Peter Idone

RED VENGEANCE

ANGST

1

His eyes weary from continued scrutiny of the monotonous landscape, Johann Angst looked again through his binoculars and believed he was minutes away from the worst day of his life. More realistically, he thought this could well be the very last day of his life. The steppe grass had dried to gray-brown from the long, relentless summer. Scores of olive drab mounds—dead Russians—littered the desolate ground. The sun was still low, a white plate in a pale sky, and this day was proving to be as unbearably hot as they all had been since his arrival to the eastern front a little over a month earlier. He centered his attention on the balka, or ravine, that lay approximately eight hundred meters away. A natural feature that predominated throughout the region of the southern Ukraine, the balka meandered for several kilometers parallel to the network of the German defensive trench lines, which Army Group South called the Tortoise Line.

Several hours into the new morning, the enemy assaults had become disjointed and confused and finally ended altogether, but the battalion sector still had to endure intermittent mortar fire. Kept awake by periodic doses of Pervitin, Angst was conscious but exhausted. He would succumb to intense jags of crying that would abruptly stop. He wiped his runny nose on the sleeve of his field tunic. Curiously, the tears would refresh him, if only for a short while. He could not remember when he last had a solid chunk of uninterrupted sleep, instead of the short nods that lasted ten or fifteen minutes—or a half hour, if he was lucky. No one was getting any sleep lately.

Due to the combined offensives of the Red Army’s Southwest and South Fronts, the Sixth Army, which Angst’s division was part of, had withdrawn from the Mius River. Fighting by day and force-marching by night, the division, already weakened and spent, covered over sixty kilometers in two days as the Russian infantry hounded close at their heels. They had barely settled into their new position when the Russians attacked. The Tortoise Line had been hastily constructed by Todt Organization workers and was primarily established to defend the industrial center of Stalino. Adequate at best, Tortoise extended from Mariupol, by the Sea of Azov in the south, to as far north as Konstantinovka and beyond, in the combat sector of the First Panzer Army. Several factors had determined why the main line of resistance in Angst’s battalion sector had not been constructed well forward of the balka, thus utilizing the topographical feature as a tank trap. Shallow and not terribly steep-sided, the balka had numerous points for entry and exit, which the Soviets could make use of. This being the case, some brilliant strategist at either division or corps had decided the balka would best serve as an outpost position. Engineers had seeded the sides and floor of the balka with antitank and personnel mines; and squads from all the companies, supported by heavy mortars and machine guns, were sent in to occupy it. The routes to the outpost position and back to the main line were narrow and few. Ever since Angst’s division entered the line early the day before, all throughout the night, under the glare of star shells and signal flares, units of heavily armed Russian shock troops struck repeatedly. The German grenadiers sustained heavy casualties and were eventually forced out. With the outpost position in enemy hands, the main line had come under attack. Russian assault teams managed to penetrate the company strong points, and episodes of brutal hand-to-hand fighting ensued.

Earth and smoke erupted from the balka. Ever since they gained a foothold, the Russians had embarked on a project to clear the balka of mines. Probably with the use of a penal battalion, Angst thought. Just line the poor bastards up, shoulder to shoulder, and make them walk. The work progressed steadily, if not safely, judging by the number of mines that were tripped. Once clear, artillery observers and more troops would be brought in, and the balka would be used as a jumping-off point for an attack more spectacular and deadly than the battalion had yet experienced.

Something caught Angst’s attention on the horizon. He refocused the binoculars and observed a long curtain of dust. He found it difficult to judge distances in this wide open, redundant space. Five, perhaps six kilometers away? His eyes strained at the lenses as he tried to identify and count the vehicles through the dust clouds that approached from the east and headed in a northwesterly direction. Then he saw the dark steel carapaces of Soviet tanks.

Angst dropped the binoculars to hang freely by the strap around his neck, grabbed his carbine, and hurtled down the trench. In the neighboring rifle pit, his friend Schmidt stared down the sights of his own weapon. Tired, sweating, but alert, he heard the clatter of gear and got Angst’s attention as he passed.

“Going to the dug-out?”

Angst nodded. Even without the aid of binoculars, Schmidt had seen the dust and understood the significance.

“How many?”

Angst shrugged. “A battery at least.” He kept going, down another twenty meters, past the machine gun emplacement, until he finally reached the signals dugout.

Private Wahl sat on an empty cable spool just inside the entrance, a field telephone at his feet.

“Tanks are coming. Call it in,” Angst told him.

“Oh, shit,” Wahl blurted. “How many?”

“Ten, maybe more, and bearing right down on us.”

“Terrific!” Wahl shouted. “Now Ivan will grow himself a new set of balls and start attacking in earnest, now that armor has arrived.”

So far the Russians had fought without tank support, using only infantry—which, for the most part, was poorly trained and tactically uncoordinated. When they lacked the armor necessary to bolster their resolve, the Red infantry assaults had a tendency to fizzle out rather quickly. What they did have in their favor was sheer weight in numbers.

“Put a call through to the company command bunker and inform…” Angst began.

“Can’t. Line’s down. Seidel’s out there now trying to restore it. The lieutenant’s dead.”

Angst was shocked at hearing the news and conveyed as much to the signal operator.

“The command bunker was overrun during the last attack,” Wahl explained. “Lieutenant Bauer was already dead by the time it was secured. Sergeant Lustig has taken command.”

“I didn’t know,” Angst said. and started to leave. “I’ll use the platoon radio.”

“Lustig took it with him. Company radio got shot up in the fight.”

Then I’ll have to go there myself, Angst thought, but he only said, “As soon as a connection is reestablished, notify the sergeant. Just in case.”

He gripped the Mauser carbine firmly and started down the zigzagged trench. The company command bunker was situated further to the rear in the third platoon’s strongpoint. As he sought out the communication trench, Angst discovered the network had caved in due to the enemy artillery barrages. He had to crawl, hop, and jump from one gun pit, dugout, and machine gun emplacement to the next without the benefit of cover in some places. He tried not to get entangled in the concertina wire mixed in with the churned up earth. In a shell crater, he found Seidel frantically splicing lengths of salvaged telephone cable together. Upon seeing Angst, he held up two frayed ends, his eyes staring wildly. Dirt filled the creases of his face.

“Too fucking short by half,” he cursed. “I’ll be damned if I want to go out there and keep scrounging.”

Aside from the occasional 120 mm mortar round that sailed in, there were snipers eager to pick off anything that moved. Angst could have sworn he felt a bullet whistle past his face on the way over.

“I’ll tell Lustig the line’s too busted up,” Angst said.

“He already knows. I told him.” Imitating the sergeant’s polished baritone voice, Seidel continued, “‘All lines of communication are to be repaired and kept functioning at all costs,’ he tells me. And ‘cost’ has nothing to do with the amount of spare change in your pocket. It means your one and only life. God, how I have come to hate that turn of phrase.”

So did Angst. The desire to stop and rest, even to listen to Seidel’s woes, was tempting, but he had to keep moving. At all costs. There was more of the trench to negotiate, where many dead lay, German and Russian intertwined, the aftermath of butchery at close quarters with small arms, bayonets, shovels. The grisly scene made him nauseous, and as he stepped and crawled across the trench, the feeling grew as the bodies yielded under his weight. Several grenadiers stared hollowly out from the loopholes of their rifle pits, ignoring the carnage that lay around them. The trench widened considerably when he arrived at the company command bunker, dug deep and reinforced with a revetment of sand bags and timber. The only signs of life were the machine gun emplacement, as a gunner operated the MG42 on a continuous fire mounting, and the second gunner peered through a vertical scope and called out range adjustments. The gunner calibrated and fired short repeated bursts. A body lay before the narrow entrance of the bunker. Angst started to move the corpse aside when it suddenly came to life. Startled, Angst let go. “No room left at the inn,” a voice told him. It was Max Griener, usually known as “Old Max.” Dark, sunken eyes blinked from a lopsided face that was the color of flour paste. He lay there, immobile, like some dying animal feebly guarding the inhabitants of its den.

“Out of the way, Max. I have to make my report.”

The old grenadier would not budge. Unable to rouse the man out of his state of inertia, Angst jumped over the prostrate body and half-tumbled down the carved earthen steps that descended below ground. “Tanks,” he shouted as he landed unceremoniously at the bottom.

Sergeant Lustig held the field telephone receiver to his ear and motioned Angst to keep quiet with an upraised finger to his lips. The bunker was gloomy; a small candle burned on a table fashioned from wooden crates. There were four other men inside the bunker, one at the controls of the radio appropriated from the platoon and two more who sat against the dirt walls. All wore bandages, although their wounds did not require evacuation to the aid station. Angst recognized them as company men—all except one, Kessler, the top kick from the battalion CO’s staff. He sat on an empty wicker shell crate, legs drawn up, rocking back and forth ever so slightly. Once Angst’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he noticed the outline of a man lying on a camp bed at the opposite side of the bunker. A pair of boots, the black leather worn almost white at the toe and heel, stuck out from under a gray blanket.

“Lieutenant Bauer,” the top kick said. He gestured to Angst to sit down beside him.

“I heard the bunker was overrun…”

Kessler nodded. “These fellows, what’s left of them, managed to toss the Russians out. Took a lot of casualties. Unfortunately, the lieutenant could not be saved. Why are you here?”

“Tanks have been spotted—”

“Oh yes, that. A bad business,” the top kick commented dreamily. Angst nodded in the direction of Sergeant Lustig, who stood with telephone in hand, listening but saying little except for an occasional grunt while he traced an imaginary line with his finger on a map spread out on the improvised table.

“Is the sergeant in contact with battalion?” Angst asked.

“A Nebelwerfer battery has moved up to offer support when the occasion so dictates.”

“Artillery, finally,” Angst said, relieved. “I was beginning to wonder if all the big guns hadn’t packed up and gone home.”

Kessler looked around furtively. It seemed a conspiratorial gesture.

“A breakthrough has occurred to the north. We’re cut off from our neighbors, the First Panzer Army. Now do you understand why we have had next to no artillery support? Practically all guns point toward the gap on our left flank.”

“How big of a gap?”

“Thirty kilometers.”

Angst was ready to fold when he heard this news. Granted, going by the way he presented himself, Kessler was headed over the edge; everyone was forced to function well beyond his endurance, and the cracks were beginning to show all too plainly. As he was a fixture at battalion headquarters, Kessler’s information was bound to be founded more on fact than rumor.

“An entire mechanized corps has penetrated—”

“Sergeant Kessler!”

The top kick immediately shut his mouth. Lustig had just cradled the phone and was staring hard at him. It was difficult to determine if he regarded Kessler with anger or despair.

“Corporal Angst has sighted Russian tanks,” Kessler said, chastened.

Lustig nodded. “Packs of T-34s are probing all along the line to renew the impetus of their flagging infantry. Regiment has sent up an assault gun with a grenadier escort of platoon strength. We have little time before the Russians get organized. How are things on your end, Corporal?”

“We’re spread pretty thin.”

Lustig nodded. “Is there anything else?”

Hesitantly, Angst decided to broach a more controversial subject. “Sergeant Kessler mentioned something about a breakthrough—”

“You would be well advised to limit your interests only to what occurs directly in front of you, Corporal. Anything outside the realm of your gun pit or your rifle squad is my concern. Is that understood”?

“Yes, Sergeant.”

With a conciliatory gesture, Lustig had Angst join him by the table. He spoke quietly. “Listen carefully. Sergeant Kessler was sent over here because he can no longer assist the captain. He’s not been much good since the outpost was lost. It was a disaster. Kessler was in charge. No one could have done any better or worse under the circumstances, and personally, I considered the position indefensible. The sergeant has reached the end of his tether. Only for the moment, I should hope.”

Angst said that he understood; however, when he looked back at the top kick, he had serious doubts the man would ever regain the moment. The telephone rang. Lustig picked up, listened, and then said, “Keep me informed as to how those tanks are deployed. And spread the word an assault gun is on its way. That should lift all your spirits.” He hung up the phone and turned to Angst. “That was Wahl, checking in.”

It appeared Seidel had managed to fix the line after all, Angst thought. He would have to commend him for his efforts. But Lustig had more important matters to grapple with than listen to the praise of a grenadier who was only doing the job he was entrusted with.

“The platoon leader from the assault gun escort is on the way over,” Lustig said. “Apparently Captain Raeder could not convince him that the tank thrust will occur directly in our company sector. The ‘little snot-nosed corporal,’ as the Captain described him, wants to see for himself, so he can then inform the assault gun where to go. I don’t want this fellow getting lost on the way. Bring him to me, so I can satisfy his curiosity and waylay any doubts he might have.”

“Right away, Sergeant,” Angst replied. As he started to leave, Lustig caught him gently by the arm.

“It would serve no purpose to repeat anything you heard, regarding what Sergeant Kessler has said.”

“I can’t remember what the Sergeant was talking about,” Angst said, and hustled up the steps. Lustig sat down on an upturned crate and began to organize the company field reports and maps that were spread across the table. Some of the papers were horribly stained. Several items of personal equipment had belonged to Lieutenant Bauer: signal flare gun, compass, field glasses. Lustig had no qualms about incorporating them into his own possessions for the time being. He only wished he could have silenced Kessler sooner and hoped Angst would truly forget what he had heard. Soldiers expressed themselves in volumes on the little they knew, or believed they knew; but rumors, good or bad, based on facts or not, circulated and were discussed at length. And this was bad. Kessler might not have all the specifics, but he had heard enough from the battalion CO. Even Lieutenant Bauer had become overwhelmed by the alarming reports generating from regimental and battalion headquarters and had found it necessary to confide in the company sergeant. Before the attack on the bunker, the company receiver had picked up numerous en clair messages, and the lieutenant pieced it together. No sooner had they occupied the Tortoise Line than the situation started to deteriorate. In First Panzer Army sector, a Soviet Mechanized Corps punched its way through north of Konstantinovka. And last night something absolutely devastating had occurred—the Russian Twenty-Third Tank Corps steamrolled over the left end of their division that bordered First Panzer Army’s southernmost flank. What this armored armada had planned, or where it was headed, no one seemed to know at regiment—or division or corps, for that matter. Wave upon wave of Red infantry followed in the armor’s wake. The gap in the front line was estimated at over forty kilometers. We can’t hold out any longer, Lustig thought. He looked over at Kessler, who still rocked on his seat. This knowledge had not done the sergeant much good. The only rumor Lustig would hold onto was the inevitable retreat across the Dniepr River. And the river was over a hundred kilometers away.

2

The battalion command bunker lay six hundred meters to the rear, and the only access was a wide but shallow communication lane that snaked through mine fields and nests of barbed wire. Angst scurried along, bent at the waist, so as not to be exposed. The lane had become a temporary repository for the dead. Corpses lay on either side, pushed apart so as not to obstruct foot traffic. The German dead were covered with shelter halves or blankets—Angst had counted thirty so far—whereas the Russian dead were stacked like cordwood to economize on space. The numbers were an indication to Angst as to how many of the enemy had penetrated the company strong points. There had been some costly “housecleaning” all through the day and night before. Teams of stretcher-bearers collected the German dead on stained canvas stretchers to make yet another long trek to the rear area for transport to the burial site. The grim chore fell to the Hilfswillige—helpers, Red Army deserters who had thrown in with the Wehrmacht rather than be sent off to a prison camp or forced labor gang. The Hilfswillige, or “Hiwis,” as they were called, worked as cooks, drivers, ammunition carriers, medical orderlies, and, in this instance, casualty removal personnel. With the ever-increasing deficit of manpower, most of the personnel in the service and supply companies had been combed out and sent as replacements to the front line for combat duty. Now the Hiwis were entrusted with these tasks. They carried out their duties reliably and, when treated fairly and decently, exhibited a high degree of loyalty to the German officers and enlisted men. Although it was rare, some Hiwi units served in a combat roll; their contempt and hatred toward the Soviets was especially acute.

Angst had entered a section of the access lane so broken up by shell craters that the route was impossible to follow. The Hiwis seemed to know where they were going, so he fell in line with the grim procession of stretcher bearers as they trudged through the gouged earth. Eventually, they followed a detour through the artillery area, which was situated a little in front and to the right of the battalion command strong point. Most of the heavy-caliber mortars and several 50 mm Pak38 antitank artillery had been put out of action by subsequent enemy bombardments. The ruined gun emplacements still smoldered. There were not enough mortars left to lend support to a single company, let alone fulfill the requirements of an entire battalion. An artillery spotter had set up an observation post for himself in the communication trench, which had narrowed considerably. He hefted an enormous pair of binoculars to his eyes. The trench was crowded with a squad of heavily armed panzergrenadiers straining under the weight of weapons and assault packs. Faces grimed with soot and streaked with sweat, uniforms coated with dust, they breathed heavily from overexertion, and their bodies exuded a rough odor. Some had lain down on the trench floor to cool off in a narrow band of shade, but the sun had reached a point in the sky where it had become impossible to escape.

The artillery spotter, a slight man in his late thirties, conversed with the several grenadiers immediately around him in an easy manner. He was without a field tunic, and the underarms of his faded gray-green shirt were stained white from body salt. Frayed suspenders held up an oversized pair of regulation trousers.

“The battery has a full complement of projectors,” the spotter was saying, “but only enough rockets for one complete salvo. Then we’re out of ammunition.”

The spotter was from the Nebelwerfer battery, Angst thought, the one Kessler had mentioned.

“I suppose you’ll give it to the Bolsheviks all at once and in a hurry,” one of the grenadiers commented.

The spotter agreed. “All the projector teams, loaders, and magneto operators will be joining you fellows in the trenches after we shoot our bolt. Until the battery is resupplied, anyway, and that isn’t likely any time soon.”

“You’re not attached to the assault gun escort by any chance, are you?” Angst interrupted. He was set upon by a number of quizzical looks.

“Who wants to know?”

“My CO sent me over to find the officer in charge and bring him up to company headquarters.”

“That would be me,” said a corporal, who elbowed his way past the artillery spotter. This must be the “snot-nosed corporal” the captain spoke of, Angst thought.

“Where’s the rest of your platoon?” Angst asked him.

The corporal frowned. “We started out with a second lieutenant and thirty men. Keeping that left flank from crumbling cost us dearly. The rest are over at battalion. There are fourteen of us left. Your CO will have to deal with me.”

“We lost our lieutenant, too,” Angst said. “My platoon sergeant has assumed command.”

“What can I tell you? It’s been a bad day for officers.”

“For everybody,” Angst muttered, and then introduced himself. “I’m Angst, from first platoon,” as he extended a hand.

The corporal shook hands and surrendered his name, it seemed, almost reluctantly: Schroeder. He was a couple of years younger than Angst, around twenty-one or twenty-two, and judging by the medals that adorned his tunic, the young corporal had accomplished much. He had been decorated with the Iron Cross First Class and the close combat medal. Sewn on the tunic sleeve were two cloth badges, both of the silhouette of a tank against a silver background. The badge was awarded for having destroyed an enemy tank single-handedly. The corporal had performed this action twice.

“What kind of strength are you up against?” Schroeder asked.

“A battery or more. There wasn’t an exact count when I left. Sergeant Lustig can fill you in.”

“I’ll do well to see for myself,” Schroeder said, scowling. He called out several names. “Wilms, Detwiler, Ganz. You’re coming with me.”

A signalman and a machine gun crew stood up and collected some of the gear they had shed. Wilms, the signalman, slipped his arms through the shoulder straps of the transceiver. The easily transportable set had a range of four kilometers and maintained direct two-way communication with the self-propelled assault gun. The base of the meter-long aerial tilted at a forty-degree angle. Wilms had to be careful so he didn’t poke anyone in the eye. The machine gunner, Detwiler, draped two fifty-round belts of ammunition around his neck and hoisted the MG42. With powerfully built arms and shoulders, he seemed to tote the weapon effortlessly. The second gunner, Ganz, was older and slighter in stature but was the pack animal of the duo. He was made to carry an ammunition box in each hand and a sling containing extra barrels for the machine gun, once it became warped from overheating.

“If I’m not back in time,” Schroeder said to the grenadiers who stayed behind, “return to the battalion command post and take your places with the others. You know what to do.”

Angst started to lead the way back to the company strong point with Schroeder following close behind. A grating screech rumbled overhead as a 120 mm mortar shell fell out of the sky. Everyone ducked down and tensed for the loud crash that followed. “We’ve been getting the shit knocked out of us,” Angst remarked after the explosion. “It is a relief to know an assault gun is on the way.” Schroeder did not comment; he merely regarded Angst with a pinched, mean face.

* * *

Lustig was in the forward observation dugout beyond the bunker compound. He greeted the escort grenadier corporal but came immediately to the point. “There are eleven T-34s and two KV1s,” he informed Schroeder, and passed along the map that detailed the entire battalion sector. More importantly, the map included the course of the balka that lay before the main line of resistance, the former out-post position. Penciled circles indicated actual and possible points of entry into the balka from the eastern side. Exit points were marked with an X. One exit lay directly before the second company sector.

“As bad luck would have it, this is where the tanks will come out from,” Lustig said.

Schroeder studied the map. Judging from the balka’s course, the entry points were abundant—a total of seven points in a three-kilometer span. Getting out was another matter. Aside from the position Lustig had shown him, another exit was a half-kilometer north of the first company. The only other exit was somewhere within the third battalion sector on their right flank. Despite the information the map provided Schroeder asked, “Why here at this exit specifically”?

“If the Reds expect to roll up the rest of this divisional sector, they will have to start here first. As soon as we’re out of the way, both flanks will easily fold. It’s that simple.”

“Nothing is that simple.”

“You’re right, Corporal, but in this instance, it is as simple and real as it gets.”

Schroeder looked at the map again; his temples throbbed. “Raise Pieper,” he said to Wilms. “I want confirmation on this.”

Tactically, the assault gun commander was in charge of the situation; no matter what the rank of the infantry officers, all decisions were subordinate to him. The integrity of the assault gun had to be maintained.

“Where is the assault gun now?” Lustig asked.

“Two-and-a-half kilometers to the rear.”

“Captain Raeder made the suggestion that the assault gun advance near to the boundary of the battalion command strong point. The force covering that position is at platoon strength at best,” Lustig said.

“So he told me. Your captain is convinced the armor intends a shallow penetration,” said Schroeder.

“I think he’s right. The Russians will concentrate on us, here, and once they’re through…”

“This layout really stinks,” Schroeder said caustically. “I can guarantee this whole sector will be crawling with Bolsheviks once the show starts.”

“I got him,” Wilms called out, and passed the headphones and microphone to Schroeder.

Lustig eased out of the observation post dugout and knelt beside Angst, who was seated nearby.

“Is what he said true, Sergeant? Will the Reds overrun our position?” Angst asked.

“They haven’t yet. Besides, once that assault gun knocks out a few of their tanks, they’ll have a change of heart. I’ve been in a lot worse scrapes than this.”

Yeah, Stalingrad, Angst thought. Only it didn’t turn out well for the Sixth Army—and probably wouldn’t for this army of General Hollidt, either, which bore the same unlucky number. Lustig had been wounded at Stalingrad and was one of the lucky ones to have been airlifted from out of the encircled city before it fell. He represented a core group of officers, NCOs, and enlisted men who had survived “the cauldron” and now formed the recently re-designated Sixth Army. The sergeant had a reputation for being very demanding of those under his command—and also of himself. He possessed the lowest casualty rate in the battalion, up till now. Every platoon had been whittled away by the Red Army’s unyielding pressure.

“Get back to your squad,” Lustig said. “Take Old Max and Paul Hermann with you. They’re waiting over by the bunker.”

Angst obeyed. He found the two grenadiers lounging on the upper steps of the bunker, trying to stay out of the heat. Angst leaned in and jerked his thumb. Reluctantly the two grenadiers, one too old and the other terribly young, picked up their rifles and followed Angst down the trench. Max Griener was far more animated now than when Angst had last seen him. Originally assigned to a butcher company, Griener had been sent to the front line along with the latest batch of comb-outs. Division was scraping the bottom of the barrel, if only the likes of Max were left to draw from. He complained of rheumatism, and the sort of butchery he now had to partake in was something other than he was accustomed to. Paul Hermann was a replacement who had arrived only two weeks ago. Possessed with a nervous disposition, the youth didn’t do much to bolster the strength or effectiveness of any rifle squad and was passed along throughout the entire company. Since his arrival at the Mius position and the subsequent fall back to the Tortoise Line, Hermann had taken to throwing up constantly. He had become weak from the continual exertions of heaving and vomiting. It was an effort for the boy to carry a rifle and full equipment; nevertheless, Angst nudged him along while trying not to be heartless about doing it. They ran across Seidel, who had just added the finishing touches to his cable repairs.

“This does it,” he said, as Angst and the others passed. “Next time, Wahl can fix his own damn phone.”

Seidel gathered several more lengths of phone line, along with pliers, splicing tools, and tape, stuffed it all into a kit bag, and trailed behind. When the group approached the signals dugout, they found Wahl at the field telephone, chatting away contentedly. He gave the thumbs-up to Seidel.

“Jam that finger up your ass, for all I care,” Seidel said, and dropped the repair kit inside the dugout entrance. Wahl didn’t put up the phone, but his expression definitely conveyed hurt at the remark.

Angst pulled in at Schmidt’s rifle pit. Braun lay beside him, legs crossed, casually smoking a cigarette. He took one look at Old Max and Paul Hermann and spat. “Is this your idea of reinforcements?” he asked in disgust.

“Lustig sent them along.”

“Look, Hermann can’t even keep the saliva in his mouth,” Braun guffawed. Self-conscious at the derisive laughter, Paul Hermann wiped his chin.

“Any word if we’re pulling back?” Schmidt asked.

Angst shook his head. “Not that I heard.”

“A tactical retreat would make sense, don’t you think?” Braun asked. “Our position is tenuous at best, if the rumors are as bad as I’ve heard.”

“What rumors?” Angst became alarmed. He had not uttered a word, and yet the grim picture Kessler described had begun to seep out from the depths of the bunker outward, changing subtly, desperately, as the rumor passed to each ear.

“Come on, Angst. The Reds are in front, behind, and on either flank. We’re surrounded.”

“There’s no truth to that. I don’t know where you got your information, but it’s wrong. I suggest you stop repeating it.”

“Even so, like I said, tactically it would be better to pull back and shorten the line.”

“I’m sure headquarters would be interested in your opinion,” Schmidt chided.

Angst wanted to change the subject. “Who’s in charge of the platoon, Minnesinger?”

Schmidt nodded. “His squad is relatively intact, including the machine gun crew, Ehrling and Sauer.”

That made sense, Angst thought; Minnesinger was the sergeant’s right hand. “Anyone know how second platoon shapes up?”

“That kid Lindenberger did a tour,” Braun said. “There are two rifle teams at half strength each, a reinforced squad strongpoint with two mortars and a machine gun emplacement, and a couple more rifles. Frank’s in charge.”

The numbers indicated to Angst that second platoon had been reduced by almost half since their short stay at the Tortoise Line.

“All right. Let’s get back to our holes. Let’s go, Braun. Things are going to get hot for us very soon.”

Braun elbowed Schmidt as he wormed his way out of his friend’s gun pit. “Stay ferocious, Kamerad.”

Angst then showed Hermann and Griener to their rifle pits, situated between Schmidt’s and his own. After he made sure they had both settled in, he continued on. Braun occupied the next firing station up from his. They walked the short distance of trench line together. Braun touched his arm and spoke quietly. “You plan to babysit those two?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, don’t fuck yourself up trying too hard. Some guys aren’t going to make it. Griener and Hermann have it written large all over them.”

Angst had the same feeling about the two but would never admit it openly.” I’ll keep it in mind.”

“You better,” Braun cautioned, and then disappeared around the corner of the zigzagging trench. Angst entered the gun pit and slid his carbine through the loophole. He removed two stick grenades from the small pile of extra gear and placed both within easy reach on a ledge he had carved in the earth. Without the aid of binoculars, he could see the T-34s maneuver on the steppe, as though on parade. The Russians wanted to show off what they had in store for them, it was obvious. Nothing would stop them now. Angst was more tired than afraid at the moment. It was a struggle, fighting the urge to sleep, to close one’s eyes. What a precious commodity. He started to drift; the heat and his surroundings became opaque, almost null, when suddenly a noise made him jump. Paul Hermann’s form filled the opening of the rifle pit.

“Corporal Angst?”

“What is it, Hermann?”

“Are we all that are left of this platoon? I mean us and Corporal Minnesinger’s squad?”

“I’m afraid it is,” Angst told him.

“And the rest of the battalion is no better off, is it?” Hermann asked fearfully.

“Probably not,” Angst said, without giving any thought to his words. He immediately regretted his carelessness. Hermann’s eyes grew large with wonder and fear. “Jesus Christ have mercy on us all.”

The sound of desolation in his voice was gut-wrenching. Angst found himself on the verge of another crying jag.

3

The Sturmgeschutz III self-propelled assault gun lumbered forward slowly. Sergeant Ulrich Pieper emerged halfway out of the command cupola and observed the ground immediately in front of the vehicle. The assault gun had advanced to within half a kilometer to the rear of the second battalion’s battle station.

The engine groaned as the Mark III chassis shimmied from weight and stress. Before Pieper and his crew left for this jaunt, the assault gun had been resupplied with more fuel and extra shot—thirty-four rounds of armor-piercing and twenty-two rounds of high-explosive ammunition, including several magnesium star shells. Engaged in operations for nearly twenty-four consecutive hours, since the Russian armored breakthrough, the vehicle should have been laagered, not sent out on another mission. The machine had been rebuilt several times already from parts salvaged from other worn-out and damaged Stug IIIs. As far as Pieper was concerned, she was a good weapon, and he had absolute faith in her.

After the vehicle had settled into a depression, Pieper spoke into the microphone and ordered the driver, Kurowski, to stop. The 75 mm tracked gun maintained a relatively low center of gravity. Slight hollows, indentations, even furrows in the terrain all helped to reduce even more the assault gun’s low profile against the horizon. There was no cover on the steppe, and every advantage had to be taken.

Pieper observed the situation as it developed through powerful field glasses. He counted five T-34s crisscrossing the eastern horizon. One and then another found access into the balka and disappeared from view. He followed the course of a KV1 that had driven to the far left flank of the battalion sector. From this distance the heavily armored tanks appeared as small and inconsequential as beetles.

Below him, the loader’s roof hatch opened. Hofinger, the gun loader and wireless operator, poked his head out.

“I just talked with Schroeder and the acting CO of second company, a Sergeant Lustig. The main tank thrust will be directed at his sector. He sounded adamant.”

“Does Schroeder agree with this assessment”?

“The map certainly bears in favor of the sergeant’s argument. There’s a negotiable exit right in front of his company.”

Pieper set down the field glasses and thought for a moment. The battalion commander, Captain Raeder, had said virtually the same thing, only his maps could not logistically support his theory. The Russians would keep the first and third companies occupied on either flank while concentrating on the second; once the second company was taken care of, the roll-up would begin in earnest. The division, maybe the entire corps area, would find itself encircled.

“Get on the radio and tell Schroeder we will advance to within a half-kilometer of the battalion battle station. And Hofinger, contact the Luftwaffe liaison officer on the brigade wavelength. I definitely need air support this time around.”

“Right,” Hofinger said, and disappeared below. It was only logical and fair that we get air support Pieper thought, we won’t be able to pull this off on our own. There were thirteen tanks and endless reserves of Red infantry to grapple with. He began to formulate a plan. Soviet tank crews were poorly trained and largely inexperienced. That was because German gunners did not allow them to live long enough to gain the necessary experience, he thought smugly. Only there were so damned many of them—hundreds, if not thousands, converging over the entire length and breadth of the southern front. Two or three tanks would pass over the trenches and work their way deep inside the battalion sector as fast as possible. These tanks could then interfere with any countermeasures put into effect to support the threatened main line. Not that the regiment possessed any reserves for local counterattacks. The battalion command post would be a primary target, Pieper thought, and while the T-34s sought it out, there I’ll be. Once that problem is solved, we can advance closer to the company battle stations. Enemy tanks disabled by antitank mines could then be picked off at our leisure.

The Stug III had advanced for only one-third of a kilometer when the harassment mortar fire suddenly changed. There was a pause for no longer than it takes a man to draw a breath—in such an instance, maybe his last—when something new began, like the opening chords of a crescendo.

“It’s started!” Pieper called down into the cramped interior of the hull.

The entire defensive line erupted in a dense concentration of fire and smoke. More than the heavy mortars were involved this time. The Russians had brought up 122 mm howitzers and were pouring down a curtain of fire. Nothing could be seen except for the gushing fountains of earth and billowing smoke. Pieper ducked below and closed the hatch overhead. All anyone could do now was to remain still and weather the storm.

* * *

The barrage continued with intensity for thirty minutes before finally tapering off. Pieper, up in the cupola again, could barely see through the haze of dust and smoke when the sound of Wilms’s voice crackled over the radio. The crew became a rapt audience as the signalman gave an immediate account. Nine tanks had lunged from the balka’s exit point, fanned out across the second company’s front, and raced unimpeded across the eight-hundred-meter stretch. Most of the tanks, including a KV1, carried assault troops on the outer hulls. Streams of infantry ran behind, using the armor for cover. All at once, in one great body, the Red infantry sprouted over the rim of the balka and followed in the wake of dust kicked up from the machines as more climbed out of the assault trenches that had been dug further to the east. The landscape teemed with a phalanx of green-brown figures, rifles lowered. There was a collective shout of “Ooray!” and the entire mass broke into a run. Pieper could hear the long sonorous cry from where the assault gun was positioned.

As the tanks approached, high-explosive shells ripped into machine gun emplacements and rifle pits. At least from what Wilms could see within his immediate vicinity, no direct hits had yet occurred. The machine guns continued to fire. One T-34 passed over the trench lines and didn’t stop. The concentrated artillery fire had rendered useless the mine belts laid around and between the platoon strong points. Pieper lowered himself, closed the hatch, and peered through the cupola’s periscopes. Hofinger stood amid the shells that lay on the gun deck. He had an armor-piercing round loaded in the breech. The gunner, Naumann, had an eye to the sight mount of the fire control scope. He targeted the lead tank as it raced over the strong points, crashed through sections of barbed wire, and wove around the cratered mine fields. He called out range adjustments.

“Seven hundred meters… six hundred meters…”

“How tight are you going to play this?” Hofinger asked the gun commander.

“You know I like my targets close,” Pieper responded coolly.

As the T-34 veered out of the view field, Naumann called for a vehicle traverse to the right at thirty degrees; once that compensation was made, he had the target back inside the sight brackets.

“Five hundred fifty meters… five hundred…”

Pieper exhaled noisily. “Fire!”

Through the threefold magnification of the scope, Naumann watched as the T-34 disintegrated in a sheet of fire and smoke. A hot shell casing ejected out of the breech, and Hofinger loaded another armor-piercing round.

“Straighten her out and advance one hundred meters,” Pieper ordered the driver.

The engine groaned as the Stug III eased out of a hollow. Once again, Pieper had by now concluded, he had been given an objective that exceeded the capability of a single vehicle and its crew. An entire regimental sector was to be defended against an incursion of enemy troops and armor. Silently, he said a short prayer for the crew, himself, and the machine as it rattled forward.

4

A whirlwind of lead and steel filled the air. As the ground shuddered under his body, Angst could hear metal fragments pelt against the berm of earth and sandbags that surrounded the rifle pit. Suddenly, he heard a noise that made his blood run cold. The Nebelwerfer battery started to launch. Every six seconds, long trails of smoke streaked overhead, accompanied by a deranged noise, which increased in volume. If any weapon could be characterized as intrinsically insane, it was the Nebelwerfer. It was the sound produced by this multi-barreled rocket projector that caused Angst to anthropomorphize this piece of hardware. When ejected, the squat, stubby missile screamed with a voice of unreason. Beginning with a high-pitched howl as the flaming rockets arched across the sky, the sound intensified into an earsplitting wail. To hear a battery let loose was to unbar the door to hell and listen to the collective scream of ecstasy as havoc and homicide were given free reign upon the world. When the rockets detonated in the air, hundreds of steel fragments shot outward and down, tearing gaping holes in the ranks of Russian infantry. Where this lethal rain fell, all flesh was torn utterly, horribly. Numbers of Russian troops tried to make a run for it, back to the perceived safety of the ravine, only to be caught by another series of air bursts and flattened like sheaves of grain under a scythe. Despite the holes punched in the line, the ranks managed to close, and the Russians continued to advance, shoulder to shoulder, an army of blank-faced automatons. Angst’s blood turned colder still.

In the nearby emplacement, the heavy machine gun clattered away at the rate of five hundred rounds per minute. Angst took careful aim with the Mauser 98k carbine and fired one round, after another, throwing the bolt quickly and fluidly after each pull of the trigger, trying desperately to maintain accuracy. He detected movement from the left field of his peripheral vision, and as he turned to look, he saw Old Max, without a helmet, run past. Angst scrambled out of the rifle pit, caught hold of the grenadier’s cartridge belt harness, and pulled him down. Confused by this resistance, Griener started to climb out of the trench. Angst tried to heave him back down, only to find himself carried along. Suddenly Max’s head jerked violently and all his panic-induced strength dissolved. He toppled over Angst, his skull shattered by a bullet, as they landed back in the trench. Angst gagged and spat out a clump of hair and scalp, his face covered by the dead man’s warm blood. Paul Hermann crouched nearby, looking numbly at the gaping hole in Griener’s head, and started to heave. Angst shouted at the youth to get back to his rifle pit. To hell with them all, he thought, revolted and humiliated. I can’t save them. I can’t even save myself. He returned to his carbine and resumed shooting furiously at everything that moved.

* * *

A T-34 straddled the trench, swiveled its turret to nine o’clock, and fired. The turret swung around again and had just brought the cannon to bear on a target on its right flank when it was struck. The Stug III fired an armor-piercing round dead center in the sloping front end. The tank’s magazine, ignited by the exploding armor-piercing shell, brewed up. Pieces of hull flew in all directions, and orange flame belched from every seam, rent, and hole.

Pieper ordered a traverse to the right; Naumann squinted through the fire control optics and spun the level and aim shift of the gun to the maximum twelve degrees of the central axis. Hofinger had another round in the breech. The crew had performed the drill so many times they operated like a precision timepiece.

“Target sighted,” Naumann said.

This T-34 had caught sight of the Stug III and fired while still on the move. Pieper waited before he gave the command; instinctively he knew the tank had fired wildly. The round fell short, justifying his experience. They never expected this kind of opposition, he thought; the Russians had full confidence the armored assault would roll up the battalion’s defensive line and resistance would fold, easily.

“Fire,” Pieper barked.

The armor-piercing round hit before the T-34 could get off another shot. The on board fuel reservoir started to burn. A thick plume of black oily smoke billowed. The tank shifted into reverse.

“Fire,” Pieper said as a second round finished it off.

The remaining tanks spun around and headed toward the ravine. In an effort to aid the withdrawal the turret of one tank swung around to six o’clock and fired at will. The gun layering was poor and no threat of getting hit existed but the high explosive rounds were annoying. Although well within range Pieper did not give the order to return fire. Smoke and dust had obscured the targets.

“Move in, Kurowski, slow and steady.”

The tanks would rendezvous in the cover of the ravine and, with the infantry, regroup for another attack. The assault gun advanced to within three hundred meters behind and to the left of the battalion command bunker. Pieper ordered the driver to stop.

“Contact brigade again, Hofinger, and demand air support. We can’t keep this up all day.”

“I think we’re doing rather well.”

“Don’t intimate that sentiment to the liaison officer, if you please.”

Pieper opened the cupola hatch and looked out. Two tanks drove aimlessly about the steppe east of the ravine, showing Mickey Mouse ears. German infantrymen had coined the analogy to describe the T-34s double roof turret hatches when raised. Pieper smiled as the pesky cartoon character came to mind, but then the hatches closed, and the tanks took on their more ominous profile. Naumann joined him above and watched the proceedings with binoculars. There was yet another tank stationed further back, well beyond the assault trenches of the Russian lines. Despite the distance, the tank appeared massive. Naumann thought it was another heavy KV.

“Have you noticed that tank parked far to the rear?” he asked Pieper.

“I most certainly have.”

“A radio vehicle?”

Pieper shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

The sight of the vehicle caused Naumann unease, but he hadn’t a clue as to why. He had spotted the tank through the fire control optics, and although he had believed it to be a KV1 or 2, now, on closer inspection, the outline was all wrong. He tried to make sense of the details using binoculars. The vehicle had remained front forward about two kilometers east of the ravine, outfitted with what appeared to be camouflage netting, and was modified in some way.

“Why does it stay put like that? It hasn’t budged.”

“I don’t know,” Pieper replied, equally intrigued.

“Well, it’s just plain queer, if you ask me. Like somebody’s fat, malevolent stepmother decked out in lace.”

Pieper smirked at the allusion but said nothing. It did strike him as strange, and for some reason, the tank’s presence unsettled him.

“Should I send over a round? Let it know we mean business?” Naumann asked.

“Don’t bother. At this range you would only be wasting ammunition.” Besides, it would do no good, Pieper thought; for a reason he could not explain, he had no desire to tangle with this particular tank. It was a T-34. That much he was sure of.

* * *

Bodies lay everywhere. Piles of dead were heaped only a few meters from trenches and dugouts. Wounded Russians, teeth bared, stared back at the grenadiers, who could only watch in disbelief from the loopholes of their gun pits. Even the most horribly mutilated did not cry out or moan. Missing an arm or leg, spilled entrails, or flesh wounds, they grimaced and snarled. Angst was overwhelmed. In a nearby emplacement, a machine gun team removed the warped, overheated barrel of an MG42 and replaced it with a new one. Angst was certain the gunners were going to open fire on the wounded Russians, but they didn’t. Old hands at this sort of thing, he guessed, numb after years of combat. Silent and methodical, the machine gun crew went about their task. Angst envied their numbness. The lines were not overrun—but just about. The nauseating odors of burning petrol, blood, and feces filled the air.

“Is it always going to be like this?” Angst heard Paul Hermann cry.

“Ivan doesn’t fool around,” Schmidt answered.

No, he doesn’t, Angst thought. From what he heard upon his arrival and what he had witnessed since, the Russians would contest every meter of ground and accept criminal numbers in casualties. There was no way to prepare oneself mentally for these mass attacks. Human waves lunged recklessly at thinly held defensive lines. The onslaught could be slowed down temporarily, but not stopped. The sheer volume of men and machines will crush us. Angst reacted viscerally to the thought and shivered involuntarily. This was a far cry from “blitzkrieg,” the well-oiled, fast-paced machine warfare he had experienced in both Poland and France—a fluid, mobile procedure, a progression of achieved objectives. Officially, the Russian front was considered positional warfare. It was a slugfest. Whoever endures the slaughter wins. This was as bad as anything said or rumored about the war in the east. Now that he was here, in the thick of it, it was worse than anything he could have imagined.

Something rattled from behind. Angst fumbled for his carbine and turned about aggressively. It was only Braun, his assault equipment jostling as he walked. Calmed by the sight of his friend, he asked, “Any casualties on your end?”

Braun shook his head. “No. What about you?”

He followed Angst’s gaze as it settled on Old Max, who lay in the trench a few meters down from his gun pit. The sight of the dead grenadier merely affirmed what Braun had said earlier, but he derived no satisfaction from the foreknowledge of Griener’s certain demise. And it wasn’t as though Braun had preordained any of it, although he felt a little guilty. He did not speak of the matter but instead said, “It got quiet all of a sudden.”

“Yeah,” Schmidt called over. “Ivan’s cooking up another brilliant scheme.”

“Like a full frontal assault,” Braun responded in a cynical tone. “Now, that would really surprise the shit out of us.”

Paul Hermann laughed hoarsely as he stroked his cheek against the warm barrel of his carbine.

* * *

Hofinger signed off of the transmitter. By the expression he wore, Pieper judged the conversation with the liaison officer had not gone well.

“Expect delays for any further air support. There aren’t enough planes for the sorties requested. When the ground support aircraft return to base to refuel and rearm, missions will be decided by the degree of urgency.”

“Did you tell him this was urgent?”

Hofinger nodded. “The entire line is clamoring for help. We have to sit tight and wait our turn.”

Pieper grunted. Further air support? We have yet to receive any. Sit tight? Our seats are on fire. The hiatus, which lasted for thirty minutes, came to a rude end. The ground started to erupt around the assault gun. An infernal noise echoed throughout the interior as shell fragments and clods of dirt pounded the outer hull. The assault gun had been spotted by Russian forward observers and their artillery had managed to zero in.

“Get us out of here!” Pieper shouted.

As Kurowski lurched into reverse, Hofinger was nearly thrown to the deck. One round landed so close, the assault gun bucked wildly. A section of extra-added frontal armor was shorn off. The men collided, as elbows and knees made contact with each other and, more painfully, with the metal parts of the fighting compartment. Kurowski was having a difficult time repositioning the vehicle away from the creeping artillery barrage. While in reverse, he wove about as fast as possible, his teeth clamped tightly on the bit of a briar wood pipe. Saliva ran down the stem toward the unlit bowl and whistled as he breathed heavily from the exertion. So far, any hits to the vehicle had caused only superficial damage, Kurowski noted. The indicator gauges on the panel read correctly; oil pressure hadn’t redlined; and the engine, despite the strain, hadn’t overheated. But it was proving to be one hell of a ride. Through the headphones, he heard the gun commander’s voice ordering an immediate and stable firing position. Kurowski braked hard. The Russian armor and infantry made use of the artillery cover. Two tanks had subsequently emerged from the ravine. More followed. Pieper ordered high-explosive rounds. He wanted to tear as many holes in the infantry lines as possible in the short space of time available. Hofinger and Naumann managed to load, target, and fire eight rounds at their own discretion when time had finally run out.

“Armor-piercing, Hofinger! Target approach estimated at four hundred fifty meters. Kurowski, traverse left forty degrees. Naumann!”

Naumann sighted and adjusted the gun mount wheels by slight increments. “Target.”

“Fire!”

The round struck the oncoming tank at the precise moment its 76 mm cannon fired. The crew heard the projectile whistle over the bow. The T-34 burned. One of the Russian crewmen escaped out of the turret hatch, leaped off, and ran for safety within a shell crater. The next tank had come to a full stop to concentrate its gun layering from a stationary and thus more accurate position. Yet another tank had exited the ravine, one Pieper hadn’t seen, and fired as it approached. The shell fell off target, but the distraction was effective. Pieper turned his attention back to the other tank, which had advanced to a distance of six hundred meters. It stopped, fired, and scored a goal. The shell struck a glancing blow to the armored apron and burst. The tank resumed its advance.

“Enemy tank five hundred meters,” Naumann called out nervously.

Pieper waited until the assault gun and the crew settled down after the shock of the blow.

“Do it now,” he said, sounding almost relaxed. The Sturmgeschutz III’s 75 mm gun barked and scored. The Russian tank let out an enormous cloud of white smoke, as though it was a kettle on the boil, and burst into flame. The other tanks stopped firing and hung back, closer to the ravine, outside the range of a killing shot. It quickly became evident to the gun commander as to why. A brawl was taking place in the trenches. Despite the constant hammering of the machine guns and rifle fire, Red troops had penetrated the company’s defensive network. The radio squawked. Wilms requested fire in the immediate vicinity of the command bunker located in the center of the third platoon’s ellipse. There was no other alternative but to oblige him; with speed and accuracy, Naumann and Hofinger sent out four high-explosive rounds. Then Pieper saw something through the periscope that caused him alarm. A howling swarm of Russians climbed out of shell craters and abandoned communication trenches from within the battalion command defense perimeter and ran toward the assault gun. They had been working their way down since the first attack and waited patiently for this opportunity, Pieper thought. He had to credit the Russians for their mastery of infiltration, in broad daylight and in the midst of an ongoing battle.

Several of the escort grenadiers were now out in the open in a desperate attempt to hold the Russians off. Kurowski backed up and traversed the vehicle.

“We’re going to get swamped!” he shouted, over the noise of the whining motor.

Hofinger grabbed the MG34, opened the loader’s hatch, inserted the weapon into the port of the gun shield, and fired off a long burst. Pieper followed with a machine pistol from the command cupola and blazed away at the mob that surrounded the vehicle. A grenade was tossed and bounced onto the roof, and as both men ducked below to safety, it detonated. Pieper wasn’t fast enough; a piece of shrapnel struck him in the face. Hofinger resumed shooting. Over twenty Russians lay dead or dying. The remainder of the mob slackened as more grenadiers streamed out of a nearby trench. Within minutes the assault party had been mopped up. Now that the rush to disable the Stug III had obviously failed, the last few Russians dropped their weapons and raised their arms in surrender. The grenadiers were not interested in taking any prisoners at the moment. Their blood was up, and without hesitation, they cut them all down.

Naumann and Hofinger returned to the gun. As fast as they could load, target, and fire, a barrage was laid down selectively, in and around the open lanes separating the platoon strong points. It seemed to have worked. The Russians started to retreat back to the ravine or the nearest shell hole that afforded some cover.

Naumann stopped firing and turned to the gun commander, who hadn’t moved from his seat since the grenade went off.

“Christ, you’ve been hit!”

A torrent of blood poured down Pieper’s face and stained the front of his waist-length tunic. Naumann stepped away from the gun and opened the stowage box that contained the first aid supplies. He inspected the wound before applying the field dressing and dabbed the excess blood with a wad of gauze. The shrapnel had split the end of Pieper’s nose apart. No fragments had entered the nasal cavity; at least, Pieper did not feel as if any had.

“Don’t cover my mouth over with that bandage. I still have orders to give,” Pieper said, as the gunner dressed the wound.

After he tied off the bandage, Naumann rooted around the kit for an ampoule. The gun commander became excited. “No, not that! I have to remain alert.” Instead, he allowed Naumann to administer aspirin, of which he took several. After rinsing the blood from his mouth, Pieper swallowed the tablets with a long draught from the water bottle. He was lucky. Although requiring stitches, the wound would be characterized as superficial. He knew he would look quite a sight after the surgeon was through with him. Hofinger spoke up from the radio. “Tanks exerting pressure in First Company sector.”

“How many?” Pieper asked.

“Three. A KV1 is involved.”

First Company, located on the left flank was the weakest link of the battalion; so Pieper had been informed by Captain Raeder. Apparently, the resistance those men were putting up was more than what the Red infantry could handle on its own.

“Take us over, Kurowski, and take the long way.”

The driver understood what Pieper meant. He would withdraw from the battalion command post strong point for a distance of half a kilometer and then flank north toward the lane that ran through the minefields, then continue directly over to the first company battle station. Pieper asked the gunner if he would care to observe from the command hatch. Naumann took the field glasses and climbed up. Five wrecks burned, evidence of their handiwork. He refocused on the dust of several tanks that were returning to the balka—possibly to refuel, he thought. He could not make an exact count. There were now three they had to contend with. And then there was one more, still out of range, that dominated the horizon. It sat like some inscrutable beast, engorged on a feast of blood, smoke, and death. Naumann wondered when it would finally make its move.

* * *

Angst pressed his face into the dark soil, the fingers of each hand clenched tightly. He wanted to burrow deep; become a worm; reside in the cool darkness of the earth, unseen and safe from the horrors exposed under a relentless sun. He was alive but could not fathom how that was possible. He turned over, on to his back, and examined his body. Whole. The left sleeve of his tunic and the shirt was ripped. Under the fabric was a jagged tear in the flesh. Minor, yet it burned like a branding iron. The others? What about the others? he thought. He slid the carbine out from the loophole and crawled from the rifle pit. Nearby, Paul Hermann lay unnaturally, arms and legs bent at odd angles, his clothes now bloody rags. He had been peppered with submachine gun–fire when the Russians swept over their position. They were so close; Angst could smell the odor of sweat and tobacco that clung to their uniforms. He remembered throwing grenades, shooting and screaming, a desperate act. And then nothing. His mind had gone blank. He crawled past the dead boy to the next rifle pit, where Schmidt lay curled up in the fetal position, his teeth chattering.

“Are you hurt?” Angst did not recognize the sound his own voice made.

Schmidt used his entire body to answer. The shrug seemed to indicate he was unharmed. Angst leaned further into the rifle pit and looked through the loophole. Nothing happened. Only the dead and dying lay on the steppe. He knew they could not withstand another onslaught.

“I’m going to see who’s left,” he said, and patted his friend gently on the arm. Schmidt continued to shake.

Angst crawled in the direction of the machine gun emplacement. Piles of soft, loose dirt had filled in the trench from the pounding they received from the artillery and the T-34s. He had to wade through as the dirt seeped into his collar and inside the waistband of his trousers. The layout of the strong point, once recognizable, had all but vanished. The wooden stock of a Mauser 98k burned, its orange embers emitting an intense heat. A steel helmet lay on the ground, cracked like an egg. The site of the machine gun emplacement had been totally obliterated. The ground was churned up and patterned with scorch marks. Then he saw something, lying in the dirt not more than a meter away. He could not quite make out what it was. He stepped closer. It seemed to be a small animal, its weight having made a slight impression in the loose soil, almost like a nest. Maybe it was a squirrel, a rabbit, or some small burrowing creature that inhabited the steppe. The fur had been completely stripped away and it lay quivering, skinned alive by all the shelling. How the poor thing could have survived the torrent of steel and fire was miraculous. Angst reached out toward the mutilated creature, not really sure if he intended to provide comfort or to put it out of its misery. His fingers touched the spongy mass and he immediately reeled back in horror. He suddenly understood what it actually was. Not an animal but a brain. A human brain. Violently dislodged from a cleaved skull, the organ had landed, basically intact, still pulsating. Did the mind still function? Did it know what had happened, that it had become forever separated from the body that possessed it? Were these the traumatized thoughts that caused it to pulse? Overcome by a revulsion so acute he believed he would go mad, Angst scrambled backward on all fours and collided into something. He was caught hold of in mid-scream. Wahl. He, too, looked at the grayish-pink mass and grimaced.

“Forget it,” Wahl said, and kicked dirt over the brain, hiding it from view.

Angst breathed deeply and took a moment to settle down. When he looked around, to get his bearings, he became totally confused.

“Where’s the dugout?”

Wahl pointed down the trench to where a ruined T-34 lay smoldering not more than a hundred meters away.

“Took a direct hit from that monster. There was a cave-in, and I barely managed to dig my way out.”

“And Seidel?”

“Making a sweep to find who’s left. Needless to say, I lost the connection to the command bunker. Ivan washed over us bad this time.”

We’re not supposed to be alive, Angst thought, not the squad or the platoon. He heard his name called. They both turned and saw Braun make his way over to where they sat. Braun appeared as though he had been trampled.

“We have a problem,” Braun said, as he collapsed into the soft earth, exhausted. “The Russians are inside the trenches.”

Wahl gasped. “How many?”

“Lindenberger got his head knocked off by a shovel,” Braun continued breathlessly, “and Sauer took one in the shoulder.”

“How many are they, and where?” Wahl asked.

“Minnesinger pushed them out of the strong point and into the trench linking second platoon.”

“How many?” Angst asked this time, with impatience.

“I don’t know. Twenty-five. Thirty, maybe. Minnesinger is itching to mount a counter attack before they get established.”

“Why doesn’t he call in for artillery support or the assault gun?”

“Because he’s fuckin’ crazy,” Wahl said.

Braun shook his head. “We’ve lost all communication. Besides, there isn’t time. Minnesinger says if the Russians launch another attack before this mess is cleaned up, they’ll roll straight over us for certain.”

And should the counterattack fail? Angst didn’t want to contemplate that possibility. “Find Seidel and the both of you cover the communication trench to the third platoon. Have a runner inform Lustig, should this thing get out of hand.”

“I’ll tell Lustig myself if I have to,” Wahl said, and ran off.

Braun and Angst returned to the rifle pit where Schmidt lay, stretched out and drinking deeply from a canteen.

“Stay here,” Angst told Braun. “In case the counterattack falls short, you two will have to slow them down until help arrives.” Schmidt, if he listened, did so with an air of relative unconcern. He was busy satisfying his thirst.

“Make that last. There won’t be a resupply of water anytime soon,” Angst cautioned.

“Do you really think that matters to me now?”

Angst turned to Braun. “Nothing I’ve said seems to have made much of an impression on our friend. Should I be worried about him?”

“He’s a sensitive fellow,” Braun replied, “but resilient. He’ll pull it together.”

Angst hoped he was right. He set off down the trench, grim at the thought of having to confront the enemy at close quarters. Along the way he passed a headless torso that lay in a rifle pit. Lindenberger. Two Russians lay nearby, shot so many times their bodies were beyond recognition. Angst wondered which one had actually wielded the shovel. Not that it mattered now. They both got caught and paid the price.

The trench zigzagged for another twenty meters before he reached the platoon’s main dugout, where he found Sauer. Keller, a rifleman with Minnesinger’s squad, knelt beside Sauer and changed a saturated field dressing with a new one. A sizeable chunk of meat had been shot away where the neck and shoulder joined.

“The artery is still intact,” Keller offered, when Angst looked in. Sauer exhibited a baleful look of incomprehension as he sat upright, almost completely bared to the waist, his pale skin smeared with gore. Keller shook his head sadly. “I should get him to the aid station, only Minnesinger said there isn’t time.”

“Finish up with him, and let’s go,” Angst instructed him.

Keller taped the dressing and helped the wounded gunner to lie back.” Take it easy,” Keller consoled. “I’ll get back to you soon.”

Angst grew impatient and left the dugout. He wanted to get on with whatever needed to be done before he lost his nerve completely. He joined the first gunner, Ehrling, in the machine gun emplacement. He had removed the MG42 from the continuous firing mount and laid it on the top of the sandbags, the muzzle pointing in the direction of the platoon strong point’s inner ellipse. Halle stood several meters down from the emplacement with a satchel of grenades hanging from each shoulder. He reminded Angst of a milkmaid.

“You come for the party?” Halle asked when Angst drew up beside him. Angst nodded. “I get to throw the grenades,” Halle said, and shrugged. “I don’t mind. I got a good arm.”

Further down, where the trench began to narrow and then turn, Minnesinger lay on his stomach next to Richter, who sat up against the trench wall, facing in Halle and Angst’s direction, cradling a Soviet Pshagin submachine gun on his lap.

“Why not keep the Russians contained in the trench for now,” Angst said, “And let Frank’s mortars at second platoon to flush them out?”

“Their equipment didn’t do so well through the opening barrage. Before losing contact, Franks called to tell us not to expect any support” Richter explained.

What rotten luck, Angst thought. It always happened, at every moment of crisis—either mortars or artillery were out of ammunition or destroyed, and signal communication was out. “They’re awfully quiet,” he commented.

Halle agreed. “More often than not, they’re hurling threats and obscenities when this close. A minute ago it sounded like they were arguing among themselves.”

“Braun mentioned there were about thirty.”

“Braun’s in a shit-ass panic to come up with that,” Halle said, and laughed nervously. “Try about half that number.”

Angst hoped the grenadier was right and wasn’t trying to convince only himself. He squeezed past and joined Minnesinger further down the trench. The platoon leader’s face had turned a deep, unnatural shade of red due to overexposure to the sun and heat. Richter stared intently at the opposite wall of the trench. Imbedded in the dirt, at eye level, was a small shaving-kit mirror. Any movement down the ten-meter length of trench would be detected.

“Ivan’s right around the corner,” Richter said as Angst came up, not relinquishing his gaze from the mirror. A stick grenade lay beside him.

“What are they waiting for?”

“They’re blind and probably without leadership” Minnesinger said.

“Or they would have been pressed into a move by now,” Richter added.

“My squad is in place,” Angst informed Minnesinger. “The trench to third platoon is covered.”

“Good. Help Ehrling with the machine gun. I don’t want Ivan climbing out and ambushing us after we make our move.”

Angst nodded. Then Halle eased his way further down the trench, followed by Keller, who gripped an MP40. Minnesinger laid out the plan. He and Richter would go in first. Halle would stay close with the grenades, to throw as needed after the opening act. Keller was to provide covering fire with short, continuous bursts. The platoon leader said to Angst, “When you hear the first grenade that will be the signal to open fire with the machine gun. Once Ehrling has it under control, I want you to take up the rear.”

Angst understood. The dreaded moment of anticipation had arrived.

