Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

“You have done good work all around, Corporal. The men seem more content after having a hot meal.”

The topic caused Schroeder to flush. It was the second time that day he had lost control of the stragglers. “After eating all the goulash, I worked them hard for it.”

“Well fed as they are, they might have to bear the worst brunt of the fighting. You have kept quiet on the subject of why we are here?”

“Yes, sir. I told them we were an advance observation post, keeping an eye out for enemy probes, and at some time tomorrow we will be withdrawing to the salient. The explanation quieted most of them down, although they’re aware of something. Red Vengeance was mentioned.”

“In what context?” Falkenstein inquired.

“Some of the men were on board the Hanomag last night. They must have heard the lieutenant or one of the crew mention it.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing directly. I’ve isolated the loudmouths, one in particular. He’s with Detwiler in the machine gun pit,” Schroeder responded.

Falkenstein had noticed a lanky fellow with the gunner when he inspected the position. Otto was his name. He seemed guarded and said next to nothing when Falkenstein offered words of encouragement for morale’s sake. Schroeder walked the captain back to the scout car. “Were the Einsatzgruppen destroyed by Red Vengeance, sir?”

“There was every appearance that it did destroy them.”

“I wished I had gone along. I thought I missed out on the fight.”

Falkenstein stroked the badges sewn to the sleeve of the corporal’s tunic. “I think you will have the opportunity to make your tank killer award a gold one this time. Perhaps even the Knights Cross.”

“I’m ready for whatever comes my way. You can rely on me, sir.”

“I know I can, Corporal.” At the vehicle, Vogel gave Schroeder two grenade bundles and a petrol bomb from his own stock. “When Red Vengeance attacks your sector, I want you to maintain continuous fire, even though it is small arms. Keep its attention. Vogel and I will give support with the Two-Twenty-Two. See to it your men keep their heads,” Falkenstein instructed.

“I will, sir.”

Falkenstein opened the co-driver’s door and eased in. “I’ll be at my headquarters. Stay close to the field telephone.” The scout car drove off. Schroeder gathered the grenade bundles and the petrol bomb, a rag for wadding stuffed tightly in the neck of the bottle for a fuse. The Knights Cross , he thought with excitement. No one in the crew has a better chance of earning that decoration than me. Except for the captain . He returned to the little command center he had made for himself in the house near the machine gun emplacement to await the inevitable onslaught with nothing less than enthusiasm.

The opaque mist that had cast a pall over most of the southeast had finally lifted by late afternoon. The sky had taken on more definition as clouds, dense, gray, some almost as black as the smoke from an oil fire, closed in. A seam had parted in the west and allowed a rich yellow light from the lowering sun to shine through. Angst was keeping watch while Schmidt took the opportunity to get more sleep. Wrapped in a shelter half on the concrete floor, an assault pack for a pillow, his friend emitted a wheezy tune as he gently snored. The sound was amusing. The autumn light was beautiful, but the landscape and objects that stood out in crisp detail against the slate-colored sky highlighted the town’s ruinous aspect. Angst was tempted to wake Schmidt, if only so he could see and bathe in the light. Angst believed there was something strangely comforting and beneficial about the color but was at a loss to explain why. He decided against waking him. Eventually Braun made an appearance, merely nodding when he came up beside Angst. They did not speak as they watched the light finally fade, the clouds sealing all the openings in the sky, chilling the comforting glow. Twilight descended, rapid and ominous.

A tense quiet enveloped the town during the intervening hours as some of the men slept by turns. The perimeter was under constant observation; Voss made his rounds to make sure of it. He asked himself if he was continuing to perform his duty or being duplicitous as he worked up the nerve to commit his plan to action. A part of him wished the Russians would attack immediately, and if he were to die, at least he would do so honorably. Agitated, he returned to the assembly hall to look in on the women and reiterated the order not to leave the building. He suggested they clean up the service mess to keep themselves occupied. Corporal Hartmann had uncovered a small stash of ersatz coffee and had given it to Monika to boil up with the last reserve of water. “By all means do so, Fräulein,” Voss said irritably. He was keeping an eye on the signalman, whose behavior had grown annoying. Aroused by the women’s company, Wilms clumsily tried to work all three at varying stages to see which one would fall under the spell of his alleged charm. Voss was not about to allow another incident like what had occurred in the morning with Detwiler. “Wilms, relieve Sergeant Reinhardt at the flak gun emplacement. He could use the sleep.”

The signalman started to whine. “I could use some sleep myself, Lieutenant.”

“Then why didn’t you get some? In all this time, you have done nothing but make a nuisance of yourself with the women.”

Flushed with embarrassment, Wilms collected his gear, to the suppressed giggles of Valeria and Elenya, and followed Voss out the door. “I was guarding them, Lieutenant.” Voss said nothing as he barred the double doors with a stout length of lumber that had been pulled from the wreckage of the administration building. The window shutters had all been closed over and secured. “Allow the sergeant at least an hour before you are back here, ready to return to your post.” Chastened and dejected, Wilms obeyed and headed off in the direction of the emplacement. Voices carried across the square. Something of a commotion was occurring in the front yard of the captain’s headquarters. Vogel and someone else were talking—or yelling, rather—and then Falkenstein appeared at the door. The one voice was argumentative, insulting in tone. Voss saw it was the auxiliary, Yvgeney. Something changed hands, from the Ukrainian to Vogel and finally to the captain. The voices quieted down, and Yvgeney began to walk away down the road, west, out of town. Falkenstein closed the door, and Vogel returned to the scout car. Interest aroused, Voss crossed the square and joined the driver by the scout car. Vogel had taken a bite of the apple he held and spat the mash from his mouth. He held up the fruit for Voss to see. “Courtesy of our allies,” Vogel said, and threw the thing away.

“Where is he off to?”

“Join his mates, I gather.”

“Didn’t the captain warn him?”

Vogel nodded. “He told him he wasn’t making a wise choice. To hell with him, they’re all troublemakers, those Hilfspolizei . The insolent bastard had the nerve to tell the captain that he had no jurisdiction in these parts. He’s a policeman. He knows the law.”

“And how did the captain respond?”

“The captain told him that should he leave now he would serve no other purpose than as a canary in a coal mine. The reference was lost on the Ukrainian.”

Voss decided to look in on Falkenstein and make his report. He preferred not to have any dealings with the captain until the appointed time, rather than have to feign the role of responsible subordinate concerned with nothing but the matters at hand. When he entered the clubroom, Falkenstein was seated in the upholstered armchair, writing intently in his notepad. “I have completed inspection, sir. The positions are sound—at least, as sound as possible given the circumstances.”