciplined for his lack of foresight. Replacing Wilms on the tower would be suitable, for a while at least. But for now Reinhardt said nothing more about the matter; he merely left the assembly hall and climbed back aboard the Hanomag. The radio loudspeaker was turned on and crackled and hummed, but nothing of any use was being transmitted. Hartmann was seated on the right front bench and, with a small spool of wire and a ball of twine, was methodically fashioning grenade bundles. A total of twelve stick grenades were separated into three bundles of four grenades each. Reinhardt helped as the cylindrical bursting charge heads were tied together with wire and the caps at the end of the stick handles were unscrewed. Carefully, the double lengths of greased cord with a porcelain bead attached at the end were removed from the hollowed wood handles and looped together with a section of twine. Pull the twine, and all four beaded cords would activate simultaneously, the friction igniter on each of the four grenades. After a five-second delay, the explosion would be quite formidable. The blast might not stop a T-34, but it would definitely shake up the crew inside. Hartmann’s next chore was to make some petrol bombs. “I’ll have to scare up some bottles from somewhere.”

“There’s an empty jar inside the hall. We can start with that,” Reinhardt suggested. Hinges creaked as the crew compartment doors opened. It was the lieutenant. “How are you holding up, Heinz?”

The driver shrugged. “Getting ready, Lieutenant.”

Yes, of course, best to keep active , Voss thought. Put your mind into something, anything, to keep from dwelling on the events from this morning . “I’ll want that bow machine gun set up in the flak pit to cover our northern perimeter. Sergeant?”

“I’ll get on it right away.”

“In a moment. First, I would like a word.” Setting a grenade bundle to the side, Reinhardt rose from the bench and followed Voss out of the crew compartment. They had walked halfway across the square when the lieutenant offered him a cigarette. “This has been a strange business all along, hasn’t it, Dieter?”

Reinhardt grunted in agreement as he took the cigarette. Voss struck a match and lit it and the one he had taken for himself. “How long have we been together? You, me, and Heinz?”

Reinhardt thought for a moment. “Summer offensive last year. Voronezh.”

“Of course. My transfer to the reconnaissance arm of the regiment was made official just as we were about to take the city.”

“I remember,” Reinhardt smiled. “You were very cocky that first day. Me and Heinz didn’t know what to expect.”

“It was an exciting moment for me. I wanted to make a lasting impression,” Voss explained.

“It must have worked. We never asked for a transfer.”