“Remember,” Minnesinger added, “don’t crowd each other, and don’t lag behind. No more than five meters apart.” He took two stick grenades from Halle’s satchel and tucked one in his belt and held the other as he unholstered his pistol. It was time to clean house. Angst returned to the emplacement. Several belts of ammunition had been linked together, and the MG42 stood loaded, with the short bi-pod at the muzzle end set in place. In the space of time it took to unscrew the cap at the end of a stick grenade and pull the fuse cord, the counterattack began. Halle threw the first grenade, and Minnesinger followed immediately with the second. When the explosions occurred, it had the sound of one enormous blast. Then they all crawled down the trench at unbelievable speed, elbows and knees working furiously, helmets bobbing on their heads. They looked like turtles in some mad race. Keller hung back and fired above their heads as the bullets slapped into the wall of dirt where the trench turned sharply at a ninety-degree angle. He stopped shooting to allow Halle to stand up and throw another grenade. Halle threw high, completely out of the trench, and it landed back inside the trench on the far side of the turn. A flawless throw. Smoke and debris vomited out from around the turn. They all followed Richter as he turned the corner and fired long bursts from the Pshagin submachine gun.

The MG42 clattered deafeningly. The long chain of bullets whipped over Angst’s palms as he fed the belt smoothly toward the firing slit. As Ehrling raked the lip of the trench line with enfilade fire, the ground spat up fountains of earth and dust. More grenade explosions came, and the cackle of small arms fire. Between bursts, Ehrling shouted, “I’ve got it now. Go! Go!”

Angst entered the din. Whorls of smoke, shouts, and screams; a mean, sordid fight. He stepped over bodies. Two, and then three more. Uniforms shredded, the flesh dangled like ribbons. He saw something and was about to shoot. It was Keller. Angst put up his carbine. Keller leaned against the trench wall and held his left leg up off the ground, with both hands clasped under the knee. Pale and drawn, he grimaced with excruciating pain. The toe of his boot was missing; only torn leather and pulp remained. The gunfire trailed off. Angry German voices barked Russian words: “Ruki Verch! Ruki Verch!”

“The sons of bitches have given up,” Keller said. He sounded disappointed. “Can you manage on your own?”

“I think so,” Keller said, and started to hop down the trench on his one good leg. The MG42 had stopped shooting, and except for the voices, all had become relatively quiet. Cautiously, Angst proceeded down the trench for another twenty meters, turned another corner, and came upon the rest of the squad. The Russians had been pushed into a knot further down the communication trench. Crammed in the narrow channel, Minnesinger and Halle had their weapons trained on the five remaining Russians, who lay scrunched up, cowering beside and even on top of one another. Richter was on the other side of the group, shouting curses. He shoved the barrel of the Pshagin in the face of one Russian, who flapped his hands wildly and pleaded. Richter found the gestures amusing, but it was evident he was short on mercy and waiting for the word to let loose. Woefully underequipped, some of the prisoners did not wear complete uniforms. Some were without helmets. One was even barefoot, and the soles of his feet were the color of the Ukrainian soil. Well beyond middle age, he spoke for the entire group as he turned from Richter to Minnesinger in desperation, trying to plead their case. Minnesinger listened attentively, if with difficulty, and tossed out a word or two in Russian. Angst had edged in closer beside Halle.

“What’s he saying?”

“The usual, more than likely. How the Bolsheviks forced them into the Red Army at gunpoint.”

“What will we do with them?”

“Shoot ’em, I guess.”

“No one’s going to shoot anybody,” Minnesinger said firmly. “This sorry lot would have surrendered, given the chance, only the old hands among them put up the fight.”

Richter wasn’t convinced. “They all went along for the ride. You saw what they did to Lindenberger. I say, kill all the Bolshevik swine.”

“I said no! Battalion can deal with them. Let’s stash them in the main dugout for now.”

“If they even twitch, I’ll toss a grenade on the whole bunch,” Richter threatened.

Minnesinger gestured with his pistol and barked, “Dveegat’sa! Devai! Devai!”

The Russians twisted and turned themselves about, huddled close to the ground on hands and knees. As Richter poked them along with the submachine gun, they were led to the deeper and more secure part of the strong point, toward the main dugout.

Minnesinger looked around. “Where’s Keller?”

“Wounded. I sent him back,” Angst said.

“What happened?”

“He got shot in the foot.”

Minnesinger made a face. “That’s some excuse.”

Angst did not know how to read the platoon leader’s remark. When they reached the dugout, the prisoners filed in. There was no further need for Angst’s presence, so he returned to his rifle squad and informed them the situation had been brought under control.

“For the time being, at any rate,” Braun muttered anxiously.

* * *

As the Stug III chugged toward the first company sector, Naumann observed from the cupola periscope that a KV1 had penetrated deep inside the defensive perimeter. The company command bunker was a shambles of shell craters and plowed earth. Intact but stationary, the KV1 operated both hull and turret machine guns, and its cannon fired high-explosive rounds at nearly point-blank range. Hofinger had completed an inventory of the ordnance that was left: eighteen armor-piercing and eleven high explosive shells. The KV’s turret traversed to three o’clock, and the 76 mm gun erupted at some threat. The smoke and distance had so far obscured the assault gun’s approach. Naumann briefed Pieper of what he saw. The gun commander held his head in his hands while he rested in the seat before the fire control system.

“I’ll take it from here,” he said, as he got up. “Return to your post.”

As they switched places, Naumann was tempted to ask the gun commander if he would rather sit this one out. Yet, he knew Pieper’s stubborn nature would not allow it, despite his wounds. Back in the cupola, Pieper watched as the KV1 reappeared through clouds of smoke, five hundred meters away. A single 37 mm antitank gun fired from a fortified strong point on the tank’s left flank. Other than leaving a small weal on the KV1’s surface, the shells had no effect. Small antitank grenades fired from rifle cup launchers pelted the tank, but to no avail. The grenadiers in the trenches should not have wasted their ammunition or their time. This was the equivalent of little mice trying to punch it out with an old tomcat. Pieper hated doing battle with the Klimenti Voroshilov. The vehicle certainly had its defects, including a tendency to break down. The engine burned too hot as it tried to haul all that weight over the ground. It was the thick skin that kept the fat pig of a tank in the fight for so long. The KV’s frontal armor and turret sides were nearly eighty millimeters thick. Five or six well-placed armor piercing rounds would have to be used up before the tank was finally out of action. Happens every time, Pieper thought.

“Move up two hundred meters, Kurowski, and then stop,” he told the driver.

“What if we take fire before the mark?” Hofinger asked.

“Then we will have to put up with it,” Pieper said coldly.

Hofinger uttered a complaint, but the gun commander could not quite hear what his loader had said. He felt too miserable to reproach his subordinate, even if he had heard. The pressure around his nose had become unbearable. His face had become swollen, as though he’d gone a few rounds with a prizefighter. He could taste the blood as it dripped down the back of his throat.

The assault gun had advanced only one hundred meters when the KV1 spotted it and fired. They listened as the shell screeched past. Something was definitely wrong with the KV1, as it made no attempt to maneuver or try to outflank the assault gun. Hofinger relayed a message. A signal operator from the first company informed him that engines could be heard revving loudly from inside the ravine. Kurowski eased the vehicle inside a crater.

“Fire when ready,” Pieper ordered.

Naumann made incremental adjustments to the gun’s traverse and fired. The shell went low and shattered the cog assembly on the KV’s left front end. Track links broke apart. Pieper refrained from uttering something derisive. His gunner was the best shot out of the entire Sturmgeschutz brigade and probably felt foolish enough for causing ineffective damage on the tank’s already compromised mobility. But they had other worries now. Two T-34s bounded from the ravine’s shallow graded defile and raced at full speed toward the first company sector. The vehicles covered a hundred meters or more and then opened fire. The first round screamed overhead and fell long. When the second tank fired, the gun layering was so poor, Pieper had no idea where the shell could have landed. The KV1 was a different matter. A shell had smacked into the ground only meters away. Fortunately the assault gun was low—perhaps a little too low, making Naumann’s aim more difficult. The heavy KV1 was having difficulty drawing a bead. Naumann fired again, this time dead on. He would need another two or three rounds to finish off the KV1 for good, but Pieper ordered him to turn his sights on the T-34s that had approached killing range.

“Target is now at six hundred and seventy five meters and closing,” Naumann said, as he lined the lead tank in the view field.

“Get ready,” Pieper said. The tanks had separated in an effort to flank the assault gun on either side. The KV1 fired another round. The glancing impact caused everyone’s nerves to heighten.

“Five hundred fifty meters…five hundred meters…target sighted, and gunner Ernst Naumann ready to fire!”

“Steady, Naumann, steady.”

Christ, Hofinger squealed to himself, give the order to fire, why don’t you? His legs shook involuntarily, and he did not know how much more he could take.

“Fire,” Pieper said, without a trace of emotion. The lead T-34 took the armor-piercing round at the seam where the hull and turret met. The tank started to skid out of control as the turret dislodged. While another shell was loaded, Kurowski traversed the vehicle. Naumann had the next tank in the sight brackets.

“Fire when ready,” Pieper said. Just as the gunner fired, the assault gun bucked wildly as a shell struck. The gun crew went sprawling; Pieper was dislodged off his seat, dropped from the cupola, and landed rump first on the deck. Hofinger recovered immediately and fed another round into the gun. A haze filled the fighting compartment as dust and smoke entered through the view ports. The fan mounted on the rear superstructure wall pinged as large particles struck the blades.

“It’s all right,” Kurowski shouted. “High-explosive round. Nothing penetrated.”

“Are you hurt?” Hofinger called out.

“Negative,” the driver croaked, although for a moment he thought he had taken a piece of flak to the groin. Fortunately, that wasn’t the case. When the shell struck, he flinched and squeezed his legs together, which forced his testicles out of the scrotum. He raised himself partially out of the seat, which helped drop them back down to where they belonged. After checking on Pieper, who failed to get up, Naumann returned to the fire controls. The gun commander was stunned and in too much pain to continue in his role. The last shell Naumann had fired, just before the explosion, did strike the T-34. Smoke billowed from the engine plant, but it continued to advance slowly and fire. For the next few minutes, the vehicles dueled. The KV1 was out of armor-piercing shot and had to rely solely on the high-explosive rounds in its possession. There was a tremendous amount of fight left to the heavily armored tank, despite the abuse the Stug III poured on it. Carefully, Naumann took aim and fired and Hofinger, a shell always in hand, loaded immediately afterward. The Stug III traversed from one side to the other and fired, first at the T-34, then the KV1, and back again. Finally, the T-34 went up in flames and the KV1 was hammered with three more rounds before it became silent. Dark, oily plumes of smoke enveloped the hull. A hatch opened, and two crewmen leapt out. Hofinger was tempted to activate the machine gun but hesitated. Run back to your comrades, he thought, to your mothers for all I care, and tell them what sort of fools you are when you try to make trouble with us.

Naumann turned from the fire controls to check on the gun commander’s condition. Pieper smiled and pointed to the bulkhead of the fighting compartment. Naumann removed his headphones and listened. The drone of aircraft. He opened the loader’s hatch and looked into the harsh blue sky. Out of the west, he saw the familiar gull-winged silhouettes of nine JU87s. Stukas. Pieper, bruised and stiff from the fall, got up off the deck and struggled into the command cupola to have a look. “Not a moment too soon,” he muttered gratefully. Hofinger was on the radio instructing the signalman, Wilms, to have the balka raked with tracer fire from all available machine guns to indicate target direction. He then went to the stowage locker, grabbed a chemical smoke marker, and passed it along to Naumann, who broke it open and tossed it on the ground close to the vehicle. Orange smoke began to waft around the assault gun, so the onrushing dive-bombers could identify their position.

* * *

After circling the target area, pierced continually by red needles of tracer bullets from a half-dozen MG42s from the defensive line, the Stukas climbed up and banked around in a wide circle. The pilots aligned their aircraft above the ravine. One behind the other, at intervals, the planes descended at an incredibly steep angle, the air vent sirens on their undercarriages wailing. The first four each dropped a single SD1 aerial bomb. The fat, squat bomb canister, about the size of a bathtub, broke open at low altitude and released a squall of three hundred sixty 1-kg bomblets. What followed was an unending series of small explosions with terrific fragmentation. The remaining JU-87s followed up with incendiary bombs at key places within the ravine. The narrow sides helped to funnel white-hot flame that roiled down its length. The aircraft circled around again and strafed the area with cannon fire. After several passes, the dive- bombers turned back towards the west to refuel and rearm, then visit death upon some other seriously threatened sector of the front.

From their dugouts and rifle pits, the grenadiers gaped at the ravine that seethed with flame and black curtains of smoke. Secondary explosions occurred as the searing heat touched off the ordnance supply—mortar shells, grenades, the constant zip and ping of small arms ammunition. Geysers of flame shot into the sky as the last of the tanks cooked off.

Numb with exhaustion, Angst watched the aftermath of the airstrikes’ effectiveness with an overwhelming emptiness. No allusion to hell could suitably describe the scene. The ravine had indeed become a place on earth without hope, mercy, or reprieve. He could hear Schmidt, nearby, uttering the words from some psalm or other, over and over; the prayerful words spilled out of his mouth like drops of blood in water. It was over, Angst thought, with blunted elation; for a little while at least, it was over.

5

The men took advantage of the respite, lighting cigarettes and inhaling greedily as they tried to regain control over their shattered nerves. The flames within the ravine had diminished substantially, although the smoke was considerable, especially where the tanks had brewed up. Hiwis had arrived to help with the wounded and cart off the dead. The Russian casualties were prodigious, and many would stay where they had fallen. The prisoners were rounded up and placed under armed escort for transfer to the rear. They were only too eager to show their cooperation in the hope of being rewarded with a sip of water and something, anything to eat. The Soviet army marched, fought, and lived off the land. Supply companies for many units were unheard of. The Hiwis translated the same litany repeated by so many prisoners, the words might have been scripted—pressed into service and forced, at NKVD gunpoint, to fight. Yet, not all were willing to surrender. A high level of alert was still in effect throughout the company battle stations as some holdouts carried on the struggle to the bitter end. Small pockets of Red infantrymen had taken refuge in shell craters in and around the strong points and offered resistance. Snipers lay amid the scores of dead that littered the steppe. These were the most difficult to pinpoint and silence, as the corpses of their former comrades served the snipers well as excellent cover. Special fire teams of machine gunners and marksmen were organized among the grenadiers and given the task of dispatching these diehards in short order. Angst was grateful that neither he nor anyone from the squad had been snagged for this duty. He did see Schroeder and a few of the escort grenadiers within the platoon sector, mopping up. Their stamina was profound and awful to behold; it appeared to be fueled by rage. As soon as the whereabouts of a sniper or rifle team was located, Schroeder would unleash a firestorm of machine guns, grenades, and submachine guns. It was a brutal, dirty job, but necessary; Angst steered clear of them. He had his own task to accomplish, which was equally gruesome and depressing if he allowed himself to ponder over it. Minnesinger had him collect all the identity disc halves and pay books from the platoon’s casualties—Max Greiner, Paul Hermann, Karl-Heinz Lindenberger, and Lothar Steinmeier, one of the machine gunners from his own squad. He didn’t know Lothar at all and probably hadn’t uttered more than a dozen words to him in the entire month since he’d been with the company. But Angst liked him and didn’t know why, really. Strange. The same could be said for the second gunner, Knopfler. Angst could not even picture what he looked like. What he did know was Knopfler’s body had yet to be recovered, and the Hiwis had all but given up on digging through the ruined emplacement. Disappeared. Caught up and carried away by the storm of war.

Angst went in search of Minnesinger to turn in the pay books and disc halves and decided to stop in at first squad’s dugout on the way to scrounge a dressing. The gash in his forearm had been left untreated for too long and had grown more annoying. He found Ehrling, Braun, and Halle milling around the entrance but did not speak; they all eyed him when he went in. Sauer had since been taken away on a stretcher, but Keller still remained. His boot had been cut away and a bandage wrapped around the foot in a haphazard, even careless fashion. Angst didn’t think too much about it; he merely asked Keller how he was doing and looked around the dim hole for the first aid kit. He slipped his arm out of the field tunic and rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. The field dressing normally sewn on the tunic lining had been used weeks earlier, and he’d failed to get it replaced. He had given it to somebody who’d been wounded, rather badly in fact, although he could not remember the exact circumstances. If the fellow survived, he would probably be in a field hospital or transferred back to the occupied territories. If he hadn’t, then his cross would be among the hundreds of thousands that lined the roads and highways over the great expanse of Russia. The first aid kit, Angst had discovered, had very little in the way of salves or ointments. There was tincture of iodine; wincing, Angst applied it to the cut liberally and then wrapped a length of gauze around it several times. It stung like hell. Seeing Keller, he made less of a fuss over himself. Keller’s left big toe had been shot clean off.

“What are you still doing here, Keller? Why haven’t you been given a lift back?”

Keller did not answer. The three who were lingering outside the dugout filed in at that moment. The look on Keller’s face was one of disdain.

“Keller wants it in writing that his wound is legitimate. He refuses to leave before he gets it,” Halle said.

“What’s the holdup?” Angst asked.

No one answered. Finally Keller spoke. “Why don’t you explain your theory, Halle? No? Then I will. You must understand, Corporal, that Halle, along with others whom he has managed to convince, is of the opinion that I did this to myself. During the course of a counterattack, in which I played an important role, I took the time to mutilate myself.”

“When is there a better time” Halle asked.

“You were directly behind me, Angst. Did you see me shoot myself?”

They all looked to Angst for corroboration. The wound Keller sustained would prohibit him from further service at the front, and he’d probably be discharged from the army altogether. The practice of self-inflicted wounds was, to Angst knowledge, a rarity; the severity of punishment was harsh and decisive. Keller had the reputation for being something of a malingerer, which put him out of favor with the majority of the platoon. Whether he thought himself so clever to get away with it, Angst did not know. He had no feelings about Keller one way or the other. He simply didn’t know the man.

“After I left Ehrling with the machine gun, you were already hurt. I did not actually see you get shot.”

Keller rolled his eyes. “Mein Gott.”

“All I said,” Halle explained, “was that when the medical officer sees that wound, it will strike him as self-inflicted, and you will more than likely see a firing squad sooner than get treatment. The powder burns alone will cause him to suspect.”

“There are powder burns because the Russian swine was right in front of me,” Keller fumed.

“I say we take a machine pistol and shoot the whole damn foot off. That won’t arouse the MO’s suspicion,” Braun said.

“Trial by ordeal. That’s quite an alternative,” Angst said. He wasn’t at all sure if Braun was really joking or not.

“I should receive a close combat medal for my participation in the counterattack, and instead of earning the support of my Kameraden, I am to be maimed even further? Is this what you all want?”

“Take your pick. Loose a foot, or be on the bad end of a firing squad.”

“Braun, please, not another word. Don’t even think. Save it for someone who still possesses a rational mind.” Keller lay back, exasperated and clearly in fear for his life. The movement caused him to grimace. Angst had everyone leave the dugout. Once outside, he took Halle aside, so they could speak without having to listen to any side commentaries. “What do you think? You seem to know Keller best.”

“I don’t know. With the shit we’ve been in, a man can get desperate. I don’t want to see him pay for something he didn’t do. The wound could be legitimate. Maybe he was waiting for the perfect opportunity. I was up front. I didn’t see it. We tore through that trench, Angst. If any Russian was still alive, it was by a thread.”

“But do you think Keller is capable? Because if you’re wrong…”

“Then Braun’s idea isn’t half bad. He’ll survive the MO’s inspection. Damn, the bastard will even get to go home. A gimp for the rest of his life, but so what? He’ll be alive. And what about the rest of us? What will become of us? If he did it to himself, spending the rest of his life on one leg will be a constant reminder of what sort of a miserable shit he is and why his squad took his foot.”

“What does this congregation signify?” a voice boomed. It was Lustig. He was taking a tour of the company, assessing the damage and the casualties. Halle, Braun, and Ehrling shrank back, leaving Angst alone to deal with the acting CO. He informed the sergeant of Keller and the dilemma he faced but avoided any mention of removing the wounded man’s leg by nonsurgical means. Lustig listened dispassionately. When Angst was finished, Lustig said, “I don’t see a problem, corporal. If there are any doubts, Keller will be questioned thoroughly by the chief medical officer. The truth will be known, one way or the other, and will be dealt with accordingly. An inquiry will be made, should it be necessary. If all is well, then Private Keller will receive the best medical treatment available to a soldier of the Reich.”

Lustig then collared Halle to find a pair of litter bearers and have Keller evacuated to the rear. “As for the rest of you, continue to keep that ravine under watch. This is far from over. The enemy will re-infiltrate with more artillery spotters. And make sure you locate whoever is still out there causing trouble, so our snipers can fix them once and for all.”

After the squad parted ways, Angst turned over the disc halves and pay books. He was only saving Minnesinger the trouble. Lustig placed the items inside his bread bag, which was already crammed with more of the same and then sat down, wearily, in an empty rifle pit. “A costly day’s work,” he said, referring to the identity discs.

“Should we expect anything more out of the Russians today, Sergeant?” Angst asked.

“They’re spent for the day, I would think. Nothing till nightfall, at any rate. They’ll re-settle the ravine once it cools down and send in probes. Most of the divisional sector is quiet for the moment. But other sections of the line are taking a pounding.” Lustig said.

“Does that come from regiment?”

Lustig nodded. “Especially further south. The Red Army has every intention of taking Stalino, come what may.”

The sergeant became annoyed at himself for prattling on as though he were at a staff meeting. This was the sort of thing he’d admonished Angst for earlier. As for Angst, what he really wanted to know was how the situation concerning the breakthrough was shaping up, only he was too intimidated to ask, despite the NCO’s loquaciousness.

“You and Minnesinger did an admirable job holding the platoon together,” Lustig told him.

“Congratulate Minnesinger. The counter attack was his show. I merely helped,” Angst replied.

“You don’t like to be singled out for praise or recognition, do you, corporal? Something I’ve noticed about you during your stay with the company thus far.”

No, I don’t like either, Angst thought, especially the latter. He preferred to do as he was ordered and made every effort to escape officers’ attention, both good and bad. He had learned his lesson, although now it was too late.

A peal of machine gun fire ripped through the lull and was accompanied by screams of terror. Lustig jumped to his feet and ran. The sound had originated from the platoon’s main dugout. Angst followed, expecting to take part in a skirmish with Red Army shock troops, fanatics, making a last-ditch attempt at incurring as many casualties as possible. Upon their arrival, they discovered it was something far different. Lustig shouldered his way through a knot of grenadiers, mostly those from the assault gun escort, Schroeder and Detwiler among them, their weapons smoking. The Russian prisoners taken in the counterattack lay strewn and bloody in a shell crater near the dugout. Minnesinger and Richter skulked about. Lustig was enraged by the slaughter.

“What is the meaning for this?” he bellowed. The tone in his voice was shattering.

“Getting rid of some dead weight,” Schroeder said, with a flippant air. He did not seem at all afraid of the NCO or his wrath. Detwiler looked down upon his handiwork with unabashed delight. He cradled the weighty MG42 in his muscular arms. The machine gunner had an obvious erection. The bulge in his trousers was shockingly pronounced. Angst had heard barracks gossip that arousal of this sort occurred with some men during and after combat, but he had never lent any credence to the stories. It had to do with some volatile mixture of blood lust and fear that a man had no control over. Nevertheless, Angst was revolted by the spectacle and took a profound loathing to the gunner.

“Did the assault gun commander order this?” Lustig seethed threateningly as he loomed over Schroeder.

“I don’t have to be ordered to do something so obviously necessary.”

“By whose standards is it obvious?” Lustig pressed.

“There are standing orders—” Schroeder began to explain but was silenced as Lustig angrily waved his arm.

“Nothing written down, of course, but passed around by word of mouth so thugs like you can carry out those orders all too willingly. Well, not in my company, and certainly not when I’m around!”

“You weren’t around,” Schroeder snarled. “Besides, they were all clamoring for food and water as if we owed it to them.”

“We haven’t enough to feed ourselves,” Detwiler offered.

“So you killed these men for the sake of a stale rusk and a mouthful of water. Look at these wretches.”

The escort grenadiers did not bother to look; rather, they stared with hostility at the sergeant. Angst looked. The barefooted, the underequipped, and the untrained. Soldiers who were never soldiers until only yesterday or the day before. Lustig brought the matter to the attention of the men in his own company.

“Did any of you participate in this?”

Minnesinger and Richter shook their heads animatedly and answered in unison, “No, Sergeant.”

“And you did nothing to try to stop it, did you?”

“It just sort of happened,” Richter said. “Not like it was planned. They all came up from the dugout, yelling for food. Demanding it, like the corporal said.”

Schroeder wore an expression of keen satisfaction. “I did it because they irritated me. These Bolshevik swine tore my platoon apart. Your company almost ceased to exist because of the likes of them, and you’re giving me grief?” Schroeder appeared genuinely astounded.

“I will inform regiment of this incident, corporal. I intend to pursue this.”

“Then be prepared, Sergeant. I’m going to get a medal for what I did here today” Schroeder said, and then spat in the bloody face of one of the dead. He spun around and walked away with his small gang of panzergrenadiers swaggering behind.

“Cold-blooded, arrogant bastard,” Lustig muttered.

“He’s right, you know; they’ll pin a medal on him,” Minnesinger said.

It was true, Lustig thought; the incident would be ignored and then conveniently forgotten. The best he could hope for was that the men under his command try and behave decently. He felt like a relic from some other time. Soldierly traditions such as honor and respect toward one’s enemy had no place in this wilderness. It never had. This was altogether different; something worse. The Fuehrer had proclaimed that the war in the east would be like none other in human history. Given what Lustig had witnessed so far, that statement had proven to be a brutal truth. And the men had all understood it to be true sooner than he. For a brief, imperceptible moment, Lustig wanted to rebel against something or someone. But he did not know how or, more importantly, against whom.

A signalman from the company command bunker jogged up the trench, made brief notice of the dead Russians, came to attention in front of the sergeant, and saluted.

“Captain Raeder has just arrived at company headquarters and wants you to report to him immediately.”

“Get this mess cleaned up,” Lustig said, and followed the signalman back down the trench.

* * *

Pieper lay on the outer hull of the assault gun and leaned against the sloped gun shielding that had been marred by numerous dents and small cracks in the armor. On the ground, Naumann and Kurowski struggled with oversized wrenches and spanners as they completed the repairs on the damaged track link assembly with a small reserve section. In the fighting compartment, Hofinger piped up a broadcast from the receiver. Transmissions from a spotter plane to brigade headquarters described the results of the air strike. In case the men could not hear, Pieper reiterated what he had just heard.

“The ravine has been scoured clean.”

“And the tanks,” Naumann asked.

“Kaput. Everything burns.”

The gunner grunted in satisfaction. “You pulled it off, Ulrich.”

The voice sounded distant and Pieper was too fatigued to answer. The morphine, a small dosage he allowed his gunner to administer, flowed through his veins rapidly and had begun to take effect. His thoughts had become muddled. There was something he wanted Schroeder to do, a detail that needed to be verified. He could not remember what it was, but he knew it was terribly important. All the tanks in the ravine had brewed up, and nothing remained on the steppe other than wrecks. That settles it, then, he thought; all the tanks are destroyed. All in all, it was a successful day, although there were moments when he had his doubts. The loader’s hatch opened, and Hofinger joined him on the hull. Hofinger smiled down at his two crewmates wrestling with the link section as he handed the gun commander a piece of paper, a decoded message from headquarters. Pieper read: Hold position until zero seventeen hundred hours…They had pulled back four kilometers from the battalion sector after the air strike. He continued to read:…fall back due west at best possible speed. All units are to maintain mobile defense. That would include the infantry as well, Pieper thought. “How far are we to fall back and where are we to link up?”

“That was the message in its entirety. Brigade will tell us once they know what the hell is going on,” Hofinger said.

Pieper crumpled the paper tightly in his hand. That clinches it; we’re on our own, he thought. The enemy breakthrough at Konstantinovka wasn’t under control. “Mobile defense” was command’s standard euphemism for retreat. Pull back as far and as fast as possible to shorten the line and thus, with any luck, close the breach. He dared not voice a negative opinion, so as not to affect the crew’s morale. Traveling by night, the area teeming with Russians and without a clear definition of a front line…not a task to look forward to.

“Are you in contact with Schroeder? How many left in his platoon?”

“He’s got about a squad left. He was up front with the second company, ‘settling old scores,’ as he put it. Whatever that means.”

“Tell him to get back here, right now. I want to know who’s still among us and what kind of shape we’re in.”

“Right,” Hofinger said, and climbed back down into the vehicle.

Pieper settled back. It would prove to be a long, difficult night before this was over. Pieper could easily go for medical treatment, but it would mean leaving the crew members to make the journey by themselves, and that was something he was too stubborn to allow. Not for a nosebleed. Obstinately, he would see them through the long night drive. Damn, what was it I wanted to ask Schroeder? The thought, which he had yet to grasp, continued to linger in his mind like something hiding under a blanket. Or was it a beast, under the cover of darkness?

6

Flares illuminated the night with unyielding frequency. Yellow, green, and red, the respective colors shed an eerie cast over the “no man’s land” that separated the German defensive line and the balka. Intermittent bursts of machine guns and the single crack of a rifle fired upon shadows and forms, either real or imagined. Hillocks and mounds of the countless dead afforded cover for parties of Russian shock troops as they attempted a probe. A major night attack wasn’t likely, but small, isolated assaults were guaranteed. No letup on pressure. The Russians were masters at infiltration. They would be right on top of the trenches before the grenadiers knew what hit them.

Angst, Braun, Seidel, and Wahl remained in their rifle pits and maintained vigil over the squad’s vulnerable strong point with anxiety-laced fatigue. Schmidt fired flares from a Very pistol at intervals. At any given moment, someone, somewhere, shot a flare into the sky. The battalion sector wasn’t left blind for a minute. Minnesinger came around to inform the platoon that they were to withdraw at twenty-three-hundred hours. Sergeant Lustig had briefed him in full. Most of the battalion had already pulled out at dark. Quietly. Efficiently. Nobody in the first platoon had been the wiser. Although he had been wounded slightly, earlier in the day, Captain Raeder was able to lead the withdrawal. The top kick, Kessler, was back at his side, no better or worse for wear. Division headquarters recommended that no less than forty-five kilometers had to be covered before defensive positions were reestablished by sunrise the next day.

“With the head start the rest of battalion has, that’s barely possible. What’s to become of us?” Braun lamented. He voiced the fear everyone in the squad was thinking. Good news made bitter by the poison of futility. Minnesinger attempted to quiet their worries. He explained, as Lustig had described, the manner in which the pullout was organized—in stages, and each battalion would have a lead by no more than two hours at most. “It’s very likely we will catch up with one unit or other from the Regiment shortly after dawn,” Minnesinger said, trying to reassure them. He then instructed Angst which route to follow out of the company sector. The squad was to exit the platoon ellipse from the right, following the trench that bypassed the company command bunker, and continue until the trench linked directly to the main communication lane and out of the sector completely. Minnesinger impressed upon them all not to deviate from this course. Access to all other trenches and strong points was strictly “verboten.” Mines and booby traps had been sown throughout the bunkers, emplacements, and trenches. They were not to scavenge in the hope of finding something of value that might have been left behind. When the Russians finally entered the abandoned positions, a nasty surprise was waiting to greet them. Trip wires placed inside an officer’s briefcase stuffed with documents or under a map case. A high-explosive charge rigged to a box of field ration tins. The availability of food always aroused the Russians’ interest. They would act recklessly, move the partially opened box lid, and it would detonate. Even seemingly harmless things, like a small pile of personal effects that had belonged to dead comrades-in-arms. Small, inconsequential items like snapshots, letters from home, or a tobacco pouch. Sift through the pile, and the curious are left without hands or a face. Create panic and terror; the potential of death lurking with each footfall. The German rear guard could not slow down the Russian offensive advance. There wasn’t the manpower or tactical weapons available. Not for this regiment, at any rate, they all knew. Only the mines could do what the weak, desperate units couldn’t, and that was to force the Russians to examine every square meter of ground, centimeter by deadly centimeter. Antitank and personnel mines had been laid west of the divisional sector. Minnesinger showed Angst a map where the dummy mine fields were, so they could cross over in safety. He admonished them all one last time before he left. “Don’t touch anything, and don’t set foot where you don’t belong.” No one foresaw a problem. They all wanted to get the hell out of there as soon as possible.

So, the Tortoise Line was to be abandoned, Angst thought. The corps and divisions of two armies were in retreat. This was the second time in less than a week! The industrial heart of the Donets Basin was lost forever. The Wehrmacht would never make its way back here again. No counterattacks or offensives to retake the wealth of coal and machinery necessary to maintain the war. Even if the will existed, there wasn’t the strength.

* * *

Twenty-two-thirty hours. The platoon had gathered their gear. Assault packs, mess tins, shelter halves, and gas mask canisters strapped on, buckled, cinched, and tied down tight. No clatter that might give away their movements. Richter dropped by with a handful of Pervitin and a bottle of schnapps. The night march would be long, and Minnesinger didn’t want them passing out on their feet. The keen edge of the drug and alcohol was needed. The amphetamine helped fuel the invasions of Poland and France, as necessary as petrol, and Angst remembered being hopped up on the stuff in those days—entire armies were. What pushed the men forward during blitzkrieg now was used to keep the troops mobile and alert for lightning retreats over great distances. But it was getting harder to come by. It was terrific when you were on the drug, fearless and unstoppable, but a devil of a descent. Paranoia lay coiled in the brain and could spring out at any moment.

On schedule, Angst led the squad down the silent empty trench. As they followed the assigned course through the third platoon area, past the company bunker, they fell in behind the tail end of Minnesinger and the rest of the men who had filtered into the communication trench from the left of the ellipse.

Lustig and a machine gun crew occupied an emplacement near the bunker. He gave them all a thumbs-up as they passed. The sergeant could have led the company out but opted to remain behind to shoot off the last flare, a final burst of the machine gun, to maintain the deception of a continued presence. The platoon would have passed the regimental headquarters bunker before Lustig and the machine gun crew followed. Angst hoped they lost no time.

7

The slow, inexorable trek to the front was reversed. Angst headed back in the direction he had traveled originally—only this time, the journey was to be made on foot rather than by train. The night was warm and still, and the only sounds that could be heard were the dry feather grass and weeds crushed underfoot. The sky was a magnificent extravagance of stars against a background of ink blue. It seemed as though he walked beneath a limitless, jewel-encrusted dome, strangely beautiful, but overpoweringly lonely. Angst felt terribly alone, despite his Kameraden, who walked alongside him. Despite this loneliness, he felt a tinge of exhilaration. He had survived a day of so much death and carnage. He had trembled and wept before and after the firefights and had wet himself, involuntarily, at some point. Having made it through alive emboldened him.

Spread widely across the steppe, the platoon had marched for several hours when the first signs of fatigue started to creep back. The Pervitin had begun to wear off, but he had to remain alert; they all had to. His thoughts wandered, mainly to the events that brought him to this alien, dangerous place. He blamed Lieutenant Nieheus for his arrogance and stupidity and cursed his own misfortune for having accepted the role as the lieutenant’s orderly. And he prayed that the very worst would befall Colonel Heinrich, the division Aide-de-camp; because of that officer’s vanity and petty cruelty, he now found himself in the inextricable situation he’d been thrust into. How long had it been since he and the lieutenant had received their orders, in a most unorthodox, even melodramatic fashion? Angst figured the date tonight was the eighth or ninth of September. He made an attempt at counting back the days but got lost. He could well remember that oppressive evening in mid-July when the telephone rang. He’d been tidying up the lieutenant’s quarters. Nieheus took the call, and after he hung up, an unsettled mood came over him. They were to expect the arrival of the colonel within minutes, and both he and Angst were to accompany him: reason and destination unknown. Nieheus tried to shrug it off. Probably some exercise or staff meeting. The atmosphere at division headquarters had become unbearable lately. The Americans had recently landed in southern Italy, and the Kursk offensive, Operation Citadel in Russia, was not proving to be as successful as one would have hoped. In fact, word circulated it was a disaster. All the staff officers were in a foul mood, wondering if the division was to be packed up and shipped off to Mother Russia to make up, if only in part, for the appalling losses suffered at Kursk. A posting in France was too comfortable to be reassigned from.

The staff car arrived. Large and black, it reminded Angst of a hearse. Behind the wheel was Sergeant Kortner, an NCO with a reputation for brutality. He had never before been the colonel’s driver. Both Angst and the lieutenant knew that whatever the colonel had in store for them both it wasn’t good, perhaps not the specifics as to what would occur, but certainly the reason as to why they were summoned—or abducted. The back door of the staff car opened slowly, and Nieheus got in. Angst was made to sit up front with the NCO. They drove in silence for several minutes, and then the lieutenant asked if there was an emergency of some kind. “The Americans haven’t landed on the coast, I pray?” Nieheus asked, lightheartedly. Coldly, the colonel told him to keep his mouth shut. There was no denying what this fateful rendezvous with the colonel signified. This was personal. A mortally silent tension enveloped the car for the duration of the trip.

Kortner drove for another twenty minutes, then he turned down a narrow dirt road that wound its way through a pinewood. He stopped at a clearing and gruffly ordered Angst and the lieutenant out of the car. Nieheus started to protest to the colonel for allowing a sergeant to order a superior about, and in such a rude fashion. “The sergeant’s rudeness is the very least of your worries,” the colonel said, and had the lieutenant lead the way to the far side of the clearing. They disappeared in the dark. Kortner ordered Angst to remain outside the car and stand at attention. He lit a cigarette and paced back and forth, seemingly bored with the routine. There were better things he could be doing, like drinking beer and playing cards, or boxing the ears of some new recruit. The woods were stifling, Angst remembered, and the smell of pine pitch strong. Sweat oozed copiously from every pore. Angst believed the colonel had led Nieheus into the woods to shoot him, and he himself would be next. Droplets of perspiration ran down his forehead and into his eyes. It stung. Quickly, he wiped his face while the sergeant’s back was turned. He thought he’d gotten away with it when, suddenly, Kortner turned and pounced. Centimeters from his own, Kortner’s face was sharp and cold, like a climber’s ice ax. He threatened to strangle Angst then and there, should he even blink. Angst had no reason not to believe him. After a while, the colonel returned, alone. Kortner opened the rear door, and Heinrich sat stiffly in the rear seat, expressionless. Kortner climbed back in behind the wheel and started the engine. Angst, who remained at attention the whole time, was summoned to the window. He leaned over slightly. “Look after your lieutenant,” the colonel said. Angst saluted, and the staff car drove away. Angst went in search of Nieheus. It was dark, but he was able to find his way toward the officer simply by listening. He could hear a plaintive whimpering, like the sound of a chastised puppy. He found the lieutenant seated on the trunk of a fallen tree. “We are dead men, corporal, dead men,” the lieutenant said, as Angst came upon him. From that day forward, those words rang like a bell toll inside Angst’s brain. Nieheus turned over a sheaf of papers. “Our new orders, corporal.” Grief was evident in the lieutenant’s voice. “I have volunteered for duty at the eastern front, and you, as the loyal and dutiful orderly that you are, have elected to accompany me.”

Angst thumbed the striker on a cigarette lighter and using the small flame for illumination, sifted rapidly through the stamped documents, travel passes, and signed orders. Their names were typed on transfer requests, with the ink bearing the colonel’s signature still wet. There wasn’t much time. The enclosed itinerary had them leaving early in the morning. They had to walk all the way back to camp and then pack their gear. The predicament had yet to sink in, Angst remembered. He was gleeful just to be still alive.

“There is no appealing this sentence, Angst,” the lieutenant said, as they began the long walk back to camp. “From this moment on, we are merely simulating the characteristics of the living. Understand that we are dead men.”

At 0800 hours the following morning, exhausted from the walk, having gotten no sleep, laden with equipment and every conceivable personal effect that would be essential for the cruel hardships of Russia, they boarded the train—a troop and supply train filled with strangers bound to points east. No one saw them off or wished them well. Across the length of France and into Germany—perhaps the most depressing part of the trip, as far as Angst was concerned, with no hope of seeing his parents or sister, maybe not ever again. He would have to write them and couch his misfortune in an upbeat, almost nonchalant phraseology and post the letter somewhere en route. Mother would be grief-stricken and worry herself sick but be proud, nonetheless. His father would react with anger upon the news; he would be angry with the Reich, the party, and the Fuehrer, but especially angry with his fellow countrymen for allowing themselves to be swindled by the people who now ruled Germany. He would bear this anger in silence, because there was no one to listen, certainly not his mother.

Over the years, Angst had become his father’s entire audience as he ranted on in a hushed voice in the cellar or the small garage, out of hearing from possible eavesdroppers and touts, as he carried on about the shabby little corporal and his gang of thieves. Mother had already forbidden him any further outspokenness in her presence, or anyone else’s, for that matter. His father could wind up in jail and the rest of the family as well. Politics had become the single biggest rift between his parents. His mother believed in the Germany National Socialism was attempting to create and, as a personality, the Fuehrer had chastely seduced her, as he had the majority of good, wholesome German frauen. But not Volker Angst. The smooth beer garden server had more than his share of dealings with mid- and low-level party functionaries who, in his estimation, “couldn’t use a urinal properly without instructions written on the wall.” Whether getting his nose broken by a storm trooper while trying to stop a brawl in an establishment where he worked had any influence on his opinions was subject to debate. That had happened in the early days, and his father could see then what was coming. He could only shake his head in wonder at how an entire population could accept being yelled at, screamed at, and browbeaten at party rallies and radio broadcasts. That was no way to communicate to grownups, he would complain. And the swine would applaud him for it. That was the worst. Herr Angst could never be enraptured or mesmerized by the speeches. He was insulted by the glaring abnormality. “Drink the right amount of cold beer every day,” his father would say, “and it helps clarify a man’s perception.” His father, being an avid fan of the beverage which he served, this remark, Angst supposed, predicated his father’s political and social insight. Often enraged and insulted by the maniacal chancellor—and drunk—he would begin to rant, and his wife would beg in anger and tears for his father to keep silent. He would quiet down, finally, but Angst knew the self-imposed silence would eventually kill him.

As the train headed east, it began: the numerous stops and starts. Freight cars loaded with equipment and attached only to be disconnected further down the line; troops returning to the front from leave or medical furloughs. Grave like, quiet towns inside the occupied territories, the rare inhabitants flitting by like ghosts. Russia. Diversions and switches at the railheads, due to lines sabotaged by partisans. Weapons at the ready and a high state of alert aboard the train. No longer did Angst and the other men travel as passengers; they were combatants the moment the train crossed the border. They were laid up for hours on end as the tracks underwent repairs. Ad hoc units were formed and sent out on patrol so as not to come under a partisan surprise attack. After a while, they were all back on the train, and off they went, deeper and deeper into the expanse. Angst had never experienced a voyage on the open sea. His only knowledge was gleaned from a film or two and the ocean view while serving guard duty at the Atlantic Wall. But he had never been out in it, surrounded by volumes of nothing. Now he was. Russia, the Ukraine. Instead of limitless water as far as the eye could see, there was land; flat, barely undulant, oceans of soil and seas of grass. The enormity of the space shocked and frightened him. Suddenly, the redundancy would be broken, minutely, by a cluster of huts or a small village. Primitive, rude dwellings, many broken and damaged, touched by war. What could the inhabitants possibly be doing way out here, he remembered wondering, forgotten by time and space. The villages passed, and then nothing. Monotony ruled. Thousands of weary, disconsolate kilometers separated him from home. He could sense the distance, emotionally, and he was terrified. He had come to the very ends of the earth and did not know how he could possibly return. He struck up conversations with some of the men who were returning to their units; some had been in the east for a year or more. They said they could never get used to it. The wide-open spaces, the distance caused one to feel even more lost and inconsequential as time went on. The only comfort was one’s platoon, the company of friends and Kameraden and the familiar machinery of war.

After eleven days had passed, the train stopped abruptly at the siding of a partially ruined industrial facility in the vicinity of Stalino. This was not the original destination for Angst and the lieutenant or most of the troops aboard the train, but it became so out of necessity. Everyone was ordered off the train. High-ranking officers and a detachment of military police stood along the siding and ordered the men to form lines—officers, NCOs, and enlisted men. Returning veterans understood what this meant and grew restless. Some gathered their packs and rifles and urged the others to do the same. “Collection squads,” the grenadiers explained. They were to be scooped up and shipped off to the worst shit-hole of the front, a collapsed, threatened sector. Regardless of their orders or home units, they would be clumped together with a bunch of strangers and formed into units to deal with whatever crises demanded extreme measures. The war was difficult to endure as it was, but to have to risk one’s life without the familiarity of one’s platoon was more than these veterans to the front could bear. While the unruly knot of troops fell into line Angst remembered hearing the lieutenant say, “Dead men, Corporal. That’s what we are. Dead men.”

A small group suddenly broke free of the line and charged down the siding in an attempt to escape but was swiftly ensnared by a reserve squad of military police. The authorities expected such a reaction by some and were prepared. Officers examined their original orders and documentation, and clerks wrote down their names. Trucks were assigned and boarded, and off they raced to the front. They had driven for an hour, perhaps longer, when the vehicles stopped and everyone piled out. It was beginning to get dark. An NCO greeted the lieutenant and informed him he would take him and thirty of the enlisted men to the second battalion combat station. He would report to a Captain Raeder. “If you’re worth the captain’s while, he might keep you on. He’s been without an adjutant for nearly a week,” the NCO remarked. The lieutenant took hold of Angst and told him not to leave his side. Nieheus was shaking. An occasional shell would fall, not at all close, but the explosion was deafening. The aftershock nudged them where they stood. “Remember,” the lieutenant said, “should anyone ask, we volunteered, as our papers specify. Don’t breathe a word of the circumstances that caused us to be here. It will save the embarrassment and I feel we will be viewed in a much better light.” Nieheus made Angst swear to remain silent.

Under the false illumination of flares and mounting artillery shells, the NCO led the thirty-man unit to the front. The lieutenant was directed to battalion headquarters, and Angst and the rest were split up into smaller groups of five. They were taken to the second company, and Angst and another fellow were paired off and sent to the first platoon bunker, where he met the platoon leader, Sergeant Lustig. They were to occupy a slit trench fifty meters away; they had to crawl to get there. It was wet and slimy inside the hole. The smell of urine, shit, and blood. Lots of blood. Someone had bled to death inside that hole. Angst and his partner dug deep and fast as the shells whistled overhead to make the hole a little cleaner to die in. They waited out the night’s withering fire. By evening the following day, Angst and the grenadier were rotated to the platoon bunker. It was there that he learned that Lieutenant Nieheus had been killed. He had reported to the battalion CO, who was just on his way to an observation post. They went together, with Nieheus following the captain. He stood a bit too tall in the trench and was decapitated by a large splinter of shell casing that had exploded nearby. Not ten minutes at the front, and it was over for the lieutenant before it had begun. The pathetic nature of his death rattled Angst the most. “We are dead men, Corporal, dead men.” Those prophetic words had become fulfilled.

Angst was suddenly brought back to the present; Sergeant Lustig and the machine gun crew had finally caught up with the platoon. They must have jogged the entire distance, Angst thought. Out of breath, they panted like prey having outrun their predators. The second gunner wobbled on legs that had turned to jelly. Seidel and Halle helped support him; to lag behind meant certain death. The sergeant’s arrival renewed Angst’s impetus and determination. They would all join the regiment by morning, he was certain of it now. They had to.

8

Driving a self-propelled assault gun at night was a torturous affair. Kurowski drove blind without the aid of headlamps and received all instructions from the signalman, Wilms, who walked a short distance ahead and transmitted pertinent details of the terrain. Kurowski was informed of all rises and depressions, upcoming shell craters, and detours around the inevitable balka that had yet to present a significant problem. Calls came over the headset to make steering adjustments to prevent the vehicle from straying off course. Sergeant Pieper sat in the radio operator’s seat and dozed fitfully. Naumann and Hofinger walked alongside the assault gun. The reduction of weight, however scant, could only help conserve fuel. Averaging between two and four kilometers an hour, Kurowski had been at it for nearly eight hours, having been relieved for short stretches by both the gunner and loader. Aside from himself, Pieper was the best driver under these conditions, but, wounded and doped up on painkillers, the gun commander wasn’t up to the task. Kurowski operated in a void. He had closed the view port shutter—there was nothing to see outside anyway—and kept the red night light on inside the fighting compartment. Earlier in the night, combat units withdrawing from the front line had overtaken them. The trip was taking too long. The excruciatingly slow pace had begun to unnerve him. Hours on end and nothing happened, only Wilms’s voice for company and the steady drone of the motor. Kurowski had expected elements from one battalion or other to pass them by. And then Wilms relayed a message. A platoon had pulled up alongside, tuckered out from the long march, and would stay with the vehicle for a while. It turned out to be Sergeant Lustig from the second company and some of his men. The dreadful sense of isolation was over. Kurowski was relieved, as were the few grenadiers who made up the escort. Another message from Wilms. Kurowski was to traverse thirty degrees to the left and straighten out. A minute or two passed, and a request was made that he come to a complete stop. Perfect timing, as far as Kurowski was concerned. He braked and allowed the engine to idle. He rubbed his tired eyes and fished out the water bottle that lay under his seat and drank. While he waited for further instructions to come over the headphones, he lit his pipe. To hell with the no smoking regulation—Kurowski felt he deserved it. The scent of tobacco roused the gun commander. “Why have we stopped?” Pieper’s voice sounded thick with phlegm and clotted blood.

“Some copse or thicket up ahead. A recon’s going in to investigate.”

Footfalls tapped on the hull above their heads as Naumann and Hofinger climbed aboard and took up battle stations. It was only as a precaution, Hofinger had explained. Pieper struggled out of the snug seat. “I had better make an appearance. I don’t want to be accused of sleeping on the job.”

A thicket or tall grass stood out as a long, dark silhouette against the starred sky. Schroeder estimated the distance at two hundred meters due west. He led a patrol consisting of the escort’s machine gun crew, Detwiler and Ganz.

Angst had crawled up to where Sergeant Lustig lay beside the signalman and waited for the patrol to return or, at worst, provide the signal that indicated a Russian presence. The sound of the assault gun would have given the enemy ample time to prepare an ambush.

Half an hour had passed as they lay on their stomachs, waiting, listening. Wilms checked the illuminated dial of his watch repeatedly. He started to fidget. “How long does it take to search through a bunch of weeds, for Christ’s sakes?”

The signalman’s restlessness merely incited Angst’s nerves; he thought he heard something above the rough murmur of the idling Stug III. He looked to Wilms and Lustig and knew they were aware of the noise as well—the unmistakable clatter of tracks and cogs with the intermittent squeal of revolving parts so indicative of a T-34. It was difficult to pinpoint the exact location from where the sound originated. Wilms was certain the tank was advancing directly from the front, beyond the thicket, the sound muffled by the growth. Lustig disagreed. The tank approached from the north. As the sound increased in volume, it filled Angst’s head from all directions, but he wasn’t about to argue this point with the sergeant. Wilms tried to raise the assault gun on the radio but received no response. Static buzzed over the headphones, accompanied by a shrill overlay that pulsed at intervals. This was interference of a kind the signalman had never come across. He removed the headphones, as the noise was painful to hear.

“Pieper must have heard the tank by now,” he said, the tension evident in his voice. He cupped one of the headphones to his ear, gripped the mike, and tried to summon the vehicle again. “Shit,” he cursed. For all the good the radio was doing, it might as well be an empty box. “I’m going back to the assault gun and find out what’s going on,” he said, and crawled away.

“The tank must be as blind as the assault gun,” Angst said. Lustig continued to listen to the encompassing reverberation. The T-34 now traveled at top speed. A cannon blast caused Angst and Lustig to jerk simultaneously.

The assault gun had fired a star shell, the large magnesium round illuminating the landscape in a cold, bright glare. The T-34 sounded very close, but nothing stood out in relief against the burning white flare that drifted slowly across the sky. Only the assault gun was discernible to the rear, and the prone bodies of the grenadiers lying on the ground nearby. The engine revved to life and was on the move. Angst was afraid. It was all too strange, an enemy tank that could be heard, practically right on top of them, but not located. And where the hell is that patrol? he wondered. The assault gun increased speed, drove past fifty meters to their left, and followed a course directly for the thicket. The star shell floated back to earth and landed in a clump of glowing cinders.

“What’s the gun commander doing?” Angst asked excitedly, but he didn’t get an answer from Lustig, who watched the events unfold with grim concern. The gun commander was either aware of the tank’s location or in a panic, Angst thought. The assault gun continued to speed forward, its course unaltered. Then a cannon erupted far to the rear. Angst and Lustig lay even flatter on the ground as the shell whistled by. Two more rounds followed in quick succession. They witnessed the impact as molten red flashes connected with the hull of the assault gun. The vehicle shook violently as pieces of armor were torn off and scattered. When the fuel on board ignited and the ammunition magazine exploded, the Stug III brewed up in a spectacle of orange flame. A searchlight was activated on the T-34, and the beam swept across the ground as an amplified loudspeaker wailed. The siren like noise mimicked a dive-bombing JU-87, too exact in sound to be coincidental. The hull machine gun opened fire and raked the human targets that lay prone or uselessly tried to scramble out of the way. There was the sound of the turret in traverse, from nine o’clock to twelve, to three o’clock and back again, as the 76 mm armament spat out high-explosive rounds. Clumps of dirt and fragments pelted down on Angst’s back, shoulders, and helmet. He clamped his buttocks together to avoid fouling himself. He wanted to get up and run. Sensing this, Lustig placed a hand firmly on his back and pressed downward. “Easy, son,” he said reassuringly, “stay put, and we’ll make it.”

The searchlight was extinguished. The tank headed in an easterly direction, and the sound of its engine gradually faded. Lustig got to his feet, pulled Angst up along with him, and approached the fiery glow that rimmed the burning vehicle. The charred and mangled body of one of the crew lay near the wreck. The gun commander had been catapulted from the hatch when the armor piercing rounds struck. The destruction was hideously thorough. Between the flames, the hull was torn open with edges that were jagged and curled back, as though it were a tin can. The T-34 had fired with such precise accuracy, and under nighttime conditions; it caused Lustig to wonder if the Soviets had developed some new fire control apparatus. The star shell hadn’t helped matters, certainly, but the tank had fired after the illumination had already dampened. And the assault gun was moving at top speed. There was also the rate of fire the T-34 maintained that caused Lustig unease.

Forms started to appear at the threshold of light cast by the flames. Jumpy, Angst was about to shoot, but then he recognized the uniforms and the men who wore them. Schroeder and the patrol had returned with looks of total confusion on their grimy faces. “What happened” Schroeder asked.

“What does it look like? We were attacked,” Angst replied.

Schroeder collected himself as his focus narrowed on Angst. “I can see that; what I want to know is how?” Before Angst had the chance to answer, Lustig closed in on the escort grenadier corporal. “What have you been doing all this time? We waited for some kind of a signal from you, but it never arrived.”

Schroeder eyed the sergeant warily. He and the machine gun crew appeared muddled and dazed. They seemed to work at trying to find the right words to explain their actions, but Lustig had already lost patience. “What have you to report, Corporal”?

“We lost our bearings,” Schroeder said quietly, obviously embarrassed.

“You lost your bearings in a patch of tall grass? That’s some excuse,” Angst said in a derisive tone. Lustig motioned him to silence.

Schroeder went on the defensive. “I’m telling you, we lost our way. I don’t know how, and I know it doesn’t make sense, but it’s the truth. I can’t explain it. It felt like we were cut off…”

“From the rest of the world,” Detwiler added. Ganz nodded his head in agreement.

“What are you saying? Didn’t you hear the tank or see the star shell? The whole place was lit up!”

“Sergeant, I swear, we saw and heard nothing. That thicket is like a maze. A labyrinth. We couldn’t find our way out until we saw the fire. We used it to guide us out. I was worried about mines. The thicket appears to have been constructed on purpose. You think I don’t know how unbelievable this sounds? But it’s the truth. I’ll swear on it.” The machine gun crew stood by the corporal’s word. Lustig seemed more amazed by the response rather than doubtful. “Pull yourselves together. We’ve taken quite a beating. See who’s left and in what condition, and try not to get lost this time.” The grenadiers started to walk away when an ear-splitting wail made them all freeze. Some enormous beast lunged out of the thicket, draped in vines and cobwebs. Adrenaline shot throughout Angst’s body with needlelike sharpness. Everyone ran except for Lustig, who, for a fraction of a second too long, stayed rooted in place. The screaming animal clipped the sergeant as it raced by and sent him hurtling through the air. Angst caught sight of the tank as it sped off, its ribbed, perforated tracks kicking up clods of grass and soil. Although he only got a glimpse, the T-34 appeared hideous and unreal. Some of the grenadiers opened fire, but the bullets clanged harmlessly against the thick armored skin; others ran, shouting in a mad panic. Stumbling, they buried their faces in the ground and chewed the stiff, dry grass to avoid devouring their tongues.

After a while, the fear and the stench that accompanied it subsiding, Angst got up, panting, and returned to the smoldering assault gun. He found Lustig lying face down. He turned him over. The chest had been reduced to a wet, pulpy sack. He knelt down beside the body and removed the pay booklet from the breast pocket of the field tunic. Having to touch the blood-soaked remains filled Angst with nausea and grief. His bloodstained fingers shook as he undid the pin to the Iron Cross and Infantry Assault medals. What consolation, if any, these decorations would have for the sergeant’s family, Angst didn’t know, but he would see to it they received the medals all the same. He had developed a grudging admiration for the sergeant over the past several weeks. Lustig had a knack for sizing up a grenadier at a glance, determining his strengths and weaknesses, and getting the most out of what the individual had to offer. After only a week at the front, he had placed Angst in charge of a rifle squad. Angst tried to excuse himself from the responsibility, claiming he was too new at the front and hadn’t served in combat since the invasion of France. His excuses mattered little, as far as Lustig was concerned. The sergeant had pointed to the Iron Cross 2nd Class ribbon sewn on the buttonhole of Angst’s tunic and said the award wasn’t earned for polishing a lieutenant’s boots or for picket duty on the Atlantic Wall. “Besides, I think I’m beginning to understand you,” Angst remembered the sergeant saying. “You will function much better given the added responsibility. Otherwise you will hide within the platoon and not offer your better qualities.” Angst didn’t know he possessed any “better qualities,” but refraining from standing out, especially in a group and in the army at large, rang true. He had even explained to the sergeant how he’d come to be at the front, that he and the ill-fated Lieutenant Nieheus hadn’t volunteered. Lustig was unfazed. Angst was here now, no matter the reason, and was made squad leader without further argument.

Minnesinger and Wilms approached. They did not speak as Angst separated the identity disc half and pocketed it along with the medals and pay book. He unfastened the magazine pouch that contained three clips for the sergeant’s MP40 that lay nearby. He picked up the submachine gun, unfolded the wire frame stock, and looked for damage. It appeared in good working order. There were two side arms, a standard issue Walther P-38 in a holster and a Russian Tokarev tucked in the belt. As he handled the pistol, a prize souvenir among the troops, Schroeder stepped up and snatched the weapon from Angst’s grasp. “Hey!” Angst exclaimed.

“Armed to the teeth, wasn’t he?” the corporal said and stuck the Tokarev in his own belt. Then Schroeder started to bark orders. “Find out who is still alive and who is wounded. Collect any field rations, water, and ammunition from the dead. Anything we can use.”

Angst didn’t know what was worse about getting killed, the manner in which death occurred or the irony. For Lustig to have survived Stalingrad, the battles along the Donets and the Mius, to survive all that strife and hopelessness only to end up here, crushed to death on the steppes. “Let’s bury him,” he said to Minnesinger, as they looked upon the sergeant’s lifeless form, which had begun to fade out of sight as the flames from the assault gun dwindled.

Schroeder had overheard the remark. “Cover him with a shelter half if you have to, but we can’t afford the time to bury anyone. That tank could return at any moment.”

Minnesinger didn’t balk. It appeared Schroeder had assumed command.

“You’re our platoon leader” Angst said, looking to Minnesinger.

“There are three too many corporals as it is. It only takes one to run this show,” Minnesinger said, as he untied the shelter half from the sergeant’s pack, undid the buttons, and started to drape the body.

Angst helped him and continued to gripe. “He can do anything he wants to us now.”

“Listen, Schroeder’s an NCO candidate. We’re outranked, so let’s forget about it,” Minnesinger replied. But Angst couldn’t forget too readily or accept the escort corporal as their de facto leader. The business about the patrol getting lost in the thicket bothered him, even though he conceded that no matter how hardened the veteran, there were times when panic and fear became so overwhelming that actions were the very opposite of intentions. Schroeder and the machine gun crew could have simply waited out the ambush, clearly aware the situation for the vehicle they were assigned to protect was hopeless from the opening salvo. Once the danger had passed, all three resurfaced, disoriented from whatever phenomenon they had experienced. Angst had yet to put a label on that tale and had a mind to see the thicket for himself.

