Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

Now it was Voss’s turn to smile. “Then we pushed further east by southeast across the dusty Kalmyk Steppe, fighting for our survival that entire time, during the long winter as Stalingrad became encircled and the Russians mounted an offensive that seemed unstoppable. A winter of cruel cold, snow, forced marches, and too many fallen Kameraden.”

Reinhardt remembered. “We were almost tossed into the Dniepr that time as well.”

“Indeed, but with von Manstein in the lead, we kicked our way back to the Donbas.”

“Thank God for the field marshal.”

“And here we are, another season with our backs to the river, and all our gains irretrievably lost. Von Manstein will think of something. We will get through it, somehow, should we live to see it.”

Reinhardt grunted again. “There’s no denying we’re stretched well beyond the limit.”

“And what about you, Dieter?”

“After what I saw this morning, I don’t know if I’m just going through the motions at being among the living.”

“That probably best sums up how we all feel. I had yet to make mention of it, but in view of subsequent conversations with the captain, I will now. Radio contact was established with Fortieth Panzer Corps earlier this morning. The captain was advised to fall back within the safety of the Zaporozhye salient. Our position is considered too distant and exposed, and there’s no guarantee we would receive any support in the likelihood of attack. As a matter of fact, a request for reinforcement or rescue would go unheeded, if we should remain here. The captain dismissed the advice without a moment’s hesitation. The destruction of Red Vengeance has consumed him to the extent that any reasonable consideration of the precarious situation we find ourselves in, or for the lives of the crew, is no longer a concern. We have made it through some bad scrapes together, Dieter, and I would like to believe that our judgment and actions have aided in the maintenance of a cohesive unit under our command.”

“I won’t disagree with you there, Lieutenant.”

“And I believe we can continue this operation just as effectively from the safety of an established defensive line, rather than out here without support or the possibility of rescue. At least for the sake of the men. We are too few and far too vulnerable. I have submitted my opinions to the captain, but he refuses to be reasoned with. Aside from these facts, and even more importantly, the captain has imbued this T-34, Red Vengeance, with attributes that are nothing short of supernatural. An unhealthy atmosphere prevails and is fostered by none other than the captain himself—and, to a lesser extent, his bodyguard, Khan. Falkenstein is insane, and I mean the word in its most clinical sense. He will have us all needlessly killed. Therefore, having said this, it is my intention to assume command of the Reconnaissance Group and withdraw to our divisional sector within the Zaporozhye salient at best possible speed. I will take full and sole responsibility for my actions. First, before I do anything, I must know where you stand.”

Reinhardt was taken by utter surprise and disbelief at what he had just heard. He would never have expected this coming from Voss, of all people. “You’re talking mutiny, Lieutenant.”

“No, not mutiny but restoration. A restoration of sanity. Taking control from an officer who no longer possesses the faculties necessary to command. Most important of all, I want to give back to the men a fighting chance. A hope, at least, for survival.”

“How do you plan to carry out this restoration, Lieutenant? Will you go so far as to kill the captain?”

“That is not my intention.”

“But you will have to kill him. Falkenstein won’t relinquish command by your say-so. You will have to do it at the end of a gun—and use it before he allows any one of us to take over,” Reinhardt warned him.

“The captain will ultimately decide how he will turn over command to me. I am prepared to take whatever means necessary and all the responsibility, but I will need help. Khan must be neutralized. No exceptions. I cannot go up against that demon alone and deal with the captain as well.”

“It will escalate, Lieutenant, you must realize that.”

“How so? Explain.”

“There’s not only Khan to think of but Vogel as well. He’s loyal to the captain and won’t sit idle. And Corporal Schroeder will certainly make a fuss. He’s committed to the mission, or at least to the ideal the captain represents. Then there is Detwiler, who serves the corporal like a faithful hound. To pull this off, you may end up in a shooting match with one half of the crew pitted against the other. Christ, by the time we’re through with each other, Red Vengeance won’t seem as much of a threat.”

The last remark struck Voss like a resounding slap in the face. It had all seemed so plausible when he had first thought it through. Never would he have believed he could have such a conversation with a subordinate, the sergeant of all people. Still, he refused to be dissuaded, no matter what Reinhardt thought. This was the right course to take for the sake of the men. “Will you help me, Dieter?” he asked.

“Everything you say might be true. Hell, you might even be right about what we need to do, but Falkenstein is still the captain. This is his command, his mission, and we swore an oath to destroy Red Vengeance.”

“You can’t take that ritualized frenzy at the tractor station seriously. Everyone’s blood was up, more from elation about the order to withdraw to the Dniepr than anything Falkenstein made you commit to,” Voss protested.

“I’ve never shirked my responsibility or refused to carry out an order. I’ve been trained to think in no other way. This will be a murderous business, and I’ll have no hand in it. I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but I can’t take part,” Reinhardt said.

“Will you try to stop me?” Voss pressed. The question tormented the sergeant. All too plainly, Voss could see the man struggle with his ingrained sense of duty as a soldier and NCO in contrast to the personal devotion he’d always exhibited towards him. Reinhardt shook his head. “I only wish I could make you reconsider.”

“That would do no good. I am committed to this course of action with the same degree of single-mindedness the captain has toward his mission. There is one thing, though. When the time comes, there is bound to be some confusion. I ask that you take the men in hand, direct their attention, as it were. I’m not asking you to use arms, simply bellow orders like you, as a sergeant, are so good at doing.”

Reinhardt agreed, although how he would carry out such a vague command during critical and unforeseeable circumstances, he could only guess. He would have to rely on his instincts when the moment arrived.

“Thank you, Dieter. With any luck, we will be joining the division sometime tomorrow.”

That would be a fine thing , Reinhardt thought, but he had grave doubts. “Will that be all, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, Sergeant. I want to apologize for saddling you with more worries than you deserve, but please understand, I had to speak with you first. Your decision in no way diminishes the respect and trust I have for you. I have been truly fortunate to have had you at my side.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Reinhardt said, and tried to put on a good face through a weary sadness. He saluted and returned to the Hanomag. I still need help , Voss thought, as he watched the sergeant’s broad back recede across the square. He knew he could not do it alone. That he could wrest control from Falkenstein was not at issue—he possessed the will—but to secure and maintain control for the few crucial minutes afterward would be the greatest difficulty. Who among this group was the most reliable, he wondered, someone who could follow an order, no matter what that order was, without question? Blind obedience would be preferable, and only Schroeder fit that mold, but he was definitely out. Someone basically obedient and without convictions. Except for his sergeant and driver, Voss did not know the crew well at all. He heard the throb of a motorcycle in the distance and looked. One of the men drove laps around the equipment dump and wove figure eights, splashing gleefully, almost hysterically, through every puddle. It was Angst, that idiot .