Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

The BMW hadn’t braked to a complete stop before Wilms leapt from the sidecar and ran across the square toward the assembly hall, eager to beat Angst to the leftovers. The scout car was parked in front of the captain’s headquarters, the driver’s side door open but empty of Sergeant Vogel. Khan was standing in the front yard, stooped over, his attention keenly focused on something that lay on the ground. The shaman, it appeared, was engaged in some sort of a game. Angst dismounted and walked closer to have a look. A circle, about a meter in diameter, had been gouged into the wet earth. Khan tossed a handful of stones high into the air and watched them fall, some landing within and others outside the described circle. The stones varied in size but were mostly within the range of four or five centimeters and were of a consistently flat, rectangular shape. All were polished to an almost glasslike smoothness. A kind of symbol or glyph was etched upon the surface of each stone. How the stones fell into the circle and which sides faced up or down imparted some kind of significance. Khan would show surprise after one toss or shake his head and mutter disdainfully at another. His reaction depended upon how and where the stones fell. The shaman was completely absorbed in the activity and appeared to take no notice of Angst—or Sergeant Vogel, when he came out of the house, although he kept a wide berth of the circle.

“What is he doing?” Angst asked.

“Why don’t you ask him?”

The sum of Angst’s Russian vocabulary could be counted with the fingers on one hand. “I wouldn’t know how, Sergeant.”

“Well, let’s see, I haven’t quite figured it out yet, but I think it’s some technique he uses to foretell the future. Perhaps not the future, exactly. He asks questions, and whatever meaning it has depends on how the rocks fall and what’s scribbled on the side that faces up.”

“What is written on the stones?”

“They’re not words. Pictographs. That’s what the captain said it was. Khan’s always done this when something important is about to happen.” Vogel then looked at Angst with annoyance. “That motorcycle could serve better use than for you to tear up the place, wasting gasoline for no good reason.” He took one of the fuel cans from the left rear fender bracket, set it on the ground, and opening the large storage compartment mounted on the driver’s side of the vehicle, removed a funnel.

“I have plenty of fuel, Sergeant.”

“This isn’t for you. Petrol bombs. You can go to the hall and take some grub around for anyone who hasn’t eaten. The machine gun crew on the south side and your guys. Obviously you’ve shown an aptitude for handling that thing without cracking up, but there were times when I had my doubts. Fortunately for you, the captain understands a fellow letting off steam, especially after… well, you know. Better get over there before that signalman devours it all.” Angst climbed back on to the motorcycle and made the short trip over to the assembly hall. The Hanomag was lined up close beside the building, and the large tarpaulin was draped over the top of the crew compartment. The doors were open, and someone lay stretched out on one of the seats, but it was too dark to see who it was. The radio speaker was turned on and emitted squawks accompanied by voices uttering monosyllabic words. Inside the hall he found Wilms straddled on a bench, scooping herring directly from the tin with a spoon. He chewed loudly. Timidly, Valeria presented Angst with a cup of ersatz coffee. He thanked her. Carefully, Monika filled a canteen with coffee from the steaming pot. “Your lieutenant said to take this around to your Kameraden. The water ration is low, so there isn’t much.” Over by the benches that had been set up as a work table, Elenya crumbled the last of the rusks, added it to the small bucket of jam, and stirred with a spoon. She looked up at Angst and smiled with embarrassed recognition, but he wasn’t noticing her; rather, he watched as she mixed the bright red jam flecked with white bits of dry biscuit and was reminded by the scene at the river. He was overcome by a wave of nausea and lit a cigarette to quell the sensation.

“Damn, it’s good to be off that confounded tower,” Wilms said, as he lit a cigarette and lifted his cup as Monika drained the last of the ersatz from the pot.

“I imagine you will want to sleep,” she commented.

Wilms smiled and winked. “I could imagine something much better.”

A sour expression crossed her face, but she did not comment. Overhearing this exchange, Angst assumed the woman had had to endure too many years of snide comments, innuendo, and outright obscenities uttered by the rear area sultans she was forced to cater to. Powerless to rebel, Monika could only keep silent and seethe from within. A thought struck him as she passed by. He caught a whiff of her, a fragrance that was neither alluring nor seductive, only living flesh that was worthwhile. She was worthwhile for her own sake. “You can help me load up the sidecar,” he said to her.

“As you wish.” Her rebuff of Wilms had no effect on the signalman’s libido. He had turned his interest toward Elenya while she maneuvered around the improvised worktable. As she leaned over, her breasts swung merrily. “Keep staring,” Angst said to the signalman, “and you won’t need a tent pole to support your shelter half.” Wilms flushed and looked away. “It’s time I get a move on. Monika…” Angst finished his coffee and ground out the cigarette stub on the floor. Monika gathered the canteen, warm with coffee, and a couple of mess tins and utensils. “Elenya, help me take the rest out—”

Angst interrupted. “No. I want you to bring it. Please.”

“Very well.” Her hands full, she carried the mess tins and canteen in one hand and held the bucket of jam by its wire handle with the other. Angst took along the last tin of fish and pocketed three squares of chocolate. Outside, Monika had set the items on the side car seat and was about to return to the assembly hall. “Not so fast,” Angst said, as he looked around to make sure no one was in hearing distance. “Do you want to get out of here?”

“How is it possible, under the circumstances?”

“Never mind that. Do you?”

“Yes, of course. So do Elenya and Valeria.”

“I haven’t time to give all the details, but some of us are pulling out tonight.”

“We’re not soldiers. We could not possibly keep up with you on foot.”

“That won’t be necessary. Transportation will be provided. I will let you know when and where. Just be ready at a moment’s notice, and say nothing to the others until it is time.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because we are as good as dead if we stay. What will your duties be from here on?”

“I don’t know. Your lieutenant does not trust us. When it becomes necessary, we are to report to the air raid bunker for safety and help tend to the wounded.”

“With any luck, your services won’t be needed beforehand. Be ready to hear from me soon after dark.” He had spent enough time in this whispered exchange and did not want to arouse suspicion. Monika gave what was almost a smile and returned to the assembly hall. As he started and revved the BMW engine, Corporal Hartmann came around from the side of the vehicle with a grease-blackened tool sack in hand and gave it to Angst. Inside were two grenade bundles, one for the machine gun crew and the other for the repair depot observation post. After he had completed making his deliveries of food and weapons, Angst was to meet the lieutenant at the flack gun pit; if Hartmann knew why, he was not inclined to say.

Hearing the clatter of mess tins, Fritch and Herzog scrambled out of the slit trench with hands outstretched, ready to grab. The bucket of jam was all theirs. While they slurped down the concoction, Angst doled out the coffee with economy. Spoons scraped the bucket until it was clean. They asked for a smoke, and Angst gave the men two cigarettes apiece from his own pack. They thanked him effusively, but when he pulled out the grenade bundle from the tool sack, they regarded the device with consternation. Fritch took hold of the bundle and knew exactly what it meant. He did not look pleased. “Expecting armor?”