Braun and Schmidt turned up among the living. Elated, Angst was tempted to embrace them but refrained. They had collected the identity disc halves from the dead and turned them over. It seemed that Angst had become the official keeper of names of the dead. Halle and Franks were among the names, along with the machine gun crew who were the last to leave the Tortoise Line along with Lustig. More irony, Angst thought. There were some names he did not know. Horstmann and Schulze, grenadiers from the escort. All those who remained, the remnants of the platoon and the escorts, numbered a little over a full squad.

“Schroeder’s in charge now,” Angst said but no one had a reaction. Braun and Schmidt did not appear to be bothered by this fact, and Richter, simply glad to be alive, couldn’t care less. “He can have the job, far as I’m concerned.” Other than a few splinters and a graze, Richter was unharmed. He took the MP40 from Angst and looked it over for any possible defects, making sure the clip held no more than twenty-five rounds. A fully loaded magazine of thirty-two 9 mm rounds placed too much pressure on the spring mechanism and caused the machine pistol to jam. This notorious fault was the primary reason Richter preferred the Russian-made sub-machine gun. It could be abused and subjected to the worst conditions and still perform without a hitch. “You ever use one of these?” he asked Angst.

“I’ve been trained.”

Richter returned the weapon. It was more weight for Angst to carry, but the extra automatic weapons were necessary.

Wahl and Seidel were finally located, their nerves shaken but physically whole. Fortunately, any wounds sustained by the living had been slight. Whoever needed immediate attention was seen to. No one was so badly injured as to slow the group down. If that had been the case, in the predicament they now found themselves, that individual would have had to be left behind. Nervousness and the sense of urgency to leave the scene as quickly as possible spurred on the survivors.

“Where were you to meet up with the rest of your battalion?” Schroeder asked Minnesinger.

“Forty-five kilometers west.”

That did not seem at all possible now, Schroeder thought. “Let’s get on with it then,” he ordered, needlessly. It would be light soon, and the yawning immensity of the steppe would once again reveal itself. The stragglers, cut off and inconsequential in the greater scheme, knew an enemy horde could sweep down and destroy them all at its leisure. Taking the lead, Schroeder circled around to the north, giving a wide berth to the thicket. Once the squad straightened and headed in a more westerly direction, Angst, who elected to take the rear, looked over his shoulder. A crimson flush tinged the sky across the eastern horizon. There were fires and pillars of smoke. Another day in hell was ready to be born.

9

A hamlet stood a quarter of a kilometer to the west. Clouds of dust billowed several kilometers further beyond, and even with the aid of binoculars, Schroeder could barely detect the outlines of the vehicles, let alone discern their make. An army was on the move, but whether friendly or hostile, he couldn’t tell. While the remainder of the squad lay flat and motionless on the warm ground, he had sent Detwiler and Ganz to cover the rear side of the hamlet, getting ready and in place before they made their entrance. He checked his watch and assumed thirty-five minutes was ample time for the machine gunner and his number two to get into position. The plan was to secure the place before anyone stirred, if in fact any inhabitants still remained, and hide out for an hour or so and get some rest. The men were dead on their feet, and Schroeder was anxious to get under cover. Almost eleven hundred hours. The sun was up, and it was hot. Temperatures would only increase into the afternoon hours. The last thing he wanted was for them to get caught out in the open at the mercy of a Yak or Stormovik patrolling the skies. That worry was uppermost on his mind, but he had no control over it. He could only steady himself with the thought that the Soviet Air Force would be busy attempting to rout the Sixth and First Panzer Armies, which were trying to form a new defensive line, rather than waste valuable aircraft hunting down stragglers caught out on the steppe. The Reds had motorized patrols for that detail, which could explain the ruckus of vehicles and dust further to the west. The only tactic Schroeder could employ at the moment was avoidance. While the machine gun crew established its covering position, Schroeder reviewed their present situation with Minnesinger and Wilms. The corporal had spread his map out on the ground and, with compass and pencil, attempted to establish how far they had traveled. It was abysmal. Minnesinger was of the opinion that that they had no more than fifteen, at most twenty, kilometers before reaching the newly established defensive position. That was optimistic. The ambush from last night, its eerie character, and how it played out had set the small vulnerable squad back. Too much time had been lost. Wilms’s radio had a range of no more than four kilometers at best, and they would have to be right on top of friendly forces before communication was established. The best that could be said was the radio could pick up enemy transmissions in their immediate vicinity. “It’s the only edge we have at the moment,” Wilms commented.

“Once this shit-hole is secured, we’ve got one hour,” Schroeder said, “and then we push on.” The last leg of the journey would be made through the hottest portion of the day under a sweltering Ukrainian sun, but it could not be helped. He gave the signal to advance, and the squad crawled forward.

The hamlet had been erected along the edge of a balka that ran north and then angled sharply to the northwest. It was a collection of eighteen houses—or, more accurately, shacks and hovels, constructed from whatever materials could be scavenged from the vast, empty surroundings. The walls were made of dried dung, mud, and straw, with tar paper and planks covered by sheets of rusty tin for a roof. Small sheds and fencing were fashioned from sunflower stalks, either bundled or tied singly. No symmetry existed to the layout; it was an agglomeration of structures, with a passage separating one string of huts from the other. Most of these passages were blocked, illogically, by a trough, animal pen, or coop. As the squad darted about, peeking through windows or furtively opening doors with extreme care, the one-room hovels seemed devoid of life. The ground was covered with the litter of a hasty occupation. Empty ration tins, broken and damaged personal equipment, empty cigarette packets, and trash, which was mostly Wehrmacht issue with a number of Red Army items mixed in.

Minnesinger and Braun were crouched beside a small shed, their faces knotted, almost as if in pain. Curious, Angst and Schmidt joined them. Braun made a motion to keep silent. The buzz of flies and the odor, enhanced by the morning heat, said it all: an outhouse. Schmidt covered his nose and tried not to gag. Movement could be discerned between the narrow separations of the wood slats when a bent, wiry figure started to back out of the door, tying a rope belt that held up a pair of trousers. The long peasant shirt was gray with soil. Tufts of white whiskers curled outward from the bearded chin. When the old peasant finally turned, his expression changed dramatically from self-absorption to utter confoundedness as the presence of heavily armed German soldiers clustered around the outhouse registered. The facial transformation was so comical the four grenadiers could not help but burst into laughter. Once they had recovered, Braun said, “For all he knows we might as well have dropped from the moon.”

The old man smiled nervously and greeted them in a shaky voice, “Dohbrohgoh rankoo. Mehneh zvahtih Oleksander.” He went on to mumble something else, but the words were indistinct.

“What’s the old geezer saying?” Braun asked Minnesinger, who understood a smattering of Ukrainian.

“His name is Oleksander, and he’s a good fellow toward us Germans. Something to that effect.”

“Anyone else here in the village? Go ahead, ask him,” Angst suggested. As Minnesinger started to speak the language haltingly, Oleksander politely interrupted, took him by the arm, and led him away from the outhouse. The others followed. “I think he’s taking us to his house” Minnesinger said.

They all noticed the old fellow trembled as he walked, either from fear or some palsied condition due to his advanced age. Minnesinger pointed to the dust kicked up by the traffic on the distant horizon. “Rohsee yah nihn? Nee mehts?” he asked. Oleksander either did not understand or pretended not to. “Tahk, tahk” he said, as he grinned and trembled.

“I asked if they were ours or Russian, and he answers yes to both,” Minnesinger translated, amused but obviously frustrated. They followed Oleksander into a dilapidated hovel. Inside, the space was cramped and reeked of sour milk. The walls were lined with sheets of newspaper that had yellowed over time. A small table and two chairs, all haphazardly constructed, stood near a compact earthen stove. A wood crate mounted on the wall served as a cupboard. There was a bed in the corner, the straw mattress covered by a frayed, quilted blanket, and this constituted most of the furnishings of the single room dwelling. Braun dropped his pack on to the floor and jumped on the bed. Schmidt did the same and nudged his friend over so he could lie straight. They both had expressions of ecstasy to be off their feet and lying prone, even if the mattress was somewhat lumpy.

“Watch out you don’t catch any lice,” Minnesinger told them.

“We already have lice. A few more can’t hurt,” Schmidt affirmed.

Oleksander did not seem to mind the strangers making themselves so at home; in fact, he seemed to enjoy it. He went to the stove and picked up a small tin pot, which he presented to Minnesinger. It looked like kasha, or a variety of the same, the porridge having become thick and glutinous. The platoon leader removed a spoon from his bread bag and took several mouthfuls before passing it on to Angst. It tasted revolting, but they were too hungry to care.

Schroeder entered. A look of disgust creased his face as he surveyed the room and especially Braun and Schmidt lying together on the bed. They got up. “Who is this?” he growled, and immediately belabored Oleksander with questions in a mix of limited Russian and German. The old peasant took the pot of kasha from Angst and held it out with both hands to the corporal, saying, “Yeestih.” The offering was lost on Schroeder. He knocked the pot from Oleksander’s hand; as it clattered to the floor, he grabbed him and began to shake him roughly. “I want answers from you, old man. Not this swill!” Oleksander flailed about like a loose collection of sticks.

“Take it easy with him,” Angst shouted, but it was Braun who seized Schroeder and separated him from the frail Ukrainian.

“Lay off before you break all his bones!”

Shocked by the brazen interference, Schroeder glared.

“He can’t speak anything but the local dialect,” Braun continued. “What do you expect to learn by beating the old boy to death?”

Although challenged, Schroeder regained his composure. “See if you can get anything out of him, Braun. As for the rest of you, clear out. Set up defensive positions. I want this shit-hole covered on all sides. Observation posts. You know what to do. Angst, find Richter and do a thorough search of all the houses. See if there’s anything to eat around here other than garbage.”

Once the three filed outside, Schmidt said, “I hate to leave Friedrich in there alone with him. Besides, I don’t think his knowledge of Russian is any better than the corporal’s.”

“Don’t worry about Braun. If anybody can handle Schroeder, he can,” Angst said.

Although his estimation of the foul-mouthed, back-talking grenadier had grown over the past several minutes, Minnesinger had his doubts. “I don’t think the likes of Corporal Schroeder can be handled.”

Wahl appeared from around the corner of a shack in the company of two little boys about seven or eight years old. Shoeless and covered with scratches, their spindly legs stuck out from baggy trousers that stopped just below the knee. One boy wore an adult’s cap that fell over his eyes. He had to lift his head and look under the brim to see the giants that surrounded him.

“Where did you find these two?” Minnesinger asked.

“I caught them trying to sneak out the back of one of the houses. They were headed for the ravine.”

“What’s he got in his hand?” Minnesinger gestured toward the boy in the cap, who held a small metal object.

“A tin of fish, but nothing to open it with,” Wahl said. “They don’t trust me to do it. Afraid I’ll take it away from them, I suppose.”

The children had the wide-eyed stare of feral kittens, abandoned, hungry, and afraid. The smaller of the two boys exhibited a stunted quality due to chronic malnourishment.

“I wonder if they’re any relation to the old Popov,” Angst said.

Wahl looked perplexed. “What Popov”?

Angst proceeded to explain about Oleksander, but Wahl shook his head. From the little he could understand, the boys were orphans and had been abandoned when the townsfolk left with the unit that passed through earlier that morning.

“And the Russians?” Minnesinger asked.

“They were here. Lucky for us, we just missed them.”

They now knew which side kicked up the dust as it made pursuit to the west, but this knowledge was of little comfort.

“You better tell Schroeder what you’ve learned,” Minnesinger told Wahl, and pointed to the old man’s tar paper residence. “He’s in there.”

The boys followed but remained outside as Wahl entered the shack. Minnesinger decided to look for a well. It would be polluted, more than likely, but it might be worth the effort. Standard practice was to foul the water supply when in retreat, usually with the rotting carcass of an animal; sometimes poison, if available. As Minnesinger departed, he instructed Schmidt to keep an eye to the west. “The Russians may come back this way again.”

Angst tagged along with Schmidt to the edge of the balka. It was steep-sided and broad in width, with a depth of approximately three meters, and bone dry. Angst turned over the binoculars to his friend.

“It wouldn’t be at all pleasant if the Russians did decide to return,” Schmidt said, as he took the binoculars.

Angst doubted the likelihood of that happening. “The Bolsheviks have the entire Sixth Army to chase. They’re not going to bother themselves over a few stragglers.”

“Where are you off to, Johann”?

“As Herr Corporal has ordered, to snoop around.” Angst left Schmidt to his picket duty at the edge of the balka and poked around in several shacks in an effort to find Richter or something edible. He walked past a particularly squalid hovel and noticed the barrel of an MG42 protruding from an open window. Ganz sat at the other end of the weapon inside the house and eyed Angst with suspicion.

“Have you seen Richter?”

“Don’t know him. What does he look like?”

Angst was about to describe him but realized the number two gunner was applying his own peculiar brand of humor. “Maybe he’s taking a crap in the ravine,” Ganz suggested with a smirk. Angst did not bother to comment. There was a loud noise; something had overturned, followed by a muffled squeal. He walked around to the rear of the shack to investigate. There was an addition or hut of some kind attached to the back end. He could see movement in the spaces between the dried sunflower stalks that formed the walls. A struggle was taking place. Suddenly, the dried stalks burst outward, and amid a cloud of fibered motes that gleamed in the sunlight, a girl bounded out. The strings of a dingy apron were untied, and her sleeveless blue dress had been torn at the bust. Her kerchief had either fallen or was pulled to the back of her head, revealing lank, sandy-colored hair. She nearly ran into Angst but was able to stop, eyes wide with terror, and, without missing a beat, sprang out his way with the agility of a fawn and ran for all she was worth. Detwiler ploughed through the remains of the wall with one hand clutching at his unfastened trousers and the other extended uselessly as he tried to grope for the girl as he ran. Angst took his carbine, bent down, and extended the weapon neatly between Detwiler’s ankles. He went down solid and hard, the air forced out of his lungs from the impact of the fall. Angst picked up his rifle and watched as the machine gunner tried to rise to his knees, spluttering, and coughed up dust and saliva. “I’m going to kill you,” Detwiler managed to say between gasps.

Angst knew he was serious. “She’s only a kid, for Christ’s sake.”

Ganz called out from the window. “Detwiler’s got a bigger appetite than most. Best to let him do as he pleases.” She was no more than fifteen, Angst guessed. He watched as Richter caught the girl in midflight and, with Wilms’s help, held onto her as she squirmed and kicked. Fed up with the struggle, Wilms cuffed her savagely on the back of the head. Stunned, she immediately turned docile.

Detwiler drew a knife from his boot and planted himself, if a trifle unsteadily, in Angst’s path. The gunner was an impregnable wall of meat and weapons that would not allow circumvention. Angst knew he could not go against him in a fight without being mauled, or worse. He threw the bolt of the carbine with a distinctive click and pressed the muzzle firmly to Detwiler’s gut. Angst had nothing to prove, but he understood that if he dropped the panzergrenadier in this manner it would be the last thing he would ever do. His Kamerad, Ganz, and Schroeder would certainly see to that.

A voice started to scream the same foreign word, repeated over and over. “Tridsatchetverka! Tridsatchetverka!” It was the girl. While they sized each other up, warily, the meaning had finally penetrated Detwiler’s fury and Angst’s fear. Thirty-four. It was the Russian word for T-34.

“Tank! Tank!” Seidel shouted frantically.

The two grenadiers broke away to face an even greater showdown.

Seidel ran and shouted as the tank barreled toward the hamlet from the east, a heavy plume of dust trailing behind. The rattle of its tracks and the rasp of the diesel engine could be distinctly heard. Schroeder came out of the house and watched alongside Wilms, Richter, and the girl. “It’s the same one from last night,” Wilms said.

“You better pray it isn’t,” the corporal responded.

Angst would have to agree with the signalman that it was the same tank from the night before, the one that killed Sergeant Lustig and the others. Viewed in the light of day, the T-34 was like some unwholesome organic creature. Folds of camouflage netting hung down from the turret and draped over the cannon barrel. Like an animal’s mane, the netting swayed with the vehicle’s movements. Barbed wire spiraled along the track mudguards and continued in thick coils over the rear hull deck, covering the grillwork right above the engine plant. The tank traveled in a wide arc around to the north end of the hamlet and came to a complete stop once it neared the balka. Schroeder shouted out orders. Stick grenades, of which they possessed few, were to be bundled into clusters. He shouted for Braun to bring out the old man. Freitag, one of the escort grenadiers, gathered up the two boys in his arms before they had a chance to run away.

“Find some rope, somebody,” Schroeder yelled in a high-pitched voice, “and all of you take cover in the ravine. Except you, Angst.”

“What do you have in mind?”

With a twisted smile, Schroeder said, “I don’t know yet, but God help us if it doesn’t work.”

Ganz was able to find only a loose roll of twine. Thin but strong, it would have to serve the purpose. Schroeder helped to cut several lengths so the second gunner could tie the grenade bundles. Next, he proceeded to loop the remainder of the twine around the throats and wrists of the three children and Oleksander and held the end like a leash. “Shoot anyone who tries to make a run for it,” he said to Angst.

Angst shook his head. “Not me.”

“Do it, Angst, or I’ll shoot you!”

When the last of the squad ran to the safety of the ravine, the captives watched as the tank retreated a short distance to the east of the hamlet. Angst sensed the collective shudder of the group, even Schroeder. He trembled with them and prayed no one got it into his or her head to try and bolt. He really doubted if he could fire upon the kids if they tried to run. A Russian tank crew could easily be immune to any threats the peasants faced. Being Ukrainian, in territory that until recently had been under occupation, Oleksander and the children might be considered more as collaborators rather than as fellow Soviet citizens. While the minutes passed, the tank took no action as Schroeder and Angst remained poised behind their human shield. Should a decision be made to level the hamlet, the tank would not need to expend a single shell. The tonnage alone could accomplish this deed with little effort. The pathetic collection of shanties could be plowed over, along with anyone who stood in its path.

The diesel engine revved, and the T-34 swung about a full 180 degrees and retired further out on the steppe. It continued for three or four hundred meters, stopped, and then traversed completely around to face the hamlet. Several minutes passed, and still no action was taken. Schroeder seemed to relax. “Let’s get into the house,” he said, and pulled everyone along slowly as he retreated backward.

Once inside the cramped quarters, the boys wasted no time freeing themselves of the bindings. The girl helped to unwind the cord and uttered sounds that indicated her disgust of the situation and the treatment by her captors. She crawled onto the bed and sat with her knees up, facing the wall, her back to the room and its unwelcome occupants. The boys huddled in a corner and tried to gain some kind of protection from each other. Unsure of what to do, Oleksander started to sit down at the table, then thought better of it and remained standing. Schroeder gestured for the old man to sit. He obeyed. Schroeder then opened a shuttered window and kept watch on the tank with binoculars. Angst unhooked his gear and placed it on the floor by the table and sat down. His feet ached terribly, and he would have removed his boots, only Schroeder would never allow it. “Do we stick to the same plan? Wait for a while and try to slip out?”

Schroeder gestured incomprehensibly, eyes glued to the binoculars.

“What if the tank radios for infantry support?” Angst asked.

“Its transmitter might not have the range for a call like that.”

“There could be a unit close by. There’s bound to be a follow-up to the Russian advance.”

Schroeder did not respond. Despite the logic, Angst sensed his remarks were eating away at the corporal’s nerves. He realized there was no plan left to follow. Their lives were held in the balance by the whims of fate and what little luck remained. “All I wanted was a place to rest,” Schroeder said, “and to get out from under the sun for a little while. I didn’t want this.”

“Maybe we still can. These brats aren’t a threat, and the old man can hardly move. One of us can keep an eye on the tank while the other goes to sleep. We can take turns. You can go first if you want.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Angst. We’ve got to try for that ravine and get the hell out of here.” Schroeder lowered the binoculars. He looked at each person in turn and then took in his surroundings, the trap he had unwittingly led them into. The heat of the enclosure was stifling. At any moment the newspaper-lined walls could burst into flame. Then his face twisted into a grimace. “How I hate this fucking backward country. Take a good look around, Angst; this is the Soviet worker’s paradise. A tawdry dream peddled by half-baked ideologists as hopeless as they are idiotic. Look at the filth and squalor. We could be back in the Middle Ages, for all this is worth. And these helots.” He gestured angrily. The boys had crawled under the bed. The older of the two toyed with the tin of fish and sought to find some new way to open it, which he had so far failed to discover. The other youngster watched attentively. “Look at them,” Schroeder continued, “By-products of inbreeding. They all should have been miscarried rather than born.”

The girl had turned around on the bed, her arms still locked tightly around her up-drawn legs. Several small pink toes poked through the frayed cloth of her shoes. Despite the foreign language, both she and Oleksander understood the tone all too plainly. They felt the hatred that seethed within the words.

“I will give meaning to their miserable lives by using them to save our own,” Schroeder said. He removed the assault pack and equipment and let it fall nosily to the floor. As he stepped away from the window, the submachine gun dangling by the strap from around his neck, he gave the binoculars to Angst. He stood by the bed, in front of the girl. She did not look up at Schroeder; her large brown eyes stared straight ahead, unblinking. “Kra seevi dyevoosh ka,” he said, badly, in Russian. It meant “pretty girl.” Schroeder took hold of her wrist, and she did not try to struggle free. Instead, she remained frozen. “I can see why Detwiler fancied you in a hurry,” he said. He pulled her off the bed, but not roughly. The girl stood, straight and tense, and waited for Schroeder’s next move. He lay down on the bed and placed an arm across his eyes. “Give me some time, Angst. Then I will relieve you. I’ve got to think.”

Angst carried a chair over to the window, sat down, lit a cigarette, and began his watch. The smell of tobacco roused the old man. Angst offered one from the pack, and Oleksander accepted gratefully. “Dyah koo yoo,” he said, and gestured with the cigarette contentedly as he sat back down at the table.

After a time the children became more animated. The girl rummaged through the cupboard and various boxes and addressed Oleksander with a host of questions. It was apparent she was looking for a utensil to open the fish tin but with no luck as yet. During her search she had discovered four small sunflower seed cakes wrapped in a towel. To Angst’s bemusement, the fear and concern for the dilemma they found themselves in had all but evaporated. Perhaps, with all the terrors and disappointments life had dealt them thus far, the children had simply learned to exist in the moment. And at this moment, nothing mattered, other than finding the means to end the ache in their empty bellies.

Through the course of all the activity, Angst understood the girl’s name to be Daryna, as the old man repeatedly addressed her. The older boy was Mykola, and the runt was called Lev. Daryna broke apart a sunflower cake and gave half to each boy. She stood at the head of the bed and looked down upon Schroeder. His eyes were closed but that was not enough of a confirmation to indicate he was actually asleep. Daryna hovered like a nervous swallow and then placed a cake on the bed near the corporal’s shoulder. She stepped quickly away so as not to become ensnared, then crossed the room and offered a cake to Angst. In spite of her youth, Daryna was fully developed—magnificently so. Angst was not blind to her physical charms, but the mantle of girlhood still enveloped her. To be moved by desire was terribly easy, but to act on it went beyond lechery. It was criminal. Detwiler had disgraced himself for the second time in Angst’s presence. He wouldn’t get another chance. There wasn’t much he could do for these kids, but one thing Angst silently promised the girl was that he’d keep Detwiler off her, no matter what the cost. Then again, with the situation as it now stood, none of it really mattered. There was a much more powerful, deadly force to contend with than the likes of that brutal idiot. Angst took a bite of the cake. It was stale and dry, and the sunflower seeds had a bitter aftertaste.

Oleksander had found a small knife and attempted to open the tin. Either the knife was blunt, or he hadn’t the strength. Angst intervened before the palsied fellow hurt himself. Using his bayonet, he pierced the metal and pried back the lid. Greedily, the boys rushed to retake possession of the tin. Daryna had to referee. Using her fingers, she separated the shaped stack of whole sardines onto two small plates and dribbled the oil over each compact little pile. Lev and Mykola could not contain themselves; they gobbled up the fish in a matter of seconds and licked the plates clean. Daryna watched over them, almost jealously, it seemed to Angst, as she tasted the fish oil on the tips of her fingers. All that remained was the odor that inundated the close room. Schroeder made signs of irritation but kept his eyes closed.

* * *

The tank had yet to take any action, and the crew members had not shown themselves. Not even a hatch was opened to allow for ventilation. Under the blistering sun, the hull’s interior must have been transformed into an oven. Angst could not fathom how the men within could tolerate such extremity. They might have all passed out by now and were slowly roasting, but he certainly wasn’t about to take the risk to find out. The T-34 was an eerie sight. Concrete was smeared on the armored surface, similar to the zimmerite paste used on the panzers to prevent magnetic antitank mines from attaching. But this coating was blotchy, scabrous, as though the steel skin had contracted some disease. There was writing on the turret’s left side. Cyrillic letters, very small, the red paint chipped and faded. Even if he could see the letters clearly, Angst would not comprehend the meaning. He did know that some tanks were named after a kolkhoz or Komsomol group that helped to raise the rubles necessary to offset production costs. Considering the amount of barbed wire sprouting all over the hull, Angst thought it impossible for a crew to mount and access the vehicle. Aside from the extra armored plating fixed to the sloping front end, strands of wire bristled across the driver’s hatch cover. The same was true for the twin hatches on the turret, the Mickey Mouse ears. To enter and leave the vehicle would be a difficult and painful procedure, as if the crew was sealed in for the duration of its mission. The concept was bizarre. He lowered the binoculars and glanced at his wristwatch. Nearly half past twelve hundred hours, and it could not get any hotter than it already was. The children had finally settled down. Daryna amused the boys with stories, Angst guessed, to judge by the theatrical manner of speech and gestures she employed. But she performed quietly, so as not to awaken Schroeder. When the boys started to fidget and become unruly, her tone sharpened, and she would point to Schroeder or Angst as if to say a firmer reprimand would be meted out, should they try the patience of their captors. What went on here last night, when the retreating army passed through and then the Russians in hot pursuit? Angst could only wonder. Now it’s our turn. Daryna and the old peasant probably figured out we had fallen way behind. Cut off and isolated our desperation is certainly evident. What happened to the boys’ parents? And Daryna? None of them seemed related. Had they all been orphaned and survived on the meager kindness of others? What sort of existence was lived out here in all this empty space? Grim and marginal, he was sure.

Everyone napped. Oleksander had taken a quilt and pillow from a wood box that served as a chest and had spread it out on the floor. The boys lay curled up beside him. He did not seem to mind; their proximity yielded some comfort, as his frail and vulnerable form did for them. The heat had caused Angst to become practically ill with lethargy. He had to will himself through the crushing boredom and fatigue, one second at a time. He would soon follow Schroeder with at least an hour of uninterrupted, dreamless sleep, depending on their present predicament—maybe even longer. Hang on, he cautioned himself; it would be his turn soon. With the hour and a half that had since elapsed, Angst assumed the rest of the squad was well on their way, heading west, using the ravine for cover. Well, good for them, he thought; at least Braun, Schmidt, Minnesinger, and the others have a shot at survival. Angst felt left out, more so because whatever was about to come his way would have to be faced with the likes of Schroeder and not with his friends. Hang on, every moment, every second counts. He was intent on awakening the panzergrenadier corporal and see what they could come up with in extricating themselves from the death trap they had blundered into. Last night and now today, what does that tank want from us? We’ve been followed, hounded, and for what purpose? None of it made any sense. Daryna sat and rested her head on her arms, folded on the table. She stared at Angst with one eye that peeked from the crook of her arm. Her eye widened just as they heard the loud eruption from the tank’s 76 mm gun. A second volley followed. Schroeder gasped loudly as he awakened and was immediately on his feet, waving the MP40 around the room, seeking out a target. Through a small, shuttered window at the back wall of the room, Angst saw the smoking debris of a shack that once stood closest to the edge of the ravine, now completely obliterated. Oleksander stirred on the floor, frightened and confused by the noises. Daryna reacted the worst, unleashing a fury driven by panic and fear. She charged for the door and managed to open it before Angst caught hold of her around the waist. She flailed wildly as Angst threw his weight and hers against the door. The teenager was strong, and he thought she would propel them both out of the house. Daryna scratched, kicked, and slapped; her teeth snapped open and shut in an effort to get a fix on a part of him to bite. Schroeder was making an attempt to pull her away when Angst saw the older boy, Mykola, mount the sill of the rear window, ready to leap out.

“Schroeder, get the kid!” Angst bellowed.

The panzergrenadier lunged and grabbed the boy by the ankle, dragged him roughly back inside across the floor, and dumped him on top of Lev. He slammed the window shutters closed and returned to Daryna as she continued to struggle with Angst, of whom she was getting the upper hand. Schroeder took a crop of her hair and yanked her head back so forcefully, Angst was afraid her neck would snap. She let go of Angst as both her hands went toward the pain at her head. Schroeder then flung her down upon the bed, where she lay sobbing and stroking her abused scalp.

Oleksander clapped his hands over his ears and moaned, “Lahskah, lahskah.” Angst sank to the floor, his neck and ears burning from the girl’s scratches. He noticed that Schroeder still trained the submachine gun on her, as if deliberating whether to blast her or not. “Don’t hurt her,” Angst said.

“She almost got the better of you, Angst.”

“I know. I thought I could handle her without causing injury. She’s a scrappy little thing.”

“I hope you have better success against the Russians.”

They were interrupted by a prolonged burst of machine gun fire. The rear window shutters flew open, and someone dove through the opening. It was Wilms. He landed on Mykola, who had yet to recover from Schroeder’s treatment. Wilms scrambled across the floor and looked out the front window. “Still not going anywhere.”

“What the fuck is going on out there, Wilms?” Schroeder was livid and definitely afraid.

“Don’t look at me like that, corporal. I didn’t start it. Some of the guys couldn’t take the heat any longer, so they took cover in that house. I don’t know how the tank could have spotted them.”

“Who were they?”

“A couple of ours. Freitag for sure. And your platoon leader, Angst.”

“Minnesinger?” Angst refused to believe it but knew it was all too possible. In the short time he had known him, Angst had noticed Minnesinger appeared to suffer more than most from the heat. It would drive him nearly to madness. “Didn’t you try to stop him?” Angst’s question only exasperated the signalman.

“How could I? We’ve been passing out one by one down in that ravine, getting cooked alive.”

Schroeder had no sympathy. “Either that or get blown to pieces. Take your pick.” He went to the rear window and looked out. “Blockheads,” he muttered, as he closed the shutters over. The tank hadn’t budged. The lack of commitment of the T-34 to engage them was too bizarre for Schroeder to comprehend. “Why didn’t you leave? You were all in the ravine. Why didn’t you try to make it free and clear?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“There were no orders…”

“Yes, there were. Think for once in your stupid, miserable life, Wilms. You and the others. Our orders are to link up with the rest of brigade, or division, and form a new line. If some of us get cut off or fall behind, well, then that’s just too bad. It’s about manpower, Wilms. The more the merrier to fight this war, wouldn’t you say?”

Wilms appeared cowed, foolish. “What are your plans now?”

“That all depends on what’s waiting for us out there,” Schroeder replied. “If the tank makes a move toward the village, then we make a run for it. If there’s no change, then we wait it out. We won’t make a move until sundown. I got a feeling that T-34 won’t make a move either as long as we have hostages.”

“Not until now,” Wilms commented.

Schroeder glared back at Wilms. “And whose fault is that? Where’s the radio?”

“I left it with Schubert.”

“Anything?”

Wilms shook his head. “Interference. I tried to monitor any transmissions that might have originated from the tank, but it was useless. I didn’t want to waste the battery.”

“You won’t hear a thing out of that tank,” Schroeder said with conviction.

“Red Vengeance,” Wilms said. The remark caused Schroeder noticeable discomfort.

“What is ‘Red Vengeance’ supposed to mean?” Angst said, but his question was ignored.

“Ganz said it was Red Vengeance. I didn’t believe it at first, but now I think he’s right. It all adds up,” said Wilms.

“Ganz is an asshole, and so are you for mentioning it,” Schroeder retorted.

“Tell me that isn’t the same T-34 from last night” Wilms said, “That ambush was too strange. And what about that bizarre incident you had in the brush? Detwiler refused to speak of it. And here we are, isolated, not a soul in sight. This entire sector should be crawling with Bolsheviks—and not a one.”

“It’s a big country” Schroeder said.

“Will someone tell me what Red Vengeance means and why you’re all so worked up over it?” Angst asked.

“How long have you been at the front, Angst?” Wilms asked.

“Since early August.”

“Well, that explains your ignorance.”

Angst became defensive toward the signalman. “So why don’t you enlighten me?”

“Red Vengeance is a frontline myth,” Schroeder interrupted, “a phantom T-34 that appears from out of nowhere, attacks, and then disappears. It’s known to inflict a lot of damage to any unit it happens upon. And there are few survivors, if any. There isn’t a tank or assault gun able to put it out of action. Not even Tigers have had any success, from what I’ve heard. Panzer crews have said that when Red Vengeance shows itself, your number is up.”

“Fata Morgana,” Wilms interjected.

“How do you know it’s the same tank?”

“No T-34 in the entire Soviet arsenal looks that miserable and mean. Besides, it has all the telltale signs. That inscription on the turret, for one.” Schroeder remarked.

“I saw something but couldn’t make it out. The lettering was too worn.” Angst said.

Schroeder nodded. “Worn from battle and taking hits that have no effect.”

“Do you know what’s written on the turret? What it’s supposed to mean?”

Schroeder made a face and shrugged. “Nobody knows for sure, Angst. Some poor devil got close enough to read it, but it was the last thing he ever did on this earth. ‘Krasny.’ And another word that can’t be made out.”

“Krasny is the word for red in Russian,” Angst said, more for his own edification than for the two escort grenadiers.

Schroeder nodded. “Red something. But what? Red Barricade? Red Factory? Red Star? The Bolsheviks name one goddamn thing after the other red. It helps to reinforce their shoddy principles, I should think. Some general coined the term ‘Red Vengeance,’ but I can’t remember who.”

“I think it was ‘Panzer’ Schulze. Or Hoth,” Wilms said.

“Could have been,” Schroeder said, unwilling to commit to either name. “The name is in Cyrillic, so one guess is as good as another. Besides, Red Vengeance is what it’s come to be known as.”

Angst did not know what to make of the story, or even if the escort grenadiers were having one over on him, although he doubted it. They were both very much afraid, and sensing this caused Angst to grow fearful along with them. It wasn’t enough that a Russian T-34 had them all in the crosshairs. No, it had to be something especially diabolical, to hear these two tell it. “I thought you said Red Vengeance disappears. It’s taking a long time to pull off that trick, don’t you think?”

Schroeder smiled crookedly. “It’s not finished with us yet.”

* * *

The sun was beginning to sink low on the western horizon when the powerful diesel engine of the T-34 started to rev. The sound electrified everyone inside the cramped, stifling hut. The grenadiers watched from the windows as the tank traversed on one track, stopped, and then started to move. They continued to look in anticipation as it drove in a northerly direction until it became obscured by dust and the clusters of shacks that comprised the pathetic little hamlet. Schroeder ordered Wilms to go out and keep it under observation. The signalman took the binoculars, hesitated for a moment, and ran out the door.

“This is our cue to make a clean break,” Schroeder said to Angst, “at least make it to the ravine.”

They would have to play this showdown out one moment at a time, Angst knew. He was then ordered to cut the blanket into strips and tie the ends together. The sound of tearing fabric was harsh on all their nerves. Angst was to tether the boys and Daryna utilizing the blanket strips and the lengths of twine that remained. They were to be gagged as well. This would make it easier for the squad to keep the children together and more difficult for them to run away as a group. Schroeder seemed pleased with himself for having come upon this idea. He then looked over to the bed and snarled. Oleksander had taken over its use as soon as it became free. Now, in spite of the panzergrenadier’s threats and Daryna’s gagged pleas, he would not be coaxed from its comfort. The old peasant had probably slept in that bed for over fifty years, Angst guessed, and it was to become his bier. There were no distances left in the old man to travel ever again. He was home, utterly, desolately alone, and here he would stay. The washed-out blue eyes appeared luminous in the failing light and stared with all the defiance left in them. Schroeder seemed to relent. “To hell with him. He’d only slow us down anyway.”

Wilms had returned and called through the opened doorway. “It’s still heading north and hasn’t stopped.”

“How close to the ravine?” Schroeder asked.

“Still maintaining the same course. About five hundred meters out.”

“But not for long. I can guarantee it. Did any of you have the presence of mind to scout out the ravine?”

“Lang and Schmidt took a stroll in opposite directions. Schmidt reported back after, you know, after the tank shot up the huts. He figures the run of the balka is four, maybe five kilometers, as it bends in a north westerly direction.”

“How deep?”

Wilms put his hand high over his head. “Even deeper in some places. And it’s wide. It’ll give us all the edge we need before having to cross out in the open. The T-34 would never be able to span the width, and it’ll have to detour well out of our way in order to get around.”

“Whatever you do, don’t underestimate that machine,” Schroeder warned. He then examined Angst’s handiwork to make certain the knots in the tether would hold. He was satisfied. “The sun is going to set fast over the next hour. Let’s get moving before that spotlight is activated. I’ll cover you.”

Graceless and noisy, the children were led out of the shack, with Angst taking up the rear and Wilms leading. They worked their way toward the ravine using the shacks and animal pens for concealment. Wilms pushed down on the kids’ heads to make sure they kept low. The descent into the ravine was steep. Angst used all his strength to keep from sliding and had to help keep the children upright so they didn’t tumble and hurt themselves. Several grenadiers waited below and helped as Angst neared the bottom. Among them were Schmidt and Braun. Quietly, all three patted each other on the back. Until that moment, Angst hadn’t realized just how close he had become with his squad mates and how he could not bear the thought of losing either one of them. Perhaps spending the day in a confined space with the likes of Schroeder made him appreciate them both all the more. “I was afraid one of you bought it when that tank popped those rounds.”

“This show hasn’t even begun yet,” Braun whispered. They all agreed.

“Minnesinger’s dead,” Schmidt said.

“I heard. He was such a competent soldier. What was he thinking”?

“He had to get out of the sun. He was turning purple. Either way, I don’t think he would have made it through the day.”

“He was too fair-skinned,” Schmidt said.

“This Russian sun always made him nuts,” Braun chimed in.

“Minnesinger would have made an effort to see us all through. It’s in Schroeder’s hands now” Angst said, with regret.

“If there’s any chance of making it back to battalion,” Braun said, “it will be because of guys like Schroeder. I’ve seen his type before. I can guarantee it won’t be pleasant, but he’ll see that it’s done.”

Detwiler had sought out Daryna, bound and cowering beside the two boys. He was sniffing her, in anticipation, as though she were chow, hot and ready to be served out of a goulash cannon. Angst deliberately placed himself between the machine gunner and the girl. Daryna’s eyes gaped wildly, the whites showed painfully clear in the dark. The look of stark terror was made even worse by the gag that filled her mouth.

“No. Not now. Not ever,” Angst said, and made clear to Detwiler where he trained the submachine gun. Detwiler backed off but continued his lewd antics.

“Someday those two are going to tangle,” Braun said quietly to Schmidt, “and one of them won’t be getting up off the ground.”

Schroeder had finally arrived at the bottom of the ravine and was threatening to cut out a few tongues if silence was not maintained. Angst immediately sensed something was wrong. He could detect it in the panzergrenadier corporal’s demeanor—a peculiar vacancy in his eyes, which gave a clear indication of what Angst held to be true. Oleksander was dead. Without making too much of a fuss, Schroeder had killed the old man, quickly and efficiently. There was no reason for it. The old peasant certainly wasn’t a threat; what could he possibly tell the crew in the tank, if they even bothered to ask? No, Angst thought, there simply wasn’t a reason, and for Schroeder there didn’t have to be. Braun said it was guys like Schroeder who’d see them through. Angst would concede the corporal was a good soldier, but that quality came at a very high price, not only for the Russians but also for his own Kameraden. He’d been transformed into the embodiment of brutality. He was fearless, motivated, and sure of his judgments. He did not have to be right, necessarily, but once he got started he’d see it through. Everyone takes the brakes off when in combat for too long. One kills for survival, mostly, and revenge—and ultimately for enjoyment. No matter how terrible the war had become, combat, for its own sake, was a lyrical action, something venerated almost. Schroeder had reached that place now and, Angst sensed, had progressed even further. Killing had become ingrained in every fiber of his being. He possessed the capacity long before the war had started; he had simply found the means for this expression to flourish.

The worn-out, heat-stressed grenadiers cinched up their gear and split up into groups of twos and threes. Wilms, Schubert, and Seidel would lead, followed by Richter and Wahl. Schroeder designated himself and Braun as guardians of the children. The machine gun crew would hem in this group. Lang was to follow behind. Despite the shallow depth, the balka was dark, and the going would prove slow. Angst and Schmidt had been ordered to take up the rear. When opportunity permitted, they would keep along the edge of the balka and follow the tank’s course. Schroeder gave Angst a grenade bundle. Three stick grenades tied together with twine. What effect this device would have on the behemoth, Angst could not be sure. They were all going to be very lucky or very dead before the night was over.

When Schroeder gave the signal and the squad was on its way, Angst and Schmidt climbed up the side of the embankment and lay flat at the top. Their feet dangled over the edge behind them. Angst wanted to ask Schmidt what he had heard about the phantom tank called Red Vengeance, but his attention shifted. A spectacle had begun that might prove to aid their escape. Battles raged in the distance. Red comet trails launched from Nebelwerfers streaked across the black sky, far to the north, and were answered by a continuous arrow-shaped pattern of Katyusha rockets. Stalin Organs, the German soldier had dubbed the rockets, because of the deep, sonorous noise they made in flight. Further to the south, an artillery duel commenced as the withering fire from the big Soviet guns enveloped the weak barrage from the eighty-eights. They could feel the drumbeat of distant explosions reverberate through the solid ground beneath them. Across the horizon there were fires, enormous and yellow bright, as if entire refineries had succumbed to the arson’s torch.

“It’s the end of the world,” Schmidt said.

Above the sound of artillery, they could hear the diesel engine start and the slow clatter of cogs and linked ribbed tracks. It would be suicide to remain along the rim of the balka, exposed by so much illumination. Angst nudged Schmidt, and they descended back down the slope. While Angst continued to listen for the tank as they groped through the gathering dusk, an echo of his friend’s words still rang in his ears and chilled him to the bone.

VOSS

10

The road was little more than a wide path with the consistency of talc, littered with the scorched hulls of Soviet T-34s and an assortment of trucks and armored vehicles. First Lieutenant Erich Rainer Voss walked among the dead that lay on both sides of the road. The majority of dead that lay baking in the sun were Russian, but he stopped at every corpse that wore a German uniform. He wanted to see if he recognized anyone from his company. He couldn’t tell. The faces were set in that look of painfully abrupt bewilderment that made all the dead appear the same to him now, and would remain so until the last shovelful of earth covered their graves.

The Combat Group of the Sixteenth Panzergrenadiers, with whom Voss served, made a desperate thrust to intercept the enemy armored breakthrough. For two days the Combat Group, with elements of the Twenty-Third Panzer Division, punched their way out from the Konstantinovka area and bore the brunt of heavy fighting as they attempted to seal the gap. The Soviet Twenty-Third Tank Corp had since linked up with the First Guards Mechanized Corp, which initiated the breakthrough and their dash to the west. The thirty kilometers that separated the Sixth and First Panzer Armies had begun to narrow, marginally, but the cost was proving to be terribly high.

Voss looked to the southwest where, several kilometers away, the fighting continued. A detachment of Russian armor attempted to regroup, but a battery of self-propelled assault guns, reinforced with panzer Mark IVs, was making that task difficult to achieve. Black, mushroom-shaped plumes of smoke sprouted from the steppe. Using binoculars, Voss observed small assault parties of grenadiers armed with Teller mines and panzerfausts carrying out mop-up operations on stricken but potentially operational T-34s. The grenadiers looked like ants, feeding on the carcass of a large insect. Voss returned to his vehicle. The men were administering emergency first aid to the wounded. Seven of the ten men who made up his crew were either dead or wounded. The rest of the three armored personnel carriers and forty-man company under his direct command had fared no better. He sought out his staff sergeant, Dieter Reinhardt, and found him kneeling beside one of the casualties.

“Load as many of the wounded as possible aboard the Hanomag,” Voss said, referring to the Sonderkraftfahrzeug 251, or Sd.Kfz, the armored personnel carrier. “We’re taking them to the nearest dressing station.”

Reinhardt ceased applying pressure to the bandage covering the wounded grenadier’s chest. He had already expired. “The ambulance lorries should be here any minute, Lieutenant.”

“The subject is academic. I don’t want to lose another man if I can help it. Besides, we can save valuable time and needed space when the ambulances do arrive.”

Reinhardt knew that no such order or request had been issued and that the lieutenant was acting of his own accord. He was too loyal to remind Voss of this fact. “Right away, Lieutenant.”

The battalion commander’s armored personnel carrier approached and pulled up alongside Voss. Captain Griem removed his goggles; their lenses coated with a film of oily soot and dust. He eyed Voss curiously from the superstructure. “What’s your status, Lieutenant?” he asked.

“My company has sustained heavy casualties, sir. At least forty percent.”

“As I feared. Nevertheless, we will press on. You, on the other hand, and your vehicle and crew are to return to Combat Group mobile headquarters and report to Colonel Hahn.”

Caught off guard, Voss asked, “Did the colonel give any indication as to why?”

“No. He did say it was urgent and asked for you, specifically, by name.” Griem watched with interest as the wounded were carried onto the armored personnel carrier. It was crowded with more men than the vehicle normally held; some were literally dying on their feet.

“I’m taking them to the dressing station, Captain.”

Griem nodded. He was keenly aware of what Voss and his men had been through. The lieutenant’s section had been at the forefront of this recent action, paving the way alongside the assault guns. “Very well, Lieutenant, only don’t make the colonel wait too long.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Griem tapped on the narrow bulkhead of the driver’s cabin, and the command vehicle drove off.

“We’re all set to go, Lieutenant,” Reinhardt shouted. The sergeant stood on the mudguard with several of the less serious cases, clinging to the armored siding of the crew compartment. A junior officer from another company section occupied the co-driver’s seat, so Voss climbed up the side of the vehicle and squeezed in behind the bow machine gun. A grenadier lay across the hood of the engine compartment and assured everyone he could hang on for the duration of the short trip.

“Get moving, Heinz,” Voss ordered the driver. Heinz Hartmann fired up the engine and shifted into gear. The Hanomag was somewhat under-powered and notoriously difficult to maneuver under the best of conditions. The engine groaned under the added weight of eighteen men. The grenadier wedged next to Voss started to sway back and forth, bouncing against the armored shield of the machine gun and back again. Eyes closed, he whimpered breathlessly. He was terribly young, no more than nineteen. Voss placed an arm about the fellow’s waist to keep him from falling into the other men, who sat crowded on the benches or stood packed in the narrow aisle of the deck. The grenadier was bleeding heavily and now bled over Voss as well.

“Easy,” Voss consoled. “The doctors will fix you up in record time, and then you will be on a hospital train back to Germany. Just think, you’ll be home.”

“Home,” murmured the semiconscious grenadier.

Voss could feel the life ebbing from the youth and knew he wouldn’t last the trip. All I’m doing is leaving the boy with small hope, he thought, ultimately unfulfilled, and clouded by pain, disorientation, and blood. The blood! My God it’s everywhere. Oozing from a multitude of wounds, soaking through bandages and clothing, running down the siding, the stowage lockers, and the bench cushions, the blood collected into pools on the deck and began to coagulate. I am no more than a purveyor, ferrying livestock to the slaughter, only to return with offal for the refuse dump. The rough analogy was how Voss had come to define himself over the past number of weeks for his complicity in the agonies of his men.

* * *

The dressing station had been erected five kilometers behind the battle line. Surgeons performed emergency operations, amputations, and transfusions under several large billowing blue tents. Stretchers were lined up outside the tents and some of the wounded lay right on the ground without so much as a blanket or shelter half. Medical orderlies, accompanied by Russian nurses, dashed from one serious case to the next as they sorted and tagged the order of seriousness and who required immediate attention. Extra hands from an ambulance crew aided Voss and Reinhardt as they offloaded the armored personnel carrier. Two had died along the way—the fellow who lay on the engine compartment and the young grenadier whom Voss had tried to comfort. There was no time to see that their Kameraden were squared away. Hartmann had the vehicle rolling as Voss and the sergeant leapt aboard. Ambulances, troop lorries, even panje wagons now converged from all directions with more casualties. The dressing station had become swamped in a matter of seconds.

After traveling another four kilometers to the northwest, the Combat Group mobile headquarters was sighted. The Hanomag was waved through the security cordon of grenadiers after a brief exchange with an NCO. A number of command armored vehicles were parked, spaced well apart, as were dispatch motorcycles and riders ready to take off at a moment’s notice. Two multi-barreled flak guns were positioned outside the perimeter of the laager for antiaircraft defense. Hartmann stopped the vehicle. The crew compartment smelled like an abattoir. A mange of flies had settled on the gore-smeared interior and was having a feast. As a junior staff officer trotted past, engaged with some errand, Voss hailed for directions to the colonel’s vehicle. The staff officer pointed to an eight-wheeled armored radio car parked some thirty meters away. As Voss was leaving, he told the last of his crew to clean up the interior of the carrier. Voss hadn’t thought about why he had been summoned until he walked toward the colonel’s vehicle. Hahn was the Combat Group senior field intelligence officer, and it was the reconnaissance battalion commander, Griem, who usually dealt with the colonel.

The eight-wheeler was partially dug into the ground to lower its profile. A canopy of camouflage netting was draped over the aerial frame and created an umbrella of shade. Underneath, the colonel sat on a folding camp chair and concentrated on a map that was spread out on the engine hood of the vehicle’s rear. Voss announced himself and saluted, smartly but without fanfare. The lean gray officer returned the courtesy and indicated the vehicle. “Remove that tool bag and have a seat, Lieutenant. Not the best accommodations, I’m afraid.”

Voss removed the bag and seated himself on the wide fender and propped his feet on the loose soil that was piled along the side of the large, deep-treaded tires.

“Captain Beck will be joining us momentarily. You know the captain, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Voss replied. “We served together in the same reconnaissance battalion.”

“It was he who recommended you to me.” Hahn did not take his eyes from the map. “Operations are moving along better than anyone could have hoped, considering the disadvantages. Your battalion has had a particularly difficult time of it. I’m sure you will appreciate knowing that your efforts are having some effect.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The whole of Thirtieth Corps broke free of the encirclement at Konstantinovka. Granted, the infantry divisions are woefully spent. We’re not much to lean on but at least we’re still moving. Twenty-Third Panzer Division is making headway. With any luck they’ll link with the panzer units pushing up from the south within the next twenty-four hours. The gap should be solidified by then.”

“That is good news, sir.”

“On the darker side, Krasnoarmeyskoye has been overrun. Stalino has fallen, and there is every indication that Mariupol has suffered the same fate.”

This outcome was expected, so Voss did not exhibit surprise. The Combat Group had bought very little time. It was just a delaying action so two battered armies could form a continuous line. But for how long, Voss wondered, before the Russians wielded the final annihilating blow?

“Can I offer you some coffee, Lieutenant? Ersatz, of course, and tepid.” Hahn reached down for a small kit bag next to the camp chair and brought out a thermos, unscrewed the cap, poured a little into a tin mess cup, and handed it to Voss.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Smoke if you wish,” Hahn added, as he nudged a cigarette case closer to Voss after he helped himself. The coffee was very sweet, though not strong; and Voss drew on the cigarette deeply, if a little nervously. Above, a hatch cover squeaked open, and Captain Beck climbed down. He possessed an air of urgency but was all smiles as he bobbed under the netting. “Lieutenant Voss, good to see you.”

Voss stood up, saluted, and shook Beck’s hand when he offered it.

“Please stay seated,” Beck said, affably enough, although Voss could tell the captain was somewhat appalled at his appearance. His field tunic was blood-spattered and his hands and face grimy with soot. Beck placed a folder down on the vehicle, opened it, and unfolded another map. “We haven’t much time, so I’ll come straight to the point. With your permission, Colonel?”

Hahn nodded his assent.

“Until early this morning, we were receiving detailed reports of enemy movements to the west from a listening post stationed at a kolkhoz some fifty-five kilometers northeast of Pavlograd. All the information the listening post obtained and forwarded to us originated from a special reconnaissance unit that goes by the call sign ‘Sundial.’ Since the Soviet Twenty-Third Tank Corps linked up with the First Guards Mechanized Corps, Sundial has followed in the armored column’s shadow. I don’t know how Sundial has managed to do it, but fortunately for us—First Panzer Army, I mean—we’ve had some idea where the Russian advance is and what it has been up to. The enemy has wreaked havoc on our lines of communication all throughout the rear. Telephone and telegraph lines have been cut, and there is a fair amount of radio jamming. Except for Sundial, via the listening post, overall intelligence has been sketchy at best. We have learned that advance detachments of Soviet armor have reached the outskirts of Pavlograd, and a reinforced reconnaissance unit is in the vicinity of Sinelnikovo.”

Sinelnikovo was close to the Dniepr River, Voss realized, a distance of only twenty-five kilometers.

“And all this courtesy of Sundial,” the colonel reiterated.

“Yes, quite remarkable. The listening post no longer responds to our calls, though, and I fear it has been overrun by the enemy operating in the area. We don’t know if Sundial is out of the picture, yet. The signal equipment aboard a Two-Twenty-Two scout car isn’t powerful enough to reach us here, as you well know.”

“We have been in contact with Pavlograd, via radio, and requested they monitor any broadcasts Sundial might transmit,” Hahn said.

“We need confirmation of what the Soviets intend,” Beck continued. “Do they plan to establish a bridgehead at the river or wheel about and try for an encirclement?”

“In other words, you want me to resume Sundial’s activities.”

“If even remotely possible, yes,” Beck said.

“What the captain has failed to mention is the reconnaissance unit, Sundial, is under the command of Captain Hans Falkenstein,” Hahn told Voss.

“Falkenstein?” Voss was genuinely surprised at hearing the name, and he could see that the colonel was pleased he reacted in this manner. He had often wondered what became of the captain, since he had transferred from the division some months ago. All he heard were rumors. Some very strange rumors.

“The Count has taken a personal interest in the captain’s fate,” Hahn said, invoking the divisional general’s aristocratic title, “and although Captain Falkenstein no longer serves directly with the division, his accomplishments remain an inspiration to us all. He is still one of us, you know—the Greyhounds.”

“This mission is as much about learning the fate of the captain as it is about gathering intelligence on the Russians,” Voss said. It was a statement, not a question.

“It is a twofold mission, yes,” said Beck.

“Which assumes the greater priority?”

“Both,” said Hahn, with an emphasis that seemed to border on displeasure. “You must endeavor to do both.”

“Look here, Voss,” Beck said as he indicated a point on the map. The kolkhoz was situated on the southeast bank of the Samara River, over sixty-five kilometers northwest of their present position and, as Beck had mentioned earlier, fifty or so kilometers east by northeast of Pavlograd. “Notice where you will need to cross two main highways. The first is the main road that runs west from the Krasnoarmeyskoye area toward Pavlograd. The bulk of the Soviet Mechanized Corps and Tank Army are using this road further to the west and shouldn’t present too much of a problem for you this far east. Now, the next highway, further north, extends directly to the railhead at Lozovaya. This road is where you might encounter enemy patrols. So take caution. The kolkhoz is only fifteen kilometers northeast from the highway. See how the river bends…”

Voss nodded. He saw all too clearly.

“Get in as close as you can,” Beck continued, “and determine how strong a presence the Russians have. Infiltrate the village if at all possible. Captain Falkenstein and his staff were headquartered there. The locals may know something.”

“What is the strength of the formation I will be heading?” Voss asked.

Beck exchanged an uneasy glance with the colonel and spoke quietly. “I have handpicked someone from my staff to accompany you. He understands a fair amount of the language and is familiar with the Russian codes. More importantly, he’s had combat experience as a signalman with a reconnaissance platoon.”

The expression on Voss’s face betrayed his feelings of dissatisfaction, because the colonel turned on him and sharply asked, “Why so glum, Lieutenant”?

“I’m not glum, Colonel, only concerned. My unit consists of a driver, a staff sergeant, and myself. The rest of my crew is either dead or wounded.”

“It is incumbent upon us all to do much with so very little. To relinquish a vehicle and a capable officer such as yourself is not a decision taken lightly. I need every available man in the field. And this field is immense. The situation being what it is, you will have to manage, lieutenant.”

“Can I count on any assistance from Pavlograd once I’m in the area?”

Hahn shook his head vigorously. “That would be highly unlikely. Pavlograd hasn’t the forces necessary to defend itself against a full-scale attack, much less try to mount a mobile operation. The Russians cover all the few roads leading in and out of town. Any attempt to leave would be thwarted.”

Beck tried to put a better face on it. “By this time tomorrow, advance units from any number of divisions, including panzers, will be in your proximity as we continue to fall back and solidify the gaps in the defensive line.”

What a lousy mission to pull, Voss thought. Observe enemy movement for as long as fate allowed, not to mention this Falkenstein matter. The expectation of his return went far beyond a long shot. He did not want to contemplate his odds.

Beck remembered one more important item. “Your call sign is ‘Dragonfly,’ isn’t that right, Voss?”

“Yes it is.”

“Good. We will identify your transmissions by that name. On our end, specific to this operation, the designation is ‘Blue Flower.’”

“Blue Flower. I understand.”

“Any questions, Voss?”

He had scores of questions, but none he was willing to give voice to in the colonel’s presence. “No questions.”

“Good; then everything is settled,” Hahn affirmed. Voss agreed that it was and stood up. Colonel Hahn wished him luck and reiterated the importance of what he was about to embark on.

“I will do my utmost, sir.”

“As I am sure you will, lieutenant.”

Beck gathered his map and placed it into the folder and walked Voss over to where the armored personnel carrier was parked.

“I thought the Wehrmacht ascribed to the tactical philosophy of reconnaissance in force?” It was one of the questions Voss wanted to ask the colonel but lacked the nerve.

“Believe me, Voss, when I drew up this mission, it was with the understanding of a small but heavily armed unit. Assault guns were included. Apparently this was out of the question before I committed the plan to paper.”

Voss didn’t want to be patronized, and he also didn’t want to embarrass the captain, so he changed the subject. “What does Falkenstein’s unit consist of, exactly?”

“The captain’s group is small. Mostly indigenous personnel. What they lack in numbers is compensated by their ferocity and loyalty.”

“Kalmyks?”

“A few. Some Tatars and Ukrainian nationalists, I believe.”

“What has Falkenstein been up to since his departure? The last I heard, he had some involvement with Foreign Armies East.”

“Not specifically. He liaised with Gehlen’s people on occasion but that’s all. Falkenstein’s unit is…special. If he answers to anyone at this time, it is to someone on the intelligence staff at Army Group.”

“Doing what?”

“Really, Voss, I haven’t all the particulars. With any luck, God willing, you can ask Falkenstein yourself.”

The doors to the crew compartment were open. Stripped to the waist, Hartmann and Reinhardt had finished cleaning up. They had shoveled dry soil onto the deck to absorb the blood and, after sweeping it out, wiped down the siding and benches with rags dampened with gasoline. It was quite an improvement. A supply detail had then refueled the vehicle and was loading extra ammunition in the stowage lockers under the seating. Two crates were brought on; one held two panzerfausts and in the other four bell-shaped, hollow charged magnetic antitank mines. Beck had requisitioned a long-range transmitter and receiver specifically for the mission. The signal specialist was in the crew compartment, putting the final touches on the equipment’s installation. The unit was positioned directly behind the co-driver’s seat and stabilized with brackets to help minimize the bounce and shock from the vehicle’s movements. A star aerial had been erected to increase the range for both key and voice transmissions.

“That is Corporal Junger,” Beck said to Voss, and then called over to the signalman, “Nikki, say hello to Lieutenant Voss.”

The corporal stopped what he was doing long enough to salute and say, “Good day, Lieutenant.” The signalman was in his early twenties and appeared confident and almost happy with excitement.

Beck handed over the map, which detailed the kolkhoz and the surroundings where Voss would be operating. “Now remember, the Russians are well south of the agricultural settlement. What you need to be wary of are the small, scattered units strung out along the way.”

