Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

This was not the order the lieutenant had in mind, Angst knew, but he was getting close.

Despite the lieutenant’s threats, Yvgeney was not about to expend all his energy on a single-handed burial detail. He had dragged the corpses to a slight hollow and shoveled loose clumps of wet, blackened grass and mud over them. Barely covered, the sight was obvious, but not from a distance; the lieutenant would have to be satisfied that the bodies were no longer in plain view. He took offense at being singled out to perform this humiliating chore. He was not responsible. While he was off getting drunk, minding his own business, it was those other louts, Germans too, who did the killing. Actually, he could not really remember, having drunk a mix of peppermint schnapps and then vodka, followed by a bottle of warm beer; then he had blacked out. To hell with it , he thought. As soon as the pale gray flesh had been suitably disguised with soil, he threw the shovel aside and started on a far more important task that concerned his survival. He would forage, pick through the charred heaps of any number of outbuildings and farmhouses. He understood how these peasants operated, always burrowing something away, and he knew where to look. If there was any food to be had, he would find it and keep it for himself. To hell with the Germans , he thought. Who needs them? They’ve turned out to be as bad as the communists. Worse. The things they order a man to do. It was shameful.

When not concentrating on the horizon far to the east, Schmidt would shift his attention to the activities of the auxiliary as he wandered about the steppe, going from one black stain of a ruin to the other. Eventually, he retraced his fitful trail back to the gravel road and made a point of drawing near the machine shop where Schmidt kept watch. Wet ash and soot clung to the auxiliary’s arms. He carried something: apples. He shouted several words in Ukrainian; although not understanding, Schmidt smiled and waved. Yvgeney threw an apple. It was not a gesture of sharing. Reflexively, Schmidt ducked as the fruit burst on the window sash. Pieces lay on the brick ledge, the flesh pulpy and brown. The odor was noticeably smoky and bitter. The auxiliary continued down the gravel road, but without leaving his post to bother with a confrontation, Schmidt soon lost sight of him from the window. He didn’t know how far Yvgeney walked, possibly all the way back to Dnepropetrovsk.

Soon after that, Schmidt heard the motorcycle; Angst had arrived. Schmidt told him about Yvgeney’s bombardment, but Angst seemed to have other matters on his mind. All he said was, “Where’s Braun?”

“Mothering his prized possession, I would imagine.”

Angst scowled. “If he continues to steal in and out of that workshop, Wilms or Mueller will send someone around to nose about.”

“You sound edgy, Johann. What’s the matter?”

“Something’s brewing.”

“What!” Schmidt’s voice took on a note of alarm.

“Don’t worry, it’s not the Russians. I don’t know exactly. I’ll want to talk to Braun first.” Without another word, he left the building and skirted along the small sheds and workshops, keeping an eye on the water tower when it came into view. So far, it appeared Mueller was training his binoculars in the opposite direction. Inside the workshop, Angst discovered Braun behind the wheel of the Volkswagen, the tarpaulin pulled aside, staring out the windshield at imaginary landscapes. “The lieutenant wants to see us,” Angst announced.

Interrupted from his reverie, Braun loosened his grip on the steering wheel. “What for?” His tone was abrasive.

“He didn’t say. We’re to meet him by the square at eighteen thirty hours.”

“We should be ready to leave about then, unless you blabbed about our plan,” Braun snapped.

“Don’t be an asshole. The lieutenant is up to something.”

“What did he say?”

“It’s not what he said so much as the way he said it. I don’t know, but it was a peculiar conversation. The man seems resolute but distracted at the same time. I think he plans to make some kind of a move.”

“What sort of a move?” Braun asked.

“I’m not sure. He told me to bring along somebody I can trust.”

“Take Schmidt. I haven’t the stomach for intrigues.”

“No. The lieutenant ordered me to bring one of you along, and I’ve chosen you. I’m ordering you as your rifle squad leader,” Angst said.

Braun’s laughter was condescending. “That is so much shit, Angst. There’s nothing left in me to order. Take Willi or go alone.”

There was nothing Angst could do, other than threaten his friend with a machine pistol, and that wouldn’t work. The gesture would prove futile and ultimately comical. Braun had already departed from the town of Veranovka; he had since crossed the Dniepr and was a thousand kilometers to the west without having to switch on the engine.

The scout car drove four kilometers north to establish an advanced mobile observation post. The position was held for a couple of hours while Falkenstein tried to outguess the Russian tank. It seemed only logical that Red Vengeance would not make so obvious an approach from the northwest, but rather would swing around and attack from the east or south; yet, the captain felt that was exactly how the tank would expect them to think. Concentrate on and prepare for the most obvious direction, and the tank would enter town from the exact opposite. The shaman did not concern himself with these details. “When the attack comes, we will then know from where,” was all he remarked. The observer on the tower was only good until it became dark. Falkenstein did not take comfort in this. The only point he and Khan were sure of was that the attack would definitely come at night, very late, when fatigue and anxiety had set in.

When Falkenstein felt that enough time had elapsed, and some of the tension he had stored up during the course of the day had subsided, he ordered Vogel to drive them back to town. Khan decided to remain out on the steppe and keep vigil. They left him with his antitank rifle and a Very pistol with several flares. On their return, Falkenstein had the driver stop at the workers’ settlement to have a look around before returning to the house. In spite of the lack of manpower, limited armament, and the bare minimum of time, Schroeder had fashioned a defensive position. Whether suitable resistance could be maintained for any length of time was open to question; nevertheless, Falkenstein was pleased with the results. Many of the rear windows that faced directly north were opened, and several back doors appeared obviously blocked or fortified. One or two were actual firing positions, but most were simply a ruse. Inside the houses that were actually maintained, holes had been cut through the walls separating adjoining rooms, so a rifleman could move quickly and freely from one firing position to the next. These positions had been strengthened with whatever material was available: doors, planks from dismantled fencing, stacks of brick, and straw mattresses. The protection the grenadiers afforded themselves could at least withstand small arms and machine gun fire. An armored assault by one determined enemy tank was another matter. Falkenstein had no illusions of this, and he knew Corporal Schroeder didn’t either. Routes between some of the houses had been marked and beefed up with added protection, so the men could move safely under cover when necessity dictated. In one house, a small square of roofing had been removed to create a loophole for a sniper to shoot from. Schroeder beamed with pride as he followed the captain around on his inspection. The machine gun emplacement was the greatest source of triumph for the corporal. This had been thoughtfully planned and had taken the most time to prepare of all the “strong points,” as he called the fire positions. He had Detwiler and the men dig a slit trench fifteen meters north of a house that was a little right of dead center of the entire settlement. Planks, brick, and soil were laid over the hole for better cover, with a wide port for raking fire. A communication trench zigzagged from the emplacement to the back yard of the nearest house, continuing under a standing fence line and then over toward a neighboring house. In the event of an emergency, the machine gun crew could retreat quickly without exposing themselves to hostile fire.