Preparations were nearly complete. Voss went to place the map in a map case stowed up front by the co-driver’s seat. Beck stopped him. “Before you go, I have one thing more. I’m trying to secure some air cover for you, should the need arise—an He129 from a tank killer squadron to remain on standby for you and your men. It isn’t much, I know, but it could come to your aid within minutes of the first sign of trouble.”

Voss could not help but wonder if the offer was legitimate or if Beck was simply trying to soothe him. “Let me know when the offer is set in stone. It would benefit the men to know for certain.”

“Yes, absolutely. I’ll keep the pressure up. I’ve an old school chum on the Geschwader operations staff. If anyone can do something for us, he can.”

“Allow me a moment with my men, Captain, before we move out.”

“Certainly, Voss, and the very best of luck to you.”

They shook hands, and Beck returned to the armored radio vehicle. Reinhardt was fitting a belt of ammunition into the feed of the bow machine gun as Voss stepped up into the crew compartment. “What’s going on, Lieutenant?” With all the recent activity swirling about the vehicle, the sergeant sounded concerned. The extra radio equipment alone told him that something very different had been tailored for them.

“As my father used to say, Sergeant, men who perform hard work and do it well, and without complaint, aren’t rewarded with rest or relaxation. They are provided with more work. So it is in our case.”

Voss’s father had been an architect. He passed away back in ’36. His blood pressure got the better of him. He was a driven man, a characteristic that made him a difficult figure to live under, and Voss worked hard to keep the trait from flourishing in himself. He did not think the workers in his father’s employ appreciated the fanatical attention to detail he had exhibited. But Voss could not deny his father was a supreme craftsman. The memory caused him to smile.

Hartmann joined them and buttoned up his field tunic; Junger had taken a seat on the bench nearest the radio and waited for the briefing to begin.

“We have been ordered west into territory still occupied by the enemy. I won’t try to brighten the picture for you. The danger we face will be very great, indeed, but my intention will be to elude the Russians as best we can, for as long as possible.” Voss then sketched out the details of the mission. Their faces did not betray much, but Voss could sense what the men were thinking. They were in for the time of their lives. The only bit of information that seemed to brighten their spirits was that the advance units were expected in their vicinity at some time tomorrow.

“This is Corporal Junger. He is temporarily assigned to us as our signal specialist. Captain Beck holds the corporal in high regard.”

“We have already met, Lieutenant,” Junger said with enthusiasm.

“I hope you’ve had plenty of sleep,” Hartmann said to the youth. “It’s going to be a terribly long day.”

Junger shrugged and smiled. He did appear more alert and less unkempt than the rest of them.

“Well, then, shall we get on with it?” Voss asked.

The crew agreed. “I’ll take the wheel,” Reinhardt said to Hartmann, who welcomed the change. Temporarily relieved of duty, he sprawled out on the bench facing Junger. “Wake me up, kid, when it’s time to man the bow. And you can work the thirty-four aft,” Hartmann chimed in, referring to the machine guns mounted on the vehicle. The youth nodded and took note that Hartmann did not say “if” but rather “when” the time came. There were bound to be plenty of opportunities for trouble. Some of Junger’s enthusiasm started to dissipate.

Voss lowered himself into the co-driver’s seat. The space was a little more cramped due to the extra radio gear jutting out from behind and to the side of the seat. The vehicle’s limited range set was mounted above the gauge indicator panel directly in front of him, and on the armored siding to his right, set in a bracket, was the portable transceiver.

Reinhardt started the motor. “Falkenstein,” he said with amazement. “I can understand why headquarters would take an interest. He was a favorite son of the Sixteenth.”

The compact, muscular Westphalian had served under Voss for almost a year and a half. He and Hartmann were the only two who still remained from the original crew, since Voss had been transferred to the regiment’s reconnaissance unit.

“Please be blunt, Sergeant.”

“This could turn out to be no more than a bone-collecting mission.”

Silently, Voss agreed. And why should we risk our necks in the process? he thought, especially after all they had been subjected to—not only over the past forty-eight hours but all along. Yet, he had to consider Falkenstein’s predicament. What if he was cut off, surrounded? Wouldn’t he want to make contact with friends? In a similar situation, Voss himself wouldn’t expect deliverance, but he would at least want to know his efforts were not in vain. “Perhaps; it may not be. Let’s find out for ourselves.”

As Reinhardt started to drive out from the laagered mobile headquarters, Captain Beck could be seen waving his cap. “Good luck, Voss,” he called out, adding something about the Luftwaffe, but Voss couldn’t hear. Promises yet to be fulfilled just weren’t important to him now. Suddenly, he became envious of Beck, loathingly so. He was jealous of anyone who had a position on staff. Divisional command, especially operations and intelligence, worked very close to the fighting in the Greyhound division. Not even the Count spared himself in difficult times such as these. Just to be even one step away from the horrors he had to face on a daily basis would be a welcome relief. Why must it be me and not Beck who has to embark on this shitty trip? he thought, angry with jealousy. We are really in for it this time. Worse, possibly, than anything we’ve managed to survive so far.

11

The Hanomag pushed along at the top cross-country speed of between fifteen and twenty-two kilometers per hour. It was still midday, but over sixty kilometers had to be covered, and Voss wanted to reach the kolkhoz while there was still some light left. They raced against the sun. The driver’s compartment was uncomfortably warm, and Voss leaned sluggishly into the thinly cushioned seat. The map case lay open on his outstretched legs with the map Beck had provided. Falkenstein, he mused, Falkenstein. The captain was considered a legend throughout the “Greyhounds,” as the Panzergrenadier Division had become known, due to the tactical symbol of the lean racing dog that adorned the motorcycles and reconnaissance vehicles. No unit or single individual in the Wehrmacht had penetrated the furthest eastern boundary during the course of the war in Russia, except Falkenstein. Judging by the progress of the war, no one would duplicate or better that accomplishment. One year ago, in September of ’42, the division had been headquartered at Elista, that exotic frontier city of chiming bells, spinning prayer wheels, and deep, sonorous Buddhist chants on the Kalmyk Steppe. The Greyhounds’ mission was to protect the exposed flanks of the First and Fourth Panzer Armies. The stretch of the front line was in excess of three hundred kilometers. At the time, Stalingrad was well into its bloody infancy when Falkenstein set out on a long-range reconnaissance mission. With a small force of sixty men, the motorized unit traveled 150 kilometers deep inside enemy territory, to the outskirts of Astrakhan, where the Volga estuary drained into the Caspian Sea. Early into the journey, the recon force separated. The main body had come under attack, and a skirmish ensued. A junior officer had been seriously wounded and was returned to the reconnaissance battalion’s base of operations. A detail brought him back. This camaraderie was typical of the Greyhounds. Every man mattered, and despite the difficulty or danger, no effort would be spared to save or recover a life. The operation continued. With their Kalmyk guides, the detachment penetrated deeper into the flat, seemingly boundless steppe. Falkenstein personally led the final advance toward the Volga delta. The heavier vehicles could no longer negotiate the silty ground and reed-covered dunes. Armored scout cars, personnel carriers, and trucks were to be left behind as a small squadron of motorcycles was forced to make the final bound. They made their way resourcefully, pushing and grappling the motorcycles and sidecars over the dunes. Eventually, Falkenstein saw the minarets of the city. Details of the defensive bunker network could be discerned through binoculars. The construction appeared modest at best and seemed undermanned. No sizeable force threatened the army, should it decide to strike out for the coast. The men rested, took photographs, and made note of the conditions and features of the terrain. There was a final detail tacked on to the story, considered by some to be apocryphal, and its veracity had never been confirmed. It was said that Falkenstein had dressed in local garb and infiltrated the city to glean some useful intelligence. Whether true or not, this only added to the captain’s legendary status and made for an exceptionally good yarn.

Upon their return, Falkenstein and the men of his detachment were hailed for the mission’s audacity and success. A coup of this magnitude would earmark Falkenstein for promotion in no time at all. He’d been awarded the Iron Cross 1st Class when the division took part in the taking of Voronezh earlier in the summer offensive, during Operation Blue. Falkenstein had been in Russia since the beginning of the invasion and had proved himself quite remarkably. Born to a modestly affluent family from Thuringia, with aristocratic ties, the overly serious student of theology had entered the army soon after completing university. The rigors and deprivations of military life agreed with the young man. A natural talent for leadership was evident, and he was sent to officer’s school for further training, where he excelled. The ascetic officer was known to be a hard taskmaster by those under his command. But he was also known to be generous toward his men, and the morale of his unit was high. He saw that the men received furloughs when warranted, ample food, and the best equipment. He was respected, admired, and feared.

Several days after the Astrakhan mission, Falkenstein was again back out on routine patrol. Dust had appeared on the distant horizon, and Falkenstein wanted to personally investigate the cause. It could be a windstorm or a migrating herd, but it was never safe to assume. A column of Soviet tanks could just as easily be the cause. A small unit separated from the main reconnaissance detachment, Falkenstein’s command vehicle in the lead, and continued on further to the southeast. The last coherent transmission from the armored radio car described a stampede of the common steppe antelope, an enormous herd of hundreds, if not thousands, fleeing in an unusual panic. Like an archipelago in the great sea of animals, battle positions of the several heavy vehicles and dozen or so motorcycles were drawn. The radio transmissions that followed were fragmentary and confused. Signal operators with the detachment described what they monitored as voices in a state of absolute terror. Shortly thereafter, all communication ceased. Fearing the worst, another patrol was sent out. There was no sign of antelope or dust, but a tall, thin column of smoke could be seen rising into the bleached sky. The patrol raced to the site. Falkenstein’s unit had been obliterated. The rescue party, all combat-seasoned men, were horrified by the results. This was human destruction taken to a level of degradation never witnessed before. Even the material wreckage was described as “gleeful, almost celebratory” by one panzergrenadier who was at the scene. Another commented that it was “uniquely horrible.” At first it was believed Stormovik fighter planes committed the work, but the sky had been clear of aircraft that day. Then the deep impressions of tank tracks were noticed imbedded in the ground, and there was no longer any doubt. Upon careful examination, the track imprints appeared to indicate only one tank. One set of tracks followed behind the antelope hoof prints from the east and then returned back again. It almost seemed to be cleverly staged, by the way the impressions were made. The men were dumbfounded, yet again, by a seeming resurrection, as it seemed impossible for a human being to emerge alive from the smoldering heap of mangled corpses and twisted machinery. Face blackened by soot, hair singed close to a burned scalp, Falkenstein arose, torn and bloodied. The left side of his body had endured most of the torments. His left eye had been enucleated and his left knee shattered. The sole survivor attempted to speak, to give language to terrifying events, but the reconstruction was lost in a blood-constricted throat.

Falkenstein was taken to the field hospital at Elista, where he remained until out of danger. When he became well enough to travel, he was put on a hospital train bound for the occupied territories far to the rear for more surgery on his leg and, eventually, a medical furlough back to Germany.

He returned that February as the Greyhounds, in tandem with units from the Twenty-Third Panzers, were in the midst of counterattacking the repeated thrusts of the Soviet Fourth Guards Mechanized Corps at the Mius front. The captain, still recuperating from his injuries, was assigned to intelligence headquarters staff and remained at this post throughout the late winter counteroffensive. During this time, Voss’s own role caused him to be far too busy in the fighting to hear of any career moves the captain might have made. Besides, he was from a different regiment and did not know the man personally. By the end of March, the situation at the front had stabilized. General Hoth had retaken Kharkov, and the industrial region of the Donets Basin was once again under the control of the Wehrmacht. The southern front had been restored to its original starting position from the year before.

It was well into the month of April when Voss learned that the captain had since left the Greyhounds. Voss had been granted a three-day furlough, which he took advantage of by drinking himself to a prolonged stupor. He was in an officers’ club set up at some crumbling villa on the coast outside of Taganrog. There were several officers there, some from his division, who were drinking as well. During the course of their conversation, Falkenstein’s name came up. Voss’s interest was aroused, so he eavesdropped from his corner table. One officer, a major, had heard that Falkenstein had been given the opportunity of working on the intelligence staff at Army Group. Another contradicted with word that he had transferred to Hoth’s staff at the Fourth Panzer Army. Finally, a lieutenant colonel spoke up with assurance that he knew for a fact that the captain had organized a special tank-killing unit, which, due to the spring thaw, hadn’t quite gotten off the ground—or across it, to be more exact, as the lieutenant colonel added sarcastically. Falkenstein was traipsing around, knee-deep in the mud and getting nowhere. He had come by to headquarters begging for an assault gun, pestering the Twenty-Third Panzers for a tank, any armor he could get his hands on. Nothing could be done for him, the officer had remarked, as the equipment was stretched beyond the limit.

Voss could not remember when he had heard of Falkenstein’s connection to Foreign Armies East or in what capacity. It was after Operation Citadel, he was sure; and by that time, in early summer, the captain was referred to as being obsessed in some relentless pursuit of the ghost Russian tank that had been haunting panzer crews ever since the fall of Stalingrad. How was this possible, Voss wondered? Here was an officer with every opportunity for promotion, whose service record indicated an eventual position on the General Headquarters staff. At least the possibility existed, had he allowed himself to be groomed for such a role. Headquarters in Berlin loved to have a battle-scarred, half-crippled veteran on hand to lend an air of credibility as the entrenched military bureaucrats of the Reich reworked their strategies at winning a floundering war. What had happened to cause a highly decorated officer to be referred to, by his own peers, as “Mad Falkenstein”? And what was he doing now, headquartered at some nameless kolkhoz, a mere flyspeck on the map? Up until a few days earlier, Pavlograd and the environs were considered a rear area, well outside of the combat zone. Voss was interested in finding out. To discover Falkenstein alive would almost be worth the risks of the journey he’d been ordered to undertake.

* * *

A coded radio transmission from Blue Flower came over the receiver. Voss allowed Junger to decipher the message, secretly timing him to learn how fast and accurate the signalman’s performance was. Junger handed the message to Voss in record time. Panther reinforced tank battery of Twenty-Third Panzer Division intercepted supply column for enemy armored corps. Fuel, ammunition, transport vehicles totally destroyed. Be advised! Will impact enemy movement in the west.

Reinhardt gave the lieutenant a sideways glance, who was smiling. “Something good must have happened for you to wear such a face.”

Voss read the message aloud and added, “Whatever Malinovskiy’s objective is, his tank corps will have to operate solely on what’s in their possession.”

“That’ll dull their edge.”

It most certainly will, Voss thought, lightheaded with relief. He could now disassociate himself from the foul, bleak mood that had descended upon him since the briefing with Beck and Hahn. This small bit of information helped to dissipate those feelings of loathing and jealousy—and, more importantly, impending doom. They were far from being free and clear of danger, but he and the crew were granted more of a lease on life, or at least the potential. And in this wretched business, Voss had so bitterly come to learn, potential was all a man could possibly hope for.

12

A faint gauze of smoke hovered directly over the kolkhoz. Three kilometers away, the Hanomag was parked in a field that had since been harvested of sunflowers. The stalks lay in piles, which served as adequate cover for the vehicle, but many of the crisp brown, headless plants were still rooted in the ground. Voss stood on the engine cover and observed with high-powered binoculars. No obvious damage to the houses or farm buildings could be discerned, but there was a definite aura. He had sensed this before on occasion, a residue of violence and death lingering about a place that was felt before actually seen. If there were any enemy troops, a defensive cordon had not been established. There were no signs of vehicles, mortars, or machine gun emplacements—unless the Russians were dug in so deep and hidden within the confines of the village, but Voss had his doubts. Why should they bother now, after acting with impunity far behind the lines over the past several days with no German force available to counterattack? They know how weak we are, Voss thought. What he did see were civilians, peasants, individually and in small groups, walking aimlessly about the outskirts of the village. What are they looking for? he asked himself, and then realized they were drifting back. Chased away when the Russians descended, they now believed it safe to return. Voss had originally planned to infiltrate the village well into the night, but now, with an hour of light remaining, he wanted to utilize the time. The trip had gone surprisingly well. Except for the dust kicked up by intermittent enemy vehicles seen on the horizon, there were no incidents. He stepped across the hood and climbed into the crew compartment next to Reinhardt, who now manned the bow machine gun. Reinhardt had switched places with Hartmann earlier, once the last few kilometers to the kolkhoz had been reached. Engaging the release mechanism of the coaxial gun mounting, Reinhardt easily swung the MG42 from left to right.

Voss was so fatigued he had to wrestle with behaving recklessly. He wanted to get on with whatever fate had in store, sooner rather than later, but he stifled the urge and decided to play the situation strictly by the book. He consulted the map. Two kilometers to the northwest there was a negotiable crossing. Once on the opposite bank of the Samara, they could make their approach, using an orchard for cover. Beck’s map was surprisingly detailed. Combat Group intelligence was well informed about this particular kolkhoz.

Hartmann drove slowly down the footpath that cut across the field and gravitated closer to the riverbank. The Samara was narrow, about fifteen meters in width, but the escarpment on either side was a bit severe. Eventually the terrain dipped radically, then flattened out. The ground was muddy and churned up at this point, where a number of vehicles had crossed recently. Voss didn’t see any evidence of tank track impressions, only treaded tires. The water was shallow and covered the road wheels of the personnel carrier only by half. On the opposite side, Hartmann drove straight for the orchard, a gray-green haze in the dusky light that lay a quarter of a kilometer away. He then turned down one of the lanes separating the fruit trees: apples, the small, mealy, yellow variety, many of which had simply fallen to the ground. A sign was tacked to one of the trees indicating the direction to the beehives. Voss and the crew were sure to keep well away. The orchard wasn’t large, although it covered several hectares; it ran parallel to a part of the village on the opposite bank. Aside from the dividend of honey, the orchard provided fodder for the livestock in the area—pigs, most likely, Voss assumed. They had traveled deep into the orchard when Voss told Hartmann to stop and turn off the motor. The symmetrical layout of the trees and the oncoming darkness would obscure the vehicle from unfriendly eyes. Everyone kept still and listened; all was quiet, except for the chirping of birds. Ordinarily, if he had a full crew, Voss would send in a two-man reconnaissance party. Since there were only four of them, he could only send in one, and he took it upon himself to perform the task.

“I’ll take the portable and scout around. Should I meet any resistance and be unable to return, take whatever measure necessary to ensure your own safety. I’ll put it in writing that you acted solely on my orders.”

Junger stepped away from the aft machine gun. “Excuse me, Lieutenant, but I’ve done this sort of thing before. That’s why Captain Beck had me come along.”

Voss had the portable transceiver already in hand. “Your skills will be better served—”

Reinhardt interrupted. “Junger’s right. We might as well make use of him.”

Voss wavered. The signalman was still fresh and far more alert than all of them. He relinquished the transceiver as Reinhardt took hold and helped Junger slip his arms through the shoulder straps and shift the weight comfortably on his back. Junger replaced his helmet with a forage cap and adjusted the earphones on his head. As for a weapon, all he carried was a Walther P-38. The light was ebbing quickly.

“Report in at one quarter hour from now,” Voss instructed him.

Junger looked at his watch. “I might need more time, lieutenant, depending on what’s going on and finding a suitable location to radio from.”

“Very well, but no more than half an hour at the most. Are we clear on that point, Junger?”

The youth agreed and climbed over the siding to avoid the creaking hinges of the crew compartment doors. Junger flitted swiftly between the trees with the microphone, trailing a short length of wire to the transceiver in one hand and the pistol in the other. Voss watched, his stomach tightening into knots, as the lone scout became engulfed by the deepening twilight.

* * *

Forty-five minutes had passed, and the level of anxiety inside the Hanomag was high, yet everyone aboard remained disciplined. Ears strained at any sound that might indicate trouble. One minute longer was all the time Voss would allow before he’d gear up and go in to see what happened to Junger. The radio crackled, and he lunged upon it.

“Striker One calling Striker, come in, over.” Junger’s voice was quiet but his diction was clear.

“Striker here. What is your situation, Striker One?”

“Sorry for the wait. After snooping around, a group of children began following me, and then some women were jabbering away. Had a devil of a time cutting loose.”

“Any unwelcome visitors, Striker One?”

“Negative. They had all gone by oh-sixteen-hundred hours, but signs of occupancy are everywhere. A number of houses are shot up. One house or barn is burnt to the ground. Used as a fuel dump, it seems. Several destroyed vehicles. Trucks mostly No armor.”

“Casualties?”

“So far a body count of thirty. Ost Truppen. Seven were executed. They’re lying face down in a front yard, with a gunshot wound to the back of the head. Two civilians with this group.”

They probably tried to surrender, but the Russians meted out the sentence for treason swiftly, Voss thought. “Do you advise entry at this time, Striker One?”

“Come ahead, Striker.”

“Will you be able to observe arrival, Striker One? Do not give away present location, only confirm.”

“Affirmative.”

“Entry will be made on foot. Striker out.”

Voss set down the microphone. He noticed Reinhardt smiling down on him. “The lad maintains an odd radio protocol, eh Lieutenant?”

Protocol or not, Voss was simply relieved to hear Junger’s voice. “You and Hartmann remain here. Should a Russian patrol show up, I doubt if they’d enter the village by way of the orchard.”

“What do you plan to do, Lieutenant?”

“Question the locals about the size of the column that passed through here. Ask about Falkenstein or search for his remains.” He removed the MP40 submachine gun mounted on the side wall next to the co-driver’s seat and a leather magazine pouch of extra ammunition. From his kit of personal gear, he included a flashlight and buttoned the small, box-shaped device to the epaulette of his field tunic.

Leaving the Hanomag, he walked to the far end of the orchard, came to a dirt road, and turned left. The map had indicated this road to be the main route that ran through the village and crossed to the other side of the river. He then crossed a bridge, a short span that was reinforced with heavy wooden trestles. Courtesy of German engineers, the bridge was strong enough to carry the weight of armored vehicles one at a time. The Russians hadn’t blown it. Perhaps they intended to use it again, Voss thought, uncomfortably. The layout of the village was typical, with the simple peasant dwellings flanking both sides of the road. The Russians had stormed through and poured a tremendous amount of machine gun and small arms fire on any house that sheltered resistance. The Ost Truppen hadn’t time to organize a suitable defense, as the mechanized detachment swept down upon them too rapidly. The homes were then ransacked. Pieces of broken furniture and bric-a-brac lay scattered in yards and on the road. Voss encountered some of the dead. Several women with small children fled upon seeing him. Others paid little or no mind as they went about their work, picking up debris and removing the bodies. A dull glow emanated from the windows of several houses. Candle and lantern lights weaved and bobbed all throughout the village. Voss feared that without a blackout, the Russians might be tempted to return. He heard wailing as the voices of old babushkas discovered loved ones among the dead. The battle had caught more peasants in the crossfire than he originally assumed.

“Lieutenant.” Junger appeared from around the side of a house.

“All this illumination isn’t good, Junger.”

“I pleaded with some of the women to snuff out their lanterns. It was suggested that if I don’t like it, I should leave. No one’s too happy about my being here.”

The peasants had lived through the worst of it, and even threats wouldn’t convince them; Voss hadn’t the energy to threaten anyone at the moment anyway.

“Any sign of Captain Falkenstein?”

“No, but there is something I think you should see.”

Junger led the lieutenant back down the road, toward the river. Set further back were several two-storied houses and nearby barns. The signalman ducked around to the rear of one large house and stopped. Voss looked. The remains of a radio truck had been parked some distance away from the back end of the house. Only a scorched chassis remained, as the rest of the vehicle was completely blown apart. A mass of machine parts and twisted debris lay in a wide swath. A section of aerial pole had speared the side of a neighboring house in the explosion. A man dressed in a German uniform sifted through the pieces of electronic assemblies at his feet. Resistors, ceramic insulators, tubing, all shattered but still a recognizable mix of sophisticated radio equipment. The man, an officer judging by the silver braid on the epaulettes, appeared bemused as he lifted a coil to his eyes for closer examination and then tossed it aside. He performed the same act with a condenser, picking it up and, after a moment or two, letting it fall to the ground. He exhibited the characteristics one might expect from a primitive exposed to artifacts from some advanced civilization for the first time. Suddenly he looked up and saw Voss and Junger watching him and crouched in an animal-like posture, ready to bolt. Voss spoke soothingly. “Take it easy, now. We’re with the Sixteenth Panzergrenadiers. We have come to help you.”

The startled look receded and slowly the officer, a lieutenant, stood up as if at attention. He tugged at the hem of his field tunic, as though this gesture would make him more presentable.

“Lieutenant Gottfried at your service,” he said and walked stiffly up to Voss and saluted. Gottfried reeked terribly, having fouled himself sometime during the course of the day. Junger turned aside, away from the odor, and kicked at some of the debris on the ground. Gottfried gestured expansively at the destroyed truck. “This was my doing. The signals truck was mined for such an emergency. I could not allow sensitive equipment to fall into enemy hands. I hid in a crawl space under a house. I suppose that is shameful to admit, but there was really nothing I could do. I believe my signalmen are all dead. They tried to resist, along with the others. We were a monitoring post. Have you come to place me under arrest?”

“No, I’m not here to arrest you.” The day’s events and what had transpired had all been too much for this survivor. Gottfried struck Voss as slightly unhinged. “I am Lieutenant Voss. My headquarters sent me to find Sundial.”

“Sundial? You know about Sundial?” The signals officer spoke with agitation.

“Has Sundial perished as well?”

Gottfried shook his head. “I don’t know. Sundial’s last transmission warned me of the Russians’ approach, but they were on us too fast. They came in from the south. A unit from the advance detachment. A few armored cars and motorcycles, but mostly truckloads of troops. There was no time. The few Ost Truppen decided to give the Russians a tough fight for as long as possible. All was lost, and they knew it.”

“What of Captain Falkenstein? Have you any knowledge of where he is or what has happened to him?”

“Captain Falkenstein? It was he who warned me. These were his men who were attacked. They were standing down, temporarily. I don’t know what may have befallen the captain.”

Voss excused himself and pulled Junger over to the side. “Go back to the vehicle and inform the sergeant. The lieutenant and I will join you shortly.” He took the portable transceiver from Junger to be on the safe side.

“The lieutenant must have had a bad time of it.”

Voss nodded. The strains of grief could be heard echoing throughout the village. “Some have had it even worse.”

After Junger departed, Voss suggested that Gottfried take a moment and tidy himself up. “And then we will return to the vehicle. You are welcome to share our field rations and a cup of coffee. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

Gottfried thanked him. “Yes, Lieutenant, I’d like that very much indeed.”

Fearing that Gottfried might hurt himself or simply get lost, Voss followed close behind as the signals officer entered the rear of the house, which had served as a billet for him and his crew of operators. The house had been ransacked. Overturned furniture, articles of clothing, books, papers, and maps lay scattered on the floor. Anything that seemed to be of value had been pilfered by the Russians, and what was not taken had been shot to pieces during the rampage. Bullet holes patterned the walls, and a dish cabinet in the kitchen had been sprayed with submachine gun–fire. Shards of glassware and ceramic crunched underfoot. It was a mindless orgy of shooting. The house was spacious and probably belonged to some wealthy peasant from before the days of the revolution, Voss imagined.

Gottfried rummaged about the downstairs rooms and had turned up a shirt and pair of trousers. Taking the clothing, a metal basin, and a bar of soap from the kitchen, he went outside to a water trough in the back yard. He stripped down and lathered up. Voss remained in the house, so the man could retain some dignity. Why the lieutenant preferred this rudimentary method of hygiene rather than use the indoor bath just off the kitchen, Voss could only wonder. He could only assume it had something to do with the residual effects of shock.

When the signal officer returned, he looked and smelled much better, although he had put on the same soiled field tunic. “I need a comb,” he said, and began another search.

“I was informed by my superiors that the captain belonged to a special intelligence unit. Originally he was in the same division as I, the Greyhounds. Were you aware of that?”

Gottfried did not reply. Unable to find a comb or brush, he passed his fingers through his hair and tried to judge where the part should be placed.

“Wasn’t the captain operating rather far behind the combat zone?” Voss continued.

“The events of the past few days forced the captain to remain this far to the rear. This was the base of operations for the captain and his unit, of which my men and I were a part,” Gottfried replied.

“Then I’m mistaken. I thought you were a separate entity, directly under the orders of Army Group signal intelligence branch. So the listening station is a facet of the captain’s unit?”

“We aided the captain by monitoring radio transmissions, both Russian and our own, listening for specific terminologies.”

“Sounds rather vague.”

Gottfried, who remained kneeling, had begun to sort through the papers that lay on the floor. Voss wondered if the officer was about to start cleaning up the house in earnest. “Captain Falkenstein is engaged in a very sensitive mission. His zone of operation encompasses the entire southern front and beyond if necessary,” Gottfried finally said.

“What is the captain’s mission?”

“I don’t like to speak of it, especially now since it is dark.”

The odd remark took Voss by complete surprise. The day’s events must have affected Gottfried’s faculties more than Voss could appreciate. The signal officer was a technician, not a frontline soldier. The ruthlessness of the skirmish and the strong possibility of getting crushed by the full weight of an armored corps had rendered the man unable to cope. Nevertheless, Voss pressed him. “What has the dark have to do with matters? If the mission is classified…”

Gottfried started to throw papers and clothing around the room. This was not rage he exhibited but rather acute frustration or anxiety. “To speak of the matter is unsafe, that’s all! Now please, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll not say anything further. We’ll return to the vehicle, and one of the men will fix you some coffee.”

This seemed to put Gottfried back at ease. He placed a forage cap on his damp head and was ready to leave. Once they were outside, there was one more item the lieutenant needed to do. “I must bury my staff. I can’t leave those poor fellows lying about in the open.”

“We should wait, Lieutenant. Our situation is far from secure.”

Gottfried would not be placated and immediately set off down the road to a brightly lit farmhouse surrounded with activity. Old women and men milled about the bodies of the dead that lay in neat rows in the front yard. Some were covered and others not. This had become the staging area for the purpose of identification and the focal point for the villagers’ grief. The sobbing was loud and uninhibited. As Voss and Gottfried drew near, they were greeted with stares of hostility and fear.

“Have you seen my men? The German soldiers, are they here?”

The dead were comprised of civilians, Voss could see, and both he and the lieutenant did not belong and were unwelcome. Gottfried’s ignorant questions were looked upon with silent contempt. One of the men stepped from the crowd and spoke directly to Voss. “Raisa Grechko,” he said, and pointed to an outbuilding behind a neighboring house.

“Raisa is there?” Gottfried asked.

“Yes,” said the peasant. “Now let us look after our own.”

Gottfried stormed off in the direction of the small building, and all Voss could do was try to keep up. The weight of the radio had become irksome. “Lieutenant, I understand how you feel, but now isn’t the time.”

Gottfried wasn’t listening. “Raisa Grechko is the local midwife,” he explained hurriedly on the way over, “not well-liked or trusted, because she’s half-Russian, but she’s presided over many difficult births over the years, and the peasants have need of her. Raisa has been in our employ as a cook and laundress.”

On the ground before the open barn door, a small lantern burned dimly. Gottfried did not venture inside but called softly. “Raisa, it’s me, Lieutenant Gottfried.”

A figure seemed to waft out from the darkened opening. Wearing a large white kerchief about her head and a long, light-colored apron, a woman appeared with a spectral flourish. “So, Gottfried, you’re alive. I was beginning to wonder what became of you.” There was the barest trace of humor in her voice.

“Raisa, you must help me find my men…”

“They’re in the barn. Rudi, Helmut and Kurt. I had some of the boys help me cart them over.” As Raisa Grechko spoke she eyed Voss with suspicion. Her face was deeply lined, but Voss guessed the woman wasn’t older than mid-forties. Short and lean, she conveyed an attitude of strong physical determination.

“The Russians took all their documents. Identity tags and booklets.”

“The bastards,” Gottfried moaned.

“And more souvenirs.”

“What do you mean? What souvenirs?”

Voss understood what the woman meant, but Gottfried didn’t—or perhaps he refused to. To clarify matters Raisa touched her nose, ears, and eyes with her large thin hands.

“I want to see them,” Gottfried said with agitation, picking up the lantern, but before he could enter, Raisa grabbed his arm and tugged. “No, Gottfried. Looking upon them changes nothing.” Although she was strong she had difficulty holding on to the slightly built signals officer. Voss went to intervene, and Gottfried swung the lantern wildly, but it did not deter him. Voss managed to clamp down tightly and hold him in place.

“Leave me alone! I must go to them. They were my men. I must.” Gottfried’s sobs were exhausted and tearless.

“It will do you no good,” Raisa said firmly. “Remember them as they once were and not as they are now. I will bury all three, side by side, a cross for each bearing the names. That is all that can be done for them.”

Gottfried shuddered, and eventually the tension left his body. It became easier for him to be led away from the barn door. He sank to the ground; the outburst had robbed him of more emotion. He remained quite still. Voss took the lantern from his hand and set it back down on the ground.

“No matter,” Raisa said. “I know who is who. They were decent boys. Always polite.”

“Could you characterize their deaths? Did they die in battle, or were they executed?” Voss asked the question to determine whether Gottfried’s men were interrogated, shot in the back of the head like the others Junger had spoken of, and then, as a final insult, abused. If they had been questioned, successfully, then the Russians would have direct knowledge of Falkenstein.

“By the condition of the bodies, they died in the fight and then were cut.”

Voss found some relief in Raisa’s answer, albeit small. Their situation still remained tenuous at best.

“I will have to convince these louts, my neighbors, that it’s in their best interests to bury all the dead, peasant and Ost Truppen alike.”

“And how will you do that?”

“Very simple. A reminder. If you don’t work for the Germans, you don’t eat. It is written on signs and placards in every kolkhoz. Try explaining that to some Red Army officer, and you see the results. We are all collaborators or worse in their eyes. I can’t bear to think of what will become of us if you Germans are forced out.”

Neither could Voss, but the inevitable appeared plain to see by all. “Should that occur, and every effort is being made that it doesn’t, then you will be taken with us.”

Raisa smiled. “That is not an invitation I would want to be forced to accept.”

Gottfried then stood up, somewhat confused and impatient, and began to shuffle off toward the road. Voss wished the midwife good night. “On behalf of Lieutenant Gottfried, thank you.” Raisa Grechko nodded but said nothing.

With the radio weighing him down, Voss followed after Gottfried as fast as he could. When he reached the bridge, he found the lieutenant leaning over the railing. As Voss drew up beside him, he realized Gottfried was choking on grief.

“What a cowardly wretch. I should have died with them. Instead, I hid.”

“Don’t punish yourself. At least you can help me locate Captain Falkenstein, if that is still possible.” Besides, he thought, we will all get the chance to die sooner or later. The business about the mutilations had unsettled Voss. He felt that with each passing hour, the war became that much more vicious and ugly. He took Gottfried by the arm and led him into the orchard. When they had covered half the distance to the armored personnel carrier, they met up with Hartmann, who stood guard behind a tree. Voss made introductions. “Can you stay awake for a while longer, Heinz?”

“That cup of coffee I drank should keep me on my feet for another hour,” the driver said good-naturedly. “There’s a pot on for you and the lieutenant.”

Voss promised to have him relieved before the hour was up.

The star aerial rose up between the interlacing branches. The rear doors were open, and the two officers boarded. Reinhardt took the transceiver and the lieutenant’s weapon and stowed it up front by the co-driver’s seat. Junger was at the set, wearing earphones and playing with the dials in an effort to find a strong, clear signal. A codebook lay on his lap with a pad and pencil ready.

“There’s a lot of chatter, mostly en clair,” Reinhardt said, when he came back. “The armored spearhead has been ordered back, apparently due to their supply lines being severed.”

“Do they sound serious?” Voss asked, as he squeezed closer to the radio.

“Orders direct from South-West Front. Whoever is in command sounded upset.”

“Any mention of position? Heading? Or what time?”

“Nothing. Only the order to return to the line of demarcation. That was the expressed terminology. I passed it along in code. Blue Flower had monitored the originating transmission from their end. It’s believed to be legitimate.”

“They won’t try anything till morning. Anything else?”

“Maintain position, and keep them apprised of developments.”

That solves some of our problems, Voss thought. At least we know the Russians won’t be setting up shop by the Dniepr. What route they plan on their return is another matter. That is a problem for both First Panzer and Sixth Armies. Everyone will be on the lookout. Now, all we have to do is concentrate on Falkenstein. “Good work, Sergeant. And would you fix the lieutenant up with a cup of coffee and something to eat? He must be famished by now.”

“Right away, Lieutenant.” While Reinhardt sorted through the supply of field rations stored in one of the backrest lockers, Voss turned to Gottfried, who had stretched out on the bench behind the driver’s seat. Voss sat down on the bench near the open doors. “Your expertise will be of great service. Under the present circumstances, how would you go about raising the captain?”

After taking a moment to ponder, Gottfried said, “First, I would simply try to raise him on our frequency. The call sign for the listening post for today is ‘Outstation.’ Having been out of communication for so many hours, the captain wouldn’t respond.”

“He would recognize your voice,” Voss suggested.

“That is no guarantee. I could have been captured. How could he be certain?”

“More importantly, how would the captain try to contact you?”

“Most likely, he believes me to be dead. By all probability I should be,” Gottfried replied.

“Suppose, for a moment, he makes the attempt, just to be sure?”

Gottfried thought for a moment and tapped the side of his head. “All the Russian codes are right here. Not as primitive as they once were, originally, but not that difficult to break if you know what you are doing. You must understand that the captain and I were not in the habit of communicating by radio on a regular basis while he was in the field. As my operators and I monitored transmissions from a variety of sources and decoded enemy messages, there was a lot of raw data to sift through. Signals from our people were easier and faster, of course. Unless something specific came my way concerning the captain’s mission; then I would not hesitate to signal him directly. Most of the time that wasn’t the case. My operators and I passed the information along to Army Group, because what we overheard had direct bearing on overall operations, and a certain percentage directly to the captain. He would then interpret the reports and would decide if it had importance. When the emergency on September seventh occurred, we quickly worked out a code between ourselves. An old Russian numbers code, outdated, but we adapted it somewhat to fit our needs. Due to the rapidly changing situation, we used voice for the sake of expediency a little more than we should have. That proved to be disastrous at our—at my end. I hope not for the captain’s sake.”

The sergeant had opened a tin of meat for the signals officer and followed with a can of pears in syrup. Gottfried consumed the food ravenously as he talked. “If I can rest for a moment longer, perhaps I can relieve your radio operator.”

Voss agreed. “Take your time, lieutenant, and drink your coffee.” He then motioned to Reinhardt to follow him as they stepped out of the vehicle and walked a short distance within the orchard.

“Besides the summary executions of civilians and Ost Truppen, there were mutilations. Gottfried’s signal crew,” Voss told him.

“Jesus,” Reinhardt exclaimed.

“One would expect more professional behavior from an armored corps.”

So did Reinhardt. The mechanized divisions were a more sophisticated branch of the Red Army. The officers and troops better trained. “They’re paying us back in kind for something done by somebody. It sounds more like an act perpetrated by partisans.”

“You realize what this means, don’t you?” Voss asked. The sergeant had an idea but waited for Voss to air the doomed requirements. “Should we get into a fight with this bunch, it will be to the finish. I’m sorry, Dieter.”

“Nobody promised us this would be an easy one,” Reinhardt said, resigned. They returned to the vehicle. The hour was almost up, and Voss remembered his promise to Hartmann and sent Junger to replace him. The signalman was to take the transceiver along and extend the watch as far as the bridge near the village. Voss wanted to be informed if anything of importance were to take place. As soon as he had finished eating, Gottfried took over signal operations. “Outstation calling Sundial, come in, over…” He did not operate by voice for very long, as the risk was too great. He then switched over to key and tapped out a series of coded messages.

Voss lay down on one of the benches to take a short nap. He instructed Reinhardt to take over from Gottfried in two hours. “Don’t let me sleep too long,” he admonished. The resonant sound of the tapping key filled the silence and echoed weakly against the metal wall of the crew compartment. Voss passed out the moment he closed his eyes.

* * *

Voss was nudged awake. He bolted upright and tried to orientate himself in the dark. After his eyes became accustomed, he could see Gottfried lying asleep on the bench opposite. Sergeant Reinhardt hovered over him, holding the small writing pad.

“What is it?”

“The airwaves are clogged with coded and en clair messages. In between it all, I picked up this one message, in code, tapped out three times at intervals of fifteen minutes apart. Always the same and repeated three times.”

Voss was trying to follow what the sergeant was saying. He looked at his watch and was shocked at the time. Nearly zero four hundred. He’d been asleep for hours.

“It reads like a grocery list,” Reinhardt continued. “Sausage, bread, and fat…grams of each. Three times. What can it mean?”

“It is a grocery list.” Gottfried was awake and sat up. He removed a small booklet from the breast pocket of his field tunic. “Could you risk affording me some light, Lieutenant?”

Voss obliged him, shielding the flashlight lens with his hand and pointing it downward. Gottfried searched the small pages covered with minute writing in the diffuse pool of light. He stopped at a page in the middle of the booklet, having found what he was looking for. “Sausage, bread, and fat…grams of each…and the response jam, coffee, cigarettes…allotment complete. It’s an old emergency code that we never needed to bother with. How long has it been since you first heard it?”

“Over the past forty-five minutes.”

Before Voss switched off the flashlight, he could see the signals officer was furious with himself. “I can’t believe it escaped me. This is what you were asking me earlier, Lieutenant Voss. How would the captain contact us? Well, here it is. He has most likely been trying to raise us for hours now. Totally reprehensible on my part.”

“Try to establish contact,” Voss told him.

Gottfried sat down at the radio and began to tap away on the key. Fifteen minutes passed, and the signals officer repeated the same procedure. Finally there was a response. Gottfried jotted down the dots and dashes and then decoded. It seemed so painstakingly long to Voss. His anxiety was almost painful.

Elated, Gottfried said, “It’s Sundial. Captain Falkenstein.”

“Ask if it is at all possible for him to rendezvous here at the kolkhoz.”

After the message was sent, Gottfried wrote down the response. Voss took the note pad and read aloud so Reinhardt could hear. “‘Rendezvous doubtful…Forty-five kilometers west southwest of village…Hostile forces in vicinity and plan to intercept by dawn.’ Explain who we are and give him our call sign, Dragonfly. Tell Falkenstein to attempt the village. We will meet him halfway. Make sure to inform him advance panzer units are expected by morning. Go ahead.”

The process was repeated again. After transcribing the message, Gottfried appeared dumbfounded.

“What does it say?” Voss asked.

Gottfried tore the page from the pad and handed it to Voss. “‘Leaving before first light…Mind own safety…’ What is this supposed to mean? Raise the captain again.”

Gottfried objected. “I wouldn’t advise it, Lieutenant. We run the risk of exposing Sundial’s position. And ours.”

Voss retrieved the stiff leather map case, opened it, and switched on the flashlight. He traced the course of the Samara River and estimated the forty-five kilometer distance. It didn’t look good for Falkenstein. He was roughly a few kilometers south of the main highway that ran directly to Pavlograd. At top cross-country speed, the captain’s armored car could easily reach the kolkhoz in about an hour without having to divert his course. But that was wishful thinking, Voss knew. The highway posed the greatest danger, as the Soviet mechanized detachments would be on this road. Falkenstein was boxed in, with the highway on one side and the river at his back. He had little alternative but to take a course east by northeast and run the gauntlet of any and all Soviet patrols. “Raise Blue Flower,” he said to Gottfried, who hesitated. “Do it, man!”

Gottfried switched on the transmitter and held the microphone close to his lips. “Dragonfly calling Blue Flower. Come in, over.”

“This is Blue Flower. We read you, Dragonfly.” The voice of the radio operator at the other end sounded clear and seductively close. Gottfried passed the microphone over to Voss. “Contact with Sundial established. Considering meeting for tomorrow’s breakfast, although invitation not warmly received. All depends on the neighbors, over.”

“Do make every effort to keep engagement, over.”

“How soon can I expect the relatives? Over.”

“Just as soon as you have set down at table, over.”

“I’ll be waving a red handkerchief. Don’t miss us. Dragonfly out.” After Blue flower signed off, Voss put up the microphone.

“The captain is a very determined man. And resourceful,” Gottfried commented.

Let’s hope he is lucky as well, Voss thought.

13

Hartmann lay on the ground outside the vehicle, wrapped in a section of tarpaulin. He was awakened from a dream about coffee. He wasn’t dreaming, as a steaming tin mug was being passed under his snoring nostrils. The sergeant had cooked up a strong batch on the primus stove and woke the driver up. “This will be the last time I serve you in bed,” Reinhardt said playfully. It was still dark as the crew grabbed a tin of whatever was handy from the field ration supply and ate quickly. After the loose gear was stowed away, Hartmann removed the fuel intake hatch plate from the deck floor and, with a wide funnel, emptied the gas can into it. Voss made sure the crates containing the panzerfausts and magnetic mines were within easy reach. There was more than a good chance the weapons would come into play. Everyone took up their assigned positions: Reinhardt at the bow machine gun, Voss close beside him with binoculars, and Junger manning the aft MG34. Gottfried settled down at the radio, resolute to help this crew—and thus the captain—as he had been unable to do for the men under his own command. Hartmann got behind the wheel, turned over the engine, and guided the bulky vehicle down the narrow lane of fruit trees. When he pulled out of the orchard, he turned left onto the dirt road and crossed over the bridge. As they passed through the village, the early half-light detailed the harsh treatment many of the houses had undergone during the previous battle. A number of peasants were about, trying to restore some semblance of order to their traumatized lives and homes. Some distance outside the kolkhoz, a mass grave had been dug, where Falkenstein’s Ost Truppen were being buried without ceremony. Recognizing the white head scarf, Voss realized that Raisa Grechko commanded this burial detail of men and boys.

* * *

In less than half an hour, the northern highway was crossed without incident. Voss ordered Hartmann to stop. He had spotted something moving. Lifting the binoculars, he saw a lone vehicle driving slowly across the open terrain. It was an old Ford truck of the type the Americans were providing the Soviets through the ‘lend lease’ agreement. A driver and passenger occupied the cab, but the bed appeared empty of troops, equipment, or weaponry. When Voss was satisfied no other traffic existed, and the truck was indeed alone, he told the driver to bring them in closer. He turned to Reinhart and said, “I want to take them alive if at all possible. Kill the truck if you have to.” As the Hanomag made to intercept, the truck continued on its sluggish northerly course. It soon became evident the Ford had come under fire; bullet holes riddled the thin metal skin, the windshield was shattered, and wisps of steam emanated from under the hood. The Hanomag pulled up alongside the truck, which had slowed down to a crawl and then stopped. The two men in the cab kept both hands in plain view and called out excitedly for the Germans not to shoot. Gottfried had stood up and smiled. “Hold your fire, Sergeant. I know these men—Josef and Andrei. They are the captain’s Hiwis.” As the two Russians greeted him with relief, he asked, “Have you seen Captain Falkenstein?”

Andrei, who sat at the wheel, stuck an arm out the window and pointed. “The captain is driving to the south to try and outfox the Reds.”

“So we could make for the kolkhoz in safety,” Josef added.

“How far does he intend to go? The Russians are to the south.”

Josef nodded. “Yes, and not far behind us.”

“He plans to veer to the east as soon as he can,” Andrei informed him.

“Ask them how close to the southern highway the captain plans to get before changing course,” Voss said to Gottfried. When Josef replied, his words were puzzling. Voss thought he heard a reference made to witchcraft and something else about the highway, but his command of the language was barely passable. Gottfried wasn’t much help in translating. “The captain is leading his pursuers in circles.”

Sheer madness, Voss thought. Falkenstein hadn’t a chance. He had Gottfried tell the two Hiwis to return to the village. “And radio Blue Flower and inform them that Sundial has been forced south toward the Pavlograd highway and is in grave danger. Tell them to send all available panzer units in that direction immediately.”

“What do you plan to do, lieutenant?” Reinhardt asked.

“Try and run interference as best we can. Heinz, follow a course south by southeast.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.” The Hanomag and the battle-scarred Ford separated. Voss could see that everyone on board, although resolute, appeared terribly grave. His eyes met Reinhardt’s, who suddenly put on a good face. “Perfect weather for a drive, don’t you think, Lieutenant? Pleasant and not too uncomfortably warm.”

“I would have to agree, Sergeant. September was always my favorite time of the year.”

* * *

Having traveled another ten kilometers, Voss observed they were being shadowed by an enemy reconnaissance patrol of twelve motorcycles that appeared from out of the west. As the Russians drew closer, it became apparent that several sidecar passengers possessed antitank rifles. This worried him. Should the range decrease, even slightly, the 14.5 mm bullet could effectively penetrate the carrier’s siding and pierce the engine; only the extra armored plate bolted to the front end would stop the round. At the lieutenant’s order, Hartmann turned the vehicle about and faced the patrol head on. The motorcycles initiated flanking movements, and Reinhardt immediately opened fire, working the MG42 from left to right. Brass shell casings flew about like a swarm of angry hornets. The Russians were out of range, but Reinhardt received some satisfaction in making them aware of what awaited them, should they venture any closer. Voss signaled curtly, and he stopped firing. “Contact Blue Flower,” Voss said, “and make it sound as though we have a squadron of He129s at our disposal.”

Gottfried understood at once. The least Beck could do was play along about the air support he couldn’t deliver on, Voss thought.

“Why the hell not? Make them sweat. I certainly am,” Reinhardt said.

“Hey, Sergeant, I thought this was perfect weather for a drive,” Junger called out in an attempt to lighten the mounting tension. Perhaps it is far too late for a ruse now, Voss was thinking, as he witnessed a strange turmoil materializing across the horizon to the south. A long band of dust, like a wall, extended over a distance of a kilometer or more. The stiff, warm wind that preceded it buffeted them. There was an uncanny power generating the dust storm.

“Only a brigade of tanks could churn up that much dust,” Reinhardt muttered, awed, as he lowered himself behind the machine gun’s protective shield and took aim. Anticipating the order to turn tail and make a run for it, Hartmann began to steer the vehicle. “Stay put, Heinz,” Voss ordered firmly, as he peered through the binoculars. The gray-brown cloud was uniformly dense and rose to a height of three to four meters. It boiled thickly and moved at an unnatural rate of speed. During the time he had spent in southern Russia and the Ukraine, Voss had never witnessed phenomena such as this. The dust cloud seemed to have a life of its own as it rolled forward. A dark speck suddenly emerged from the wall of dust; too small and fast to be confused for a tank, the vehicle raced ahead of the cloud and managed to put a suitable amount of distance between it. “A Two-Twenty-Two,” Voss said, indicating the model type of the vehicle. It was Falkenstein’s armored scout car traveling at top speed.

“Lieutenant, look,” Junger called out as he pointed to the motorcycles. The reconnaissance patrol was apparently no longer interested in trying to outflank them and started to drive back to the west, obviously unnerved by the approaching storm.

The scout car had evidently recognized the armored personnel carrier as a friendly vehicle and shifted course. When the 222 finally pulled up alongside, its 20 mm gun still pointed at six o’clock, in the direction of the onrushing cloud and whatever power was concealed within. From the open-topped turret, a figure arose and pulled down a pair of goggles that revealed one good eye and another blacked out with an eye patch. The lightly bearded face was coated with dust, as were the field tunic and forage cap. Falkenstein. “You must be Dragonfly?” the hoarse voice croaked, dryly.

“Lieutenant Voss, sir. Headquarters sent us to find you.”

“Well, you found me.” Falkenstein shifted around and took in the view of the dust storm. The wind had gathered more strength, and fine particles of dust whipped at their exposed flesh. “This atmospheric trick won’t last forever. The Russians are sure to find us,” he said. When he turned around to face forward, he caught sight of Gottfried, who stood and looked upon the captain with a worshipful gaze. “Lieutenant! I was worried about you.”

“And I worried for you, Captain.” This sentiment pleased the signals officer.

“And my troops? They did not fare well, did they?”

“No, Captain. Only I survived.”

Falkenstein did not offer a reaction. He turned to Voss. “I suggest you inform your headquarters, Lieutenant, that elements of the Twenty-Third Tank Corps have assembled on the highway approximately ten kilometers east of Pavlograd, and a number of detachments of the First Guards Mechanized Corps are converging northeast of the rail junction at Sinel’nikovo. The two will begin to probe for an opening to the east without delay. If our lines can hold within this immediate sector, then the entire Tank Army will be forced to regroup and push further south in search for a weak spot.”

Gottfried immediately signaled Blue Flower with the information.

“I’ll escort you back to the village,” Voss said. “A tank battery is expected any time now.”

“Pray let’s hope so, Lieutenant.” Falkenstein ducked back down into the turret, and the scout car proceeded to speed away. The Hanomag then turned about to follow as Hartmann worked at turning the unwieldy machine. Glancing over his shoulder, he took another look at the strange dust cloud formation. “Atmospheric trick, indeed,” he said in disbelief.

14

A Panther with an escort of two Mark IVs approached from out of the east, the spearhead of the tank battery that was now in the vicinity. After Lieutenant Gottfried had informed Blue Flower that the captain had been found and passed along the report of the enemy’s location, he turned the microphone over to Voss. After accompanying the captain back to the kolkhoz, he was to resume reconnaissance of the sector. Remnants of the mechanized corps may attempt a push further to the north, and their location could be the most obvious choice. Captain Beck assured him that steps were being taken to guarantee against that eventuality. “And one more item. You and your crew are to be congratulated for an outstanding job. Everyone here at headquarters is quite pleased.”

Voss signed off. It was Falkenstein who deserved the praise. He felt his own contribution to be minimal. All he and the crew did was risk annihilation, at the behest of others, and they did so without a word of complaint. Fate, luck, even the grace of God had spared them, so far. The captain had taken all the risks. How did he manage to elude the Russians for so long, Voss wondered? Where could he have possibly hidden, so totally exposed? The captain must be a tactical genius with nerves of steel.

They returned to the kolkhoz only long enough to drop off Lieutenant Gottfried. Voss wanted to return to the main road, the northern route that crossed the Samara and continued on to Lozovaya, and watch out for any signs of enemy traffic. Excited over their safe return, the signals officer extended an invitation to Voss and the crew to share his billet, should the opportunity arise. “But first I must see to the captain and make sure his quarters aren’t appropriated by the others.”

The “others” Gottfried referred to were staff officers and NCOs scouting for suitable quarters of their own. Supply units had begun to trickle in with panje wagons and carts heaped with equipment and pulled by the diminutive yet tireless steppe ponies. Signalmen from an antitank battery were stringing phone lines. The 50 mm Pak38s were on the way to support this sector. There were no trucks, and the guns had to be drawn by horse teams. An officer attached to the battery tried to requisition the armored personnel carrier as a prime mover and help bring up the guns, but Voss had to deny the request. “I’m under strict orders from my Combat Group. Besides, we haven’t the fuel to burn for such work.” He was polite but firm; nonetheless, the officer threatened to inform his superiors. “By all means,” Voss replied. “You can use our radio.” Frustrated, the officer stormed off.

“We won’t get a billet of our own at the rate this bunch is moving in,” Hartmann said, dejectedly. Voss could see the expressions of disappointment in the men’s faces. At the risk of catching lice, they would all beg for a night’s sleep in a bed for a change. Not to mention a bath. His men deserved as much, but he had to maintain vigilance so their morale did not falter. He tapped the narrow roof over the driver’s compartment. “Gentlemen! This is our home. The open steppe, freedom to move, and left to our own resources. We wouldn’t have it any other way.”

They returned to the main road and patrolled a twenty-kilometer stretch of the Samara. By midafternoon, two T-34s, a halftrack, and a number of motorcycles were observed on the west bank of the river. The small unit might be the reconnaissance arm of a larger force, but Voss did not believe this was the case. What were the Soviets doing eight kilometers upriver from the bridge crossing? A large detachment would storm across the bridge—quite easily, in fact, because he knew sufficient artillery or panzers were not in the area to counter such a move. This unit was cut off, Voss knew, and was seeking a suitable place to make a crossing; and geographically, the only logical place was two point five kilometers north of the kolkhoz, the very spot where he and the crew had crossed when they had made their initial approach the evening before. Voss established radio contact with the artillery observers in the area and alerted them to the threat as he watched the motorized unit pull back and out of sight. Later, he received word that his assessment was correct. When the mechanized probe ventured too close, the few Pak38s dug in and, well-camouflaged near the village, had opened fire. Their noses bloodied, the Russians retreated. The real action occurred further to the south, as distant rumblings from tank and artillery fire continued without interruption throughout the evening. The airwaves were flooded with messages, orders, situation reports, and countermanded orders. The Soviet armored corps were receiving a much harder blow than anticipated as they attempted to return to South-West Front. Judging by what was monitored on the radio aboard the Hanomag, the situation was tense, but the antitank batteries and self-propelled guns of First Panzer Army maintained the upper hand. Now that the sector Voss operated in had quieted down, full attention was paid to the threat from the east.

15

At twenty-four hundred hours, a radio transmission from Blue Flower was received. Dragonfly was ordered to stand down until further notice, barring any emergency. The men were pleased, and Voss decided to take Lieutenant Gottfried up on his offer. Despite the late hour, the village was active. Practically every house and barn had been turned into a temporary headquarters or billet for one unit or other. Hartmann parked the Hanomag adjacent to the Ford at the rear of the house. Gottfried, shirttails hanging loosely outside his trousers, greeted them at the door. “Josef, Andrei, and I have been assisting the signal company in establishing communications throughout the village. They’re still busy stringing line. Indefatigable, those Hiwis, not unlike the Red Army.” Gottfried went on to inform them that the Twenty-Third Panzers, in concert with the Ninth Panzer division, had finally sealed the breach. “There are still a few kinks in the new defensive line, but for all intents and purposes, that yawning thirty-kilometer hole has been sewn.” Before the lieutenant would show where Voss and the crew could wash up, he wanted them to join him in a toast to celebrate the achievement. Although Voss considered the situation for the two armies precarious and any celebration premature, he kept this sentiment to himself. Everyone was in a good mood. There was breathing space for a day or two; what did it matter? They might as well enjoy it while they could. More importantly, he did not want to utter any demoralizing remarks to his host or the men. Gottfried brought out the half-bottle of kirshwasser and poured a glass for all. He raised his glass and proposed a toast to the strategic genius of Field Marshal von Manstein and the generals in the field who, yet again, averted disaster despite overwhelming odds; also to the health and safety of Captain Falkenstein; and, not least of all, to Voss and his brave crew.

“Prosit!” they said in unison and tossed down the sweet and fiery liquor. All except one—Junger. “Excuse me, Lieutenant, but you forgot to toast the Fuehrer.”

Gottfried looked at the young panzergrenadier quizzically. “Did I?”

“I think the lieutenant planned to toast the Fuehrer on the next round,” Voss said, in an attempt to smooth over Gottfried’s lapse. “Drink up, Junger, or you will miss out.”

Voss believed he recovered the awkward moment adequately. Through innuendo, he become aware that some at Army Group headquarters and a number of divisional commanders were not terribly keen about the Fuehrer, since he had taken direct control of the war in the east. Every move, strategy, and decision could not be made independently in the field but had to be cleared through General Staff Headquarters first. Von Manstein and his generals would have to argue every point of their reasoning and the need to act quickly and decisively to the vacillating c-in-c. Hitler’s meddlesome behavior was costing too many lives due to his refusal to yield a meter of ground. To be hamstrung by these inadequacies offended these experienced and seasoned officers. Junger was still fresh with the creed of the Hitler Youth that had been forged into his soul. In time, the young grenadier would realize for himself that he was fighting for his own survival and that of his Kameraden, and that the Fuehrer’s headquarters was far removed from the day-to-day savagery he was made to participate in. At least, Voss hoped the youth would come to make this realization. So, indulging him, they offered a toast to the Fuehrer and the Reich on the second round. After they drank, Gottfried made apologies for Captain Falkenstein, as he could not join them. “He would like to thank you personally, Lieutenant Voss, only the captain is done in. He’s been awake for days.”

Voss understood. It could wait until morning. The party broke up, and Gottfried showed where the men could sleep. “Let’s not forget that we will have to take turns monitoring the radio,” Reinhardt announced. “Do I have any volunteers?” There was a groan of disapproval, but Voss elected to take the first watch, despite the sergeant’s protest. “Get some sleep, Dieter. All of you. I’ll wake you when the time comes.”

Boarding the Hanomag, Voss tidied up some of the loose odds and ends that lay on the seating and the deck and then settled down at the radio. He put on the earphones and amused himself by scanning the different frequencies. The Russians were still chattering away, and by the tone, their feathers had been ruffled. In spite of the panicky voices in his ears, he began to doze. Then he heard moans, loud and prolonged, like someone trying to extricate himself from a nightmare that wasn’t quite finished with him. But it wasn’t his nightmare or his moans. He removed the earphones and stood up. Lights flashed far beyond the perimeter of the village, to the south, followed by a rumbling echo like a distant thunderstorm. Only this storm was of a different character, where the scent of rain isn’t carried on the wind but supplanted by the smell of fear and blood. The Russians were having another go at trying to punch their way through. Then he heard it again, the short, terror-stricken screams, like some hurting animal infuriated by the pain. The sounds came from the grimy yellow cottage diagonally across the field near the riverbank. A voice, foreign and excited, barked. The door opened, and light spilled out as a form staggered into the night. Voss took the binoculars so he could better see what was going on. It was Falkenstein who limped back and forth in front of the cottage like a maimed feline. The long blanket draped around his shoulders gave the impression of a medieval monk. Another form left the house and joined him. He wore the regulation gray-green uniform but without piping or insignia. A Hiwi. The nose was sharply pronounced and set in a wide face. The individual was not tall, but he gave off an impression of strength, even power. His head was covered with hair that was a trifle too long and stuck out at odd angles at the back and sides.

“You heard it as well.” Gottfried stood beside the vehicle, right below Voss, and looked in the direction of the cottage. Voss lowered the binoculars.

“Is something wrong with the captain?” he asked.

“He is plagued by dreams. Nightmares,” Gottfried informed him.

“Aren’t we all?”

“The captain more than most.”

“And who is that Hiwi?” Voss asked.

“Khan. Not an ordinary Hiwi, but the captain’s bodyguard.”

“Bodyguard?”

“It is a role Khan has more or less invented for himself. The captain secured him through the black market some months back. You understand there are Russian prisoners who are recognized for their talents, and instead of being turned over to the authorities, a network of middlemen barter and trade with field commanders for their services. Although, if you listen to Khan, it was he who sought out the captain,” Gottfried explained.

“Rather impertinent fellow,” Voss commented.

“He is of the aboriginal tribes from the Lake Baikal region near Mongolia. A Buryat. Something along those lines. We refer to him simply as the Mongol.”

They watched as Khan continued to minister to the needs of the captain. There was a pathetic quality to the manner in which the Mongol doted over him; Voss found it a little unsavory. Arms spread apart like wings, Khan hovered and cooed like a hen giving succor to a chick. Eventually, he led Falkenstein back into the cottage.

“He hates the Bolsheviks with a passion. His devotion to the captain is absolute, and to the mission as well.”

“What is the captain’s mission, exactly?”

Gottfried kept still for a minute. Finally he said, “You asked that question once before.”

“Yes, and it was never answered to my satisfaction, so I’m asking again.”

“Captain Falkenstein pursues a terrific evil. A thing so dreadful it threatens all the armies here in the east. I don’t mean to imply the combined Soviet Fronts, Lieutenant Voss. I am speaking of a single entity. Something so terrible…horrible. Such words have no meaning in confronting the essence of something so unnatural. To speak its name aloud could summon it, here and now, and bring disaster upon us all.”

Voss would not attempt a remark or demand clarification for what he had just heard. He would not even attempt to digest the words. It was quite clear to him the signal officer’s mental condition had not improved any in the intervening hours from when they first met. The light within the cottage was extinguished. Now that the captain’s nightmare had passed, Gottfried seemed assured he could go to bed. He bid Voss goodnight and returned to the house. Left alone, Voss could only wonder about the captain and the disparate bunch he commanded. What in God’s name has the man been up to these past months? Beck knows, only he is reticent on the subject. So does Hahn, but the colonel is too arrogant to waste his breath on an explanation to a nonentity junior officer like me. Does Falkenstein even know? One thing he was sure of was that out of all the senior officers operating in the field, Captain Falkenstein appeared to be the one with the most freedom of movement, seemingly answerable to no one and yet capturing the interest of everyone.

16

“Lieutenant… Lieutenant Voss?”

Voss awoke on a bed, the mattress lumpy but soft, and could not remember getting there. Junger stood over him with the shyness most people have when they wake someone who is not an intimate.

“What is it, Junger?”

“Captain Beck radioed. We’re to return to Combat Group headquarters by fourteen hundred hours, sir.”

Voss sat up. He had removed his boots, belt, and holster, but remained completely dressed. “Where are they now?” He reached over and tugged on his boots. He felt as though he’d been flung off a speeding train.

“Not far from where we left them the other day. I have the exact coordinates. There’s breakfast, sir.”

“Thank you, Junger.” He cinched his belt and left the room as the corporal led the way. Something smelled good as he descended the narrow staircase that led immediately into the pantry. The men, including Gottfried and Josef, were seated at a table as Andrei served up eggs and sliced Jerusalem artichokes. Reinhardt and Hartmann stood up as Voss entered, but he motioned them to remain seated. They were clean-shaven, which caused him to pass his hand self-consciously over his bristled face.

“The captain would like a word with you, Lieutenant, as soon as you are available,” Gottfried said.

“I’m available now.”

“Please, eat with us first,” Andrei suggested as he thrust a plate and cup of coffee into his hands. There was a glaze of honey over the Jerusalem artichokes, to Voss’s obvious surprise and delight. Andrei took notice. “The Reds took off with most of the chickens and produce, but they didn’t bother the hives.” Voss took a mouthful, indicated his approval to the Russian, and turned to Reinhardt. “We’re expected back.”

The sergeant nodded. “I’ll see to it that all the chores are taken care of. Vehicle maintenance, weapons, and equipment.”

“Utilize the remaining time to get as much rest as you can. This won’t last.”

“Too bad. One could be lulled into a state of tranquility very easily,” Hartmann commented.

“Keep in mind the front is only a few kilometers away.” Voss finished his meal in silence as the men around the table smoked and engaged in small talk. He finished his coffee and was anxious to leave.

Outside, telephone cables ran from the house all the way to Falkenstein’s cottage headquarters. The burned-out signals truck remained in the field, but the debris had been gathered into a pile. A narrow footbridge spanned the river near the pale yellow cottage, and the 222 was parked out in front. A sergeant dressed in mechanic overalls was in the turret, oiling the 20 mm cannon. He saluted lazily as Voss approached. “The captain is inside. I’m his driver, Klaus Vogel.”

“Voss.” He returned the panzer sergeant’s salute with equal laziness.

“I know. You and your crew, yesterday… Thanks. Go ahead in, Lieutenant.”

The door to the cottage was open, presumably to allow air, but Voss knocked all the same and then entered. Falkenstein sat at a long plank table, covered with maps and papers and two field telephones. A cluster of flies buzzed around the leavings on a tin mess plate. Falkenstein looked up and, without self-consciousness, adjusted the upturned eye patch back over the rheumy socket.

“Good morning, sir,” Voss said, and saluted quite sharply this time.

Falkenstein returned the salute as a matter of course. “Be seated, Lieutenant, by all means” he said, indicating one of two chairs on the opposite side of the table from where he sat. The room was a trifle close and dark, as the small windows at the rear had been covered with yellow paper shades. A narrow bed stood at the far wall with a crisply folded blanket on the straw mattress. A large map of the Soviet Union was tacked on the wall beside the bed, and under it was a shelf containing a number of personal items such as soap, a washcloth, and other toiletries.

“I want to extend my gratitude, Lieutenant, for maintaining a dangerous vigil on my behalf. To stand fast while an enemy mechanized corps steamrolls about the countryside is not an enviable position to find oneself in.”

“On the contrary, sir, the whole of First Panzer Army is indebted to you. For my part, I did rather little.”

Falkenstein dismissed the statement with a simple gesture. “I only made the best out of a miserable situation for as long as fate allowed. As for you, Lieutenant, I believe Colonel Hahn sent you to make the last radio transmission of your young life, and you know it.”

The word “young” struck Voss in an odd sort of way. He was twenty-five years old and felt ancient. Falkenstein was five or six years older, he guessed, and appeared at least a decade older than he actually was. This is what war in the east does to all young men, he thought. The rigors of combat, exposure to the elements, the constant fear and anxiety not only for oneself but for the welfare of the men one led. The wounds received from past engagements. The captain’s face was darkened by a beard of at least a week’s growth and highlighted by gray, which only added more years to his appearance. They had both been robbed.

“Allow me to bring you up-to-date, if you have not been already,” Falkenstein continued. “The Soviet Tank Army managed to slip through to the east early this morning. There was a narrow gap in the Sixth Army line, and the enemy took full advantage.”

“That is unfortunate, sir.”

Falkenstein shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. “They received a hard knock as they made that voyage back home. A spectacular armored thrust, and for all the effort, what did it achieve?”

“The Russians know how weak our armies are, for one,” Voss replied.

“Malinovskiy and Tolbukhin could have studied their own field intelligence reports and answered that question for themselves.”

“Whatever the reason, they destroyed most of my company and your command. I’m sorry, Captain.” Voss wished he had not made the remark as he watched Falkenstein turn ashen.

“My command, yes. Now at least we can deal with the Russians coming at us from one direction, rather than having them at our backs as well.”

Politely, Voss agreed, but silently he cursed himself for speaking so insensitively. Had he not been so fatigued, he would have never have broached the subject. Every officer was reeling, both psychologically and emotionally, over the loss of his troops. Falkenstein offered him a cigarette, which he accepted gratefully, and he self-consciously tried to control his shaking hand while he lit the captain’s and his own. At that moment a motorcycle screeched to a halt outside the cottage, and a boisterous voice began to call the captain by name.

“What on earth is he doing here?” Falkenstein said. The interruption was a welcome relief to the uncomfortable silence, as far as Voss was concerned. He would use it as an excuse to leave, but before he could get out of the chair, a major dressed in panzer black swaggered jovially into the room. His complexion was as pink as the piping on his uniform. “Hans! I’ve had a devil of a time finding you.” The major carried a bottle of brandy by the neck and set it down loudly on the table. Voss stood up at attention.

“Lieutenant Voss,” Falkenstein said, still seated, “allow me to introduce Major Beutel. Herr Major is with the headquarters staff of Twenty-Third Panzer Division.”

“Herr Major…”

With a gleeful smile, Beutel took Voss’s hand before he could salute and shook it vigorously. “So you’re the young lieutenant with ice coursing through his veins. A spectacular job.”

“No, really sir, I…”

“Nonsense, there’s no need for modesty. A fine show all the way around, bringing our Hans back to us safe and sound. I liaise quite frequently with Colonel Hahn when our two divisions are operating in tandem. He told me all about you. Now, find us some glasses, Lieutenant, and let’s have a toast to our good fortune.” Beutel winked. Falkenstein indicated a sideboard to his left, where several mess kits lay drying on a wash towel. He brought over the only two glasses and a regulation tin mug and lined them up on the table. “This will go straight to my head at this hour,” he said.

“That, Lieutenant,” the major said, as he plucked the cork from the bottle, “is the whole idea.” He poured liberally and passed the drinks around. Raising his glass, he said, “To the men of the hour. Prosit.” The first to drain his glass, Beutel refilled it. Alcohol had become the necessary balm needed to recover from the omnipresent dangers and to aid in forgetting what inevitably lay ahead. Voss was convinced that, should he survive the war, he and his fellow officers would spend their remaining years as hopeless drunkards. The major was well on his way. Broken capillaries webbed the nose and cheeks of his pork pink face. “Come on, Hans, drink up. To our safety, to defensive mobility, and the retreat across the river.”

Aroused by the offhand remark, Voss asked expectantly, “Is it on? Are we to cross the Dniepr?”

The major tapped the side of his ruined nose. “It’s not official yet, but a lot of talk’s circulating. Von Manstein has been in communication with von Mackensen, and Hollidt and I know that my general, von Vormann, has been discussing the matter with your general, Count von Schwerin. It is unavoidable. Now that we have evacuated the Don Bas, what possible good can be achieved, exposed on the steppe as we are? This front can’t be maintained, and command regards it as a temporary holding position. As far as von Manstein is concerned, the withdrawal to the Dniepr began on the eighth of September. Even the Fuehrer has finally seen the handwriting on the wall. Promise me you won’t breathe a word of this.” Voss made his promise with a solemn nod of the head, although Falkenstein remained impassive. The major’s confidence did not appear to bring him any joy. “You look terrible, Hans,” Beutel said cheerily, and poured more brandy for Voss and himself.

“Sleep escapes me,” Falkenstein replied, as he drew his glass away just as the major was about to fill it.

“I may have something that will keep you occupied during your long restless hours,” Beutel said. He reached for the captain’s silver cigarette case, took one, lit it, and breathed in deeply. He reached into the breast pocket of his waist-length tunic and brought out a number of papers, which he unfolded and gave to the captain. “This is only a preliminary, scribbled rather hastily by a subordinate. There wasn’t the time available to type the long version, and I didn’t want to discuss the matter over an unsecured line. That is why I’ve come to speak with you personally.”

Falkenstein glanced at the papers briefly. The text had been penciled in shorthand. The handwriting was indeed abysmal. “I’ll need Gottfried to decode this mess.”

“Let me give you a rundown,” the major began. “Two days ago a few stragglers were picked up by one of our tank batteries. Six grenadiers and a local peasant girl. They had spent the night trying to outrun a T-34 that had pursued them from the day before. A couple of these grenadiers were part of a rearguard platoon that had pulled out of the Tortoise Line, only they never managed to link up with their regiment. They fell in with a self-propelled antitank gun that, due to mechanical troubles, lagged behind as well. They couldn’t make up the loss in distance, as both armies were continually on the move. Sometime in the early morning hours, there was an ambush. There were a number of casualties, and the assault gun was destroyed. The following day the remains of this platoon and several panzergrenadiers from the Stug III escort hid out in a small abandoned village. It’s where they came across the girl and several more civilians. The same tank showed up and harassed them throughout the entire day. Their ranks were whittled down even more. The corporal in charge, a real hard nut and very capable, used the civilians as hostages. In the long run, it didn’t help. All night, as they forced-marched through the ravine and across the steppe, the tank laid down cannon and machine gun fire. There are other pertinent details. The use of search lights, sirens, etcetera. From the corporal’s description and what others in the squad corroborated, there is every indication that the T-34 in question was none other than Red Vengeance.”

Before the major had finished speaking, a disturbing mood settled over Falkenstein. He seethed with anger, frustration—it was difficult to distinguish between the two—but Voss could sense the force that the captain projected. Tightening his hand into a fist, Falkenstein brought it down on the table, although gently. The gesture had its own vehemence. He rose, stiffly, out from the chair. “Where can I find these men?”

Beutel held up a hand, a placating gesture. “One step at a time, Captain.”

“I must… I will speak with them immediately.”

“And you will, just as soon as—”

“Show me on the map. Timing is everything in this hunt!”

The major obliged him as he looked through the maps on the table and found the appropriate one. Voss was stunned by the captain’s behavior. His first impression was of a cold, aloof man, whose every movement appeared under rigorous control, and who merely tolerated his company out of a politeness that seemed strained. Even the major, a superior officer, was relegated to the same category and behaved with a subordinate air. Falkenstein smelled blood, and a tempest filled the room.

“I’ve stashed them with Gilmeier, an artillery battery commander with the hundred and twenty-eighth,” Beutel explained cautiously. “I didn’t have the means to transport these fellows to you. I didn’t know where you were. Gilmeier’s a good man. He’ll sit on them for as long as necessary.”

“Who else knows of this?”

“Just us and Dietrich, the tank commander who found them. Don’t worry, Hans, everyone involved will remain discreet on the subject.” Beutel let his finger rest at a place on the map. “Here, right on the Sinel’nikovo-Krasnoarmeyskoye rail line.”

“I will leave straight away.”

“But it’s over sixty kilometers away,” the major protested.

“No matter. I’ll want to debrief them all, individually.” Falkenstein lifted the receiver of the field telephone but thought better of it and left the cottage.

“I knew he would react this way,” Beutel said dejectedly. “Not since Operation Citadel has Red Vengeance raised its ugly snout. Not a sign, until now.”

Voss had heard of the exploits attributed to Red Vengeance, and although he did not dismiss some of the stories outright, he did arrive at his own conclusion that its reputation was manufactured largely from the exhaustion attributed to overstressed troops in the field. “The captain has reacted very strongly to your report, Herr Major.”

“And why shouldn’t he?” Beutel answered, as he poured himself another round. “Captain Falkenstein has actively pursued Red Vengeance for quite some time now.”

“I didn’t know command took the matter under consideration.”

Despite the effects of the alcohol beginning to take hold, Beutel was noticeably astounded. “Wait a moment, Lieutenant…surely you are aware that Red Vengeance wiped out the captain’s command. Thirty kilometers outside of Elista. Can you imagine, it was considered a relatively secure area.”

“No, I was not specifically aware of that fact, Herr Major. The captain served in a different regiment. I was only aware of certain details of the ambush and that the captain was the only survivor.”

“You can believe me, there are more than a few panzer crews and grenadiers who can testify to the serious nature of Red Vengeance—and many more could too, if they were alive to speak their minds.”

“Would I be correct in assuming that the captain’s primary, if not his sole mission, is to hunt down and destroy Red Vengeance?”

Beutel nodded. “You would.”

“And this is approved by Army Group?”

“It began with the captain’s urging, and certainly the influence of General Hoth played an important role. During the general’s relief operation to Stalingrad Red Vengeance had sniped at Fourth Panzer Army repeatedly. I don’t mean to imply the tank was solely responsible for the operation’s shortcomings, but the psychological aspect has to be factored in. Over the weeks and months that followed, a number of senior officers on the corps and divisional staffs came to view Red Vengeance as a serious morale problem, especially for us Panzers. At Army Group, someone very high up and close to the field marshal listened, and a small unit was formed to look into the matter.”

“Sundial and the listening post.”

“The captain and his Ost Truppen were the primary unit in the field, yes. There were a number of officers at divisional and regimental headquarters that recognized firsthand the corrosive effects on the men’s fighting spirit with regard to this fiendish T-34. Myself included. An ad hoc group was established to provide intelligence, any scrap of information that may relate to Red Vengeance, and funnel it to the captain.”

“With all due respect, Herr Major, with all we face at this moment, is Red Vengeance really that important? The men are stretched beyond the limits of endurance. The casualty rate is unacceptable by any standard. Crossing the Dniepr—now, that would boost morale. That is worth risking one’s life for.”

Beutel smiled, fatuously. “You are absolutely correct, lieutenant. There are too few of us to staunch the Russian tide. Yes, we could use a propaganda victory. A morale boost! How can under strength panzer units and undermanned infantry companies expect to hold back an onslaught, when a machine of near mythic invincibility cannot be stopped? If we allowed Red Vengeance to go unchecked now that it has once again shown itself then it is only logical to conclude…” Beutel trailed off into an intoxicated silence, as the point he was trying to make only exhausted him. So this was the evil Gottfried had alluded to and was so reticent to speak of, Voss thought. “I still fail to see the value in diverting attention to a single tank, when the full weight of the Red Army is about to crash down upon our heads.”

“There are wars within wars, Lieutenant.” Falkenstein stood at the door, and Voss could not help but wonder how much he had heard. “Small, violent, intensely personal dramas that rage within the greater conflict. This contest—my detractors call it a sideshow—impinges upon the greater whole. The war itself.” Falkenstein entered the room, dragging his near-useless leg along. A contraption had been assembled to get as much movement as possible from the limb; leather straps and buckles fastened above and below the left knee with riveted metal struts on either side for added support. The brace squeaked quietly as the captain walked.

“Is it done?” Beutel asked.

Falkenstein nodded. “I had Vogel scare up some more fuel. We will be leaving within the hour.” He considered Voss for a moment and said, “Lieutenant, if you would excuse us, the major and I have matters to discuss.”

Voss got up and saluted the two officers. “Herr Major, Captain. Thank you for the brandy, and the very best of luck to you both.”

“It was a pleasure,” Beutel mumbled. His mood had changed radically; all the garrulousness and easy good nature had deflated, either from the drink or the proximity of the flinty captain.

“I need not remind you to use your discretion as to what was discussed here,” Falkenstein said.

“I will keep it in the strictest of confidence, sir. Good day, Herr Captain. Major.”

After Voss had left, Falkenstein drew a chair from the table and eased into it. “While we’re on the subject of discretion, you’re drunk.”

Embarrassed, Beutel averted the hostile glare boring into him. “I thought you would want to know immediately. You never hid the facts of the mission.”

“More importantly, I don’t want to start a panic. Not now.”

“Don’t worry about the lieutenant. He has scored very high marks and is thought of as one of the best young officers in your old division,” Beutel reassured him.

“I need armor. Just one tank. A Tiger or an assault gun.”

“You know that’s not possible, Hans. We’re too hard pressed as it is. Not even your benefactor at Army Group could relinquish any armor for your purposes.”

“Then tell me what is possible. I sit here with Red Vengeance so close. My command is wiped out. Stores of fuel and materiel destroyed. The nearest cache is near the boundary of Eighth Army sector, and the other is too far south for it to matter—most likely in Soviet territory. Must I carry out this task with only my will and bare hands?” Falkenstein asked, frustrated.

“That’s all any of us have left at the moment, I’m afraid.”

“This demands more, much more,” Falkenstein bellowed.

“Please, don’t yell, Hans. We are in league, you and I. Now, about refitting. You need German grenadiers, not Hiwis. They’re not always reliable.”

“I won’t say a word against those men. They served me well and fought to the last.”

The major became apologetic. “I didn’t mean those poor fellows. I meant in general.”

“Of course, I still have Khan.”

Beutel laughed uncomfortably. “That magician. He scares people. How about considering that young officer from your old division?”

“Voss? I’m afraid the lieutenant left here with the impression that I sit about in the rear area when I’m not racing around the countryside in pursuit of my ‘bête noire.’”

“That’s not the case at all. The lieutenant and I were simply having a discussion. I was attempting to clarify matters so he wouldn’t formulate the wrong opinion. Now, listen to me. I have Colonel Hahn’s ear and your best interests at heart. He is aware of your situation and sympathizes. With a little persuasion, I think he could see his way in releasing Voss, along with his crew and vehicle, to your command for temporary assignment,” Beutel said.

“The lieutenant’s unit is under strength.”

“Then we will have to flesh it out, won’t we? Have you already forgotten about the stragglers you’re so eager to interview? By all accounts, they would have not survived. Their battalion has more than likely listed them as missing or dead.”

“Josef can follow in the truck and bring them back here. I will need to examine each one in detail. It will prove a lengthy debriefing,” Falkenstein said.

Beutel nodded approvingly. “You will have an armored vehicle and a complete crew at your disposal.”

“There is hope after all.”

“You see. Now, don’t be in such a dark mood. While you’re waiting for Vogel, let’s break out some maps and see if we can’t nail down where, exactly, those poor fellows last encountered that steel beast.”

* * *

Voss was drunk when he left the cottage and stood numbly by the door for several moments, at a complete loss as to what to do with himself. The men were busy with their chores over by the parked Hanomag; the engine covers were open, and Hartmann was leaning inside the well, tinkering about with some minor adjustments to the motor. Reinhardt had the bow MG42 stripped down and was cleaning the weapon with gun oil and a rag. Self-conscious of his condition, Voss decided to avoid them and walked behind the rear of several houses, then turned onto the main road. The village had taken on a carnival-like atmosphere, with the different support units and staffs all thrown together and occupying the majority of the available houses. A network of telephone cables had been restrung from the few existing poles and trees, from one house and outbuilding to the next, as the signals unit worked to establish communication throughout this part of the new defensive position. This wouldn’t be for long, Voss thought, if Beutel’s remarks were in any way accurate. Field police directed traffic as the sun reflected on their gorgets, highlighting their impassive faces with a golden pallor as trucks, interspersed with motorcycles and horse-drawn carts, beeped their horns as they made for the bridge. A squadron of Kalmyk cavalry glided past the knot of vehicles and wagons, elegant and sitting erect in their saddles, side arms and sabers clattering. Following behind were their wives and families, with their possessions bundled to the flanks of panje ponies. Upon the dissolution of the Kalmyk autonomous republic the previous December, after the Soviets regained territory during the winter offensive, many of the civilians accompanied their warrior husbands, fathers, and sons westward with the German armies in retreat. A fierce, independent people, many of the Kalmyks feared the communists who threatened their Buddhist traditions. Known for their skillful horsemanship and fighting ability, the Kalmyks did not allow themselves to be incorporated into the ranks of the Wehrmacht but formed their own units and fought alongside the German troops as allies and equals. They proved indispensable when Voss’s division had occupied the steppes of southern Russia. Without their help as guides and scouts, the Greyhounds would never have had the degree of success they had managed. Voss spotted Tatars and Khirghiz among the crowd, many having their own argument with their former Soviet overlords; and rather than remain prisoners, they cast their lot with Germany—but certainly not with her cause. Voss was struck by the contrast. These were the “Asiatic hordes” the party railed against through propaganda efforts before and during the invasion of the Soviet Union. By striking preemptively, National Socialism would smash the Russian mongrel races before they could swarm over Europe and devour her. The Reich’s occupation and eventual colonization of the east was to be the bulwark in the defense of western civilization against the “oriental menace.” Now, as blond-haired, blue-eyed Russian and Ukrainian “Untermenschen” were transported back to Germany as slave labor to work in the factories and farms, many of these descendants of the Golden Horde had become the allies of the Wehrmacht in this inevitable conflict against bolshevism. Had he been sober, Voss still would not have been able to make sense of the party’s racial philosophies. God help us all, he said to himself, disgusted by the thought of it. He found he was being jostled along with the stream of traffic and had crossed the bridge. Parched by the dust, he left the road and made for the orchard. Peasants dispossessed of their homes had set up camp in and around the orchard’s boundary. There were troops, elbowed out of the village due to the lack of space, who had erected shelter halves and camped out. The air was thick with the scent of fermentation. Voss kicked aside rotting fruit from the base of a tree to clear a place to sit down. The trees offered dappled shade, a welcome relief from the sun. It had begun to grow cold at night, but the mornings and afternoons were still uncomfortably warm. He was tired, and the few hours’ sleep he had managed did little to alleviate the exhaustion. Time seemed to elongate, an effect he attributed to having drunk too much of the major’s brandy. His mind was suddenly flooded with memories, thoughts, and feelings that were difficult to define, let alone embrace. Despite sitting still, his body felt as though it moved as he raced with the Combat Group to extinguish one fire after the other over the past summer; from Izyum they raced in an all-out effort to help close a penetration of Hollidt’s Sixth Army, far to the south. Then another crisis back at the First Panzer Army, and they would tear back to the north once again. Familiar faces began to recede as casualties mounted. Fewer and fewer friends. Replacements, even less. Outnumbered, always outnumbered by a ratio of eight to one, and that was considered reasonable odds. Voss had been with the division from the very beginning. France, the Balkans, and then Russia, since the opening act of Barbarossa. The longer one was in the fight, the more the chances of survival decreased. Every landser knew the cold reality and tried not to think about it too often, but the thought would creep up on a man and begin to nag at him. Voss had been wounded on three separate occasions, and his entire stay in the hospital amounted to a little more than a couple of months. He supposed he was grateful, but that sort of luck could not last. Officers demanded their men to perform tasks that were impossible—and, he admitted ruefully, he was no exception. How many men have died under my command? he wondered, but dared not to count. Enough! he screamed inside his head. He wanted more brandy, vodka even, which he detested and caused him headaches, anything rather than endure this torture. Enough. His thoughts turned to home and the time that had passed since his last furlough. Over a year. He could see plainly the faces of his mother and sister, Erika, and more importantly his little brother, Manfred. Not so little, actually; he would be turning seventeen soon. He prayed the war would be over for Manfred’s sake. He did not believe the boy could endure the horrors he had witnessed. Not for a moment. He owed the family a letter but lacked the motivation to get up and fetch paper and pencil. Besides, he didn’t know what he could possibly say to them. Platitudes about the war and lies about how he was doing—quite well, thank you. Spare them. Spare them what, the truth about how he felt? He was saddened and not a little frightened of how estranged he had become. It seemed inevitable now that he had become embroiled in this strange, far-off place. In no way could it be misconstrued as home—the land was too alien for that—but it had become too familiar. It seemed more so than his own home, thinking of which only produced feelings of nostalgia, without definition, intangible.

His thoughts now turned to the women he had known, although intimacies were few; quiet interludes at a café, sing-a-longs at the local beer garden. Even the women he had never met but remembered and were striking for one reason or another. The young brunette with emerald green gloves that traveled up her arms practically to her shoulders as she entered a theatre with her lover or husband; glimpses of others walking down the street, or in church where he studied the structure of their solemn faces and tried to imagine their bodies by the outline of their clothing. Strangers, yet etched deep in his memory. Finally, as he spread himself out, trying to avoid the roots that knuckled above the ground, he contemplated Falkenstein. He didn’t know what to make of the man whom he’d risked his life to find. Cold. Aloof. The major, a superior officer and undoubtedly a strong supporter, was tolerated as one would an attention-seeking lap dog. It was the reaction to the news of the impending retreat that surprised Voss the most. Subtle but unmistakable. What every grenadier saw as his salvation, Falkenstein regarded as a nuisance. He thought he was reading too much into it and judged the captain unfairly. Gottfried described the captain as thoughtful of the men under his command, Hiwis included, and he spared no effort in keeping them well supplied.

A steady booming sounded in the distance. The front, Voss was reminded, was not as far away as he would have liked. He felt oppressed by the enemy’s proximity; nonetheless, he yielded to the liquor and the fatigue of his body, and his eyes closed.

FALKENSTEIN

17

Angst had barely escaped the ordeal. Discipline crumbled as the T-34 persisted with constant shelling and machine gun–fire, and after the tank had found a way into the ravine, everything fell apart. They all ran, and the motto was “save your own skin and to hell with all else.” If someone fell, too bad; nobody looked back. Seidel and Wahl fell. So did Richter. Ganz and several of the panzergrenadiers from the escort were missing and presumed dead. During the confusion, Angst had lost sight of Lev and Mykola. He could not bear to think of what had befallen them. Daryna could no longer worry over the boys, and she was incapable of protecting them from harm. She ran for her life like the rest. Overcome by terror, the girl had lapsed into shock. By the time they were intercepted by the tank battery from the Twenty-Third Panzers, she couldn’t speak or even respond with gestures; she would only stare, blank and empty. Daryna had left the world.

When it was all over, there was no sign of the Russian tank anywhere. Schroeder explained, breathlessly, to the tank battery commander that Red Vengeance had been hunting them for the past two days. The tank commander wasn’t entirely convinced, but after listening to specific details and seeing for himself the terrified state the battle-hardened panzergrenadiers were in, he eventually believed enough to take some action. First, though, he had the squad of survivors brought to an aid station for treatment of minor injuries. Angst had the gash on his arm properly tended to and dressed, as it had begun to fester. Still considered fit for duty, he was released, as were the rest of them—Braun, Schmidt, Detwiler, Wilms, and Schroeder.

After Daryna was left in the care of the medical orderlies, Angst inquired what would become of her. If there were room when the next truck arrived, she would be taken back further to the rear with the next batch of serious cases, he was told. Eventually, she would be placed with the civilian conscripts employed by the division—in other words, a work gang. The orderly explaining all this to him hoped she would snap out of it soon, because there was no telling where she would end up.

Upon leaving the aid station, Angst and his companions fell in with the panzergrenadiers supporting the armor; there was still a lot of activity, as the divisions from the north and south fought to close the gap between the two armies. Luckily for Angst and the squad, they were taken out of the line at the end of the day. An officer from the division intelligence staff had summoned them. Overweight and smelling like a distillery, the officer, a major, had asked them all to give a rundown of events since leaving the Tortoise Line. He said very little as another officer wrote down their statements. When the interrogation ended, the major made arrangements that the entire squad be taken out of the front line and, barring a catastrophe, excused from combat duty for the time being. They were sent further to the rear and placed with an artillery battery. Fortunately, the sector was relatively quiet. Upon their arrival, they dug slit trenches and foxholes for themselves a short distance behind the guns. The rings of fatigue that encircled their eyes had grown darker. Uniforms coated with a thick layer of dust and underclothes stiff with dried sweat and grime chafed at their skin. They had fought too hard and walked too far with no sleep and no food. Numb from the expenditure, the only thought that registered was that they were still alive; in and of itself, that was the only success that could be gauged.

Late in the afternoon, a second lieutenant arrived, looking for the squad leader. He was from the artillery commandant headquarters. Schroeder had informed every officer that would listen that he had taken over command of the squad after all the NCOs had been killed. He went with the lieutenant, who didn’t explain why or where (and Schroeder knew not to ask). He had been gone for several hours when a runner, assigned to the artillery observers, scurried up to where they had dug in. He announced that Corporal Schroeder’s squad was to pack up their gear and follow him. Assailed with a multitude of questions, the runner remained crouched, trying to keep from being fully exposed. The position was not so far back that a stray shell from enemy artillery couldn’t reach them. An occasional round would scream in and crash down; luckily, the harassment fire was few and far between, and the shells didn’t land too close. Nevertheless, the runner was unnerved and anxious to leave. He didn’t answer any of the questions the squad hurled at him, namely, when were they getting something to eat, and how long would it take to get sent back to their unit? The runner merely snapped at them to hurry it along, which only brought on another round of gripes and grumbling.

Braun had since replaced Ganz as the number two gunner on the MG42, a role he clearly did not enjoy. He had to carry the sling of replacement barrels and lug the ammo boxes for Detwiler, who took every advantage of having someone to boss around. To lighten the load, Angst and Schmidt offered to take some of their friend’s gear and his rifle. They climbed out of their holes and followed the runner down the railroad tracks. The artillery command had set up headquarters a couple of kilometers further down the line, but the runner didn’t lead them that far. Instead, after walking only half a kilometer, he made them stop at a ganger’s hut, a small wood structure with a rusting tin roof. An armored scout car and a foreign-made truck were parked nearby. The runner told them to wait and entered the hut. He remained inside for only moments, then he exited along with the second lieutenant from before. Again they were told to wait; the corporal would be finishing up presently. Angst spoke up. “What’s this about, Lieutenant?”

“I can’t answer that question, Corporal, but I’m sure you will be briefed at the proper time.” Then, followed by the runner, the junior officer receded down the tracks.

“Are we in some kind of trouble, do you think?” Schmidt asked.

Angst could not think of anything offhand. “I’m sure Schroeder is putting whoever is asking the questions into perspective.”

Two men leaned against the side of the truck and smoked, obviously bored with the long wait. There were quite a few butts littering the ground at their feet, and they regarded the squad’s arrival with passing interest. The one dressed in soiled mechanic overalls was a sergeant, Angst saw, and the other dense, fireplug-shaped fellow with a thick moustache, despite the Wehrmacht-issue fatigue dress, was Russian. He became aware of Angst and Schmidt’s stares and, rather than take offense, smiled quite welcomingly. In heavily accented German, the Hiwi said, “Good day, Soldaten. My name Josef.” They introduced themselves to the Hiwi and the sergeant, whose name was Vogel.

“What’s your outfit?” Angst asked.

“Recon-Intelligence.”

“With the Twenty-Third?”

“No. We’re special. If we answer to anyone higher up, it would be to Army Group.”

Braun had just approached and heard what the sergeant said. Out of breath, he dumped the load of ammo boxes and quiver of barrels loudly on the ground. “They’ve got Russians working at Army Group intelligence,” he said caustically. “No wonder we’re getting whipped.”

“Josef is only a driver,” Vogel said, unruffled by Braun’s thoughtless remark, and patted the side of the truck. Then he pointed to the 222 armored scout car. “That one is mine. I’m Captain Falkenstein’s driver.”

“Is that name supposed to mean something to me?”

“I gather it will, in time.”

Before Braun could say anything more (as he was sounding hostile and could land himself in trouble), Angst interrupted. “Do you know what this is about, Sergeant? Why have we been summoned?”

“Nobody tells me anything, and I don’t know anything. This is, after all, intelligence.” Vogel smiled.

Braun leaned over toward Angst and whispered in his ear, “Fucking comedian. I don’t trust that in an NCO.”

Something of a disturbance occurred over by the scout car. Detwiler had been circling the vehicle as if appraising the worth of a stud horse or prize bull. He pressed his face close to the opened side port and peered in. “Hello in there. Machine gunner Ernst Detwiler. Pleased to meet you.” He could barely make out the whites of a pair of eyes that stared back from within the darkened interior. “Hello, I said. Don’t care to introduce yourself? That’s not good manners.” There was a growl, followed by a bark so loud and piercing, it caused him to jump back. “Hey,” he shouted, as the barking continued, “what have you in here, a Doberman?”

Vogel and Josef laughed, but their faces turned serious when Detwiler poked the muzzle of the MG42 into the port opening before the armored shutter had time to close. Whatever was inside took hold of the barrel and tugged violently. Detwiler needed both hands and all his strength just to maintain his grip as the weapon began to disappear into the port. He wriggled back and forth like a hooked fish, yet the more energy he expended, trying to extricate the machine gun from the clutches of whatever was inside the scout car, the less it was under his control. Finally, he lost his grip completely, and the momentum forced him to the ground. The gun flew out of the port like a gob of spit and nearly brained him.

“What sort of a creature have you got in there?” Detwiler bellowed as he picked himself and the MG42 up from the ground.

“That’s Khan, the captain’s scout,” Vogel said.

“The captain’s dog, I would say!”

“No, I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Vogel said in a more serious tone. “He’s a shaman.”

“A what?”

“A shaman,” Vogel repeated. “Like a witchdoctor or medicine man.”

“Yaps like a dog, I tell you,” Detwiler grumbled. He worked his arms and shoulders around in circles after having been twisted about so roughly.

“Lucky the gun wasn’t loaded,” Angst said.

“Yeah. Detwiler’s stupid enough to pull the trigger,” Braun commented.

“Wouldn’t have made much of a difference to Khan,” the sergeant assured them.

“How do you figure?” Wilms, aroused by the excitement, had come over and wormed his way into the conversation.

“Khan is in possession of some kind of magic. I don’t know how it works, but I’ve seen him survive a hail of gunfire without as much as a scratch.”

Braun was annoyed. “What sort of proof is that?”

Wilms agreed. “We face a shit-storm of lead and steel every day. See any of us bleeding?”

“Have it your own way,” Vogel replied. “I’m talking about point-blank range with a Pshagin. All it did was knock him over. Nothing penetrated. I witnessed it myself.”

Angst didn’t know what to make of the game the sergeant was playing at, but spinning a fantastic yarn to weary grenadiers apparently amused him in some way.

“Why won’t he show himself?” Schmidt inquired.

“Don’t waste your time, Willi,” Angst said. “It’s all a crock. The sergeant is having us on.”

Vogel shook his head earnestly. “No, I’m not. Khan rarely leaves the vehicle, and when he does, it’s usually at night. I’ve known him to spend days on end in the gun turret.”

“Must smell like a kennel in there,” Detwiler said, belaboring the canine theme.

Vogel took a more serious tone. “We’ve penetrated thousands of kilometers and have yet to reach the heart of this country. There are people and things here that we can’t explain or comprehend. Strange and some wonderful things, I should imagine.”

“I for one have seen more of my share of Mother Russia,” Braun said, “and with the route this war’s taken, I’ll get to see her all over again.”

“Amen to that,” Schmidt affirmed.

They all ceased talking as Schroeder came out of the ganger’s hut. “Get in the truck,” he said, in his uniquely disdainful manner. When Detwiler asked where they were going, Schroeder kept his eyes fixed on the ground and said again, “Get in the truck.”

Gathering their gear, they climbed onto the flatbed. The machine gunner made sure he got a place in front so he could lean against the cab’s rear wall and saved the place beside him for Schroeder. The rest made themselves as comfortable as possible, using packs and shelter halves for cushioning and support.

“Wherever we’re going is fine by me,” Braun announced, “providing it’s on a set of wheels. Anything’s better than marching around this infernal steppe on foot.”

“We’ve been assigned to Captain Falkenstein’s unit,” Schroeder informed the group.

“By whose authority?” Angst asked.

“A lot has happened over the past few days.”

Angst objected. “Our place is back with battalion.”

“A lot of units have broken up due to the withdrawal and are being reassembled as best as possible. It’s only temporary, the captain told me, until the new defensive line is reestablished and command figures out what the hell it’s doing.”

“Who is he, and what does he want with us?”

“We’ll be providing security for the captain’s ongoing reconnaissance mission.”

“What does the mission entail?”

“He did not see fit to give me all the details, Angst. Don’t worry, you’ll be returned to your outfit soon enough, although I doubt if there’s much of a battalion left to speak of.”

Angst could not help but think the corporal knew more than he was saying. The squad all turned to look as their new commanding officer left the ganger’s hut, a leather portfolio thick with papers tucked under his arm, and limped over to the scout car.

“What a scarecrow,” Braun muttered.

Falkenstein signaled to the Hiwi, who jumped into the cab and started the engine. Exhaust fumes filtered up through the seams in the flatbed. Refusing any offer of help from his driver, the captain squeezed into the small side port hatch of the scout car, quite skillfully despite his disability, and disappeared behind the armored panel door.

“You were in there with him for an awfully long time,” Wilms said to Schroeder.

“I had to brief the captain about our adventures over the past few days.”

“You told him about the tank?”

“He specifically wanted to hear about the tank.”

“Everything?” Detwiler asked.

“The captain expressed a wish that I be candid. Relax,” and he patted the gunner on the knee, “there is nothing to worry about. The captain said we did all we could, given the circumstances.”

“Hey, Schroeder, did you mention how you got lost in a thicket of weeds when the assault gun you were supposed to protect got blown sky high?”

Braun’s question stopped everyone cold. He’s really begging for it, Angst thought. He searched the corporal’s face for a reaction, but Schroeder remained quite placid, despite the incendiary nature of the remark.

“The captain listened with keen interest on that subject. I explained everything in detail. I’m sure he will ask your version of events at some point, Braun.”

The truck bounced along the rutted dirt road. The scout car pulled up alongside and then passed, leaving them choking on the dust. Schroeder was unaffected and did not cough, as did the rest of the squad. “Braun?” he said.

“What?” Braun managed to splutter.

“From now on you had better address me as ‘Corporal.’ If you know what’s good for you.”

Braun rolled his eyes and prepared to dismiss the request, but Schroeder persisted. His malevolent gaze bore into the grenadier long and hard. Understanding just how serious Schroeder was on this point, Braun finally said, “Yes, Corporal.”

Despite the continual jolting, due to the truck’s worn suspension, the men took the opportunity to nap—except for Angst, who suddenly became too wide awake. Furtively, he looked at Schroeder, head tilted back and eyes not quite closed, as he bounced along with the rest of them. What has this son of a bitch got us into? he wondered. Angst had a strong urge to confront him but realized he hadn’t the nerve. He was afraid to speak his mind. The larger, more powerful Detwiler he had risked squaring off with—and, should that happen, the results would be a disaster for Angst. Yet it was the gunner’s animal stupidity that inflamed him to action, despite the foreseeable consequences. Schroeder, on the other hand, was a completely different entity. Medium build and not in the least tall in stature, he had a schoolboy’s face set in a mean expression that never seemed to change. He didn’t cut the sort of figure one would think twice about, but from what Angst had experienced in the short time under the corporal’s leadership, he understood him to be ruthlessly cold, vindictive, and needlessly cruel. And at this moment, Angst did not want those traits turned toward him, so he backed down. He simply wanted to state that he did not appreciate being volunteered, whatever the circumstances or the reasons. He could include his own people if he saw the need, but as Angst understood it, he wanted his own squad left out of it. Schroeder had no right to them; Schmidt and Braun were all that remained of their platoon, and Angst was responsible for them. They belonged with the battalion, whatever was left of it. Angst had no idea what they were in for, but one look at that captain, and he knew it wasn’t going to be good.

18

Upon returning to Combat Group headquarters, Junger and the radio equipment were delivered back to Captain Beck’s charge. When replacements were eventually assigned, Voss would welcome the signalman’s expertise. The youth shook hands with Reinhardt and Hartmann and said he’d volunteer if he were able. Without the slightest trace of arrogance, Junger added that he doubted the intelligence staff would let him go, as he was too good at his job. After they said their good-byes and the corporal left the Hanomag, Beck congratulated them for the superb manner in which they had accomplished the mission. He passed along Colonel Hahn’s apologies for not being present to greet them, as he’d been summoned to an important staff meeting. There was no opportunity for an official debriefing, as Beck was pressed for time, although he did show Voss the general area on the map where his battalion operated. When the Combat Group linked up with the other divisions, namely the Ninth and Twenty-Third Panzers, there was a tendency toward overlap. The battalion covered a wide sector twelve kilometers further to the southeast. Skirmishes were flaring up all along the line and then quieting down, only to erupt in some other sector. This had been the rule since early morning. T-34s constantly probed and were kept in check by the few self-propelled guns at their disposal.

The first chore Voss and the crew had to undertake upon leaving Beck was to tow a Pak38 and transport the gun crew. The antitank cannon were to beef up an area undergoing repeated forays by enemy armor. Reconnaissance assumed it was no more than a feint rather than an all-out attack, but nothing could be left to chance. The consensus was that the Russians would continue to apply pressure, but it would be a couple of days before a major assault was launched. Their heavy artillery had to be moved up and into place, and that would cost the Red Army some time.

After the Pak crew had dug in and camouflaged the gun, a radio message relayed the designated sector Voss was responsible to keep under observation. Upon their arrival they were met by Griem’s adjutant, Lieutenant Konrad, who was in temporary command of the battalion. An important staff meeting was brewing, and a number of field officers, including the captain, were flocking to the rear at an undisclosed location. Konrad implied some important announcement was in the offing—he didn’t know what, but nonetheless the officer seemed pleased with himself that he could relate this much to Voss.

Activity gradually stabilized by nightfall. Flares lit up the sky, and there was the occasional stutter from the MG42s. The Hanomag had repositioned itself several kilometers to the rear of the front line, close to where an under strength platoon had dug in for the night. A coded message was received from the battalion command vehicle. Voss was ordered to stand by and wait for a visit from the CO.

* * *

Well after midnight the puttering of a motorcycle could be heard. Hartmann went to the aft machine gun and pointed west, the direction the sound originated from.

The engine noise increased in volume until it was suddenly switched off, and the motorcycle coasted to within a few meters of the armored vehicle. A dark form climbed out of the sidecar and approached.

“Turn that weapon aside, if you don’t mind. It’s me, Griem.”

“Sorry, Captain,” Hartmann said, and swiveled the machine gun away from the officer. Voss opened the crew compartment doors wide enough to allow the captain to enter.

“That will be all, Corporal,” Griem said, and the driver stepped out of the crew compartment. Griem then sat down on a bench nearest the rear doors. Sergeant Reinhardt was up in the co-driver’s seat, monitoring transmissions on the radio. “Anything happening I should know about, Lieutenant?” Griem asked.

“Enemy patrols are trying to work their way in to do some damage, only they haven’t had any success. At least not in our sector.”

The captain uttered his approval. “The theory at headquarters is that nothing significant is expected from the Russians over the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours. The First Guard Mechanized and the Twenty-Third Tank Corps received quite a thump on their return to South-West Front. They are in no mood to see action yet.”

“Was that the subject of the briefing?”

“Partly. That’s why I’m here. It’s official. As of twenty-four hundred hours, September fifteenth, Army Group South is to withdraw to the west bank of the Dniepr River.”

Voss exhaled a sigh that drained the frustrations, hardships, and even the anger that had accumulated over the past weeks. These were expected, needed words to hear; finally, the hopes of thousands of men fulfilled.

“Quite a number were there, including some of the staff from the Twenty-Third and Fretter-Pico’s Thirtieth Corps. I saw more than a few battle-hardened officers weep with gratitude when they heard the news. There is no other alternative open for us. Not without reinforcement, and that’s not to be had. The field marshal has understood all along what needed to be done, only it took some time for Berlin to accede to the reality of the situation. Well, there is no denying the reality any longer.”

Voss agreed and asked how they would proceed next.

“As you know, division has set up headquarters at Zaporozhye. The Combat Group will fall back to form part of a defensive ring east of the city as part of General Heinrici’s Panzer Corps. Exact details of the plan will be issued later.”

Zaporozhye played a pivotal strategic role, Voss knew. The enormous dam and power stations supplied electricity for the industrial and mining centers throughout the western Ukraine. During the Wehrmacht’s advance in ’41, the Soviets had sabotaged the dam before retreating further to the east. German engineers were required to spend a great amount of time bringing the facilities back online; even now, the electrical output capacity had yet to be fully restored. Zaporozhye was a prize the Fuehrer would not allow to be lost.

“Colonel Hahn gave the briefing,” Griem continued. “I imagine he wanted to be the one to convey some good news for a change, after so many months of sending us out on fire brigade duties. All orders concerning the strategic withdrawal will devolve from the respective Army headquarters, First Panzer, Sixth, Eighth, etcetera, and will coordinate with Army Group command. All strategic forces are to remain intact and cohesion maintained. ‘Grave risks will be undertaken. Difficult orders carried out. More sacrifices will be asked of you and your men to achieve this goal,’ to quote the Colonel.”

As always, Voss thought, only now the stakes are that much higher. Griem slipped a hand into the pocket of his field tunic, brought out a piece of paper, and gave it to Voss. “Your new orders.” it was too dark to read; Voss went for the flashlight clipped to his epaulette, but Griem stopped him. “I know what it says. You and your crew are to report to Reconnaissance Group Falkenstein and assist in all matters pertaining to the captain’s ongoing operation until further notice. Signed by Colonel Hahn.”

Voss was taken by complete surprise and did not know how to react.

“You must have made quite an impression on the captain.”

“It’s unfortunate I wasted precious fuel on the way back here. The captain should have held onto me while I was still in his possession.”

“You were needed here and still are. It was a last-minute decision on the colonel’s part. He was being pressured but did not confide as to by whom. I protested, vigorously, to the point where he almost told me to shut up. I went so far as to say the order negated the theme spelled out in the briefing that all strategic forces were to remain intact. I don’t much care to loan out men or needed transport, especially under present circumstances, but the colonel wouldn’t relent. He was of the opinion you would be of greater value at the captain’s side.”

“Did the colonel mention the specifics regarding Captain Falkenstein’s operation?”

“He did.”

“Would you care to relate any conclusions drawn from that knowledge?”

Griem allowed a long silence to pass. Finally, he said, “I believe the captain’s efforts will be seriously hampered by the retreat. He will be required to make for the river along with the rest of us. Material shortages, not to mention the Russians, will see to that.”

“I meant regarding the captain’s pursuit of Red Vengeance. Do you think the operation has any merit?”

“I am in no position to judge. There are a number of high-ranking officers who believe the mission is worthwhile. Hoth, Von Vormann, and Von Mackensen, to name but a few. I’ve heard the rumors as, no doubt, you have also. Perhaps something of a morale issue is at stake here, I don’t know. Use the same manner of professionalism you have illustrated to me and get the matter over with. Falkenstein is damned lucky to have you.”

“Thank you, Captain.” The words did not bolster Voss as much as he would have liked.

“Just remember, above all else, I expect you to report back to the battalion with your crew and this vehicle in operational condition. Is that clear, Lieutenant?”

Voss could not see Griem’s face, but he sensed he was smiling. “That is an order I will carry out with pleasure, sir.”

“Get on the move before sunrise. There is no telling what the situation will be like, now that the retreat is in effect.” He stood up and clasped Voss’s hand. “Until we meet again, Lieutenant.”

Yes, thought Voss, with any luck, God willing, we will meet again by the river or someplace in between.

19

The kolkhoz was a scene of utter commotion when the Hanomag arrived. Staff cars were heaped with officers’ luggage; lorries and wagons were loaded with supplies and equipment. By the look of many of the articles to be carted away—oriental rugs, samovars, furniture, and religious icons in gilded frames—it appeared the rear area personnel managed to get their hands on more than a few valuables. They had been busy since the evacuation from the Don Bas. The peasants were being forced to leave. Scenes were occurring, some nasty and brutal, as order police forcibly evicted the more recalcitrant occupants who did not want to surrender their homes.

Hartmann parked the vehicle at the rear of Lieutenant Gottfried’s billet. The American-made truck was nowhere in sight, but several grenadiers, appearing clean and groomed, lounged in the shade by the back door. Voss wasted no time and went immediately to the cottage. When he entered, Falkenstein was on the field telephone and beckoned him to the table where he sat. A large map lay open, illustrating the operational theater of the Army Group from the Sea of Azov in the south and as far north as the boundary with Army Group Center. A line had been drawn with charcoal pencil, indicating the Armies’ latest defensive positions. If the map was accurate, over one hundred kilometers separated the front from the great river to the west.

“Very well. Keep me informed.” Falkenstein hung up the receiver and looked at Voss. “Lieutenant Gottfried is trying to maintain some lines of communication until the last possible moment. Thank you for coming, Lieutenant.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” Voss replied.

“I have no doubt that you will. Now, allow me to brief you on the situation, as I understand it so far, and the part we will play.” Falkenstein stood up and leaned over the map. “First Panzer Army will fall back to the bridges at Dnepropetrovsk and Zaporozhye. Eighth Army intends to cross at Kremenchug and Cherkassy. General Hoth’s Fourth Panzer Army will make for the bridge at Kanev, establish the defense of Kiev, and link at the junction with Army Group Center further to the north.”

Voss tried to imagine the scope of such a daunting task. Nearly a million men and civilian employees of the Wehrmacht would have to withdraw from along a front line of over nine hundred kilometers. The armies in question had only six bridges available to cross and would then have to form a new front line of over seven hundred kilometers on the west bank of the Dniepr. This had to be accomplished in an orderly fashion, without panic, and under combat conditions as an enemy with a six-to-one ratio of superiority pursued them the entire way. Only the strategic genius of Field Marshal von Manstein would even consider such an audacious plan; whether a division general or a grenadier, this was the only option left if the Army Group was to survive and the southern half of the front hold. Voss prayed it wasn’t too late. “What of Sixth Army, captain?”

“Sixth Army will establish a defensive line, designated Wotan, that will extend from Zaporozhye across the Nogay Steppe to as far south as Melitopol. Now—this is important—as the armies converge toward the crossings, the areas in between will become broader and unprotected. The Russians will try to establish bridgeheads along the river at every opportunity. We will be in those open spaces, Lieutenant. Companies, battalions, even regimental—all arms groups are destined to get cut off from their neighbors on either flank. Depending upon the vicinity of where we happen to be, at the right time, we can provide valuable reconnaissance to these units.”

“With the disruption of communication, which is to be expected with a retreat of this magnitude, how will we know to be in the right place at the right time?”

“A question I thought you would ask, and a legitimate one. Lieutenant Gottfried will return to Zaporozhye and coordinate efforts with the signals branch at Army Group to monitor reports and keep us informed. Much the same as he was doing for me here, before, with the listening station. There is no foolproof guarantee. I have learned from experience that this hunt requires a certain amount of intuitive response. Red Vengeance has been active in First Panzer Army sector and the northern wing of Sixth Army, and that is where we will concentrate our attention for the time being.”

At first Voss had hoped the mission of the reconnaissance group would have been altered due to the new circumstances, but he realized he was terribly naïve to think so. The captain had merely predicated their main objective with other duties to make the exercise more palatable for him personally. Nothing had changed. Falkenstein was after Red Vengeance, and Voss was his adjutant. Next, Falkenstein directed his attention to the area around Zaporozhye. “A defensive salient is to be established to protect the city and the hydroelectric works,” he said.

“Yes, my battalion commander informed me. Our division will take part in the defense,” Voss replied.

“One of several divisions. A panzer and army corps will establish positions on the northeast bank of the reservoir and extend ten to twelve kilometers east. This salient should thwart any penetrations the Russians try to make between the Dniepr bend and the Sea of Azov. It will give cover to the northern flank of Sixth Army and at the same time interfere with any thrusts toward Dnepropetrovsk.”

“With that much firepower at our back, we have the advantage of operating in the area pretty much at will,” Voss said.

“For a short time only I should think, Lieutenant. Once the salient is up to strength and dug in, I believe Red Vengeance will be found trolling for small, vulnerable units to the south near the Mololchnaya River, or perhaps a little further.”

Small, vulnerable units, Voss thought, such as Reconnaissance Group Falkenstein. There were several other details to discuss before the briefing was over. The radio call sign aboard the armored personnel carrier would transmit and receive as “Sundial 251.” Falkenstein’s vehicle would remain Sundial. Upon leaving the kolkhoz, they would drive west, toward Novo-Moskovsk. Sometime in the evening, the captain expected to meet up with Josef and Andrei, who had gone to recover a store of supplies and fuel. Depending on the time and how much light was left, they would turn south and officially begin the mission. “One other item to bring to your attention, Lieutenant. I’ve replenished your crew with the same poor devils who managed to survive our quarry. They might bring us some luck.”

“Have they been informed of the mission, sir?”

“Not yet. Gottfried prepared them for your arrival, but that was all. They are all too jubilant over the retreat at the moment. I can still count on your discretion concerning the matter? Good. I will address the entire crew in due time.”

“As you wish, Captain.” Dismissed, Voss saluted and left the cottage. The command vehicle had since been parked in front, and Vogel was securing extra gear to the armored body. Water and fuel cans and miscellaneous equipment, covered with tarpaulins and shelter halves, decorated the 222, which now looked as though it belonged to some exotic caravan. Khan was with the sergeant, helping to tie the stuff down. This was the first time Voss had seen the “Mongol” up close. A red ochre–colored sash was wrapped around his waist, and a wickedly curved blade with an antler handle was tucked into it. Khan’s black hair was long and still unkempt. Although Khan did not greet his stare, Voss sensed the man knew he was being observed, critically so, and would purposely ignore Voss for as long as he kept him under watch. Khan expressed a fleeting smile and then scrambled, agilely, on to the scout car and disappeared down the turret. Vogel had made no attempt at introductions and stayed busy with his work.

Over by the Hanomag, one of the new men, a corporal, illustrated the method used to dismount from the vehicle. In full combat gear, weapon in one hand, the other resting on the top edge of the armored siding, the corporal vaulted over smoothly and landed on the ground on both feet. Flawlessly executed, but panzergrenadiers rarely left the crew compartment these days, Voss mused. The armor offered protection against small-arms fire and fragmentation from shell bursts. The high casualty rate was due in part to the vehicles being struck by armor-piercing rounds. The armored personnel carrier was never intended to withstand abuse of such magnitude. Reinhardt joined him. “We have some new faces, Lieutenant.”

“So I’ve been informed. How do they appear?”

“See for yourself. That’s Corporal Schroeder. Very enthusiastic. The corporal, a machine gunner, and a signalman were escorts with a self-propelled battery.”

“And his pupils?”

“Regular infantry. Their morale is low, according to the corporal, but he assured me he will do whatever is necessary to keep them in line.”

“Did he, now?”

Voss continued to watch as the three infantrymen were put through their paces. One grenadier, whom the corporal zealously admonished, climbed over the siding one leg at a time and took full advantage of the benches inside the crew compartment and the toolboxes fixed to the mudguard as he stepped up, out, and down.

“That’s Braun. Evidently the wit of the group,” Reinhardt said.

Voss detected the subtle pleasure Braun took in tormenting his instructor.

“That lance corporal there, Angst is his name, has already been on me about when he and his men would be returned to their battalion. He said he did not volunteer himself or his men.”

“Impertinent fellow.”

“They’re just disheartened. With the retreat on, unfamiliar faces, and a strange outfit, and no clue as to where they are going…”

Had he not known his sergeant so well, Voss could have interpreted the last statement as a hint. “I’m sure the captain will crystallize the situation for us very soon, Sergeant.” He then decided to hold an inspection. Schroeder was about to have the squad repeat the exercise when, to his chagrin, Reinhardt barked out the order to assemble. The six grenadiers lined up at attention alongside the vehicle. Hands folded behind his back, walking erect, Voss established an official demeanor and reviewed the new crew. When asked, each gave his name, rank, and unit of origin. “I am Lieutenant Erich Rainer Voss. We will all be serving the captain for an undetermined period of time. There has been some question as to when you will be returned to your respective units. Now that the retreat is in effect, we all find ourselves in circumstances that are somewhat unique. Such are the demands for the sake of expedience. When our work is completed, I will see to it that no time is wasted in returning you to your regiment, battalion, assault gun brigade, or wherever it is you belong. Until then, your only concern is to follow orders. Sergeant Reinhardt, you may take over and see that the crew gets squared away properly.”

Voss faded into the background as the sergeant had everyone gather around him, including Hartmann. “I want to say a few words about how things work around here. With the lieutenant on board, you will be in close proximity of an officer at all times. The lieutenant has an easygoing manner, and you can relax in his company most of the time. Don’t mistake this as a lack of discipline or permissiveness. If you do, you will find out just how wrong you are. With nine or ten men aboard, it’s close quarters in the crew compartment. You will have to eat, sleep, and fight from this vehicle. You will all have to behave with self-discipline, cooperation, and courtesy. Practice all three at all times, and we will get along perfectly. If you haven’t gotten used to one another yet, you had better start now; otherwise, you will have me to take into consideration. The crew is family, and the Hanomag is home. Keep that ideal uppermost in your minds. To my left, here, is Corporal Heinz Hartmann, our number one driver. Love and care for this vehicle as much as the corporal, and you will have made a friend for life. Are there any questions?”

“How fast can this battle wagon get us to the river?” Braun asked.

“Would you care to answer, Corporal Hartmann?”

“Certainly, Sergeant, but first I need to know how fast in forward or reverse?”

Braun thought for a moment, dimwittedly, to the snickering of his fellow grenadiers, before replying, “Why, forward, of course.”

“Not nearly fast enough,” Hartmann said, with a tinge of remorse.

“Any more questions?” Reinhardt asked. “No? Very well. You can start off by stowing your gear. The corporal will show you how.”

“Pardon me, Sergeant.”

“What is it…?”

“Schmidt. There’s a communion service scheduled for this morning. It’s already started. I was wondering if I might be excused so I could attend.”

Reinhardt pondered the request. “All right, Schmidt, provided you have somebody to look after your gear. Hurry back as soon as it’s over.”

“Yes, Sergeant. Thank you, Sergeant.” Schmidt removed his assault pack and set down his rifle and helmet.

“I’ll see to it, Willi,” Angst said.

“You’re Catholic, Johann. Why don’t you ask the sergeant if you can go, too?”

Angst smiled. “You can go for me.”

A large group of enlisted men and officers had gathered in a field at the far end of the long row of houses. A table had been moved outdoors and served as a make shift altar. The chaplain wore a chasuble over a soiled uniform. Schmidt ran off, as the homily had already started, and Angst lugged his friend’s gear and his own onto the Hanomag. Corporal Hartmann told them to lash mess tins, gas mask canisters, and canteens to the hand railing on the top edge of the armor siding and allow the equipment to hang outside. Several water cans, marked in white, already hung from the siding as well. There were four benches in the crew compartment, two on each side, padded with oxblood-colored cushions. The seats could be raised, and underneath was stowage for ammunition boxes for the machine guns and antitank mines. The padded backrests were lockers to hold field rations, personal gear, first aid kits, and extra weapons and flare guns. Machine gun barrel tubes were fitted in clips just behind the seating, and the carbines were mounted on brackets on the inside armor plating. Canvas sacks for spent shell casings hung from each of the double doors. Lengths of waterproof tarpaulin, neatly folded behind the co-driver’s seat, were used to cover the crew compartment during inclement weather. “The lieutenant is a stickler for tidiness,” Hartmann informed them, “so whatever you use, be sure to put back in its proper place.” He then pointed out the different hatch coverings, made of the same nonskid patterned metal as the decking. These were the intakes for fuel, oil and measuring stick for the main gearbox; up front between the driver and co-driver seats was the oil intake for the turning gear, and the large hatch accessed the turning brake and hand brake tuning. As Hartmann was about to refuel the vehicle, he asked Schroeder to lift the fuel intake hatch located at the rear of the deck. Eager to ingratiate himself with him, the corporal did as he was told and then followed the driver to the front end of the vehicle where one of the gasoline cans had been tied. Hartmann then showed Schroeder where the funnel was stored, in the wood toolbox mounted on the fender over the track assembly. Reinhardt had Detwiler replace the MG34 with his ’42 on the aft swivel mount; and as the gunner tackled this chore, Reinhardt familiarized Wilms with the radio and the codes they normally employed. After Angst and Braun finished tying down their gear and storing the extra machine gun ammunition, there was little for them to do but try out the seats. The experience would prove novel for the two common foot soldiers. “So, what do you think of our new outfit?” Braun asked.

“Too early to tell. We could have done a lot worse.” Angst really couldn’t complain. Upon their arrival at the kolkhoz, everyone had bathed and shaved, and Andrei gave them haircuts. The Hiwi wasn’t a bad barber. Lieutenant Gottfried had even scared up clean underclothes and new socks.

“This might not be so bad, Angst. We could have ended up as rear guard for the entire retreat.”

The thought had crossed Angst’s mind, also, and he was grateful it wasn’t so. A delicate sound of bells carried on the warm breeze caught their attention. They watched as the chaplain raised the Eucharist to the assembly.

“Why didn’t you go with Schmidt?” Braun asked.

“I stopped practicing a long time ago.”

“But did you stop believing? Now, that’s the question.”

“I believe in the old gods. Wotan. Loki.”

Braun’s laugh was sarcastic. “The old gods! You? Norse mythology and rune symbols? That’s not going to help get you out of the muck we’re up to our asses in.”

“I wasn’t serious,” Angst replied.

Soon the crowd broke up and left the field in different directions. Schmidt returned, entered the crew compartment, and took a seat.

“Feel better?” Braun asked.

“Yes, I do. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen a chaplain, let alone gone to service. Not since all the moving around.”

“Did you know our friend the corporal here is a pagan? Had you even the slightest suspicion, Wilhelm?”

Angst had to accept the fact that Braun would hold just about everything and everyone to ridicule. It helped dispel the apathy, boredom, and, sometimes, the fear. At least his own spirits would be lifted, even if at the expense of whoever was the object of his derision. At the moment, Angst didn’t mind.

Schmidt shook his head in his quiet, serious way. “No. I didn’t know, but having an understanding, even a healthy respect for one’s ancient cultural origins and beliefs isn’t such a bad thing. Only it should not be misappropriated.”

“How do you mean?” Angst said.

“Well, I don’t know exactly. Twisting the meanings of things so they fit some belief or theory of convenience.” Schmidt spoke cautiously, hesitantly.

“Oh, you mean like the party?” Braun said, purposely loud and blustery so as to watch, with mirth, as his friend squirmed.

“I don’t know. I…I suppose. What about you, Friedrich?”

“Me? The Braun family is Lutheran, and I’m a hypocrite, because the only time I consider the Lord or my immortal soul is when I’m in combat. Or actually, right before the fight starts. I pray, feverishly, that I come out of it alive and swear all sorts of oaths and promises to God if he sees me through. Like promising never to get drunk or gamble and cheat at cards. And never, ever will I step foot inside a brothel. And guess what? So far I have made it through alive, and I pick up right where I left off.”

“That’s not hypocrisy; everyone does that. Those are merely soldiers’ amusements,” Schmidt said.

“But I don’t think about God until I’m in mortal fear of my life, and then I go running like some child hiding behind his mother’s skirts. My lack of conviction upsets me at times. You don’t know how it can make me suffer. And don’t think I’m making a joke of this, because I see Angst is smiling.”

Angst shook his head. “I was only thinking of something my father once said—that as creatures of intellect, human beings needed to invent God and thus an afterlife, despite their better judgment.”

“Is your father an atheist?” Schmidt asked with concerned seriousness.

“No, not really. He’s more a humanist, if anything. He believes in man’s better nature, although that expression has become somewhat stifled at this point. It’s an ongoing process that has to evolve. Father said no other animal has the awareness of its own mortality…that someday it will die. Not like us. Some belief had to be created to quell that unbearable knowledge. He’d go to church, on occasion, mostly to please my mother. She, on the other hand, went every Sunday and observed all the holy days, and she made my sister and me go as well. In one of her last letters, she wrote that Father had been going to Mass with her more often than not. I guess the point I’m trying to make is, the times have grown so very dark for the best and the worst of us. Don’t be so hard on yourself, Freddy, for your lack of convictions. There are some terrible ones at work in the world right now that aren’t worth having.”

“It quiets me,” Schmidt said. “This war has become our Calvary. I can’t say going to service gives me strength or peace of mind—I possess neither—but it makes me prepared.”

“Prepared for what?” Braun asked, his voice almost hostile.

“I don’t know. Certainly not dying, if that’s what you’re thinking, because more than ever I want to get out of this war alive and preferably in one piece. Perhaps I’m preparing myself to accept that this may not happen, and that I do not falter or become bitter, and that I never lose hope.”

Braun chuckled, even though he was not immune to his friend’s words. “Jesus, Wilhelm, you are praying for way too much.”

“Endure that you may continue to endure. Hope that there is still hope. That’s all we have going for us now.” Schmidt ceased talking. Down below from where they sat, Schroeder replaced the oversized funnel back in the toolbox on the fender. When finished, he closed the lid and climbed into the vehicle and inspected how well the equipment had been tied down. There did not appear to be any fault. “Everything seems to be in order…what are you three up to?”

“We were having a philosophical discussion,” Braun said earnestly, “about fate and its influence on paganism, religious belief, and hypocrisy. Or do I mean that the other way around?”

Schroeder regarded them all sourly. “So far you have proven to be more trouble than you’re worth. Especially you, Braun. The captain put me in charge of you, and I won’t let him down—and I won’t allow you to put anything over on me in the process. Just you try it and see what happens.”

“I think you can unburden yourself of some of that responsibility as of this moment.”

“Oh? And how did you come to reach that conclusion, Angst?”

“Because there’s a lieutenant and a sergeant in charge of us now. So if you want to order any of us about, why don’t you go to the end of the line and wait your turn?” Angst felt good for speaking up. It helped make up for keeping silent in the truck the day before. Not that his words would have changed anything. Schroeder looked like a thermometer left in the direct sun. He was ready to blow when a paroxysm of anger, greater than what he could possibly muster, discharged from out of the cottage. The noise was so frightful, all voices were silenced. The rear door of the main house swung open and banged shut as Lieutenant Gottfried scurried past the armored carrier and made his way toward the captain’s quarters. Voss intercepted him halfway across the yard. “My God, whatever is the matter?” Voss asked, almost tempted to un-holster his pistol, the sound had unnerved him so.

Gottfried stopped short. “I tried to explain the situation, but it is completely out of my hands. There is nothing I or anyone can do to make it right.”

“Will you please make sense, Lieutenant? Tell me what has happened.”

Gottfried took a breath. “The captain sent Josef and Andrei to recover a cache of fuel and supplies, but they were stopped and diverted to Pavlograd. Their truck has been commandeered. Thirty Corps needs every available vehicle to assist in the evacuation of the city. Josef finally managed to radio and inform me of what happened. I, in turn, told the captain. No doubt you heard the result.”

“Is there no one at Corps or Army Group that can help?”

“I tried. Do you think anyone is willing to invest the time to bother about a single truck and a couple of Hiwis, with all that is going on? I was laughed off the telephone. At least I saved the captain from that humiliation.” Gottfried added, sheepishly, “The captain frightens me when he becomes angry.”

Voss hoped such outbursts did not occur often. “Let me see if I can help sort things out.”

Relieved, the signal officer was more than grateful to stay put. When Voss entered the cottage, he found the captain leaning over the table, head bowed. The field telephone lay on the floor and the receiver in the far corner of the room, its line completely severed. Sergeant Vogel was packing the captain’s personal gear and clothing and carried on with the discretion of a majordomo.

“I have just received regrettable news,” Falkenstein murmured.

“Lieutenant Gottfried informed me, sir.”

“Josef and Andrei left hours ago. It was our plan to reunite with the supplies…what are your fuel and ammunition reserves?”

“Two thousand rounds for the machine guns and some extra ammunition for the small arms. Several grenades.”

“Antitank mines? Panzerfausts?”

“No, sir. We left all antitank weapons with the battalion before our departure.”

“Inadequate, as I had guessed. And your fuel reserves are no better, I’m sure.”

“I have no reserves of fuel to speak of, sir.” Voss did not need to remind the captain that the responsibility for outfitting the unit was his alone. “The only alternative is to retrieve the supplies ourselves. Where is the cache hidden, sir?”

“A machine tractor station off the Novo-Moskovsk-Krasnograd highway. The petrol is there, enough to keep us on the move for days. Without it we can expect to be at the mercy of the supply companies, and you can be sure they will be among the first to cross the Dniepr.”

Voss grasped the dilemma. With the retreat in full swing, supplying mobile forces engaged in defensive actions would be a serious challenge. Available stocks would go directly to tanks and assault guns.

“There is a farmhouse nearby,” Falkenstein continued, “where the chief engineer of the station resides, Hubert Franz. He’s an acquaintance who has offered valuable assistance in the past. The extra supplies, most importantly antitank weapons, are hidden in the house. I was in contact with Herr Franz via radio last night. He said the fuel would be kept safe and made available for the Hiwis upon their arrival.”

“If we were to leave now, what would you estimate our travel time?” Voss asked.

“Depending on the cross-country route, at top speed with little or no deviation, late afternoon or early evening at best.” Falkenstein took a charcoal pencil and began to outline a route. Upon leaving the kolkhoz, they would take the Lozovaya highway and proceed north for ten kilometers and then detour to the west, crossing the Pavlograd-Kharkov rail line. There were no roads to speak of, only dirt tracks that passed through the villages and cut across the fields. After forty kilometers Voss would come to a fork in the road. The sign would read “Pereshchipino.” He was to take it, heading northwest for another twenty kilometers, until the road forked again. “Take the left fork. It will continue due west and eventually intersect with the Novo-Moskovsk highway. The machine tractor station is here, another eight kilometers north.” Falkenstein pointed. The tractor station was south of the Orel River near the village of Golubovka. “Whatever you do, Lieutenant, don’t miss that left fork. The Pereshchipino road winds along the south bank of the Orel and will only add unnecessarily to your time.”

With the 222 being the faster of the two vehicles, it was Falkenstein’s intention to reach the station first and secure the fuel. He could then wait for Voss to catch up.

Suddenly there was an interruption, as an NCO from the Pioneer Company knocked at the door. “Excuse me, Captain, but how long do you plan to remain here? We have orders to torch the village.”

“Could you at least wait until I am safely out of the building?” Falkenstein screamed.

Dumbfounded by the near-hysterical manner in which he’d been addressed, the Pioneer sergeant remained rooted in the doorway.

“If you will permit me a few minutes to put some things in order,” Falkenstein added in a more civil tone.

The sergeant backed away, threw up his arms in frustration, and stormed off.

“There is another matter that could affect us, directly,” Falkenstein said gravely. “Early this morning, Voronezh Front broke through the right flank of Eighth Army.”

“How deep is the penetration?”

“That is a question I have yet to have answered to my satisfaction. I spoke to a colleague at Army Group headquarters. An all-out thrust by the enemy to secure the rail junction at Krasnograd is the assessment.”

The tractor station was close to the boundary of the Eighth Army sector, and the junction at Krasnograd, Voss judged by the map, indicated a distance of over sixty kilometers further north. Falkenstein continued to study the map with rapt intensity. He seemed to think if he gazed hard enough, his needs would be solved and any doubts diminished. The captain wanted both—to secure the supplies in the north and, to head south, where the demands of the mission dictated him to be. Without Josef and Andrei and the Ford that wasn’t going to be possible. He looked at his watch. “Zero nine hundred hours. No matter how late we leave the station, we will drive for as long and as far as possible. I don’t want us to get embroiled in any holding actions, should the situation deteriorate for the Eighth Army. Is that understood, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.” Voss then synchronized his wristwatch, so the time was the same as the captain’s.

Handing over the map he had just outlined, Falkenstein said, “Take this as your guide in case you have any difficulty.” He then had Voss help him clear the table of more maps and papers and stuffed it all into a leather case.

The engineers from the Pioneer Company had arrived as the two officers left the cottage. More than half the village was already burning. Smoke boiled thickly as orange flames lapped the desiccated wood. One spurt from a flamethrower on the plank siding or the roof, and the houses became engulfed in seconds.

Vogel fumbled with the field telephones; one was from the captain’s headquarters and needed repair, and the other was from Gottfried’s billet. He placed both in the tool storage bin mounted on the left side of the armored scout car. Lieutenant Gottfried finished coiling the line on to the cable spool and gave it to the driver to put away. When he saw Falkenstein and Voss approaching, he wished them luck.

“Try to arrange things in Zaporozhye as quickly as possible,” Falkenstein said. “The frequency and codes are still in your possession?”

“Of course, Captain. It may take a few days, but I will have the equipment and operators standing by. Good-bye, and may you remain safe.”

Without another word Falkenstein entered the scout car through the small side hatch door on the co-driver’s side. The signal officer smiled sadly. “Watch over him, Lieutenant Voss. Do that for me, won’t you?”

“I will, Lieutenant. I’ll look forward to hearing from you on the radio.” Voss then left for the Hanomag and snapped out the order for the crew to get aboard. Hartmann had the engine turned over as Voss climbed into the crew compartment and took his place to the right of the bow machine gun. The vehicle felt cramped for a change, now that he was in command of a full squad. The dirt road that ran through the village was again crowded with supply company troops, Hiwis, indigenous auxiliaries, and their families; the peasants, refugees now that their homes had been set ablaze, trudged sullenly through the dust and smoke. The armored personnel carrier followed the scout car as it eased into the traffic of horse-drawn carts, trucks, and panje wagons. The fires added an oppressive heat to the air, as all the houses had gone up like tinder boxes, crackling loudly and throwing showers of orange cinders across the road as the burning walls buckled and burst. The engineers had entered the orchard and subjected the trees to their flamethrowers. The acrid odor of fuel masked the delicate fragrance of fruit and leaf as the gnarled, blackened limbs seemed to reach skyward like supplicants horrified by their immolation. Above the noise of engines, whinnying horses made skittish from the fire, and spitting embers, a familiar strain could be heard. A landser driving a panje wagon kept time with a branch whip on the rump of his horse. His hair was as red as the flames and his pale blue eyes watery from the smoke; he sang in a strong, clear, if not melodious voice, Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” The troops on foot, in wagons, and in trucks joined in, and within moments almost the entire body became one great chorus. Even the crew in the Hanomag stood up and began to sing.

“…Yes, even if he calls but one soul

His own in all the world.

But he who has failed in this

Must steal away alone and in tears…”

Enthralled by the spectacle, Voss remained silent. This was not the first and would not be the last of many fires. Time and again he had witnessed and contributed to similar scenes and had reacted with loathing, abhorrence, even numbness. And there were times, like now, when he could be seduced by the distressed beauty. My God, he thought, awestruck, how we have become such masters of terrible powers.

20

Voss maintained visual contact with the command vehicle as far as the Pavlograd-Kharkov rail crossing, when the 222 accelerated and finally disappeared from sight. The slow-going Hanomag could not even keep up with the dust left in the scout car’s wake. Falkenstein insisted on avoiding the main highways and rail junctions, not only to circumvent any possible congestion but also—mainly—to avert a fate like the one that had befallen the two Hiwis driving the old Ford. On more occasions than he cared to remember, Falkenstein had been redirected from his purpose to aid some detachment or other during an emergency in a sector he had been operating in. Doing so would invariably cost him in supplies, ammunition, personnel, and time. That was why he chose to go cross-country, he explained to Voss, to avoid delays at all cost. He would secure the gasoline first and then wait for the lieutenant and his crew to catch up. The hulking armored vehicle meandered over the dirt tracks across the exposed countryside, through streambeds, in and out of shallow gullies, and past settlements and small villages. The peasants were packing up and leaving. Panje wagons and small herds of livestock had become frequent sights along the dusty roads as the day progressed. The retreat involved more than the sum total of troops, arms, and material of an army group. A directive had been put into effect since the eighth of September to pillage and lay waste to the entire eastern half of the Ukraine. All agricultural produce—grain harvests, fruits and vegetables were to be gathered and shipped west by road or rail. Livestock—every pig, chicken, cow, and horse were to be rounded up and herded to the west and dispersed once on the opposite bank of the Dniepr. Farm and production equipment and facilities for food processing were to be dismantled; industrial works, factories, and mills were to be stripped of machinery and hardware. Essentially, anything of value was to be transported across the Dniepr. The emptied plants and buildings, storage installations, and centers for supply and distribution were to be left in ruins. Most ominous of all was the creation of a “sterilization zone” to extend some twenty kilometers east of the river. Every town, village, barn, and shack was to be leveled. Railroad tracks ripped apart and bridges blown up; wells poisoned and trees cut down. What could not be carted away was to be demolished, set ablaze. The Red Army was to enter a wasteland where nothing remained intact, not a roof for shelter against the elements, not a kernel of grain to eat. Under these conditions, it was believed by higher authorities, the advance of the combined Soviet fronts would be forced to slow down. This directive—Scorched Earth, as it was officially known—originated directly from the Reich Chancellery in Berlin.

A stream of traffic flowed south on the Novo-Moskovsk-Krasnograd highway, and it appeared as though the entire population from as far as Poltava were on the march toward the bridge at Dnepropetrovsk. Although the civilians remained on the shoulders, Hartmann did not bother to use the road, as trucks and an assortment of military vehicles were speeding down the middle at frequent intervals. This was the last leg of the trip, and only another twelve kilometers remained. They had made remarkably good time—sixteen hundred thirty-seven hours, when Voss checked his watch. He was pleased. Hartmann slowed the Hanomag as they approached a vehicle that had ended up nose down in a ditch. An order policeman stood by, guarding the wreck. When they drove past, it became very clear this was no ordinary traffic accident. The windshield was shattered, and the upholstery of the front seat was stained red. One of the tires was flat, and numerous bullet holes from submachine gun–fire had drilled the side of the thin metal body. They continued onward; however, Reinhart called out to the order policeman and asked what had happened.

“Partisans,” was the response.

* * *

The machine tractor station was well on its way to complete dismemberment. Threshers, balers, and cultivators were hitched to either lorries or tractors and driven away. Tools and farm implements were loaded aboard trucks, and any equipment that was no longer serviceable and had fallen into disrepair was wrecked. The austere dormitory that housed the workers was burning, as were the barns and repair sheds. A labor gang comprised mostly of women from the station and the neighboring villages performed the work, as civilian employees of the Wehrmacht directed the effort. A number of order police were on hand to stand guard against looting and theft.

Machine tractor stations throughout the occupied Ukraine had remained the focal point for economic and political control, just as they had under the Bolshevik system. Providing tools and machinery for the kolkhozes in the immediate area, the station was intended to develop greater efficiency and productivity under the supervision of the Reich’s East Ministry. Voss didn’t know all the particulars, but some reforms had been drawn up to put an end to the kolkhoz system instituted by the Soviets and replaced by “communes” or “cooperatives.” The peasants and farm workers were promised ownership of land, cattle, and a share in the profits after harvest time. These incentives were used to help meet and eventually surpass production quotas. Except for the nomenclature, nothing had really changed, institutionally. Due to the dislocation of the war, the old kolkhoz system had to remain in place for the time being while the East Ministry bureaucrats guaranteed changes further down the road. The single most important task, for right now, was keeping the German army fed and, in so doing, the peasants also.

The armored scout car was parked next to a supply shed, where Sergeant Vogel was busy draining the vehicle’s spare fuel cans into the gas tank. The Hanomag pulled up, and the crew piled out. “The petrol is in there,” Vogel said, indicating the shed. Voss looked inside. Four drums. More than they could possibly haul. Reinhardt had two of the men untie the fuel cans from the front end and sides of the vehicle. “Top off the fuel tank and refill the empties. Schroeder, organize a detail and see if you can scare up some extra containers that can be filled and brought along.”

Hartmann took a funnel and small hand pump from the toolbox, as Wilms and Detwiler jockeyed one of the drums from out of the shed. “Where is the captain?” Voss asked.

“He’s gone to see the engineer in charge,” Vogel said, and pointed to a low-roofed, whitewashed stucco building on the far side of the field near the main road. “The captain told me to take a few extra hands to dig up the weapons cache as soon as you had arrived, Lieutenant.”

Voss singled out Braun, Schmidt, and Angst to accompany the sergeant, then headed for the engineer’s office. On the way he passed a group of women who were smashing to bits the diesel plants of rusting tractors. The women wielded hammers and sledges, their faces red from exertion and blouses darkened by perspiration. Several children milled about, too young to be of any help, kept well away from the flying metal parts caused by their mothers’ earnest strokes. So did Voss. He could not appreciate the value of breaking already useless machinery, other than to make the women needlessly tired and hungry before setting out on the long trek to Dnepropetrovsk. He noticed the children: dirty faces, shabby clothes, and underfed.

“Direktor” was printed above the door in large black letters. Inside Voss found the captain seated in a wicker chair, tapping a slender pointer, the kind used by schoolmasters, against the metal strut of his leg brace. Behind a desk stood a man in a well-tailored suede field jacket and trousers, not the least bit soiled, appearing bewildered as he shuffled through a mountain of requisition forms, work sheets, charts, and inventories.

“There you are, Lieutenant Voss,” said Falkenstein. “Allow me to introduce Herr Moeller, the East Ministry’s agricultural deputy in charge of this oblast.” Falkenstein continued to tap away at the leg brace with the pointer. No doubt his nerves were stretched thin due to having lost valuable time with this detour, despite its importance. Moeller lifted his eyes for only a moment to glance at Voss, who nodded; then he returned to his paperwork. The deputy had the appearance of a typical agricultural leader, or La Fuehrer as they were known, a trifle porcine, near middle age, with a particular look, or an aura, of someone who spares himself no indulgence. His soft, well-manicured hands were slightly soiled with grease. His nostrils flared in distaste.

“I was telling Herr Moeller how I did not envy his task. Presiding over the autopsy of one’s fiefdom must be an acutely painful experience, from a purely financial aspect. Wouldn’t you think, Lieutenant?”

Voss could sense that the deputy was well aware of the low esteem the captain held him in, though he chose to ignore it. Moeller turned to a filing cabinet, opened a drawer, and continued with his sorting. La Fuehrer, a derogatory title used for these so-called pioneers of the eastern frontier, were notorious for their venality. They exploited the local population ruthlessly. There was wealth to be made from the peasants who performed the numbing toil, and the Wehrmacht pressured them constantly for the harvests. Stories of cruelties and excesses circulated about the La Fuehrers’ appetites, especially toward the village girls. Voss could not help but wonder how many shamed young women and girls with half-Moellers tugging at their skirts would be left behind.

“On the contrary, Captain” Moeller said finally, “the financial aspect is nothing by comparison. What is occurring here today is a great blow, not so much for me personally, but for what the ministry is trying to achieve. And need I mention all the troops who have lost their lives?”

“If I did not know better, it would sound as if you are undermining our morale. The tides of war are fickle, Herr Deputy. The army is experiencing a setback.”

“Temporarily, I hope, Captain. And by this time next year, what then? Will the Red Army be pushed back across the Volga or as far as the Urals, perhaps?”

“Your words, if sincere, are an inspiration for us all, but if sarcasm rules your tongue…”

Voss believed it was appropriate to interrupt before something unretractable was said in this verbal fencing match. “Have you further orders, Captain? Sergeant Vogel and several of the men have gone to the farm house to recover the weapons.”

Moeller frowned. “Weapons? What are you talking about?”

“Don’t alarm yourself, Herr Deputy.”

“I deserve an explanation, Captain Falkenstein. I can permit reserves of fuel stored here, temporarily, for your use, but a weapons dump here, at so sensitive a location?”

Voss cursed himself for having stirred the pot, only to make matters worse. He attempted to explain. “Not a weapons dump exactly, Herr Deputy…”

Falkenstein came to his aid, not in the least bothered by the lieutenant’s supposed gaff. “Some weapons and reserve supplies have been well concealed at the quarters of your chief engineer.”

“Herr Franz’s quarters? How could such a thing occur without my expressed permission or involvement?” Moeller appeared shocked and more than a little irate.

“Herr Franz saw fit to accommodate me, at his discretion. He is in charge of operations in this district, is he not?”

“He was my representative during my absence only. This complex and the network of tractor stations, cooperatives, and estates, the very land itself, is my responsibility. I am the ultimate authority of all agricultural matters in this oblast. Herr Franz was simply a mechanic.”

Falkenstein’s reaction upon hearing the engineer referred to in the past tense was subtle. “Is Herr Franz a mechanic no more?”

“Not in the sense you might mean. He ran afoul of partisans earlier this afternoon. There was an ambush. Herr Franz is dead.”

Falkenstein was visibly distressed upon hearing the news. “Why did you not tell me when I first arrived? I asked for him, and you said he wasn’t here.”

“I have my own manner of showing distress,” Moeller said, unconvincingly. “Now I must oversee this entire process without help.”

“Have the order police made any arrests?” Voss interjected.

“With all that is taking place, they’re having a devil of a time sorting the matter out. To answer your question, no arrests have been made. Yet. I can assure you, Lieutenant, before day’s end, I’ll have a dozen locals rounded up and shot. See if that doesn’t loosen a few tongues.”

“This is most unfortunate,” Falkenstein said. “Herr Franz performed an invaluable service, not only for me personally but for the army as well. Under his supervision, the production quotas were consistent and above adequate. You have lost a capable man.”

“Unfortunate as it is, Herr Franz invited the disaster upon himself.” Moeller was pleased with himself for having made the remark as he observed the captain’s expression of dismay. Whatever delights the deputy took soon evaporated under a cold, venomous stare. “There was a flaw in his thinking,” Moeller continued uneasily. “He was of the opinion that the peasants could share in the harvest and whatever capital that could be gained through hard work and commitment to our cause.”

“And his murder illustrates the misplaced trust he had in the Ukrainians?” Falkenstein said.

“They are helots to be used as such and nothing more.” Unable to endure the captain’s scrutiny, Moeller looked to Voss. “You may not believe me, Lieutenant, but I see myself more as a caretaker. The farms kept viable until this dreadful war is finished, and all you brave fellows can share in the fruits of victory. The Fuehrer promised as much. You, the captain, every soldier will have an estate of his own someday.”

At the rate we keep losing acreage, Voss mused, that promise will be a difficult one to keep.

“I wonder how sweet the fruit of this blood-drenched soil could possibly be,” Falkenstein said with disgust. Moeller fumbled lamely through the paperwork and bent to retrieve a number of sheets that fell to the floor. “I at least remain optimistic about what the army can still achieve. Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen,” he waved a hand over the pile of reports on the desk, “I have all this to account for.”

Falkenstein raised himself stiffly from out of the chair. Voss held the door open for him.

“And, Captain, may I suggest you go through the proper channels next time regarding the use of a private arms depot. We wouldn’t want any ministry employees stumbling over it by accident and causing a disaster, now, would we?” Moeller forced a smile. His tone was lighthearted, as though he were attempting to dispel the grim mood before they parted ways. Falkenstein remained icy. “I will take it under advisement, but you need not worry. I doubt if any of us will pass this way again.” Falkenstein limped out the door, and Voss went to follow but stopped and turned toward the deputy. “Could you answer a question for me, Herr Moeller?”

Moeller looked upon Voss with distaste. “What is it?”

“When the attack occurred, was the engineer driving an official vehicle? Your personal transportation, perhaps?”

“Yes. Yes, he was. I lent him my vehicle so he could oversee the boarding of the machinery on the train. His truck was commandeered by the military.”

“That being the case, I wouldn’t lose sight of the order police for a moment, if I were you. Good day to you, sir.” Voss left the building and caught up with Falkenstein as he struggled across the field. “I regret the engineer’s loss, sir. So obvious a vendetta aimed at the deputy, I feel, under the circumstances, the partisan issue should be evaluated and the effect it may have on your plans. At least while we are in this sector.”

Falkenstein was not listening. “Mark my words, Lieutenant, the likes of Herr Moeller and all those golden pheasants will cut a profit, no matter how disastrous the situation becomes. Franz was a dreamer. We had talked on the subject. I grant you, his vision of lebensraum was particularly idyllic. Neat, orderly homesteads, like small islands, surrounded by a sea of grain. Flawless machinery cultivating the land…”

“And did you share with the engineer your own vision of the future, Captain?”

Falkenstein stopped short and took hold of Voss by the arm. His hand felt like a claw. “In this vast, oppressive emptiness, only demons can flourish and thrive. This land is evil. Can you not sense this?”

The viselike grip tightened. “Captain, really, I…”

“I do not suffer this conflict for personal gain and certainly not to advance the careers of petty bureaucrats. I do it to preserve Volk and Fatherland from a godless menace. And should I be swallowed up in the process, then the devil will soon know whose bones have lodged in his throat.” Falkenstein let go and seemed to recover himself. He looked at Voss oddly as the lieutenant massaged his arm, painfully. They continued on in silence.

* * *

The farmhouse lay two kilometers northeast of the station. Kahn had paid the grenadiers little mind as they hung on to the outside of the scout car and would look down into the turret with curiosity at the strange, novel being. He remained within as Vogel stopped and climbed out of the driver’s side hatch. From the tool bin, Vogel removed a small axe, a mallet, and a long screwdriver and handed the tools around. He lent Angst the use of his flashlight and led them inside. The house consisted of a large single room with separate sleeping quarters. The furnishings were Spartan, only what was functional and necessary. The smell of pipe tobacco and mineral oil permeated the space and was rather pleasant. The small brick oven, a table, and two chairs defined the kitchen. A wood trough and pump served as the sink with a small, narrow, wood burning metal sleeve attached to the water intake pipe A little more sophisticated than a basic peasant dwelling, but not much. Half-curtains on the windows betrayed the German middle-class sentiment of hominess. An open doorway led directly into an enclosed walkway attached to the small barn. To the left of this doorway, Vogel had them turn back the large woven mat on the floor. “Pull up the floorboards here,” Vogel said, pointing out the rectangle-shaped seam in the wood, “and don’t be fussy.”

“Are you sure the owners won’t mind?” Braun asked inanely.

“There’s an evacuation on, remember?”

Taking up their tools, the three set to work. Vogel appeared satisfied. “I’m going back for the captain. See to it that everything is up and placed outside. And be careful,” he admonished them sternly. “There are explosives down there.”

Once the sergeant had left, Braun commented, “There’s no denying who is at the bottom of the pecking order in this outfit.” The room was stuffy, and the work added to their discomfort. They removed their field tunics and grappled with the project. The nails were long and refused to give easily. Prying and pulling, using the axe blade as a wedge, a loud squeal would follow as the nails surrendered from the joists. “No wonder he didn’t stick around,” Braun said between grunts. “Probably nailed it down himself, the asshole.”

Eventually an opening was made, and Braun held the flashlight as Angst leaned in to take a look. Originally the space had been used as a root cellar, and the hole had been excavated to a greater width and depth. A framework of wood slats lined the interior to hold back the soil. A neatly stacked pile was covered with waterproof tarpaulin. Angst grabbed hold of an end and pulled it back, revealing some of what lay underneath. Canned field rations, packages of chocolate, ersatz coffee, even cigarettes. At the base of the pile were wood crates and metal boxes of military issue. Angst began by handing up the smaller items. There were several camouflage field jackets and shelter halves. Having made room he lowered himself into the hole and started to bring up the hardware: first, a model 42 flamethrower with a magazine of rimless blank cartridges for hot firing. “The captain is certainly prepared for all eventualities,” he remarked, as he hauled up the weapon. Four boxes of 7.62 mm for the machine guns; three-bell shaped hollow charged magnetic antitank mines. Next, and very gingerly, he lifted up the three slender metal boxes, each containing a panzerfaust. The mass-produced grenade launcher was prone to mishaps if handled too roughly. More ammunition: 9 mm rounds for the MP40s and a satchel charge with over a kilo of TNT. Last of all was the crate of 20 mm shells for the scout car turret gun. This was heavy. Braun climbed down beside Angst, and both struggled in the narrow space as they lifted. Schmidt caught hold and helped pull the crate out of the hole. Angst asked for the flashlight after Braun climbed back out and took one more look around. That appeared to be the lot.

“A treasure trove,” Schmidt said, as he examined the assortment of field rations. Tinned beef, herring, sardines, canned fruit. He passed the items along to his friends to marvel at. There was a bucket-sized tin of jam and a canister of dried biscuits. “Let’s treat ourselves to something worthy of all this hard work,” Schmidt suggested. Seizing a package of chocolate, he peeled off the wrapping from a square and broke it up into thirds. Pieces of fruit and nuts were imbedded in the sweet, dark chocolate. The taste made them ecstatic. “Tastes like home,” Braun said, and reached to open another, but Angst stopped him. “Let’s not get on the wrong side of the captain” he said, and tossed the litter down the hole. He remembered the tarpaulin lying below and went to retrieve it. When he pulled, something clattered back down. He shined the flashlight to see what fell. A small metal box embossed with a flower and vine motif lay on the soil.

“A cashbox,” Braun exclaimed. Angst went down for it. There was no lock, only a simple latch. “What are you waiting for? Open it,” Braun urged. Angst went to open the box.

“Is that everything, Corporal?” Lieutenant Voss stood at the door. Angst shut the lid and fiddled with the latch. When Voss stepped over, he peered into the hole, looking around until satisfied nothing else remained. “What do you have there, Corporal?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Angst said, and immediately turned the box over to the lieutenant.

“Cart this stuff outside, and get the others to help you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Voss brought the box to the other side of the room and set it on the cold brick stove. He looked inside. A packet of letters bound with violet ribbon. Photographs. These were personal effects belonging to the captain. Snapshots of Falkenstein taken when he was an officer cadet. A studio portrait of him and his bride, heads almost touching, eyes staring with hope and yearning. Toward a very uncertain future, Voss thought. One photograph captured his interest most of all. The captain, arm in arm with two grenadiers, was sitting and leaning on a sidecar-equipped motorcycle, and in the background, vaguely discernible, stood the outline of minarets. On the back was written, “Astrakhan September ’42.” Having intruded enough, Voss placed the letters and photographs back in the box, neatly. He thought it strange to leave such mementos buried. Perhaps this act alone provided better insight into the man than all the stories and fables generated about him over the past year ever could.

* * *

Sergeant Reinhardt supervised the loading of the supplies and weapons. The panzerfausts were secured aboard the armored personnel carrier, and after several magazines of 20 mm shells were loaded inside the scout car, Khan saw to it that the crate was tied on to the outside front bumper. The captain then gave permission for the crew to lunch on some of the field rations. “It may be some time before you have the opportunity to eat again. Don’t gorge yourselves.” He had Sergeant Vogel fire up the primus stove and cook up some coffee. “And break out that bottle, Klaus.”

Vogel’s smile was huge. “With pleasure, captain.”

Falkenstein limped over to the house where Voss stood in the doorway. He was given the embossed metal box, which he stared at blandly.

“This is yours, I believe, captain.”

Falkenstein tucked the box under his arm, stepped into the house, and examined the room. There wasn’t much to speak for the man who had once occupied it. Books and technical journals pertaining to his trade; a collection of smoking pipes arranged on a rack; and by the window, on a small writing table, lay a disassembled cuckoo clock and small hand tools. The engineer’s hobby, Falkenstein remembered.

“Shouldn’t something be done with Herr Franz’s things, Captain?”

“He had no immediate family to speak of. Most of his time was spent here in Russia. He followed close on the heels of the army, trying to repair one facility after the next as the Bolsheviks retreated and destroyed everything in their wake. Herr Franz extended his hospitality to my unit this past spring. We were held up, due to the mud. We were welcomed guests, and he spared us no effort when we needed help. I would stop here when circumstances permitted. I would not go so far as to say we were friends, but our respect was mutual. He kept the tractors rolling and the machines operating against impossible odds. If there is to be a German colony in the east, it will be the likes of him that will make it happen. Unfettered by vanity or an inflated sense of self-importance, such as the La Fuehrer we met earlier. Herr Franz defined himself solely by his accomplishments, which is all a man has the right to in this life.”

Voss noticed the captain turning the box over in his hands; whether regarding the delicately tooled work on the surface or contemplating the contents held within, Voss could not be sure, but the officer seemed distracted by the box. “As we leave here, burn everything,” Falkenstein said.

* * *

Vogel poured coffee into the deep mess tins. The doors of the armored personnel carrier stood open as the men sat within or stood around the vehicle, eating, smoking, and drinking the ersatz coffee. After they had left the house, Falkenstein invited the lieutenant to have a cup as well. The bottle of schnapps stood on the mudguard. “Show me those cups of yours, men,” Falkenstein announced, as he opened the bottle. Everyone gathered around as the captain applied a liberal dose to each cup. “Let’s see if we can’t make something more out of Sergeant Vogel’s simple brew. Step up, Khan. You’re one of us.” The Mongol’s fierce eyes widened as he accepted the offer. The captain became immediately popular among the men. He was a decent fellow, as far as officers go. Their spirits were lifted as Falkenstein toasted everyone’s health and good fortune. A simple but skillful gesture, this toast, and Falkenstein knew it. He had taken an important first step in transforming a group of strangers into a unit. The men were relaxed and in a good humor. Voss sensed a lot would be demanded of them for that tincture of schnapps.

The captain had Voss join him at the scout car. The map case and leather portfolio lay on the front wheel guard. “My plan is to continue south, beyond Zaporozhye,” Falkenstein said, as he brought out the map and spread it out on the hood. “Battalions are dwindling, and companies are isolated from each other and preyed upon the closer they get to the Wotan position.”

“We can render a great service to such units by helping to establish contact for them with their regiments or divisions,” Voss suggested.

“Should the opportunity arise, yes. I understand your desire to aid your Kameraden under these conditions, but we cannot attempt actions that, although admirable, are ultimately futile. We are a small force, lieutenant, and I won’t risk annihilation on empty gestures.”

“So then, how do we characterize these rear guards and lost men? As bait?”

“The best fishing is where the great fish feed,” was Falkenstein’s reply.

Voss considered the analogy loathsome but did not dare speak or show his revulsion.

“Look here, Lieutenant, if we meet Red Vengeance head on and destroy it—soon—then you can all return to your units and pursue your regular duties. No one wants this business over with more than I do.”

“And if not?”

“Then we persevere until the task is completed. Red Vengeance must be stopped before it reaches the other side of the Dniepr. If it isn’t…if it should cross, then all hope is lost.”

The obsessive nature of the captain’s words worried Voss. He heard something in the voice that was left unspoken. He didn’t want the men to get wind of this. The river had become their ultimate salvation; for some it was a reality and for others a mirage, but it held out the hope of survival. Making the attempt was worth all the risks they faced. It relaxed the grip of death that had kept them in its clutches for so long.

Falkenstein returned the map to the case and turned over the leather portfolio to the lieutenant. “This is the dossier on Red Vengeance and related issues. I suggest you familiarize yourself with all it contains.”

Voss opened the portfolio and thumbed through several of the hundred-odd pages of typed and hand written reports. “I’m sure I’ll find it helpful, sir.”

“It’s about time I briefed the crew,” Falkenstein said, and walked over to the armored personnel carrier. He stepped into the crew compartment and looked down upon them all, as a priest would do from a pulpit, with love and fury. “Gather ’round, men.”

Dutifully, the grenadiers obeyed and stood in a semicircle at the back end of the vehicle. Falkenstein eyed each man as though sizing him up. There was complete silence as they observed the captain with expectation and a little fear.

“What do you do when you see a T-34 bearing straight for you? Corporal?”

The captain was looking directly at Angst, waiting for a reply. Caught off guard at being singled out, he thought quickly. “I’d want a panzerfaust, sir, and as soon as it was within range, let loose.”

Falkenstein nodded. “And should a panzerfaust not be in you possession, what then?”

Schmidt volunteered an answer. “Remain in your slit trench, and after it passes by, plant a magnetic charge on the hull.”

“What else? You know, don’t you Corporal Schroeder?”

Schroeder answered the call. “Like Schmidt said, get out of your hole as soon as it passes. Stay close. Hug the machine. The crew inside is blind at close quarters. Grab a hold of the tow hook and haul yourself onto the deck. If you’re lucky, you’ve got a Teller mine. Wedge it in the seam between the turret and deck plating. Maybe all you have is some petrol. Pour it down the grill over the diesel plant, light it, and jump clear.”

“What if the deck sprouts a forest of barbed wire strung with antipersonnel mines? What then?” The crew was silent. “You couldn’t easily climb on its back then, could you, Corporal?”

“No, sir” Schroeder answered, quietly.

Braun called out. “Knock out its track. Once immobilized…”

“True,” Falkenstein agreed, “Once the tank loses the ability to maneuver there are a few options left. Come on men, forget the manual and think of everything you have learned or carried out on your own.”

“Blind it with a flamethrower,” Detwiler shouted. “And cook all the meat inside.” Everyone shook heads in agreement. Falkenstein smiled. “Yes, that as well. Now listen to me, grenadiers. Our mission is very clear. We are after one T-34, and you know the one I mean. It has murdered your Kameraden and filled you with a terror beyond anything you have yet to experience in this war, but you have survived that horror, all the stronger, to fight another day. And that day has come. I did not choose you; fate has chosen you, for any man who has walked away from the jaws of that beast is destined to destroy it. Now, say its name, men.”

“Red Vengeance… Red Vengeance,” they all muttered.

“Red Vengeance. A satanic factory was where the hull was forged, the blast furnace fired by the flames of hell, and the schematics penned by Lucifer’s own hand. There is much to give cause for wonder about this machine. There’s not a panzer crew or rifle squad who’s not heard of it or dares to speak its name without praying it will not bear down on him. Some say Red Vengeance is a myth born in the imaginations of troops weary from defeat. I can tell you, it’s no myth. As I lay close to death amid the destruction of my command, it passed this close,” and Falkenstein held thumb and forefinger a centimeter apart, “crushing dead and wounded alike. The sound of its engine filled my head with brain numbing clatter. And the smell! I lay there, drowning in the odor of death. The flesh and blood of the fallen clung to its hull and tracks, thick as mud. We were beaten, finished, and still Red Vengeance continued to churn and defile the dead with cold, brutal method. There was no earthly reason for it, I tell you. And I swore an oath then and there, should I survive this meaningless slaughter, I will avenge the deaths of those good men and spare others the same fate. For as long as I continue to draw breath, my task is to put down that steel beast. If I must give chase to as far as the arctic reaches of the Finnish Gulf or across the blazing steppes to the Sea of Azov, I will hunt it down. I will remain on this side of the Dniepr until its severed hydraulics bleed and black diesel fuel gushes from its mauled, smoking hull. This is what I have sworn. Are you with me, grenadiers?” Falkenstein cried out in a voice firm and resonant as his one good eye stared wildly at the assembly.

“We are with you, Captain,” they shouted back.

“Do you swear death and destruction upon Red Vengeance?” Falkenstein roared.

They swore. “Death to Red Vengeance, death to Red Vengeance,” was the collective battle cry. Each man tried to outdo the other in bellowing the chant. Weapons were taken in hand and thrust skyward. Voss shrank back. The display was worse than the hysterical enthusiasm generated at a party rally, behavior he detested and always tried to avoid. Even Reinhardt and Hartmann had become caught up in the madness. This was more than men letting off steam. It was possession. Schmidt, whose first impression led Voss to consider the grenadier mild and introspective by nature, had become as bloodthirsty as Schroeder and Detwiler. Voss stepped further away from the crowd as they worked themselves into such a frenzied state, it appeared as though they were afflicted with Saint Vitus’s dance. He was stunned by the antics and hysteria, but more so by the pleasure Falkenstein took in the exhibition he helped to motivate. So this is our lord and master, whose will we must all yield to, Voss thought. In this vast, disconsolate country, it is not God who will decide if a single one of us will remain standing at the close of this reckless adventure, but Falkenstein, Mad Falkenstein. Never in his life had he felt this alone, stranded, among his own kind.

As if a summer storm had swept through with thunder and hail and then, just as swiftly, the sky turned clear again, the fever among the crew suddenly broke. Without needing to be ordered, the grenadiers returned to the last of their chores and made ready to depart. Voss collared Angst. “Come with me, Corporal.” They went back into the farmhouse. He was tempted to ask the corporal how he felt after that display of zealotry. He wanted to slap Angst and the entire crew for taking part in such an obscene performance. Instead, he merely ordered the corporal to select the best lengths of floorboards that he had pulled up and secure them to the mud guard of the personnel carrier. “It might be of some use,” he added. Angst began to form a stack of the least splintered pieces, careful not to catch his hand on the nails that remained in the wood.

“A little more alacrity on your part, eh, Corporal,” Voss said. His arms loaded with several odd lengths of board, Angst left for the vehicle. Voss noticed a paraffin lamp on the table and removed the wick housing. He splashed the contents of the glass reservoir on the shelves of books, the cheap curtains and the little writing desk. He drained the last of the paraffin onto the floor and dropped the lamp. The glass shattered. After striking a match he threw it and watched as fire spread from one puddle to the next. The room became a bright orange glow, like the autumn sunset. Let it all burn, he thought, as the flames quickly spread. The great dreams, the visions, lebensraum, even final victory—let it all be devoured by fire and smoke. Within minutes the house had been transformed into a maelstrom of flame and had spread to the barn as the vehicles drove away.

* * *

Falkenstein had Sergeant Vogel slow down to allow the personnel carrier to pass them by. They hadn’t been on the road for more than fifteen minutes, and the light that remained from the sunset was fading. All they could expect to do was put as much distance as possible from the tractor station until the darkness and the terrain forced them to stop. The day was lost. The only consolation was that he had retrieved everything he had come for. There was no stopping now. He felt good about the crew; they seemed up to the task, and that was cause for elation. His adjutant, Voss, on the other hand, he was not sure. The dash and vigor the young officer displayed upon their first meeting was no longer apparent. He wondered if he’d been too hasty in following Beutel’s recommendation. He signaled to Khan to come down from the turret. Not without difficulty, he raised himself out of the seating compartment as the Mongol slithered effortlessly around him and into the vacant seat. Now, raised behind the 20 mm gun, he kept his head lowered so as not to become totally enveloped by the dust churned up by the carrier’s tracks. He had taken along the engraved box. It had caught his eye in an abandoned house during the Balkan campaign. Some partially destroyed village outside of Sarajevo. He took it as a keepsake of having passed through that way and had filled it with letters and the snapshot history of his military life and the letters of his married life—which seemed so dim and distant, it could have been the life of some other man. His beloved Maria and little Hans. He could not remember if he’d ever held the child in his arms. Hans had been born while he was in Russia, and Falkenstein had seen him for the first time when he returned wounded. The child cried uncontrollably when Maria brought him to visit at the hospital. The bright, cold whiteness of the room, the odor of disinfectant, and a trace scent of ether, and then mother and child were confronted with a mauled, burned creature wrapped in gauze. He remembered the sisters taking the boy out of the room and leaving his wife there alone, only the two of them, with little to say. He could no longer afford the weight of this ballast, which was why he had buried the box months ago. Now resurrected, he could admit that the contents and the memories they stirred belonged to some other man from a different time. He undid the latch and opened the lid. He untied the ribbon; the same violet ribbon Maria had used to tie up her hair. It once possessed her scent but now reeked of the cold earth from having been buried for so long. The dry wind bore the ribbon aloft, and the tissue thin letter paper followed. One by one the snapshots fluttered out and scattered over the steppe. Empty, Falkenstein passed his fingers over the cool metal, sensing the fine-tooled lines of the craftsmanship. He let the box fall from his hands and watched as it bounced and tumbled across the ground, yet another piece of flotsam left behind by a retreating army.

21

Reconnaissance Group Falkenstein found itself boxed in on all sides. Whatever gains in time and distance the captain had hoped to achieve on the return trip were irrevocably lost. Voss raised the suggestion that they make for the crossing at Dnepropetrovsk, drive south to Zaporozhye, and recross via the dam carriageway. The Novo-Moskovsk rail line was blocked with stalled trains for kilometers on end, probably as far as the river. Falkenstein wavered. In theory, the lieutenant’s idea was sound, but he had reservations. Should the crew get a whiff of the river… see if their morale didn’t suffer. Watching troops and civilians pour over the bridge at Dnepropetrovsk while they would have to eventually return to the other side further south would only weaken the crew’s resolve. He did not share this confidence with the lieutenant but simply dismissed the plan without giving a reason.

The situation had proven to be no better as they drove east. Once again trains were backed up to the north of Pavlograd and as far south as Sinel’nikovo. Depots had been established at key points to load the harvests of fruits and grain, agricultural and industrial machinery, and military equipment. NCOs and Reichsbahn officials ran along the sidings, shouting orders, cursing and making threats to the Wehrmacht and civilian workers. Their expletives could not get the rolling stock loaded any faster or move locomotives. At every bridge, rail, or highway crossing, there was some high-ranking officer, backed up by a retinue of field police, who invariably pointed Falkenstein in a direction he did not want to go.

The vehicles came to a halt at the bank of the Samara northwest of Pavlograd. Engineers had detonated the first of a series of munitions that mined the production facilities and small-scale industrial works on the outskirts of the city. More than twenty-four hours had elapsed since leaving the kolkhoz, and the Reconnaissance Group was still short of its original point of departure. Falkenstein was anything but pleased. With binoculars in hand, he left the scout car and accompanied Voss down to the edge of the riverbank to observe the situation. Bits of litter rained down from the controlled explosions. Traffic barely moved along the main artery. Staff cars, trucks and lorries, interspersed among horse-drawn carts were funneled one by one between the rear and front ends of two trains that had left a narrow opening where the tracks crossed the road. The reason for the delay was obvious. The army field hospital was in the process of evacuation, and the wounded were being carried aboard the Red Cross train. Surgical equipment and supplies, everything from beds to bedpans, were loaded as well. The chief medical officer overseeing the project was taking his time. Despite the cajoling railroad administrators desperate to hurry things along, the officer was not about to subject his patients to unnecessary discomfort or lose a single life for the sake of expediency. The wounded came first, and as far as he was concerned, property, especially loot, could wait.

Civilians not pressed into immediate service for the Reichsbahn were leaving the city in droves. Those not fortunate enough to possess a horse and cart carried what they could in a sack tied to their backs, in a wheelbarrow, or in a battered cardboard suitcase. A measure had been decreed that all able-bodied males were to accompany the army on the retreat. There were no exceptions. The reason was to deprive the Red Army of manpower. Upon retaking German-occupied territory, the Soviets had adopted a policy of forced conscription, pressing into its ranks men and boys between the ages of sixteen and sixty. Sometimes issued a helmet and boots—most times not—and a partial uniform, the new recruits were taught how to load and fire a rifle. Many went into battle unarmed and had to retrieve a weapon from a dead or wounded comrade. The crushing numbers of mass infantry attacks made up for the lack of combat experience. The wives, children, and parents accompanied these boys and men on the trek to the west. Increasing the numbers of refugees were the peasants who sought to avoid the retribution the Bolsheviks would exact upon them for having lived under German occupation. Tainted by foreign influences and suspected as collaborators, they were considered a threat to the fabric of Soviet life.

Falkenstein had seen enough. There was no other alternative but to circumvent the stalled trains. “We have to avoid these infernal bottlenecks from this moment on, Lieutenant. There is no other alternative but to strike to the east. How far will depend upon how fast the front line recedes. We’ll have to negotiate a dangerously narrow channel between the main battle lines as we head south. First, we have no other choice but travel north, toward Lozovaya, and cross the tracks at the first opportunity.”

“Should we not wait for this tie-up to unravel, Captain?”

“And loose the initiative due to some lieutenant-colonel playing traffic policeman? We could be forced back to Novo-Moskovsk and find ourselves in a traffic jam we could never extricate ourselves out of. We go north, Lieutenant. Follow me, and see if I can’t get us over this choked railroad track.” The officers returned to their respective vehicles and issued the appropriate orders to the drivers.

* * *

They drove as far as Lozovaya, which had come under enemy bombardment, and were able to cross the tracks. Despite this shift in direction, away from the main roads, the journey still proved to be torturously slow. Villages continued to empty of inhabitants, and the houses were put to the torch—even the land itself was burned. SS units on horseback, organized especially for the task, set fire to the stacks of grain and hay that dotted the immense fields. Hundreds of these pyres sent columns of thick gray smoke into the sky. Great swaths of unharvested acreage went up in smoke as yellow flames danced across the horizon. Maintaining a lead on the fires proved difficult for the drivers. It took all the effort and skill of Hartmann to work the wheel of the lumbering Hanomag and Vogel in the more responsive scout car to maneuver through this pyromania. Goggles were worn to keep the smoke and dust from singeing their eyes, at least for those of the crew who owned a pair. Scarves and kerchiefs were moistened with water and tied about their faces. Braun joked that they all looked like outlaws in an American cowboy film.

After successfully outracing the fires, the vehicles would become stalled, again, only this time it was amid great herds of livestock: horses, cattle, sheep, even pigs by the thousands. Trotting hooves raised enormous clouds of dust. The effect of these forced mass migrations of animals and humans was not lost on the men. Some were awed and excited by the bizarre drama and others overwhelmed and anxious by the sight.

Voss could remember the early days of the invasion as the Greyhounds pressed deeper into the endless country. As they passed through the collective farms and rural villages, rough peasant hands offered the traditional welcome of bread and salt to the strange young warriors from a land they knew nothing about. Voss and his Kameraden were seen as liberators to these impoverished, half-starved people. With the black-and-white balkankruze emblazoned on tanks and armored cars, the Germans were believed to be a God-fearing army. Crowds would line the sides of the roads as they marched through and greet them with religious icons that had been concealed from the Bolsheviks for almost a quarter of a century. The Ukrainians believed themselves free, finally, from the Soviet yoke of ceaseless toil, arrests, deportations, and executions. Now, two years later, who among them could have possibly imagined that their homes would be razed, their livestock scattered, and they themselves sent off to wander in a desolate landscape with an uncertain future?

As the day drew to a close, the sun set behind thick veils of smoke and dust, causing the light to change radically, an unnatural reddish-brown, like the color of dried blood.

22

At dusk the vehicles were placed in defensive laager for the night. Sergeant Reinhardt made up the roster for sentry duty; Angst and Detwiler would take the first watch, followed by Braun and Schroeder, and Schmidt and the sergeant would take the last. Voss, Hartmann, and Wilms were to take shifts at the radio.

Corporal Schroeder distributed the field rations. Upon receiving their tins, Angst and Braun joined Schmidt, who had chosen to sit some distance away. He didn’t look up or say anything as the two men approached. Angst sat down on the ground beside him and made an attempt at small talk, but his friend was unresponsive.

“I don’t know how you two can bear to sit any longer,” Braun said, electing to stand while he ate.

“That’s a surprise, coming from you,” Angst chided. “A few days ago, I remember you saying you’d go anywhere on a set of wheels rather than continue walking across this accursed steppe.” He nudged Schmidt to get him to agree, but he ignored the gesture and continued to spoon the tinned beef into his mouth.

“That was before the seat of my trousers got stuffed up my asshole from all this sitting and bouncing. It will take a plumber’s tool to yank it out.” Braun laughed uproariously at his own joke. Angst found the thought rather amusing, but Schmidt looked up with disdain. “Must you always talk like that? Can’t a man simply eat in peace?”

“Talk like how?” Braun asked, bemused.

“Your language. Every word that spills out of your mouth, which really doesn’t amount to anything worthwhile, is spoken in the crudest terms imaginable.”

Braun dismissed the severity of the tone and shrugged. “I’ve always considered it a charming aspect of my friendly personality.”

“Well, you’re wrong. You’re neither friendly nor charming,” Schmidt said, tossing the empty tin aside. “You are rather a bore.” He got to his feet, grabbed his carbine, and walked off. Braun called after him. “What is the matter with you? Where do you think you’re going?”

“Picket duty,” he yelled back.

“That’s hours from now. Besides, Angst has the first watch.”

Schmidt turned, gestured obscenely, and continued walking. Braun was befuddled by the behavior. “What’s eating him all of a sudden?”

“I’m not really sure,” Angst said. When not in a general state of apathy, everyone was prone to moods of either depression or fits of elation, either of which could manifest itself in the extreme. Schmidt, he had noticed, had been sullen and uncommunicative throughout the course of the day.

“Since when has he become so sensitive about my language? I’ve heard him curse a streak when the occasion warrants.”

“There might be more to it than that.”

“What then?” Braun was genuinely perplexed.

“A lot is happening all around us. More than some of us can cope with at one time. It’s making us all a little edgy,” Angst told him.

“Some more than others, I fear.”

“He’ll come around, eventually.” Earlier, as they sat in the Hanomag Angst had caught sight of Schmidt fingering the beads to his rosary, but he did so unobtrusively, as if he did not want the other crew members to see.

“He had better get over it,” Braun said, irritated, “and the sooner the better. It’s no joy for me either, living in cramped quarters with Schroeder and the rest of those panzer boys. We three have to stick together. Schmidt ought to realize that.”

“I’m sure he’s aware,” Angst said quietly. He looked at his wristwatch. Guard duty was drawing near. He had time for a cigarette before it became completely dark. He smoked about half and gave the rest to Braun. “See you in the morning,” he said, and walked in the direction of where Schmidt was standing. In the distance, small tongues of flame licked the darkness. His friend stared intently at the display. “How are you feeling, Willi?” Angst asked. When Schmidt turned, his face was no more than a pale blur. Angst could sense that he’d been crying. He did not say anything at first but turned back again to watch the flames, some far off, some closer. They were surrounded by a great ring of fire. Then, after a minute or more, he spoke. “I sometimes wonder if we fight this war on some other world…that this sad, wretched country is not of this earth but exists some millions of kilometers away. Something is taking place here, and I have difficulty expressing it to myself, let alone to someone else. Even a friend. Something more than what meets the eye.” He sighed, exhausted, but drew a deep breath and continued. “‘The trumpet of the first angel has already sounded. Hail and fire has been hurled down upon the earth.’ The apocalypse. Do you not believe it to be so, Johann?” Angst was chilled by the thought. This was a belief he had been running away from since childhood. “You push the thought away, don’t you, and tell yourself this is not happening, not in your lifetime?” Schmidt went on. “But deep down you know it is here, now, and there is no turning back. Wading through blood and fire, we convince ourselves that nothing is unusual. Horrible, yes, men and armies can tolerate so much horror, but never do we admit to the unusual. This is not only a country put to the torch—an entire world is on fire, and we refuse to see beyond the narrow focus of our rifle pits. But you know, as every soldier at the front knows. You might not see the entirety of the drama unfold, yet you sense it deep within your soul.”

Angst had to take a few moments to collect his thoughts and, more pressingly, to stifle old fears. “I know you’re a devout man, Willi, and that your beliefs are sincere, but you have allowed some of the more strident, and I would go so far as to say the hysterical, pronouncements of National Socialist political officers to cloud your judgment.”

“I could never be influenced by some party hack in an army uniform. Not when I compare their hollow words with what I have seen with my own eyes,” Schmidt replied.

“Perhaps not, but it has grown increasingly difficult to escape the doctrine. It’s served up whenever there is the opportunity. When I first got to Russia, during the last leg of the trip, a political officer boarded the train. He addressed not only the troops new to the eastern front, like me, but those returning from leave and medical furlough. A lot of those guys had heard it all before and didn’t balk at having to hear it again. They sat, enraptured, as though the words would make their slaughter more bearable. The officer went on to describe the Fuehrer and the party as instruments of God entrusted with a sacred duty to defend Germany and western civilization. Communism was a creation of Satan let loose upon the world to destroy it. We weren’t fighting other men, like ourselves, but automatons under the control of the devil. The war in Russia went beyond economics or ideology, he said; it was a fight for the spiritual life of German culture. The very soul of the German people. On an intellectual level, what he said struck me as utter nonsense, but emotionally the idea scared the shit out of me. Maybe we are fighting for the spiritual and cultural existence of western civilization, despite the Brits and the Amis. I don’t know. What I do know is, we’re all locked into a nightmare that there’s no getting out of. I only hope to be still alive after it plays itself out. There is one thing I do know: the Bolsheviks and Stalin are no more the physical embodiment of the antichrist than the Fuehrer is the savior the party makes him out to be.”

“The same beast, only with different heads. You’ve read your bible, Johann. You know of the false prophets who come in his name.”

With a conviction of this magnitude, it was futile to argue, Angst thought.

“I am sorry for the way I treated Braun,” Schmidt said quietly.

“Don’t give it another thought. Ten seconds after you left, he didn’t feel a thing.”

“How I envy him. No matter how terrible it all is, he takes it on and still manages to have a good laugh.”

“Even if it is at our expense. He has a talent for keeping us all from going mad, God bless him.”

“It is a terrible burden to know how things really are. To know the truth,” Schmidt said.

Angst no longer knew what to say. He could not change his friend’s beliefs, and he hadn’t the strength to continue a political or moral discussion to try to sway his opinions. Besides, it was late, and he had a long stretch ahead of him. Schmidt was a decent fellow, but he was a trifle maudlin; and at present he was allowing this aspect of his temperament to rule. Now Angst was feeling morose. Over the last couple of days, he’d been depressed as well, and the last thing he needed to hear that he was witnessing the end of the world. “You had better get some sleep, Willi. Your turn at watch will come around sooner than you’d want.”

Schmidt agreed and said good night. Alone now, with the darkness as no comfort, Angst’s mind raced, and his stomach knotted. The only apocalypse he was experiencing was personal and caused by men. He knew the chances of surviving this conflict were slim. Maybe the only thing left to save is my soul, he thought. Maybe that is what Schmidt is struggling with, but he’s put it into a larger context. As a boy, the Book of Revelation had filled Angst’s impressionable young mind with fear and dread. Back home, the parish priest, Father Günter, would read the entire book at Christmas Day mass. Whether the insufferably long reading was a canonically legitimate inclusion to the nativity celebration, or if it had significance for the priest alone, Angst did not know. He could visualize the portly, white-haired priest turning purple as he bellowed the scripture. He suffered from a severe speech impediment, a lisp, and it was an awful experience to have to sit and listen to a voice that sounded as if it came from the mouth of a deranged baby who had only just learned how to talk. Having to go to church on Christmas would ruin the rest of the day. No amount of holiday treats or toys could dispel the lurid images of stars falling from the sky, the moon turning the color of blood, and, most horrific of all, the dead rising from their graves to receive the last judgment. His child’s mind would quake at the thought of legions of skeletons in moldy rags, parading through the streets of town. He could never gauge the effect this prophecy had on his parents. They drank their fill of punch and schnapps, feasted on the Christmas roast, and laughed with relatives and friends. His mother reprimanded him for brooding on such a joyful day. When he told her what he was brooding about, Father Günter’s sermon, she told him nothing bad would ever happen to him, if he was good. He ceased going to church after he turned seventeen. The old tale from the remote past had long ceased to have a hold over him. Until now, that is, with this mass exodus of armies, civilians, and countless animals; fires raging everywhere—an eerie sight that filled him with a dread far more potent than anything he’d ever felt as a child. Schmidt could be right, he thought; perhaps this is the last great conflict, the battle for the souls of men. And what judgment will I receive for my contribution? he wondered.

* * *

Soon after he had eaten, Schroeder took a shelter half for a cover and lay down on one of the benches. He suggested Wilms do the same before somebody else in the crew beat him to it. The signalman wasn’t ready for sleep yet, however, so he sat on the bench opposite the corporal and smoked. Voss had taken his place in the co-driver’s seat to monitor the radio, an indication that the first watch had begun, and Detwiler, armed with an MP40, had since taken his post on the south side of the laager. Schroeder had closed his eyes and was intent on going to sleep, but Wilms’s fidgeting made it difficult to shut out his surroundings. “How long do you think this is going to take?” Wilms asked the corporal.

“How long is what going to take?”

“The mission.”

“You heard what the captain said. We will remain on this side of the river until Red Vengeance is destroyed. Now, stop annoying me and go to sleep.”

Wilms was able to contain himself for no more than a minute before he spoke again. “I wonder if we will be assigned to another Stug when we finally get back to brigade,” Wilms said, referring to the self-propelled assault gun that had been destroyed.

“I seriously doubt it. There weren’t enough guns before the Tortoise breakthrough, and there’s even less now, I would assume. Unless brigade gets re-outfitted—and I don’t see that occurring—we will be sent to join the infantry at the front line.”

“Did the captain signal headquarters to inform them of our whereabouts and ask permission to borrow us for the time being?”

“He said he would, although I don’t know if he extended the same courtesy for Angst and his bunch. I doubt if they’d be missed at all.”

“I wonder what headquarters will say about losing Pieper and the assault gun?”

Schroeder threw the shelter half off to the side in anger and sat up. “You won’t have to worry about that.”

“There’s bound to be an inquiry.”

“What if there is? They will have to question me, but it won’t matter, because we will have Red Vengeance as our trophy by then. That alone will even the score for Pieper and Naumann and the rest. That’s why I jumped at the chance to serve under the captain.”

“I’m all for it, you know that.”

“Good, but I want you to get the idea out of your head that we were in some way responsible for the Stug’s destruction. Especially me. It’s as though I failed everyone, and I didn’t. I explained it all to the captain and he understood, perfectly. He knows what we were up against better than anyone.”

“I just want to be made to understand…” Wilms fell silent. The lieutenant stirred about in his seat, and the signalman worried if their voices had grown too loud.

“Understand what?”

“That night in the thicket. Why won’t you and Detwiler speak of it?”

“Perhaps you should have asked Ganz while you still had the opportunity.”

“That isn’t funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be. I was only trying to illustrate the fact that even he hadn’t the desire to speak of the matter.”

“Did Captain Falkenstein order you not to discuss it?”

“He said no such thing. It’s very difficult to explain, because the experience had more to do with what we were feeling than what had actually occurred. Detwiler grew so scared he nearly shit his trousers.”

“I can’t imagine that lout being afraid of anything.”

“Well, he was, as were we all. When we reached the thicket, it seemed impassable at first. A tangle of brambles with long sharp thorns. I’d never seen anything like it growing on the steppe. We walked along the outside for a couple of hundred meters, to get a sense of how far the brush extended. There was no way any Russians could be hiding through that mass of growth, so I figured Pieper would circle around it. We were ready to give up and return when Ganz spotted an opening, a wide path of five or six meters across. There was no choice then, so we had to go in and take a look, just to make sure. We entered. It was like a thoroughfare, even and symmetrical on both sides, and I guessed it continued through to the other side. The ground felt dry and lifeless under hands and knees as we crawled. Then the path angled this way and that until it opened up to a clearing. It reeked of diesel fuel and oil. The ground was soaked with the stuff and littered with small pieces of metal and machine parts. The smell of pollution and death was overwhelming, and Detwiler urged that we leave immediately. There was something odd about it all. Evil. I think that’s what Detwiler said. The place was evil, and we got scared. Really, terribly scared. The clearing was large, and I didn’t think we had wandered that deep into it, but we couldn’t find the path where we had entered. Ganz was starting to panic and kept blabbering about the stars having disappeared. I looked up and he was right, there weren’t any. The sky was opaque, as though it was overcast, but it cast no illumination. I risked turning on my flashlight in order to find the path again and discovered that the growth didn’t consist of brambles at all but was barbed wire, acres of barbed wire with vines and tall grass growing amid the coils. It seemed as if the wire had been sown and grew like some living thing on its own. I couldn’t imagine who had created this obstruction, or for what purpose. The layout appeared carefully planned, but by whom? The clearing was in the shape of a perfect circle, and the engine parts lying on the ground looked ravaged and chewed. The impression was that of a den or lair where an animal would drag its kill to devour and live amid its own waste. Ganz finally happened upon what we thought was the original path, but it wasn’t. The wire was laid in a hedgehog manner, a labyrinth, shifting, falling back on itself, leading to dead ends. I lost all sense of direction, and it took everything I had to maintain discipline. It seemed like we’d been lost for hours. Then we saw flames in the distance, flickering through the coils of wire and the growth. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was the assault gun burning. We kept walking and kept the flames in sight, as it was our only reference point. I don’t think we even cared what the fire signified, as long as we got clear of that terrible maze.”

“I would have thought the star shell would have lit up the way out for you.”

“It didn’t. That is to say, we had no visual confirmation that a star shell had been fired. The flashlight was our only source. I’d become so unnerved I left it on, and to hell with the consequences. And we heard nothing, other than our hearts beating and the shortness of our breath. No cannon fire or machine guns, nothing. The skirmish was over by the time we finally cleared the thicket.”

“How did the captain react when you told him all this? Did it strike him as implausible?”

“On the contrary. He asked questions but only to extract more details. He had no doubts about what I had observed, because he’d come across a similar bivouac once before. He described it as a nest, which was the term he used, where Red Vengeance lies in wait, repairs itself, and, in our case, launches an ambush.”

“Repairs itself,” Wilms repeated with fascination. “What did he mean?”

“The captain didn’t elaborate. He understood everything I said, and that was all that mattered. I was relieved.” Schroeder lay down again and covered himself with the shelter half. “The captain said we might witness many strange things on this hunt. When Red Vengeance is finally destroyed, the war should return to normal. There will be a great about-turn, and our armies will go on the offensive once again. You must follow the captain’s lead, Wilms, and make his quest your own with equal purpose and desire. I know I have. We will serve by example—you, Detwiler, and I—to instill the same in the rest of our Kameraden. The sanctity of this mission must be preserved at all times. That is what the captain expressed.”

The discussion was over now that the corporal had closed his eyes. Wilms did the same, although he was more awake now than before. He lit another cigarette and listened to the wheezing snores of the overbearing, fanatical corporal, who could fall asleep so easily, and felt terribly homesick for the familiarity of the brigade.

* * *

Something of a small commotion was taking place over by the armored scout car. Voss lay on the ground, wrapped in a blanket and tarpaulin, as the benches in the crew compartment were occupied with sleeping grenadiers. As for himself, he stirred fitfully out of discomfort. The luminous dial on his watch read a few minutes past twenty-four hundred hours. Over the past two consecutive nights about this time, the captain and the Mongol would leave the perimeter of the laager without saying a word as to where they were going or why. Khan wore his magic vest that made him impervious to bullets and flak. He had overheard some of the crew marvel over its attributes, as Sergeant Vogel described its properties. Since leaving the tractor station, no one had words with, or even much of a glimpse of, the shaman, as the crew now referred to Khan. He rarely left the command vehicle, and when he did, it was usually at night. Shying away from the men’s company, he preferred to take his meals and smoke his pipe alone. When he was seen, it was something of an event, as his strange appearance and different ways helped to undercut some of the boredom. Vogel explained that the vest was made of horsehide, and sewn to the front and back were numerous objects: pieces of mirror and polished metal, small semiprecious stones, bits of obsidian, even meteorite fragments. Khan attributed tremendous powers to these talismans, which were arranged in a purposeful manner on the vest. He lugged the Soviet-made antitank rifle along. The long-barreled, bolt-action weapon had the appearance of some plumbing fixture. The canvas haversack he carried on his shoulder contained the large 14.5 mm shells. Falkenstein would usually take a panzerfaust or bell-shaped magnetic mine. Tonight he took neither as he limped with difficulty in an attempt to keep pace with Khan’s surefooted strides in the dark. Curious, Voss picked up the submachine gun that he kept beside him and followed the silhouettes as they walked into the burning fields. The procession, with Voss lagging behind at a discreet distance, lasted for over half an hour and followed a southwesterly direction. He could see Falkenstein clearly in the flickering, yellow-orange glow of an enormous fire in the distance. It must have been a hayrick or grain silo to cause such a terrific blaze, Voss thought. As he approached, he became aware that the captain stood alone. Although the fire lit up the surroundings like a beacon, Khan was nowhere in sight. Voss watched as Falkenstein unholstered his pistol and turned. His body may have been crippled but his instincts remained sharp and Voss knew the captain would drop him, and with justification, under the circumstances. “Don’t shoot, Captain. It’s only me, Lieutenant Voss.” He walked closer into the light so he could be seen, plainly. Falkenstein lowered his weapon. “Can’t sleep, Lieutenant?”

“I saw you leave, so I followed in the event you needed assistance.”

“You shouldn’t have bothered. This exercise will prove as futile as it has in the past.”

“Does Khan expect an ambush? Red Vengeance?” Voss felt exposed in the amber glare and dropped to one knee. Falkenstein remained standing. “He’s alert to some unknown presence in the vicinity, but it’s outside our senses to detect. The rogue baits me to accompany him on these nocturnal forays that, so far, have borne nothing substantial. Certainly not a hint of that accursed tank.”

“And what of Khan, sir? Does he simply abandon you, unprotected like this, when any danger can occur?”

Falkenstein seemed to laugh. “He has no doubt transformed himself into one of those animals of his. A bird of some kind, a steppe eagle or raven, circling the sky and keeping an eye on things, on me, only to return at dawn in his familiar shape. Never having witnessed the mechanics of this craft myself, I’ve only Khan’s word for it.”

“That being the case, could it be Khan is nothing more than a clever charlatan? Perhaps an outright liar?”

“You don’t know the man as I do. But tell me, from where do you draw such a harsh opinion of him, Lieutenant?”

“I can well imagine that being a bodyguard and personal magician to the captain is a far more prestigious qualification than as a mere Hiwi, or worse yet, a prisoner in a labor camp.”

“Not Khan. He’s too smart for that. He orientates me, Lieutenant, interprets my dreams. He claims I dream the future, or at least the possibility. Nightmares are more like it! Yet Khan guides me, reels me back in. Needless to say, he has the conjurer’s art down pat and has awed me with a trick or two. You witnessed one yourself.”

“I have?”

“Indeed. That dust storm on the morning when we first met. How do you think Vogel and I managed to elude an enemy mechanized corps for so long? Khan summoned that dust devil, and we drove hidden within…”

Voss could see the sense of marvel on the captain’s face. The white of one eye shone, and his teeth reflected the light from the fire as the eye patch and short dark beard dissociated the rest of his face.

“Even more astonishing is when he told me he’d been in communication with the spirits from my doomed command. He knew names and spoke in voices that were not his own and behaved with mannerisms familiar only to me. Make no mistake. The dead seek retribution. Khan acts as intermediary to those pale, bloodied ghosts. Naturally, I didn’t know what to make of this savage. Who is he, and how did he come to know so much? But something resonated deep within me and said to listen and abide. Some months ago, Khan prophesized that the day would come when every living creature would be driven from the steppe, and there would be fires everywhere. The very ground would be set ablaze, and the smoke would empty the sky of birds. When that day came, my hunt for Red Vengeance would soon be over. Take a good look, Lieutenant,” Falkenstein said, and pointed to the fires lighting up the night. “It appears that day has finally arrived.” As Voss looked to where Falkenstein pointed, his attention was drawn to a dark form that seemed to materialize from out of the flames. It was Khan.

“Be patient, Captain.”

“Don’t humor me. Patience is afforded only to those who have time, and we haven’t any.”

An intense heat emanated from Khan’s body. Voss could feel it, as though the man was a burning ember. What devil spawned this creature, he wondered? As though he could read thoughts, Khan turned to face Voss and hissed, nastily; then, just as abruptly, he turned his back and ignored him. To Falkenstein Khan said, “After your armies cross the river, and the Captain is left behind, then Red Vengeance will see you, and it will come.”

“That explains when. Now tell me where. Where should I go?”

“This is all I know, Captain.”

Discontented, Falkenstein started back to where the vehicles were laagered. It was Khan’s turn to follow. Voss thought it a strange shadow for a man to possess.

23

The crew broke camp and made preparations to get underway as Wilms neared the end of his stretch at the radio. The signalman was exhausted, not having slept much the night before, but he wasn’t allowed to succumb to fatigue. He listened and jotted down notes feverishly and thrust a handful of notepaper toward the nearest individual, who happened to be Sergeant Reinhardt. One look at the scrawled dispatches, and the sergeant bounded off the armored carrier and sprinted over to the command vehicle, where the captain and Lieutenant Voss plotted the day’s journey on the map. Falkenstein took the notes he was offered and, after he read, passed them on one by one to the lieutenant.

0500 hours: increase of heavy mortar activity. 0530 hours: artillery barrage accompanied by mass enemy infantry attack along corps sector. It got worse as Voss read on. By zero six hundred hours, a breakthrough had occurred, and a sizeable armored formation had been observed.

“Thank you, Sergeant. Keep me informed,” Falkenstein said, and turned to Vogel, who was refueling the scout car. “After you’ve finished, get on the radio and raise our friends with the Twenty-Third Panzers.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Tucking the map under an arm, Falkenstein walked with Voss over to the Hanomag. “Have you any notions on the subject, Lieutenant?”

“Better to await more information before drawing any conclusions. I am curious, though, as to how you will proceed, in the event the Russians succeed with a breakthrough that can’t be stopped locally. Have you a contingency plan in case such an event should arise?”

“As you said, Lieutenant, better to wait for more information.”

Voss boarded the armored personnel carrier. The radio loudspeaker was turned on, and Voss stood beside Reinhardt and listened as Wilms worked the tuning dial. The airwaves were loaded with chatter, both code and en clair. Even the Russians could be heard, but the reception was poor. The situation, at least what could be pieced together, described a concentration of enemy armor of undetermined strength having made a penetration in the vicinity of Dorznjanka, a village forty-five kilometers to the south.

“Voss!” The captain was calling him. “Keep at it,” Voss said to Reinhardt. “Try to nail down the location precisely and the size of the force involved.” He then joined the captain and brought him up-to-date with all that he had heard. Vogel had pulled the scout car closer to the Hanomag.

“Any luck raising the Twenty-Third?” Voss asked.

“Nothing yet,” Falkenstein said. “Too much interference. The Russians, presumably.” He opened the map again and laid it out on the front end of the scout car. A new pencil line indicated the last known position of German forces east of Zaporozhye and south of the Sinel’nikovo-Krasnoarmeyskoye railroad. “I think it is safe to say we are no more than fifteen kilometers to the rear of the combat area, and that is taking into consideration any measurable distance von Mackensen’s and Hollidt’s divisions had made during the night.”

“If indeed a single step was taken from yesterday’s positions.”

“That may be so. Now look,” Falkenstein said, indicating a symbol on the map, “here lies a forward area airstrip. It’s small. The Luftwaffe can maintain a squadron or two at best. With any luck, it’s still operational.”

Voss could see the airstrip was thirty kilometers to the south and could be easily reached in a little over an hour’s driving time.

“We can be brought up-to-date on the penetration occurring further to the south upon our arrival,” Falkenstein said. He then gave the order to move out.

The crew was placed on alert. Bow and aft machine guns were manned by Schroeder and Detwiler, and several rounds were test-fired. Angst and Braun scanned the horizon for any signs of enemy activity. Schmidt trained binoculars on the sky. Wilms was relieved from his stint at radio monitoring. Eyes heavy, the signalman took his seat on the bench and, despite the level of excitement generated by his crewmates, immediately passed out.

* * *

The airstrip was a scene of organized mayhem as the command vehicle and the Hanomag arrived. A pair of He129’s had just lifted off the ground; maintaining a breathtakingly low altitude, they circled around the base before getting on course to the east. A flock of JU-87s followed, while several more remained on the hard-packed dirt runway, propellers spinning, awaiting orders for takeoff. Judging by all the activity, this would prove to be the last sortie the dive-bombers and ground support fighters would fly from this airfield. Engineers were in the final stages of mining the runway and the immediate surroundings. Once detonated, the airstrip would be useless as a base when the Russians took possession of the area. The large canvas field tents and prefabricated huts that had served as the executive officer’s headquarters and barracks for pilots and ground crew were in the process of being removed as rigging was untied, stakes pulled up, and frameworks disassembled and loaded on trucks and prime movers. Adding to the stress of the operation was the interdiction fire from enemy artillery. The intermittent shells would fall either well beyond or far short of the makeshift airbase without damage to equipment or causing casualties, so far anyway, but the explosions were hellishly loud and sent enormous geysers of smoke and earth into the air.

The handful of airfield security had been assigned to direct the foot and vehicle traffic, both entering and leaving, down specific lanes that were specially flagged to bypass the mines and detonating cables. Near the base perimeter, an NCO blew a whistle and waved on the trucks that were loaded with equipment and ready for departure. The scout car, with the Hanomag following a short distance behind, came to a stop. Falkenstein raised halfway out of the turret. “How close is the front, Field Sergeant?”

The NCO spat out the whistle and let it hang from the lanyard looped around his neck as his hands continued to make a variety of overwrought signaling gestures. “Eight kilometers,” he said, then looked at Falkenstein with consternation. His hands stopped moving. “Excuse me, Captain, but could you tell me your unit and what your orders are?”

Wearily, Falkenstein explained his situation, but with minimal elaboration. He turned over his pay booklet. The NCO made a cursory inspection, appeared satisfied, and handed it back.

“What is the situation as it now stands, Sergeant?”

“We’re two hours behind schedule. All staff, including the CO, are seeing to the evacuation.”

Falkenstein rolled his eyes in annoyance. “I meant at the front. How severe is the enemy breakthrough?”

“I have no exact information on that, sir. All I know is Ivan is close. Very close.”

“Without having to drive to the front line and find out first hand for myself, who among you here could enlighten me?”

The sergeant pondered the question for a moment until something dawned on him. “Captain Tanner, the squadron leader. His JU-87 is still here, although the propeller’s spinning, which means he won’t be for long. And there’s the air liaison officer, Lieutenant Pohl, who has set up temporary communications in the emergency air raid bunker.”

The sergeant proceeded to give directions. Falkenstein instructed Voss, via radio, to follow his vehicle exactly. The bunker was situated a quarter of a kilometer on the north side of the airfield, but the 222 had to drive several hundred meters east, as the sergeant explained, and then arc around in a northwesterly direction. The large pole antennae came into view. A metal pennant bearing the colors of the signal section was mounted next to the opening of the low, sandbagged structure. A thick bundle of cable snaked down the steps. Falkenstein entered the semi dark, confined space. Voss followed. Two transmitters and receivers, each with an operator monitoring the set, occupied a makeshift table constructed of upended crates and planks. At another smaller table was a field telephone in use by an officer decked out in a flight suit and leather helmet. He looked up with interest at the strangers, but only momentarily, as he went back to concentrating on the voice at the other end of the phone. A lieutenant hovered over one of the radio operators and listened in on the receiver. He put down the earphones as Falkenstein introduced himself.

“Lieutenant Pohl, how do you do, Captain, Lieutenant. You will have to excuse our conditions. The airfield is set for demolition.”

“So we have been made aware. The reason why we are here, Lieutenant, is to ask for any details on the breakthrough. Lieutenant Voss and I are headed south, and we are interested to know what to expect.”

“Early this morning a concentration of enemy armor did try to force the issue, and a high number of casualties were sustained while trying to seal the breech.”

“And this has taken place near Dorznjanka.”

“That is correct. An incomplete battery of Mark IVs reinforced with a Ferdinand intervened. The reports we’ve been monitoring seem to indicate the enemy thrust was repelled for the time being.”

“Undermanned and outgunned, and still we manage to hold back the flood gates.” Falkenstein was elated.

“Nothing short of a miracle,” Pohl said.

“Miracles have nothing to do with it. Determination. Yet another example of how far skill and ingenuity can triumph over innumerable odds. You see, Voss, we have reason for optimism after all.”

“Skill and determination aside, Captain, I don’t know how long we can keep this up. The combat groups have only just begun to inch their way back. This corps area alone will have to force-march more than forty kilometers tonight to maintain schedule, and a Soviet rifle division is on the attack no more than ten kilometers from where we stand. The regiment in this sector, woefully undermanned, is barely holding its own as we speak.”

Falkenstein wasn’t listening to the lieutenant’s worries. There were other matters of far more importance on his mind. “Tell me, Lieutenant, have you heard any reports concerning a T-34 operating behind the lines, independent of an enemy armored group or task force? Anything at all. Rumors, perhaps?”

“No. Should we have?” The squadron leader, Captain Tanner, had placed the field telephone receiver down and regarded Falkenstein quizzically. He introduced himself. “Does this concern your orders, Captain Falkenstein? Because we are in short supply of the mobile reserves necessary to check every Russian unit that might find its way through the gaps in the line. And believe me, there are plenty.”

“I was simply curious, Captain. Other than this morning’s penetration…”

“Nothing has been brought to my attention. Who can be seriously interested in the whereabouts of a lone Russian tank at a time like this? Not Corps, surely.”

“When it concerns this particular tank, Captain Tanner, it interests me greatly.”

The squadron leader thought for a moment, and his face lit up in amusement. “You’re after the steel beast, aren’t you? Red Vengeance.”

Falkenstein nodded, solemnly.

“That is splendid. Good for you, Captain. Whoever puts an end to that nuisance deserves the Knight’s Cross. That’s what I think.”

“Medals hold no fascination for me.”

“Oh, I know, but still it impresses the ladies,” Tanner said jocularly. “Seriously though, I have always hoped to have Red Vengeance lined up in my sights someday. No one, to my knowledge, has ever spotted it from the air. An entire Geschwader devoted to killing tanks, and not one pilot has come even close. Something about it is indeed odd. I would not be surprised if Red Vengeance has camouflaged itself to such a degree that it appears more as one of our Panthers than a T-34, from the air, that is.”

“You should bear that in mind on your next sortie, Captain” Voss suggested.

“A splendid idea, Lieutenant. I will bear it in mind.”

“I believe the anomalous nature of the tank is far more complicated than either one of you perceives it to be,” Falkenstein said, sharply.

A shell landed nearby, causing the rafters, only inches above their heads, to shake violently as fine grit rained down upon them. Rattled, Lieutenant Pohl said, “One would think it safer at the front.” Voss ducked out of the bunker to see how the vehicles fared. Looking past the smoke, he could see the men’s ashen faces peering over the top edge of the crew compartment. A large crater smoldered some thirty meters away, and yet both the 222 and the Hanomag were covered with volumes of soil. Except for being shaken, no one was hurt. “Can’t the Luftwaffe do anything about those infernal guns?” he asked, upon reentering the bunker.

Captain Tanner smiled sadly. “Every attempt is being made, I can assure you, Lieutenant. Our efforts are hampered trying to keep the skies free of Stormoviks. Each day the Red Air Force grows stronger, more sure of itself, while we, on the other hand…”

Voss was chastened. “Captain, I did not mean to suggest…”

Tanner noticed Voss’s discomfort and waved it aside. “No offense taken. This base has served its purpose. Time has simply run out. Speaking of which,” Tanner looked at his wristwatch, “I have a mission to fly, and with any luck I’ll find a place to land before she runs out of fuel, preferably on this side of enemy lines. Good hunting, gentleman.” They shook hands, and the squadron leader swept out of the bunker with a flair that gave the impression he was already in flight.

“There is room on the personnel carrier, if you and your staff wish to leave, Lieutenant.” After Voss had said this he stole a glance at Falkenstein, expecting a negative reaction, but found him nodding in agreement.

“Of course. I could squeeze on at least one more man,” the captain said.

“Thank you, but we are staying. Lines of communication will remain open until the very last moment. I am waiting to hear from corps that all the wounded have been removed to a safe distance. Once the mines are detonated, and the enemy observers detect the smoke, the entire sector will come under an intensive barrage. We will all be in for something of an unpleasant experience, I should think.” Though he attempted to display an air of nonchalance, Pohl’s nervousness betrayed him; his voice quivered when he added, “At the risk of sounding inhospitable, Captain, you and the lieutenant would be well advised to get clear of this area while you still have the opportunity.”

The officers exchanged courtesies and wished each other good luck. None envied the other’s mission, as they all had too much to be responsible for and possessed too few resources to draw from. There was no time to lose as Voss and Falkenstein exited the bunker. The squadron leader’s JU-87 negotiated the mined runway and went aloft as the very last dive-bomber to leave the airfield. As it flew overhead, the wing dipped once, then it continued to gain altitude. Voss waved. The trucks were tearing away from the airstrip, leaving long trails of dust behind. Falkenstein ordered a heading of west by northwest. The drivers gunned the engines as the officers boarded their respective vehicles and sped off. They had entered a mad race that barely lasted the distance of two kilometers when a series of explosions alternated down the length of the runway. Seconds passed, and then the entire airfield erupted in a grid like pattern. One section followed by another went up in controlled blasts of fire, smoke, earth, and debris. Minutes later a rolling wave of drumfire commenced. The grenadiers hunkered down behind the walls of the crew compartment hands covering ears, heads between knees, teeth chattered. The hulking vehicle vibrated as the ground turned to liquid from the unrelenting cascade of falling shells. Two, three kilometers more, and still the vehicles continued to run the gauntlet as this brood of deadly configurations hatched out of the ground and loomed powerfully into the sky. The vehicles were buffeted by the shock waves from the explosions as the armored sidings were pelted with clods of earth, stones, and fragments of steel.

The barrage lasted for another twenty minutes. Once they were safely out of range, Vogel could rendezvous with the Hanomag. The two vehicles drew near one another and waited over an hour for the smoke and dust to settle and for everyone to get their nerves under control. Voss and Reinhardt inspected both vehicles to confirm that no damage had occurred and to make sure that the precious fuel cans had not been punctured. When visibility had improved, the vehicles changed direction to the south and wove carefully through the impact site. The entire sector had become cratered, like the moon.

24

First Panzer Army continued its retreat toward the Dniepr bend. Fighting skillfully, the worn-out, under strength divisions managed to thwart the Russian advance, although for some their situation was far from optimistic. Intercepted radio transmissions reported enemy mechanized units descending upon isolated pockets of infantry separated from their battalions. Cries for help carried over the airwaves as these grenadiers were hunted down and eventually silenced. Voss had listened and became increasingly haunted by the fact that there was little he could do; there was no consolation in the knowledge that Reconnaissance Group Falkenstein was too small a force to mount a successful rescue. Due to distance and speed, they would only arrive too late to affect the outcome. The valiant troops would hold back the Russians for several hours, a day at best, before the vast, lonely steppe would consume them. No one would ever know their names. Voss prayed these men were possessed by apathy, born of misery and fatigue, which would resign them to their fate; perhaps, once free of all expectation, desire, and fear, they would unleash their ferocity in the face of the inevitable. Voss hoped to possess the same cold indifference when his turn came, as he believed it would someday.

The war in Russia had taken on the characteristics of one enormous rear guard action. Voss was worn out from having fought this war of attrition all summer long, and there appeared to be no end in sight. He had not been home on leave in well over a year, and such a prospect in the near future seemed dim. He was tired, filthy, and hungry all the time, scared most of the time—and he commanded men whose condition was no better than his own. Everyone hung on by a thread (maybe the Reds are attacking some other sector and not our own…maybe we will make it to the river in time). As the hours and days passed, hope dwindled. Voss was resigned to his own fate but there was something he wished to impart to the men. However, he hadn’t the authority to grant it. Not now, perhaps not ever. He needed to dispel the gloom that had enveloped him. The thoughts merely antagonized the present reality as he continued on with the captain’s inexorable course. The last thing the crew needed to see was a demoralized, moping officer. Weary of standing, he exchanged places with Wilms and climbed into the co-driver’s seat. Sergeant Reinhardt had taken over the wheel from Hartmann, who was in need of a break. The driver had delivered all his skill and luck during the barrage and for hours thereafter and was thoroughly depleted. Reinhardt glanced over as the lieutenant sat down and put on the headphones but did not speak, satisfied to drive on in silence. Despite the warmth and cramped space of the drivers’ cabin, Voss closed the front and side view port shutters to keep out the dust and tried to be as comfortable as possible. He turned his attention to the dossier the captain had given him the evening they had left the tractor station. During these past strange and demanding days, it had proven difficult to do more than glance at a few pages and read a passage or two. The file on Red Vengeance had the appearance of a worn scrapbook jammed with memoranda, notations, intelligence reports, photographs, and documents. The initial pages began with the complete evolution of the T-34 and all modifications thus far. Included were schematics, technical drafts detailing exterior and interior aspects such as weaponry and fire control systems, disposition of mechanics, and functions. A number of photographs were available illustrating the inside of a captured tank. Panzer divisions were known to place captured, serviceable T-34s as scouting vehicles and as flank protection for infantry units while on the move. When the T-34 appeared for the first time during the autumn of 1941, it immediately dominated the battlefield. The Mark I and II panzers in use at the time became obsolete overnight. The Wehrmacht was stunned. Due to poor intelligence both prior and during the opening phase of Operation Barbarossa, there were many at Oberkommando des Heeres, or OKH, who indulged in the luxury of believing the tank was miraculously produced overnight. Like any weapon, the T-34 followed a technological progression over time, and only the aptitude of Russian engineering was underestimated—with disastrous consequences.

During the early prototype stage (1931–36 and 1939), the Fast Tank series underwent the development of the Christie suspension, large road wheels (capable of travel without track links), and the revolutionary forward-sloping hull. The first T-34s (of which there were over 1000) had been tested in maneuvers by 1940. Since that time, five series types, A through E, were currently in service, although differentiation of type is difficult in some cases due to repair parts interchange, variations in production, and rearmament. Basic changes are as follows:

Type A 1940—small cast or welded turret with pig head gun mount; machine gun in ball mantelet at turret rear; and a large single roof hatch.

Type B 1941—angled rectangular gun cradle; extended cannon barrel (L41.2); perforated road wheels.

Type C 1942—double visor turret; ribbed and perforated tracks (an improvement over the plate link tracks on types A and B); protective visors on driver’s hatch; bow machine gun with ball mantelet.

Type D 1942—large hexagonal-shaped turret with double roof hatch (known as “Mickey Mouse ears” in soldiers’ parlance); hand hold bars on sides and rear of turret; gun cradle modified with side bulges; single and double periscopes.

Type E 1943—similar to type D; all models complete with double periscope and commander’s cupola.

The T-34 is fast. With a cruising speed of 40 km per hour and extremely maneuverable (remarkably so in an urban setting), its broad perforated/ribbed tracks allow the vehicle superb cross-country performance. The greatest asset is a 76 mm high-velocity gun. The Panzer I and II was no match against an enemy tank that could fire a more powerful armor-piercing shell at greater distances. The 37 mm cannon, the panzer’s main armament, was called a “door knocker” due to the fact that the projectile bounced off the T-34’s radically designed armor. When the battle for Moscow got underway, large numbers of T-34s were thrown into action and inflicted serious losses on German armor. Superiority was clearly on Russia’s side (until introduction of the Tiger tank in late winter-early spring of ’43).

Originally, the T-34 was not equipped with wireless sets, and communication among the tanks was conducted with a system of hand and/or flag signals. Needless to say this primitive method impacted negatively on deployment and tactics. By ’42, radios had been installed and a wireless operator included. The four-man crew consists of the commander-gunner, loader, driver, and wireless operator (who operates the secondary weapon, the hull machine gun).

Since the deployment of entire tank armies, Soviet tactics are such that strategic blunders occur more often than not, although signs of improvement are becoming evident. Nevertheless, what the Russian army lacks in flair and versatility on the battlefield is made up for in sheer weight in numbers. Despite the success of small maneuverable panzer units led by experienced officers and crews against forces of greater strength, the Russians continue to maintain an eightfold margin of superiority in armor. [Staff Intelligence A.G. Don]

Red Vengeance belongs to the Type D variety of T-34, with hexagon shaped turret (thickness: 72 mm) and double turret hatch covers (20 mm); single periscope on turret roof; front, side, and rear armor: 45 mm (appearance indicates extra armor plating welded to outer hull—on rear engine covers, hull exterior directly over on board fuel reservoirs). Two external reserve fuel tanks mounted on rear deck greatly increase the vehicles’ already formidable range: 430km road, 200km off road. Length: 6.5 meters; width: 3 meters. Ammunition consists of 80 armor-piercing/high-explosive shells and 2400 rounds for machine gun.

One particular observation that is unique only to Red Vengeance is its quick rate of fire. Supported by numerous accounts and observations, the tank can fire and reload the 76 mm gun with greater speed and deadlier accuracy than a Tiger (which holds a crew of five). The assumption is that an extra crewman has been put on board as a gunner, thus freeing the commander from the duty and allowing him to focus attention on tactical decisions, observation, and fire direction. One school of thought is of the opinion that a specialized sighting system and an advanced load/fire mechanism are employed. Weapons technology along these lines has yet to be found on enemy vehicles examined by army specialists. Another theory suggests Red Vengeance is a hybrid fighting vehicle, a one of a kind, which has failed to go into full-scale production; however, there is no evidence to lend credence to this theory.

Voss continued to read. There were other details, specifically the camouflage netting draped over the gun barrel and hull, barbed wire on mud guards and rear deck; also the Cyrillic letters spelling out the alleged words krasni mecTb on the left turret side. Included in the documentation were transcripts of eyewitness accounts of troops in the field associated with events and actual encounters. Falkenstein’s own experiences were conspicuously absent. Searching through the file, Voss couldn’t find a report or debriefing that detailed the circumstances of the captain’s fateful engagement. The only reference, and this only a short memo from Army Group intelligence, suggested the incident on the Kalmyk steppe of September 1942 was most likely the first known skirmish involving Red Vengeance. The bulk of reports covered the time frame from December 1942 until April 1943 and was drawn almost exclusively from the intelligence section and war diaries of General Hoth’s Fourth Panzer Army. Red Vengeance seemed to have it in for the general that winter. Mounting a relief operation to link up with the encircled Sixth Army at Stalingrad, Fourth Panzer Army engaged in tooth-and-claw defensive battles through bitter cold, slush, and snow. Streaked in whitewash, Red Vengeance targeted reconnaissance units that covered the outer flanks of the spearhead. Subject to repeated attacks were the supply columns ferrying the fuel and ammunition. Although these support companies did not operate in secure areas, the beguiling aspect of the raids occurred under the noses of motorized infantry whose sole objective was to offer protection to the supply lines. Red Vengeance had the uncanny ability to slip through the protective cordons, destroy several vehicles of fuel and materiel, and vanish. What stuck in the minds of the German troops was how this T-34 operated alone, without support, and its appearance presaged an attack in some other sector and a different unit with devastating consequence. Red Vengeance would drift in and out of antitank gun sights and manage to elude a direct hit from veteran gunners. Against a bleak winter sky, the specter, its hull splashed with white camouflage, would be observed on the horizon, tracks kicking up sprays of white powder, just centimeters out of gun range.

Hoth’s army bogged down thirty kilometers from Stalingrad. Enemy resistance was too strong, and his best division, Sixth Panzer, was ordered detached to answer a crisis when the Italian Eighth Army faced a massive Russian offensive. Fourth Panzer Army could go no further, and rumors of Red Vengeance were beginning to spread.

From mid-December to early January, the German front on the middle Don collapsed. The army group began the long, painful trek westward as the Russians prepared a gigantic pincer movement to take Rostov. Fourth Panzer Army was caught between the Sal and Manych rivers as it engaged in ruthless defensive fighting against the Soviet Second Guards Army, trying desperately to keep the Germans out of what was being called the “Rostov bottleneck.” A Russian bridgehead was already established at the village of Manychskaya and threatened First Panzer Army’s retreat from the south.

Voss thoughts returned to his own experiences during that time. The Greyhounds had covered Hoth’s flank from the assaults of the Soviet Twenty-Eighth Army, and he’d been involved in operations to take the village of Manychskaya where the Manych River flowed into the Don. The weather was brutal, the going arduous, and the battles nothing short of inhuman. He was amazed that he had survived at all. There were enough dangers and experiences during that single episode to last a lifetime; yet, with all he had been through before and since, it was but a few threads of a larger, more hellish tapestry. On January 30, First Panzer Army retreated across the Sea of Azov, over forty kilometers of black ice, from Rostov to Taganrog.

Another entry from the war diary of Fourth Panzer Army, dated February 3, concerned a raid on a battery of self-propelled assault guns positioned in defensive laager for the night. A T-34 swept in, past the picket lines of escort grenadiers, blasting a siren and activating a searchlight that picked out targets easily against the snow. The laager was hurled into tumult. Within moments, three self-propelled assault guns were destroyed with armor-piercing shot, and the fuel dump was set ablaze. Gun crews were cut down by machine gun as they attempted to climb into their vehicles. Every assault gun was either burning or damaged, and only one vehicle escaped in serviceable condition. The T-34 was Red Vengeance. The grenadiers who survived the assault swore that no sound produced by a diesel engine or track link noise was heard in anticipation of the tank’s approach. The vehicle simply appeared, out of nowhere, and with devastating effects. One grenadier remarked that just prior to the attack, he was nearly overcome by a sickening odor, “…like an abattoir on a hot day.” The rankness permeated the senses and did not lift for some time (several other witnesses who survived the attack supported this. They claimed to have become nauseous from the smell).

By early February, Field Marshal von Manstein ordered a strategic withdrawal to the Mius River. Italian, Hungarian, and Romanian armies to the north had disintegrated as Soviet armored forces poured through the gaps in the line from Voroshilovgrad to as far as Belgorod. Despite the shortened front, German troops were spread thin. Understrength companies of infantry were required to hold sectors of several kilometers in length. Small combat groups received radio transmissions from even smaller patrols. Red Vengeance was on the loose… word of an attack… and then a cold silence would follow. Hearing the name would cause restlessness, even panic among the troops. When rumor spread that Red Vengeance had been sighted in the vicinity, entire platoons were known to break into a run. NCOs told their unit commanders who, in turn, informed regiment headquarters of the impact this tank had on the men’s morale. Reports filtered back to divisional staffs. The T-34 was referred to as the “phantom” or “ghost” tank. Other references included “the beast” or “Moloch.” Every company, platoon, and rifle squad seemed to have a pet name of its own. Panzer crews were beginning to get nervous over the prospects of having to engage this particular T-34. A reputation as an unstoppable killer had already taken root.

February 17, 1943, Soviet Armored Group Popov crossed the Donets River near Izyum, penetrated south to the rear of First Panzer Army, and captured Krasnoarmeyskoye. The Russian Sixth Army, bearing, ironically, the same number as Von Paulus’s army recently lost at Stalingrad, pushed toward the west and took Pavlograd, penetrating as far as the railroad junction at Sinelnikovo. The plan was to cut off the German southern armies and annihilate them before they could fall back to the Dniepr. This is what Stavka, the Red Army High Command, perceived as the only option left for Army Group South—a strategic retreat to the river. Cunningly, von Manstein allowed the Russian general staff to believe this, and then launched his counteroffensive that lasted from late February to mid-March. The results were nothing short of astounding. Hoth was given the task to stop the Russian Sixth Army, and with three panzer corps, he launched a pincer movement of its own. The Russians were encircled and mauled. Attempting a desperate retreat back across the Donets, the Russian Sixth lost over twenty-five thousand men and countless armored vehicles along the way.

Armored Group Popov fared no better. The XL Panzer Corps, including SS Viking, Seventh, and Eleventh Panzer divisions, severed the armored groups’ supply lines. Cut off and isolated, the Russians were hacked apart, piecemeal. Attention now shifted to the city of Kharkov, which was retaken by the Waffen SS Panzer Corps by March 15. The danger for von Manstein’s southern armies had been averted. A period of relative calm descended over the front. The raputitsa, the spring mud season, was about ready to hatch. The only task left to the Wehrmacht during this lull was to keep its vehicles from being completely submerged in the mud. There were no reports of sightings or incidents involving Red Vengeance during the counteroffensive or the weeks following. Considering the full scope of operations during that period, it was no wonder the tank had not reared up and drawn attention to itself. Some at Fourth Panzer Army staff were convinced the tank was destroyed during the Russian Sixth Army retreat or got caught up in Group Popov’s annihilation. That assumption was soon to change on the second of April, when Red Vengeance showed itself, if for no other purpose than as a reminder. The tank had not been destroyed during the counteroffensive but still lurked. Despite the success the Germans managed in averting disaster, however narrowly, a long war was still to be fought, and there was a force, some thought a power, that had yet to be reckoned with.

[Note: Since the recent introduction of the Tiger tank, the T-34 no longer holds the technological edge it has previously enjoyed. The Tiger’s heavily armored hull and powerful 88 mm gun surpasses all other armored fighting vehicles and is considered the most sophisticated in the world. The tank accommodates a five-man crew. When seated in the turret, the commander can survey the battlefield through a periscope or five separate viewing portals that can access a visual reference of 360 degrees. An intercom system provides instant communication to all crewmembers. The demand is placed on the T-34 to move in very close to be effective, which is difficult with the Tiger’s long-range armament. Scores of enemy tanks are destroyed as the Tiger remains safely out of range.]

Unfortunately, not enough are in service, Voss thought as he read this passage. The scales haven’t tipped, but neither has a balance been achieved.

(The following has been drawn from an oral report given by Tank Gunner 1st Class Rudolf Gartner)

2/4/43 Three Tigers from Waffen SS battery “8” were on routine patrol approximately twenty-five kilometers northeast of Kharkov. Visibility was relatively good despite overcast and periodic rainfall. The commander of the lead tank received an en clair radio transmission from a panzergrenadier company battle station from within the patrol sector, stating that a T-34 fitting the description of Red Vengeance had been observed one thousand meters to the rear of the company area. The command vehicle was nearest to the vicinity and would follow a course north by north west and bring the tank under observation. Gartner’s tank, tactical number 127, was signaled by the lead tank and apprised of the new heading. Tiger #127 then informed the third tank of the unit, and when all three converged on the company sector, they were to await further orders. Stunned but excited at the prospect of engaging the infamous T-34, Gartner’s tank changed course. The crew’s morale was high.

The sighting was remarkable. Upon the successful completion of the counteroffensive and the retaking of Kharkov, all Soviet forces had been thrown back across the Donets River. The Russians had been under constant observation on the river’s east bank. Due to the warmer temperatures and melting snow, the river was swollen with ice floes, rendering a forced crossing impossible.

Tiger #127 would require a half hour, struggling through mud at top speed, before affecting a link up with the lead Tiger. At the outset, radio communication was difficult to maintain; garbled, misunderstood transmissions were relayed and repeated among the three tanks. Interference, primarily static, and a loud hum prevailed. Despite the poor quality of communication, the lead Tiger confirmed the T-34 as Red Vengeance and tried desperately to outmaneuver in an attempt to await the arrival of the patrol, but the enemy tank was forcing a confrontation. The two Tigers approaching on either flank could no longer communicate. Tiger #127 drove on in silence. Matters worsened when a fog quickly enveloped the surroundings, not an uncommon occurrence in the region, especially near rivers; nevertheless, the speed and density was unusual as #127 ran into a wall of fog that “seemed to have descended in the blink of an eye…from out of nowhere” (Gartner). Blind, radio useless, the commander of #127 only had his senses and training to rely on. He ordered a full stop, opened the turret hatch, and listened. The clatter of tank tracks distinctive of a T-34 could be heard. The discharge from a Tiger’s 88 mm followed; the sound originated from the east, near the river. Climbing back down and securing the hatch, the commander of #127 ordered a change of direction. Visibility wavered between fifteen to twenty meters. Minutes later, something loomed into view. It was the burning remains of the lead tank. The enormous hull had been cleaved apart lengthwise. No one could claim that he heard the Russian tank fire, unless the fog muffled the report. The extent of the damage indicated a hit at point blank range; they should have heard the T-34 fire its gun. Tension inside #127 became unbearable. The commander ordered a full stop, looked through the periscope, and desperately sought a target. The crew waited, silently. Gartner, poised at the gun controls, anticipated the order to fire. The driver was told to advance, slowly. Several minutes passed, perhaps less, when a terrific explosion penetrated the fog. Tiger #127 rocked from the force of the blast, and pieces of metal rapped the side of the vehicle. The second Tiger had been hit, again at close range, and the turret was completely dislodged from the hull. The commander of #127 knew the risk was too great to attempt an assault under these conditions and decided to withdraw. No sooner had the vehicle turned about than an armor-piercing shell struck the left flank, and smoke filled the interior-fighting compartment. Another AP round hit, and the fuel supply ignited. The tank began to disintegrate. Gartner managed to scramble out of the turret hatch as a fireball engulfed the interior. He lay in the mud badly burned, and before losing consciousness, he watched the spectral profile of the T-34 emerge from the fog and pass by “like some monstrous, devouring animal,” and then disappear into the fog. In the short time that had elapsed since Red Vengeance was first observed, three Tigers had been destroyed, and fourteen crewmen were dead. Tank Gunner 1st Class Rudolf Gartner survived long enough to give an oral report.

From that day forward, a Tiger was no guarantee of success against Red Vengeance. General Hoth regarded the impact the tank had on the morale of panzer troops as a serious issue and informed Army Group something needed to be done. An officer at A.G. Headquarters (name withheld) lent a sympathetic ear, and a small unit was formed at staff intelligence to gather all reports, recorded sightings, engagements—anything at all that concerned Red Vengeance. It was at this time when Falkenstein entered center stage. Upon his return to duty from medical furlough, the captain had been assigned to the Greyhound Division intelligence staff and filed a report to the A.G. special section, detailing the division’s contact with the fabled T-34, specifically his own experience. He had also drawn up an unsolicited feasibility study that outlined the creation of a small, highly mobile unit to coordinate and assist local forces in any given sector where Red Vengeance was sighted and believed to be operating. Information would be channeled to this unit, which would remain in a constant state of readiness and could be deployed at a moment’s notice. Coordination with the Luftwaffe for transport and a tank killer squadron, when available, was essential to the plan. For months, Red Vengeance had stalked its prey, wreaked havoc, and then disappeared at will. The time had come to pursue the tank actively. There was a morale dividend to be gained when the troops in the field were made aware that steps were being taken to deal directly with the rogue T-34. Due to his personal involvement with the subject, Falkenstein nominated himself as the most logical, in fact the only, candidate to lead the unit. He submitted both the feasibility study and the report to Army Group and forwarded a copy to Fourth Panzer Army headquarters.

General Hoth read the study and took an immediate liking to the idea and to the determined, if presumptuous, author, whose exploits on the Kalmyk Steppe had already preceded him. The general offered whatever resources his army had at its disposal. Falkenstein got his task force, small as it was, with the help of such high-ranking influence. Ironically, Red Vengeance was not to be heard from in the combat zone of Army Group South. Like the phantom it was likened to, the machine had dissipated in the harsh glare of the Ukrainian summer. Until Operation Citadel. Army Detachment Kempf, Fourth Panzer Army, and Ninth Army from Army Group Center converged and then deployed their divisions along the Kursk salient, where they awaited the go ahead. The Russians were dug in deep and strong, several kilometers in depth. It was going to be a hellishly difficult fight, and some at General Staff Headquarters were not entirely convinced that the operation would be a success. Mobilization of German forces took too long to get into place, and delay followed delay. General Guderian begged the Fuehrer to call off the offensive, but it was too late.

June 28, 1943, Red Vengeance had been spotted by several forward observation posts. Slowly, the tank traversed along the eastern horizon, dropping in and out of sight across the rolling plains that lay before the infantry jump-off positions.

Reconnaissance Group Falkenstein received a teletype from Fourth Panzer Army headquarters—Red Vengeance sighted. Recon situation and end it—terse and succinct, like Hoth himself. What happened next was that Falkenstein’s small force became embroiled in the larger conflict against the amassed Soviet armies and not the one tank he was sent to destroy. Other than his life, the captain walked away with several muddled accounts from crewmen who had survived the massive tank battle at Prokhorovka. As this engagement was unprecedented on every scale, there was bound to be confusion. The combined deployment of German and Russian tanks and assault guns exceeded fifteen hundred, all funneled into a narrow valley. The smoke and dust churned up by these clashing armadas transformed the day into the darkness of night. T-34s and KVs rammed head-on into Tigers and Panthers. Tank fired upon tank at point-blank range. By one account, Red Vengeance had been seen repeatedly taking armor-piercing shot; turret and hull were relentlessly hammered, but it neither stopped nor decelerated, even with the damage it should have sustained. Witnesses interviewed afterward could not say with any degree of certainty precisely what they had seen. Few, if any, conclusions could be drawn from these unsubstantiated accounts, and no matter how ruthlessly Falkenstein pressed for details, the panzer crewmen, battle-hardened veterans, were traumatized. The sheer enormity and violence of the tank battle had overwhelmed them. If nothing else, one thing was made resoundingly clear: from that day onward, Red Vengeance was viewed as the forerunner of disaster. Doom.

The last official report was an assessment released by Foreign Armies East:

19/7/43 [Foreign Armies East] does not dispute the fact that the Red Army has fashioned a powerful symbol for its troops to rally around and, for the Wehrmacht, a front-line myth of negative consequences for the morale of troops in the field. As of this date, no information has been made available regarding the unit of origin of the T-34 Red Vengeance, and it is the opinion of this office that the tank in question is not attached to a specific unit but instead is operated by the best-trained and most skillful crewmen the Soviet Tank Armies can provide. Service aboard the vehicle could very well be considered an honor duty, on a rotational basis, bestowed upon those drivers, gunners, and commanders worthy of the task. Personnel from a replacement pool may be called upon for service when combat casualties are sustained. Furthermore, consideration should be given to the probability that the T-34 is not the same vehicle as the one first encountered (9/42). In all likelihood the vehicle is replaced after falling out of service due to mechanical failure and/or battle damage. A different T-34 is substituted and then outfitted with the same recognizable components and details (i.e., netting, barbed wire, Cyrillic legend, etc.), which aid in reinforcing the myth of invincibility.

At the bottom of the page written in red pencil in Falkenstein’s own hand were the words “—absolute rubbish!” The captain perceived Red Vengeance to be more than what it actually was. Of this Voss was sure, but what, exactly, did Falkenstein think it was, he wondered. All the reports, memos, briefings, orders—reams of paperwork that accompanied the almost mundane bureaucratic handling of the war—revealed nothing of Falkenstein’s own personal assessment. The only comment the captain had was that Foreign Armies East’s interpretation belonged in the rubbish bin. Yet in spite of the captain’s omission, everything Voss had read pointed to the conclusion that Red Vengeance was synonymous with impending defeat on a grand scale. First, Stalingrad was followed by the collapse of the Don Front and then the near annihilation of the southern armies. Kursk was the most recent—and the worst setback of all, with the staggering numbers of casualties and volumes of materiel losses with nothing definite or lasting achieved. The optimists called the offensive a draw. Indeed, the Russians were mauled, terribly, but unlimited reserves of men and machines continued to be thrown into the fight. Von Manstein’s armies had been bled white. Now, when the race to the river was in a dead heat, the last hope of establishing a defensive line that would not only hold but also weaken the Red Army to the extent that Stalin would be forced to negotiate a settlement, Red Vengeance appeared. What does this appearance signify? Voss asked himself. Will we make it back in time, regroup, resupply, and hold out for good and not lose another kilometer west of the Dniepr? Is our fate already sealed because of this one ghostly T-34, and what it has come to signify? Has the lot been chosen for us and come up short? Cut off, encircled, entire armies lost? Or does only Falkenstein believe this to be true, and has that cabal of officers and adjutants—Hahn, Beck, Beutel, all of them—fallen under the captain’s influence like some narcotic?

Voss straightened the papers, returned them to the leather portfolio, and closed it. We will all find out soon enough, he thought, anticipating that time with dread.

25

The last train from the east had passed, allowing the “track wolf” to do its work. A large iron hook, fixed to a small but powerful locomotive, ripped through the wood ties and plowed up the bed of sand and rock that formed the slight embankment. The splayed rails left in the track wolf’s wake had been rendered useless, at least temporarily, thus inhibiting the Soviets from transporting troops and supplies to an ever-widening front line. The small unit of engineers and railway commandos worked furiously, as they had kilometers of track to destroy and very little time to do it. The locomotive shimmied from side to side as the engine operator applied more power.

Reconnaissance Group Falkenstein came to a halt at a ruined village alongside the rail line sixty kilometers southeast of Zaporozhye. The stop was demanded of the captain due to the serious need for maintenance on both the armored personnel carrier and the scout car. The overabundance of dust scoured the engines, and other than damage sustained in combat, the fine sandlike particles were one of the chief factors that caused every variety of vehicle to fall into disrepair. Hartmann, who made the request, was a knowledgeable mechanic and urged the lieutenant to pressure Falkenstein to pull over. He led the work detail, with Reinhardt and Vogel assisting. Schroeder claimed some mechanical aptitude and volunteered to help. Improvised filters had to be cleaned of dust, the crankcase drained and flushed, and fuel lines unclogged. When pressed for how long the job would take, Hartmann stated with confidence it would be no more than four hours. Falkenstein was not satisfied. “Have both vehicles ready in two hours. Is that understood, Corporal?” Hartmann agreed without exhibiting any sign of reluctance over the narrow time frame. Instead, he simply launched into the work.

After a short briefing with the rest of the crew, Voss went to speak with the engineer in charge of the railway demolition to learn any news on the disposition of the enemy in the immediate area and what the situation was with regard to their own forces. When he returned to where the vehicles were parked, he found that the captain had retired to a small brick building, once a schoolhouse, the only structure that remained after the fire had gutted the village. As hot within as it was outside, the classroom offered some shade. Falkenstein stood in the far corner, map case, binoculars, belt, and holster piled on one of several rickety school desks. “Have you anything to report, Lieutenant?”

“The technical sergeant told me all he knows, which is mostly founded on hearsay. Tolbukhin’s South Front has stalled in this immediate sector. The real action is taking place further to the south, as Twenty-Ninth Corps pulls back to Melitopol.”

“Anything else?” Falkenstein appeared overheated.

“Would you care for a drink of water?”

“Shortly. What more did the Reichsbahn commando have to say?”

“Only that they have too many kilometers of rail to tear up before calling it a day. The staff is on edge, having to work without adequate protection, especially from an air attack. I said we couldn’t oblige, as we were pressing on once the vehicles are repaired. The sergeant did recommend we not venture any further to the east, the situation being what it is, and that we should hug the designated Wotan Line as close as possible.”

Falkenstein grunted his approval. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Why don’t you take this opportunity for a short rest?”

“Yes, sir, but first I’ll get some water. I’m sure you could use a drink.”

“It is hot,” Falkenstein agreed. However, he still did not move; it seemed to Voss as though he was not about to leave the corner anytime soon. Undoubtedly it was heat stress that caused the captain to behave oddly; the heat along with the cumulative stress of the past several days. “Why hasn’t Gottfried made contact yet?” he suddenly asked. “It’s been days, and still not a word from him.”

“It may have taken longer for the lieutenant to organize a signals apparatus at his end. Don’t you have another contact at Army Group who might help?” Voss thought of the unnamed officer mentioned in the file.

“Yes. I made inquiries, but to no avail. Since the order went into effect, the primary focus is on the details of the retreat—everything from getting armies across the river to counting fruits and vegetables. This is not to mean our mission is not a priority—the individual in question assured me it was—only for right now, other matters have assumed more attention. I was assured any intelligence regarding Red Vengeance would be immediately forwarded.”

“There you have it then, sir.”

“Yes, but not Gottfried. He has a knack for separating the chaff from the true grains of intelligence. I would feel more comfortable with his interpretation of information. As it is, we have to rely solely on monitored field transmissions. The lieutenant may have been diverted to coordinate some other matter, and if that is the case, all we can do is go through normal channels. And I fear that will not serve us as adequately as I would want.”

Voss agreed, noncommittally, and again suggested they go together and get a drink of water. “There is no air in here, sir.” The captain followed his adjutant outside to where the men worked. The engine hood panels on the armored carrier stood open, and Hartmann, shirtless and covered in grease to the elbows, leaned into the engine well. Reinhardt lay underneath and allowed the oil to drain from the crankcase directly on the ground. Vogel and Schroeder were busy with the same on the scout car. Inside the crew compartment, Voss got the twenty-liter water can and two mess tins, which he filled. He reminded the men to watch themselves in the heat. Falkenstein drank deeply and held the tin out for more. Voss obliged him.

“Captain! Captain, look!” Khan raced over to the armored personnel carrier and pointed excitedly to the far side of the fire-blackened village, past the length of ravaged railroad track. Horses ambled slowly by, a small herd of about fifteen head, including two riders, a woman and a boy. Khan waved his arms and shouted in an effort to get their attention. “Stop them, Captain. We must buy a horse. The best of the lot.”

“Buy? I’ll appropriate the animal for you, if necessary,” Falkenstein said, amused.

Khan shook his head. “This is a good omen. We must do right. Some different time I would catch a horse in the wild. Better yet if the horse chooses me.”

“What are you waiting for? Get after them.”

“An offer in trade from you would be, how do you say, official. You come too, Captain.”

Falkenstein nodded his consent, and the Mongol ran to catch up with the herders, his expression of glee almost childlike.

“Lieutenant, gather something suitable, cigarettes, tins, and the like, and bring them along. It appears I will have to act as horse trader.”

“Right away, sir.”

Once Falkenstein had walked away, Reinhardt crawled out from below the undercarriage. “What on earth do we need a horse for, Lieutenant?”

“I don’t think this concerns us, Sergeant. I believe the captain is indulging the Mongol’s whim.”

Falkenstein was in the middle of negotiations when Voss arrived with the selected items for barter. The peasant sat on her unsaddled mount and uttered a word or two as the captain spoke lengthily, if haltingly, in Russian. Her head was covered with a linen scarf tied under the chin, and a young, if weathered, face regarded the captain hesitantly. By the sound of the proceedings, she was not at all keen on relinquishing an animal and explained that the authorities promised to make it worth her while if she rounded up as many strays as possible. Getting a herd safely across the river could earn her money and a few head of her own. She seemed undaunted by the difficult task that lay before her. The boy rode up beside the woman and eyed Falkenstein and Khan, especially, with caution. He was no more than twelve or thirteen, and the woman introduced him as her nephew.

“Show them what you have brought, Lieutenant.”

Setting the items down, Voss arranged them neatly on the ground. Included with tins of meat, canned fruit, and chocolate was a small mirror and comb. The woman liked what she saw. The boy edged his horse closer and leaned toward his aunt so that they could talk discreetly between themselves; meanwhile, Kahn glided among the horses, stroking their flanks and speaking soothingly, inspecting each one carefully. There was a problem between the woman and the boy. It was obvious they were not in complete agreement. The woman turned to the captain. “Everything on the ground and a dagger, the kind you soldiers have with the black and silver scabbard.” She had described the ceremonial knife carried by the SS. Falkenstein had to explain they were regular army and were not in possession of such a knife. “Besides,” he informed her, “a weapon like that would never leave a soldier’s side, and it would never be bartered as a trifle.”

The boy shook his head and muttered something as his aunt eyed the objects on the ground. She was becoming infuriated at her nephew’s reluctance to accept the offer.

“They’re hungry, Voss, and have little or nothing to live on. She understands they need the food.” Falkenstein reached into a pocket and tossed something across to the boy, who caught it deftly. His eyes brightened for a moment and then returned to an impassive stare. It was a pocketknife. The boy unfolded the different blades, corkscrew, and file and appraised the durability of the instrument.

“You have a good tool there,” Falkenstein said, with unusual warmth. “A young fellow like yourself can find use for it.”

The boy nodded, and the woman jumped from her mount, not without grace, gathered the tins of food, mirror, and comb into the scarf she had pulled from her head, and then tied it closed. Khan had made his selection, a young gelding with a dull brown coat.

“A good choice,” the woman said, “spirited, but not troublesome.” Having taken hold of the dark mane, Khan seemed to exert an immediate control over the animal for one not in possession of a rope or bridal. The woman threw herself back onto her horse and bid the captain good-bye, satisfied with the outcome of the trade; and, with her nephew, she began to round up the rest of the herd that had taken to examining the barren ground for grass. Voss could not help but marvel at the pair’s tenacity. They traveled with nothing. Although the offerings were meager, at least she could keep herself and the boy fed for the next couple of days. As they walked back toward the schoolhouse, Falkenstein asked where the remainder of the squad had been posted.

“I had them establish a perimeter guard outside the village,” Voss said.

Falkenstein nodded. He mulled something over in his mind, and it was obvious to Voss he was unwilling to share what it was. Khan followed with the gelding firmly in his grasp. When they reached the vehicles, he placed the animal in the care of the two officers and climbed into the scout car. Amid tools and engine parts, the men observed, momentarily, this new addition to the unit. Vogel appeared to lack interest as he continued to bathe the disassembled carburetor in a shallow pan of gasoline. After rummaging inside the scout car, Khan returned with a cloth bundle tied with rope. He led the horse beyond a row of burnt shacks and further out into the open.

“The Mongol is about to give riding lessons,” Hartmann announced cynically.

“I’m sure the captain is an accomplished rider,” Schroeder said, defensively. He saw that both the driver and the sergeant observed him with mild contempt, and he grew increasingly uncomfortable and foolish. “I don’t know this with any certainty, but I think it to be the case. The captain seems like the kind of officer who would know how to ride,” he said lamely.

“Vogel knows. Don’t you, Vogel?”

“What makes you think I know anything, Sergeant Reinhardt?”

“Because you’re very quiet on the subject.”

“Khan’s up to his old tricks, and he can do it as far as hell away from me.”

“And what sort of tricks might those be?”

“Everyone would be best served minding their own affairs and getting these vehicles operational.” Reinhardt agreed to drop the subject and saw to it that work resumed.

After walking some distance, Khan stopped and drew several lengths of rope from the bundle, knelt down beside the gelding, and, with precision, looped and knotted the rope around the front and rear legs just above the hooves. While Khan performed this task, he uttered words in his native language, a discourse directed exclusively to the animal. When the horse was successfully hobbled, Khan removed a number of objects from the bundle that appeared ceremonial in nature, one of which was a drum, no more than animal hide stretched over a narrow hoop of wood closely resembling a tambour. The drumhead was decorated with symbols, pictographs of some kind. With what could only be described as a rib bone from some large animal, Khan began to strike the drum, circled the horse repeatedly, and took up a chant. A curious ritual was about to unfold, and Voss asked the captain what it meant.

“Khan has his own ways. I try not to interfere. Let’s leave him to it, then.” As he started for the schoolhouse, he turned to the lieutenant and said, “I want you to take the squad out on patrol.”

“Sir?”

“Bring the handset along, but maintain strict discipline. Don’t transmit unless out of dire necessity.”

It wasn’t an unusual request, but Voss considered the timing odd. “How far should I take the patrol?”

“No more than an hour out and back. You should see everything there is to see in that space of time.”

“Very well, Captain. I’ll gather the men immediately.”

After the captain had entered the schoolhouse, Voss located Angst, who had taken a position by the split tracks at the edge of the village, and told him to round up the rest of the squad.

“They’re all spread out, Lieutenant.”

“Collect them, Corporal, and assemble here by the embankment.” While Voss waited, he listened to the rhythmic drumbeats and watched as Khan circled the stationary horse. As he dragged his feet along the ground, clouds of dust billowed, until both man and animal were entirely obscured.

26

The stiff breeze was oven warm. Each man walked twenty to thirty paces apart, feeling the crunch of withered steppe grass underfoot. At every footfall, small grasshoppers leaped upon cracked leather boots, settled on trouser legs and tunic hems, and caught a free ride. A swarm of flies buzzed around their heads. Angst brushed at his eyebrows and upper lip, where it tickled most, disgusted that the annoying insects were making a meal of his sweat. Forage caps had replaced helmets to keep their heads from boiling under the hot steel. The lieutenant had taken point alongside Wilms, who shouldered the portable radio. Watchful eyes were directed skyward and toward the eastern horizon. The possibility of being spotted by a Russian fighter was uppermost in all their minds. The squad had grumbled at the outset when Angst put out the word to form up for patrol. There was a relative perception of safety in the destroyed village, the proximity of the armored cars, rather than out on the open plain in full view. There was nothing to see, and Braun continued to balk at the futility of the exercise. The only aircraft observed was a Fiesler-Storch, flying far to the east somewhere near a Soviet position. The small plane gasped pink clouds that would evaporate into confetti. Ivan was receiving a message courtesy of OKH. Eventually, as the march continued, stray pieces of the brightly colored litter swirled past, carried along by the warm gusts. Braun and Detwiler would make a grab for them, but the love note–sized papers proved too elusive as they fluttered swiftly across the ground. Being hampered by machine guns and necklaces of ammunition belts did not deter Braun and Detwiler, but it was Schmidt who got lucky as a leaflet floated past on the wind, and he grabbed it. Their interest aroused, the others all converged on Schmidt to see what was written. “It’s not for us,” Schmidt said, as he tried to decipher the Cyrillic print. He understood only a few spoken words of the language, but the Russian alphabet was as alien to him as hieroglyphs. He gave the leaflet to Voss. “This describes an eastern wall on the Dniepr,” Voss said, as he struggled with the text. “A rampart of concrete and iron that cannot be breached…Something to the effect that if the Red Army ventures near, they will be sent to their deaths.” The rough translation inflamed the squad’s imagination, and they began to draw unfounded conclusions as to what the warning actually meant for them. Braun described a sophisticated network of bunkers and trench lines that he believed had been built for them across the river and down the length of the Wotan Line, and deep, secure dugouts with barracks and showers further to the rear. Detwiler chimed in with the notion of getting fed on a regular basis for a change, three ample meals a day. It was all going to change for the better very soon. Before his own thoughts were allowed to run wild, something occurred to Angst. “If Army Group is seeding the Russian lines with these notices, it can only mean one thing.”

They all looked to Angst to continue, but it was Voss who spoke. “The enemy knows we’re making for the river in retreat.”

“And if this propaganda slows them down any,” Angst said, “a fortified eastern wall isn’t something I’m willing to gamble on.”

“Christ, Angst! Why don’t you try boosting our morale some more?” Detwiler said angrily.

Eager to hear the lieutenant’s interpretation, Schmidt asked what he thought about the leaflet. Voss doubted if any such construction had begun on the opposite bank of the Dniepr; nonetheless, he was not about to shatter their illusions with the hard reality of truth. They should consider themselves fortunate if a slit trench or foxhole had been prepared for them. More than likely, they would have to dig one for themselves.

“Keep moving, and don’t cluster around like this. We’re too exposed.” He rolled the leaflet into a tight little ball and tossed it into the wind.

* * *

A bizarre sight greeted the patrol upon their return to the village. The gelding lay on its side, throat slit, and the antler-handled knife was stuck upright in the gore-drenched soil. Hands and face smeared in blood, hair matted with sweat, Khan struck the drum and whipped his flanks, first one thigh and then the other, between each drum beat with the long rib bone. Legs bent, he leaned forward and rocked back and forth; and, as he maintained this difficult posture, his feet mimicked a gallop while running in place. A stream of guttural cries poured from his frothing mouth.

“That pantomime has gone on since you left,” Reinhardt said when the squad, hot, tired and thirsty, gathered around the parked vehicles. He wiped his hands clean of grease with a rag spotted with gasoline.

“The Mongol’s knife flashed sunlight, and like that,” Hartmann said, snapping his fingers, “he drove it into the horse’s neck. Tried to run, but hobbled as it was, it started to buck. He tugged on the blade, making that ugly gash. It keeled over, the life gushing out, and lay there with its legs jerking in spasms while that fucking savage took a bath in its blood.”

The men grumbled their displeasure at the spectacle. “It’s sinful enough we kill our fellow man, but to destroy some harmless, trusting beast is senseless cruelty,” Schmidt said, genuinely saddened.

“I’ll tell you what’s senseless. This fucking war and the unit we’ve ended up in,” Braun said, giving Schroeder a foul look. Voss had overheard and turned on Braun with a controlled vehemence. “That remark is going to cost you dearly, grenadier.” He then asked where the captain was, and Reinhardt pointed to the schoolhouse. “He’s shut himself away the whole time.”

Voss went over to the scout car, where Vogel tinkered on the motor with last minute adjustments, his back turned to the atrocity. “Can you tell me what that is supposed to mean?”

Vogel did not raise his head, merely concentrating on the idling sound of the engine. “No, Lieutenant.”

“I find that hard to believe, Sergeant, as you spend more time than most with the Mongol.”

“I’m only the captain’s driver. I follow his orders. Anything else is not my concern.”

“If only I could be graced with the same luxury of selection,” Voss said and then stormed into the schoolhouse. Falkenstein sat at desk; a map lay open, which he studied, his eyes transfixed. He did not look up when Voss noisily entered the room.

“I wish to inform the captain that the men are distressed over the hideous antics of your orderly.”

“Do you hear that?” Falkenstein said, as the drum continued to beat, but the pauses in between grew longer. “The sound of creation. The beginning of the world and its passing away. Over and over. Infinite life and infinite death.”

“The butchering of that poor animal is needless and cruel. The men have said as much,” Voss told him.

“Your men should hold their tongues about things they cannot hope to grasp.”

“Then why expose them to a barbaric practice, if there is no intention of an explanation?”

Falkenstein was willing to overlook the anger in the voice of his sub-ordinate this one time. Calmly, he began to explain. “Among Khan’s people, it is a customary practice for the shaman to offer up a horse in sacrifice. He mounts the animal’s spirit and rides to heaven or some lofty place, where an assortment of gods dwell. I don’t quite understand the cosmology. Revelations unfold from these encounters with the gods or spirits that will aid him and whoever he serves in this world—which, at this moment, happens to be me.”

“And you believe this?” Voss asked, incredulous.

“What I believe, in this instance, has little bearing. Khan believes in a world we cannot see and have no notion of. He and his people have ventured into this other world for generations, since before the last ice age, I would imagine.”

“And we are men of this age, in a world of rational thought and technology, not drums and blood sacrifices.”

“I’m not so sure that is true, Lieutenant.”

“Disagree if you must, but I consider it unwise, even dangerous, for the captain to be taken in by some primitive whose culture is completely alien and quite possibly hostile to our own. I ask you to free yourself of Khan’s influences before your safety is at risk.”

“Perhaps you fear more than just my safety is at risk?” Falkenstein suggested.

“I don’t know what you mean by that question, sir. All I ask is that you consider the effects of an alliance with the likes of Khan could have, not only for yourself, but also for the men and this mission.”

“As far as this mission is concerned, Khan is an instrument I cannot well do without. His interpretation and his powers will only aid us through this ordeal. Don’t think for a moment that I’m unaware of the odds, but with Khan, there is a greater chance of success. You have yet to grasp the uniqueness of what we are up against, Voss. We face a power greater than what we are willing to accept. I would go so far as to call it occult. Red Vengeance is not simply a machine of war. It is a construct, a construct of evil. Khan understands this and knows what it is capable of. This evil has robbed him of his land and oppressed his people, and, given the opportunity, will bring cataclysm to our homeland. Khan does not assist me purely out of selfless motives, but he does recognize in me a kindred spirit, one who has taken a glimpse beyond this world, of reality itself, to see Red Vengeance for what it truly is.”

“Then I can only hope the shaman’s incantations can penetrate the armored hull of Red Vengeance with greater accuracy and effectiveness than the weapons at our disposal.”

“Don’t mock, Lieutenant,” Falkenstein said. “I will utilize both…weapons and magic.”

* * *

Khan’s spirit ride had come to an end. He collapsed on the ground and rolled about in a fit of ecstasy that bordered on obscene. After several minutes of these gyrations, he recovered and gathered knife, drum, and rib bone. He looked ghastly when he approached the scout car, the horse’s blood already caked on his face and hands, sweat foaming throughout his shaggy black hair, yet he seemed strangely invigorated. Falkenstein was waiting for him. “What have you learned?”

“There is much rain to come, Captain. Your journey will prove trying and slow.”

“This journey has been slow since the outset and tries me in every way! What else?”

Khan shook his head. “There is no more. Only rain. Black clouds filled with rain.”

“Is it an evil omen? What does it mean?”

“It means nothing. Only rain.”

Falkenstein nodded, but with abject disappointment. What he had hoped to hear from the shaman’s symbolic journey was some word of Red Vengeance or a sign that he was on the path that would eventually lead to success. Instead, he received an unsolicited weather forecast and an impression, as far as Voss and the crew were concerned, of the unsavory company he kept. Khan climbed aboard the scout car and disappeared down the turret, a jinn returned to its bottle. Falkenstein cast his one good eye skyward to an ocean of blue—not a cloud to be seen. He muttered a curse and gave the order to move out.

27

Reconnaissance Group Falkenstein had entered the Sixth Army zone of operations once south of Zaporozhye. The weakened corps, with little armored support, would have a difficult task defending the Wotan Line, which ran from the city and its great dam and hydroelectric works for one hundred forty kilometers, past Melitopol, to as far as the Sea of Azov. The line had been established to bolster the Crimea and prevent the Seventeenth Army from being cut off and isolated. Now, on the verge of the Nogay Steppe, the effect was not lost on the crew, especially Angst, Schmidt, and Braun. Their battalion—whatever was left of it, along with the other regiments and divisions that the Sixth comprised—was expected to hold back the armies of General Tolbukhin’s South Front in the boundless reaches of an arid, desolate wasteland. The Wotan Line consisted of no more than a hastily excavated ditch, which was to serve as an antitank trap with a series of trenches, foxholes, and dugouts positioned in front. There was no natural cover or high ground, and the artillery emplacements all stood exposed. This pathetic attempt at fortification was considered part of the vaunted “eastern wall,” and if some of the crew held any illusions about the protection offered by the defensive line, those illusions were irrevocably shattered. Angst no longer doubted that the Reconnaissance Group held out the better alternative.

The civilian exodus had thinned out considerably; there were only the stragglers from unnamed villages and kolkhozes further east, which were now under the control of the Red Army. Women plodded across the hot dirt tracks and dusty roads, their blouses and headscarves darkened by sweat, and urged their youngsters along as they tottered on wobbly legs. Among these mothers and children were the mill workers and dockhands, young boys and old men, from as far away as Mariupol, which had fallen to the enemy over a week earlier. An emaciated horse pulled a cart that had since become a hearse; furniture and baggage was jettisoned by a peasant couple to make room for the sick and elderly who had succumbed to the heat and rigors of the journey.

After maintaining close proximity to the Wotan Line, the vehicles began to veer back toward the east. At least Falkenstein, in the lead, did so; the Hanomag merely followed. Voss opened a map to get a fix on their location. They traveled along the Mololchnaya River, which was actually no more than a stream, the only natural barrier in this bleak territory. Infantry units were dug in behind the west bank of the river, still vulnerable and indefensible. The vehicles kicked up enormous clouds of dust, as the landscape was utterly barren, practically a desert. Voss wondered how far the captain was willing to take them. Blatantly obvious targets that they already were, to continue to drive this far to the east was to beg the enemy to spot them. Voss raised the command vehicle on the radio. “Two-Five-One to Sundial, come in, over.”

“This is Sundial. Go ahead, Two-Five-One.”

“Indication suggests a heading east by southeast of Wotan position. Will Sundial confirm this heading as actual, over?”

“Sundial confirms.” It was Falkenstein’s voice.

“Two-Five-One wishes to inquire as to eventual destination by this heading, over.”

There was a pause. The receiver crackled. “Smoke observed approximately ten kilometers due east and will investigate. Sundial out.”

The cause for the smoke, a thin gray coil that snaked its way into the sky, soon became apparent. A small motor column had come under an air attack. Staff cars and trucks littered the dirt road with blown-out tires and cracked engine blocks from the armor-piercing rounds of the Stormovik cannons. Charred bodies lay near the wrecks that still burned. A corpse remained upright in the driver’s seat of a truck, the blackened skeletal hands fused to the steering wheel. The few survivors milled about listlessly through the scattered debris, their mouths agape and uniforms torn and singed. They stared vacantly as the Reconnaissance Group pulled to a stop. They were file clerks and orderlies from a headquarter staff, one of the men explained. Out of the eight survivors, he seemed to have his wits about him still. The main combat arm of the division was not too far behind. Two of the staff members had suffered burns on their arms and hands. The lieutenant had Schmidt and Braun break out the first aid kits to salve and dress the wounds. The rest of the crew took up defensive positions and watched for the possible return of enemy ground assault aircraft. Every machine gun was brought into play, including the 20 mm cannon in the scout car turret. Khan adjusted the mounting so the weapon could be fired at a higher-angle trajectory. Vogel left the vehicle and, with fuel can and hose, siphoned the fuel from the vehicles that had not burned. The captain raised himself up in the turret and scanned the sky with binoculars. Sheaves of typewritten pages blew across the ground, causing Voss to suggest, to those who were not injured, that they retrieve the scattered files.

“There’s nothing important written on any of it,” said one of the clerks. “Nothing strategic, only copies of requests for supplies and inventory lists. Things we never received.”

“No matter,” Voss said, “the Russians could find something important.” The men needed a chore, a focus, to help rouse them out of their shock-induced torpor. Voss began by picking up the papers a page at a time, and the corporal he was speaking to started to help. Others followed as they chased the papers across the windswept ground.

“That’s it, clean the place up. You’ve kept these records for quite some time now, and it would seem a shame to let it go to nothing.” The captain had signaled for Voss to join him. He’d been questioning one of the survivors and dismissed him as the lieutenant approached the scout car. Falkenstein looked down from the turret, looking like a vulture in its nest. “You see that vehicle?” Falkenstein said, as he pointed to a smoldering heap, a staff car reduced to an unrecognizable mangled pile of metal. “The officers were in that, including a major from corps staff. He needed a ride, apparently.”

“We can take them back with us to the Wotan position,” Voss said, indicating the survivors.

“That won’t be necessary. The fellow I just spoke with said that a baggage company was not far behind. They can scoop them up. There is nothing more for us here.”

“They might have come under attack by the same aircraft. There is no guarantee…”

“No, there isn’t. The same could happen to us, if we’re not careful.”

“At least allow me to take the wounded back.”

“Detours, extra weight, and a profligate waste of fuel will endanger us all. Bear that in mind at all times, Lieutenant.”

Voss swore to himself that he would never forget it.

28

Rhinos. Elephants. Panthers and Tigers. A menagerie of armored animals had gathered into a small herd north of Melitopol and awaited redeployment. This mixed species of enormous, plodding vehicles with long-range, large-caliber guns was to defend the city against the Russian South Front steamroller when the time came.

After the survivors of the destroyed motor column were left to fend for themselves, the Reconnaissance Group continued further south to the outskirts of Melitopol, where defensive preparations were in full swing. Voss had assumed the plan would be to patrol the Azov coast for as many kilometers as time and circumstance would permit, in case another armored creature, Red Vengeance, was found basking in the sun and revitalizing itself by the offshore breeze. As it turned out, this was not to be the plan at all. Falkenstein had become alarmed by the low reserves of fuel and would not risk begging and cajoling the limited supply units or chance petrol browsers operating along the Wotan Line. He had the crew turn over all the empty fuel cans, and once they were lashed to the scout car siding, he set off for the heart of the city in search of a petrol dump.

* * *

After several hours the scout car returned, having achieved success beyond imagination. Every empty container filled to the brim and two more fuel cans added for good measure. When asked how he managed to secure so much gasoline, Falkenstein responded curtly, “A colleague. I ran into him quite by surprise.” The captain did not share the crew’s elation; rather, he was in a terribly foul mood and short of words. Vogel seemed cowed as he helped load the fuel cans back on to the outer hull of the Hanomag. He did not relate what the matter was, or why the captain’s humor had turned so murderously dark.

Falkenstein ordered an abrupt return to the north, giving neither reason nor explanation. Before the crew had completed tying down the fuel cans, the command vehicle sped off back in the direction from where they had spent so much time and energy leaving.

29

The rain had come, just as Khan had predicted. The cool showers delighted the crew at first, as their faces turned to the sky with opened mouths, drinking in the heavy drops and inhaling the moist, cool air. The choking dust had settled, and the brutal summer heat had finally ended. The dark gray sky rested tired eyes that were nearly poached in their sockets from the long months of glare. Clothing became soaked, but no one seemed to mind, since it relieved their irritated flesh. The enjoyment did not last for long. Thunder rolled across the steppe and brought colder temperatures and torrential downpours. Tarpaulins were draped over the personal equipment that hung from the armored siding, and a large section of the waterproof canvas was fastened to the top of the crew compartment superstructure to keep out the rain. The crew hunkered down under the canopy, wrapped in camouflage shelter halves and field jackets for extra protection. The rich Ukrainian earth drank its fill, and once the saturation point had been reached, the mud materialized: a thick, deep, glutinous mass that clung to everything and everyone. The retreat came to a standstill as the dirt roads and trails turned into seas of black mud. Trucks and lorries sank to the axles. Teams of horses harnessed to wagons or artillery pieces struggled under the loads, urged on by whips and curses, and got nowhere. Infantry support guns, including the long range Eighty-Eight’s, were abandoned and destroyed by engineers. Troop columns waded through the mess and had their boots yanked off their feet at every step. The ground seemed to grab hold of entire armies and suck them under. Only the small panje horses, native to the region, were capable of negotiating the quagmire with relative ease. High-ranking staff officers abandoned their hopelessly stuck vehicles and opted for a lift on a wagon or cart pulled by these versatile steppe ponies. Some tracked vehicles could make it through, although not without some difficulty. Hartmann made sure to keep the Hanomag off the festering mud roads and drove over the sparse ground cover wherever available, having to compete against the heavy armored tanks and assault guns that sought the same ground. Falkenstein’s scout car operated in fits and starts over the spongy terrain, until the going had become so bad the vehicle had to be towed for long stretches. The Hanomag’s steel cable towline and winch were put into service and affixed to the 222’s front end. Even this did not meet with total success, as the mud was too deep, and the captain’s vehicle went down like a sinking ship. The crew, including the lieutenant, clamored out of the personnel carrier with shovels and entrenching tools and dug around the tires of the armored scout car. They labored hard and furiously, for the muck would seep back into place after every shovelful that was removed. When some headway was reached, the floorboards salvaged from the engineer’s farmhouse was laid down under the tires to provide the traction the scout car needed. Vogel gunned the engine, moving several meters, and Hartmann took up the cable slack and pulled with the formidable power of the winch. The vehicles rode for a short distance—an eighth of a kilometer was considerable—until the scout car began to sink, and then the men would have to repeat the work all over again. The rain pelted loudly on their shoulders. Falkenstein, his long, rubberized riding coat buttoned to the neck, shouted directions from the turret.

“Why can’t the captain and that blasted Mongol of his get out and lighten the load some?” Wilms muttered.

“Why should they,” Braun retorted between grunts, “when they have a team of animals that can sink up to their asses for them?” Schroeder then threatened to strangle whoever dared to speak next.

The battle in this morass continued for a while longer, until Hartmann reached ground firm enough to tow the scout car without impediment. Depleted from the effort, the men trudged back into the crew compartment, covered in grime. The benches, deck, and equipment—the mud was everywhere, and there was no escaping the mess.

* * *

Life within the cramped space of the armored personnel carrier took some getting used to for the infantrymen. The novelty of transport had worn thin by the third or fourth day. A dichotomy was established at the outset of the journey, with Schroeder, Wilms, and Detwiler seated on one side and Schmidt, Braun, and Angst on the other. An invisible line ran down the length of the compartment, a boundary that would not allow even their knees to touch. When there was no threat or alert, the crew would either stand or sit on the top edge of the armored siding, feet resting on the benches, and watch as one featureless kilometer receded after the next. These occasions were rare, as there were always duties to perform: lookouts, manning the bow and aft machine guns, and taking turns at the radio. The lieutenant would be among the crew, sharing the same duties when not in the driver’s section studying maps or reading from the file the captain had loaned him. Sometimes he drove the vehicle to dispel his boredom, but this was not often, as they traveled too close to an ever-shifting front line and had to rely on the expertise of the primary driver. Sergeant Reinhardt ruled the disparate group firmly, having become something of an expert at reining in the temperaments of men occupying close quarters for long periods of time. He understood when and for how long a man should be allowed to gripe about the heat, dust, and smoke; and the appropriate time and place for banter and a little horseplay. Yet, the sergeant was no fool; he perceived the undercurrent of animosity that existed between the escort grenadiers and the infantry rifle squad but allowed no opportunity for it to fester. He made them work, even when there was no work that needed to be done, on a host of chores: cleaning rifles, counting machine gun rounds, polishing mess kits if necessary. He allowed them to turn most of their ill feelings toward him, knowing it could go no further because he was their sergeant, the very symbol a grenadier despised and feared when there was no enemy about. All in all, the crew members settled into their new situation and were generally well-behaved. After a high state of alert had been maintained for hours, even days on end, the men remained quiet with their thoughts. Now, after three days of relentless rain and mud, complaints and ill temper were on the increase. A pronounced despondency and frustration had enveloped the crew. Reinhardt and the lieutenant were not immune, but they worked harder at trying not to succumb and demanded as much from all onboard. Damp, steaming uniforms, clammy skin, and itching scalps only added to an unpleasant tropic zone created by the body heat generated under the tarp. The musky odor of wet wool, sour breath, and confinement was a breeding ground for hostility. This was Angst’s first experience with the Russian mud. The rest of the crew had all previously been baptized by the mud season, and their memories had been affected so greatly that the experience was looked upon with dread. It seemed as if no time had elapsed since the raputitsa—the spring thaw, as it was known in Russia—back in March, and now the fall mud was upon them; it was shorter in duration to be sure, but no less difficult to endure. Toward the end of September, the vehicles of the Reconnaissance Group were fortunate to progress five or six kilometers a day in such weather. Falkenstein and the rest of Army Group South were under assault from “General Mud.”

Angst made the mistake of grumbling about how miserable he was, and his own squad turned on him like a pack of feral dogs. Braun and Schmidt needled him about how they suffered the extremes of Mother Russia while he languished in France, posted to a safe, cozy headquarters with more schnapps, women, and leave time than he knew what to do with, and they had no sympathy for how disagreeable life had become for him. It was his turn now to experience firsthand the rigors that were in store for the luckless grenadier trying to survive at the eastern front. Angst was not about to argue that occupation duty was nowhere near the luxury his friends imagined it to be; rather, he wanted to punch both their faces in for turning on him the way they did, especially in front of the rest of the crew. Schroeder used the opportunity to lecture him on the topic of the Russian winter. Everyone had a horror story to contribute about the cold and snow. Detwiler offered up a tale so ludicrous that Angst would have normally laughed, had someone other than the infuriating machine gunner told it. Speaking in dead earnest, without the slightest trace of humor, he described a night in December when the temperatures plunged so low that the thermometers burst. In an effort to keep the fingers warm it was customary to urinate on one’s hands, but this night, “Your piss would immediately freeze. I had to break it off, first one stick of piss and then another, and another. I was not only in danger of losing my fingers but my prick as well, if I kept wagging it in the cold. When I was done, there were all these long yellow sticks on the ground. Icicles of piss.”

Angst was irate. “Do you take me for an utter half-wit to believe such a story? You’re not only a crude, stupid individual, but you’re disgusting.”

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“No, you are not. Piss turning to ice! It’s impossible.”

The grenadiers were entertained by the story, and Angst’s reaction only added to their amusement. “Just you wait and find out, come winter. That’s if you survive this mess of rain and mud,” Detwiler admonished.

“What are you threatening me with?” Angst’s tone, when he directed the question to the machine gunner, was filled with menace.

“I’m not threatening anybody.”

Angst was not about to let up. “Not only do I have the Russians to watch out for, not to mention this brutal weather, but you as well?” The squad looked to Schroeder to tone down the situation, but he only smirked, as he derived a wicked pleasure from the animosity between his machine gunner and the rifle squad lance corporal. “Forget it, Johann, it’s all in jest,” said Schmidt, a trifle nervous. And from Wilms, “Don’t pay Detwiler any mind. He’s an asshole.”

“It’s too late for that now. I’m going to keep Herr Detwiler very much on my mind. In fact, I’ll have to grow another set of eyes in the back of my head, because there’s no telling what bastardly ambush this thoroughgoing coward is liable to spring.”

“What did you call me?” Livid, Detwiler leaned in, and Angst met him half way, their noses almost touching. The others pressed back into their seats to keep as much distance as possible in the confined space from the flailing scuffle that was about to erupt.

“You heard me, you fucking idiot coward!”

Rain splattered loudly upon their helmets, followed by a resounding crash of metal. Reinhardt had yanked the tarpaulin away and tossed an empty ammunition box down hard on the deck. “Quiet, you pups!” The Hanomag jerked to an abrupt stop. The scout car had become stuck again, and they were all ordered out to free the vehicle from the clutches of the viscid Ukrainian mud. The task was monumental, as it had grown tiresome and demoralizing. Both vehicles had to be refueled yet again, and Falkenstein understood they were getting nowhere, and precious gasoline was wasted in the process. When the scout car finally gained some traction, Falkenstein had the Hanomag back up close to his vehicle. Leather portfolio tucked under an arm, he climbed out of the turret and edged carefully across the short sloping front hull and, with Khan lending a hand, got safely aboard the deck of the armored carrier as Voss held the crew compartment doors open. Down in the mud, the grenadiers fastened the steel towline to the hitch at the rear of the armored carrier and looped an end to the crossbar support on the front end of the scout car. While the work progressed, Falkenstein opened the portfolio, brought out a map and studied it for a few moments. He then considered a change in direction and pointed to the place on the map so the lieutenant could see. “East, Captain?” Voss did not try to hide his astonishment.

“To be more precise, east by northeast, Lieutenant.”

“What about the Russians?”

“We don’t know where the Russians are, or anyone else for that matter.” The Hanomag could better negotiate the terrain and burn less fuel, as eventually most of the crew would be temporarily left behind. Falkenstein, Khan, Voss, the sergeant, and the driver would attempt to make contact with the nearest friendly unit operating in the immediate sector.

“You intend to leave the rest of the crew exposed on the steppe in this weather?” Voss asked.

“I know of a place where they can utilize cover and wait for our return.”

The task of tying off the two vehicles now completed, the squad boarded, taking with them gobs of mud that had clung to their boots and uniforms. Vogel remained at the wheel to steer as the scout car was towed. Standing at the bow machine gun, Falkenstein challenged the sky with a string of muttered curses. Khan squatted down on the deck and leaned against the crew compartment doors; his rare presence seemed a trespass for the men and was all the more odd because, when not at the captain’s side, he remained unseen, encapsulated within the command vehicle. No one had set eyes on him since the ugly business with the horse. The men stared, but Khan paid little attention. He radiated a detachment, an absolute acceptance of his situation without discomfort or preoccupation with the surroundings. Angst believed the eyes of the shaman glowed in the dark but dismissed the phenomenon, deciding it was only his own sight that had become accustomed to the dim light beneath the tarpaulin. The men soon disregarded the alien intrusion and retreated silently into their own private miseries, hoping to escape the filth, the rain, and the stiflingly cramped quarters that tormented them so. They rocked from side to side as the armored carrier plowed across the muddy steppe. After an hour had passed, the vehicle underwent a series of jolting maneuvers and finally came to a stop. The scout car had been towed to a position beside the blackened hull of a destroyed tank, an early Mark II variety. Voss relayed the captain’s order for everyone to get out. The squad took rifles, an MG42 and the bell-shaped magnetic mines. Carefully, a panzerfaust was handed over and taken to the scout car. Wilms carried the portable radio. The landscape was one of utter desolation. Destroyed vehicles, both Soviet and German, were scattered throughout like tombstones in a graveyard, the ruin from a previous year left behind from the tides of battle that washed back and forth across the land between the Donets and the Dniepr. The squad was ordered to stay put, and Schroeder was placed in charge until the captain’s return. Vogel was to stay close to the scout car radio and man the 20 mm cannon if necessary.

“As you can see, Lieutenant, there is ample cover,” Falkenstein said, as he regarded the bleak surroundings. He pointed out a string of barbed wire that had been strung further to the east. A minefield lay beyond, over a kilometer in depth. The men would be relatively safe from any surprise penetrations coming from that direction. The captain had a few more words with Schroeder, referring to the map, and then gave the order to move out. Clods of wet earth shot up from the track links as the Hanomag lurched forward. Bedraggled and confused, the squad watched as the cold armor that had been home drove away. There was something grossly painful about the sight, Angst noted, as they looked almost like children who had been abandoned by their parents. The mood shifted when Schroeder barked out orders in a shrill voice. They were to spread out and take up defensive positions. Detwiler began to whine. In no mood to hear it, Schroeder yelled back, “What did you expect? Pile into the Two-Twenty-Two and await the captain’s return?”

“Sounds like a good idea to me” Braun said.

“No more wisecracks from you, Braun. Get that machine gun set up with Detwiler, behind the hull of that tank. Spread out, all of you!” he screamed, nearly hysterical. “Wilms, Angst, forward patrol.”

“What about the mine field?” Wilms asked.

“I’m not asking you to go beyond the wire. There’s a defile about two kilometers out to the northeast. The captain showed me on the map. The Russians can easily take cover there. I don’t want any surprises, understood?”

“Jawohl, Herr General,” Wilms muttered, not quietly enough. Schroeder closed in on the signalman. He appeared on the verge of causing bodily harm if pushed too far.

“What did you say?”

Chastened, Wilms stammered. “N-nothing, I only meant…”

“Take the radio, Wilms, and get moving. You too, Angst. Report in at fifteen-minute intervals. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, Corporal.”

Angst held the radio, buttoned up in its waterproof covering, as Wilms slipped his arms through the shoulder harness. As soon as Schroeder left, Wilms said, “He’s getting worse as time goes on. Of all people the captain had to leave in charge. Give a little man authority, and see if you’re not thrown headlong into the abyss.”

Angst could not help but smile and think that the signalman’s words would be the epitaph for their generation. Wilms tucked a small kit bag that contained the headphones and microphone under his shelter half, as Angst wound strips of cloth and rope around their boots to keep them in place while they slogged through the mud. They sank down well above their ankles, and an obscene sucking noise was heard each time they lifted their feet. The rain had let up, but a strong wind blew with considerable gusts. The odor of rusting metal filled the air, and the taste of sour decay and old death. Aside from the rotting tanks and vehicles, there was the litter of field equipment scattered over the ground: helmets, cartridge pouches, gas mask canisters. Then there was the grisly sight of skeletal remains, draped in tattered uniforms, that had risen out of the rain-drenched earth. The ground was pockmarked with shell craters that had become flooded with yellow-brown rainwater. Carefully, the two grenadiers edged around the rims of the craters—one misstep, and they would plunge into the sludge. The sky was laden with clouds so thick, it churned like the sea. Almost green in color, the light from the cloud cover cast an eerie pallor over the land. This was the best and only place the captain had for them to find cover, a landscape of doom. Angst was more appalled than uneasy or afraid. There is no turning back now, he thought, no retreat left open for us. No hope left. We’re all doomed. The best and only thing he could do was place one foot in front of the other, get close, closer still, and have it over with.

30

Despite the lack of weight, the scouting mission progressed slowly as Hartmann worked the Hanomag over the soft ground. Voss noted the time and discovered two hours had elapsed since they had left the squad and the 222 behind. The rain had let up, sort of; periodically, a light shower would fall for a minute or two and then end abruptly. But the wind had increased in strength, causing the tarpaulin to flap madly and the ends to become undone. Voss untied the loosened ropes and folded the waterproof canvas as best he could, while Khan sat on the bench, arms folded, either sleeping or in some state of temporary hibernation. The captain remained at the bow machine gun with a pair of field glasses and maintained a vigil over the ruined countryside with his one good eye. They traveled across acreage that had been burned some time ago, immense fields of wheat or hay, and the odor of burnt straw was still strong. The tracks of the vehicle churned through the blackened, sodden clumps of wet ash. Voss joined the captain at the bow machine gun and, using his own binoculars, focused the lenses on where the scorched, wet earth intersected with the boiling sky. After several minutes he grew weary, as the wind continued to buffet him. “Where are we going, sir?”

Falkenstein did not waver. Standing straight as an iron rod, as though he had been welded to the deck, he did not even shift or lose balance as the vehicle plunged through the swells and currents of mud. Finally, he said, “I am alone. Cast off. Forgotten. Perhaps it is all for the best. At least I have freedom of movement, or the illusion of such.” He lowered the field glasses and grinned at the lieutenant’s bemused expression. “My contact at Army Group headquarters has been reposted. He was the very last of a woefully small staff. With Gottfried failing to materialize, and no monitoring apparatus, his was the only voice that remained. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Now there is no one. Someone, possibly the field marshal himself, thought it vital to have a representative close at hand, in Melitopol, when Tolbukhin’s offensive begins in earnest. He is to coordinate with Sixth Army and the Seventeenth in Crimea, if the line does not hold and the peninsula is cut off. You can imagine my surprise—no, shock—when I arrived at Hollidt’s headquarters to requisition the fuel and to discover my associate there. Well, at least he was instrumental in avoiding the paperwork necessary to secure the gasoline. Without him, I don’t think I would have managed a drop. I am a nonentity as far as Army Group is concerned. So, you understand, Voss, we are now on our own.”

The question Voss had originally asked remained unanswered, but the captain’s explanation clarified the reason for the dark mood he exhibited after his return from Melitopol. Normally, Voss would be moved to say something to soothe the worries or disappointments of a commanding officer who confided in him and help bolster his morale. In this instance, there was the need to assure Falkenstein he was not alone, that he and the crew were with him, but Voss lacked the heart to do so. Not for this officer. Not for this man.

“Tell me, Lieutenant, and please be candid. Should something happen to me, would you continue with the mission on your own?”

“I will follow my orders, sir, whatever those orders may be.”

“Yes, of course. As I would have assumed…”

“But allow me to add that you, captain, are the mission. Stand or fall. Succeed or fail, this mission and your entire being are intertwined like the strands of a rope.”

“Then I should take care so as not trip over—or worse, hang myself by that rope, eh, Lieutenant?”

The armored personnel carrier slowed, and Reinhardt squeezed out of the co-driver’s seat and into the crew compartment. “One thousand meters to the east,” he said, and took his position at the bow machine gun. The two officers raised their binoculars and saw a farmhouse and barn, with a vehicle parked out in front. They agreed it was a Kubelwagen. Hartmann drove slowly and detoured in a wide arc so as not approach the buildings head on. The machine gun swiveled on the coaxial mounting as Reinhardt took aim. Closer inspection revealed two German soldiers milling about the wide entrance to the barn. The four tires of the Kubelwagen were half-submerged in the mud. Still cautious, Reinhardt kept his finger on the trigger.

The armored carrier pulled up in front of the ramshackle barn. A group of eight grenadiers roused themselves as Hartmann eased the vehicle inside. The men looked miserable, faces drawn with fatigue, wet uniforms and boots encased in mud. The interior of the barn reeked with urine. Irritated at having to move out of the way so as not to be crushed by the armored vehicle, and despite their exhaustion, they possessed the strength of nerve to look upon the officers’ arrival with insolence. Khan peeked furtively over the edge of the siding, as though he was unwilling to reveal too much of himself.

“What unit do you men belong to?” Falkenstein called down.

One grenadier came forward from the darkened rear of the barn as the other men stepped aside, deferentially. He was either their leader or had simply elected himself as the official spokesman of the group. “We don’t have an outfit. At least none to speak of. We’re stragglers.”

“And nothing more?” Falkenstein prodded.

“We’re not deserters, if that’s what you’re getting at. The lieutenant colonel will vouch for us. He’s allowed us to stay here and rest before it’s time to move out. Which is impossible to do now,” he said, indicating the enormous Hanomag that was parked where most of the men had been lying down. Falkenstein and Voss climbed out of the crew compartment.

“Is that the lieutenant colonel’s car out front?” Falkenstein asked. Heads nodded in affirmation. “What division?”

“Some headquarters or other. What difference does it make? We’re all stranded,” said the spokesman. Voss was about to discipline the man for speaking to a superior officer in such a disrespectful manner, but Falkenstein, unusually calm, had him ignore the remark.

“Obviously, these gentlemen are all too miserable for anything to matter, Lieutenant.”

A face, bright with inquisitiveness, peered into the barn. It belonged to a lieutenant, slightly built and round-shouldered, who wore an ill-fitting winter coat that was soaked with at least ten liters of rainwater. The hem practically touched the ground. He extended an enthusiastic welcome as he entered.

“What headquarters is this?” Falkenstein asked, dismissing the junior officer’s pleasantries.

“Lieutenant Colonel von Helmansdorff. Not exactly a headquarters, but rather a place we have gotten stuck, more or less. The car ran out of gas quite literally where it now stands. I’m Kreutzer, the colonel’s adjutant.” Lieutenant Kreutzer went on to explain that the lieutenant-colonel was attached to First Panzer Army staff and had volunteered to go out into the field to keep headquarters appraised of the fighting capacity of units still in withdrawal. Most, if not all, the corps and divisional headquarters staff members had already crossed the river and deployed on the west bank. “Now this weather has caused us to get bogged down and lost, along with part of a regiment that’s dug in a few kilometers further east. The radio no longer works, so we can no longer communicate with Army headquarters—or anyone else, for that matter.”

“You said part of a regiment. What about the other part?”

“Haven’t a clue, Captain. Patrols have been sent out to make contact with our neighbors on either flank, but they have yet to report back. Did you happen to cross paths with anyone on your way here?”

“We haven’t seen a soul. The lieutenant and I have embarked on the same goal,” Falkenstein told him.

“Do you know who is operating in this sector?” Kreutzer’s question sounded desperate.

“Other than us and this lost regiment of yours, only the Russians.”

“Well, no matter. The colonel has taken it upon himself to remain until the regiment links up, or we cross the river. Whichever comes first,” Kreutzer said, beaming with pride.

“Under the circumstances, I don’t see you having much choice in the matter,” Falkenstein said.

Suggesting that they must be wet and uncomfortable, Kreutzer invited them both inside. They followed the lieutenant into the farmhouse, quarters that were little better than the barn. Moist earth oozed through the seams in the floorboards, and the roof leaked, but at least it was warm. The small brick oven was fired up, and a kettle steamed on the hearth. Lieutenant Colonel von Helmansdorff was preparing tea, emptying the meager remains of a packet with a wet clump of previously brewed leaves, and spooned the mix into a mess tin. A noticeable sigh of relief escaped his lips when the officers entered. Kreutzer began to make introductions, but the colonel allowed him no opportunity. “Has one of my patrols made contact with you? Is that why you’ve come?”

“Reconnaissance Group Falkenstein. This is my second-in-command, Lieutenant Voss.”

“Captain Falkenstein has not made contact or seen any of our patrols,” Kreutzer told the colonel, whose expression promptly turned worrisome.

“It is a pleasure, gentlemen. Where have you come from, Captain? And to what unit are you attached?”

“The lieutenant and I have recently returned from the south, and I’m not attached to any specific combat group or division. Ours is an autonomous unit.”

“An autonomous reconnaissance group? Well, I suppose anything is possible these days. But we are having an absolute time of it, aren’t we, Captain? This weather! Autumn mud, and so soon. It’s nothing short of a disaster. Now please, gentlemen, take a seat,” von Helmansdorff said, indicating the stools and benches around the table. Falkenstein sat down and placed his leather folder on the table, strewn with maps and a variety of papers, some of which were stained with coffee or tea and smudged with tobacco ash. There was also a field telephone, its cable trailing to the back end of the small, impoverished dwelling and out a window. A paraffin lamp burned dimly.

Falkenstein took in his surroundings and said, “Remarkable to find a house that still stands.”

Von Helmansdorff agreed. “I imagine the rigors of survival have ruled out exercising all the directives laid out in the withdrawal orders. At least where it doesn’t pertain strictly to strategic objectives. Fortunately for us, the Kubelwagen gave out where it did.” The kettle belched puffs of steam. “Fix that for me won’t you, Kreutzer? The captain and the lieutenant could surely use a cup of tea.”

Falkenstein waved the offer aside. “That won’t be necessary. Lieutenant Voss and I would not want to infringe on your ration allotment, meager as I’m sure it is.”

Von Helmansdorff insisted. “Nonsense. If fellow officers can’t share a cup of weak tea, then what is the point in subjecting ourselves to all this.”

Voss smiled in agreement. The lieutenant colonel appeared heartened by the company. He looked to be in his early fifties—probably a reservist, Voss figured. The officer carried a little more weight than he should have, but it was beginning to shed rapidly due to recent privations. Flesh hung loosely around his neck and cheeks, and he’d not used a razor in several days, which added to his worn appearance.

“The lieutenant mentioned you lost contact with some of the regiment,” Voss said.

“Yes. Between the Russians and this weather, it’s made a fine muddle of things. We must be further east than any regimental group in the army’s sector. The initial goal was the bridge at Dnepropetrovsk, but that’s not feasible now. Our only hope is the ferry operating south of the city, if it’s still operational.”

Falkenstein lifted the receiver of the field telephone a few centimeters off the cradle and set it down again. It seemed a bored gesture. “A direct line to the front, I gather.”

Von Helmansdorff nodded. “A cable was strung soon after our arrival, only now it’s dead. Either it was the Russians or the weather.”

“Certainly it’s the weather, sir,” Kreutzer said, setting out the cups. He then carefully poured the tea, using a folded piece of gauze as an improvised strainer. Reaching into a tunic pocket, von Helmansdorff brought out a shiny flask and let several drops fall into his cup. He held up the flask as an invitation to his guests.

“I no longer drink alcohol,” Falkenstein said, curtly.

Eyes widening, Voss said, “If I may, Colonel, I’d be most grateful.”

Von Helmansdorff obliged. “To add a bit of flavor and keep the chill at bay, you understand,” he said to Falkenstein, aware of how closely he was being scrutinized.

Snug in the warmth of the peasant farmhouse, Voss sipped at the cup of spiked tea—the taste seemed to be kirsch—and relished the moment. Falkenstein lit a cigarette and, remembering his host, offered the case to all around. The room became gray with smoke. The wind had relinquished in strength, and in the few minutes of silence that followed, Falkenstein looked at one of the maps on the table that detailed the cities and towns along the Dniepr and the villages to the east. “The ferry is out of the question. You have deviated too far south,” he said.

Von Helmansdorff leaned over to look as Falkenstein pointed to the map. The lieutenant colonel was stunned. “You mean to say that we have gravitated this far south? I knew I had fallen off-course, but to think… are you sure, Captain?”

“This is approximately where I am, Lieutenant Colonel, and where I have found you.”

“Then the regiment might as well try for Zaporozhye. Impossible. I can’t believe it.” Von Helmansdorff shook his head in disbelief.

“You should make for the defensive salient around the city and the dam,” Falkenstein advised.

“That is… what, forty kilometers? Attempting a forced march in this muck?”

“Twenty-five or thirty kilometers at most to the salient perimeter. It is your best, perhaps your only option.”

The lieutenant colonel was clearly embarrassed by his navigational blunder and wanted to avoid further discussion. “The Fuehrer really wants to hold on to that dam” he said, changing the subject, “and it only stands to reason. Since having lost the Donbas, that leaves the ore deposits and mining facilities at Nikopol. The entire industrial region of western Ukraine is at stake.”

“Not only because of the dam or the mines. It makes perfect strategic sense. The salient will thwart the Russians—” Voss attempted to explain but was interrupted.

“A proper, deeply echeloned fortification along the Dniepr should have begun months ago,” von Helmansdorff asserted. “The predicament we now find ourselves in has been foreseen by every commander in the field. I gather, Captain, you have yet to hear the latest news…” von Helmansdorff waited in a theatrical silence, obviously pleased to drop his bombshell. “The Russians have established a bridgehead, up north, near Bukrin. That’s in Eighth Army’s sector of operations. The Twenty-Fourth Panzer Corps was still on the east side of the river, fighting its way toward the Kanev bridge crossing. All available forces were ordered to detach and race to help deal with the problem.”

The comfort and sense of well-being Voss was enjoying suddenly evaporated. Von Helmansdorff then leaned across the table, gauging the effect his words had on his guests, and said quietly, “There’s more, and I have this on good authority. The Russians tried to secure the region with a massive parachute drop. A total fiasco, fortunately for us. Most were shot dead before they hit the ground. Quite a duck hunt, from what I heard. But the audacity, nonetheless. A night drop on the west bank of the river. What will they think up next? If anything good can be said about the weather, it is that it has slowed the race down and has kept the Red Air Force out of the sky and from blowing us all to hell. As difficult as it is for the Russians to maintain the speed of their own offensive, it’s proven equally difficult for us to extricate ourselves from this morass.”

Falkenstein would not let the lieutenant colonels’ words upset or deter him, but he did have to work at maintaining a cool front. “Your adjutant mentioned that the regiment you’ve become attached is several kilometers away.”

“Yes, four kilometers, to be exact. Defensive positions were established early this morning. We’re planning to resume the march tonight.”

“And the Russians?”

“Parts of a rifle division. Other than small combat patrols, they haven’t the stomach for an all-out attack. The Bolsheviks are feeling as miserable as we are.”

“What about tank support?”

“A few are probing the area; they’re the only machines capable of maneuvering through this muck with any degree of success, although nothing has been attempted. They might be conserving fuel or believe they face a stronger force than is actually the case.” Von Helmansdorff sifted through a number of papers littering the table and selected a situation map detailing the First Panzer Army sector of operations. The map had been drawn with a mass of red pencil lines and arrows jutting between, across, and around a number of blue lines. The red lines signified the Soviet forces, and the blue represented the corps and divisions of First Panzer Army. The distances between the neighboring German units had grown immense since converging on the two bridges in the Army’s sector. “Bear in mind, Captain, this depiction is a number of days old.”

“At least it will provide me with some notion as to what is taking place. It grows tiresome, traveling blind.” Opening the leather folder, Falkenstein searched within and withdrew a map of his own and gave it to Voss to transcribe the pertinent features of the lieutenant colonels’ map. Both maps were quite similar. Voss began by marking the Soviet dispositions and routes of advance. He also made notes. Von Helmansdorff poured another shot of kirsch into Voss’s cup and his own. He noticed that Falkenstein disapproved of the action but kept silent.

“So, Captain,” von Helmansdorff said, lighting another cigarette, “what role does an autonomous reconnaissance group play in the greater scheme of things?”

Although the question was put to him earnestly, Falkenstein could not help but detect a note of sarcasm in the lieutenant colonel’s voice. He decided not to be vague.

“My role, as you put it, is specific. To search for and then destroy the T-34 known as Red Vengeance.”

“That’s it, then, in a nutshell?”

“If you prefer to put it that way, yes. That is the entirety of my mission.”

Von Helmansdorff maintained a straight face, but he was clearly amused. “Such a task at this point in time, given the predicament we all find ourselves in…I don’t mean to downplay the risks you and your men are exposed to or defame your courage, but that is, in a word, absurd.”

A jolt ran through Voss. He stopped writing but dared not look up. He maintained the pretense of examining something of interest on the map and not having heard.

“Absurd,” Falkenstein repeated, coldly, allowing the word to remain in his mind as he examined each facet of its meaning from every angle. Finally he said, “My mission has evolved from the direct interest of the commander of Fourth Panzer Army. I can name at least six divisional generals, any number of operations and intelligence senior staff officers in corps and army group who clamored for and lent their support for this mission. Are they to be characterized as absurd as well?”

“Perhaps I use too provocative a word, Captain. I only mean to say that while an entire Soviet Tank Army breathes down our throats, the value of hunting for one T-34, no matter the reputation, lacks the propaganda weight it might have if the front were more stable.”

“You do not fully appreciate the danger Red Vengeance poses or all it has accomplished.”

“I’ve heard the stories and understand the morale problems associated with it. Every Russian tank scares the pants off of me, Red Vengeance or not.”

“Had you encountered the beast and survived, you would understand the difference between fear and stark, mortal terror. Absolute. Unyielding. The kind of fear that flays the soul. Fortunately for you, Lieutenant Colonel, having been spared the experience, I will overlook your ignorance of the subject.”

“I am a patient man, Captain Falkenstein, even permissive to a fault regarding enlisted men and officers whose rank is below my own. But you try me, sir, with your attitude of superiority regarding this issue, and I cannot help but wonder if it is borne of arrogance.”

“I simply follow my orders, sir, for folk and fatherland.”

“As you should, Captain. As we all should. Now, indulge me for a moment in offering you some advice. Get yourself across the Dniepr. Join the rest of the fold in this arduous undertaking. Help prepare and sustain a viable defense of the eastern wall. It’s our last opportunity to stop the Russians. In due time, when conditions improve, you can organize a raiding party into enemy held territory and hunt your Red Vengeance.”

“I’m afraid there isn’t the time to pursue such a course of action at the leisurely pace you describe, Lieutenant Colonel. Red Vengeance has come out of the east like a mad wind of filth, death, and decay, from across the Volga, over the wasteland of the Kalmyk Steppe, crossing the Don, the Donets, and the Mius. It has to be stopped, here and now. Choked off at once, and for all time. Should it cross the Dniepr and establish a bridgehead, then watch the hordes follow across the river like rats carrying the plague. I will not allow it to cross another river. If that occurs, there will be no stopping it. Red Vengeance will cross them all. The Bug. The Vistula. The Oder. My God, even the Spree. All our efforts will amount to nothing, not only for the army but the whole of Germany.”

“Why imbue this tank with such omnipotence? It’s a machine, Captain, not some satanic instrument.”

“Satanic! When Red Vengeance lies in ruin by my hand, see if I don’t find the devil in the turret and his whelps at the controls.”

Silence followed. Nothing more could be said as von Helmansdorff studied his guest. Voss toyed with the pencil, as though it would help to unravel the knot in his stomach. He looked up from the map and saw the expression on the lieutenant colonels’ face, neither anger nor shock but more a look of sympathy. The captain truly believes every word he uttered, and von Helmansdorff knows this to be the case, he thought.

“Everything satisfactory, Lieutenant, with the map?” von Helmansdorff asked.

Falkenstein broke in. “Yes, Voss, let’s not take up the lieutenant colonels’ time or hospitality any longer than is necessary.” Rising from the bench, the captain limped stiffly to the front window. A mass of gray clouds hurtled across the sky. “This wind should firm up the ground somewhat, and then both sides will be prepared to make their move.”

There was no response. Voss made several more notations, folded the map, and stuffed it back into the leather folder. He mumbled his thanks for the tea and schnapps. Falkenstein left the house without a departing word or a salute. When he stood up and readied to leave, Voss said, “If our fuel reserves weren’t rationed, I could get your vehicle moving again, sir, but I will make every effort to contact army headquarters and inform them of your predicament.”

“We would appreciate the gesture, Lieutenant; thank you.”

Voss then saluted in such a perfect regulation manner, it was as though he was making up for the captain’s rude departure. A faint smile crossed von Helmansdorff’s lips; he did not need or expect it, but he understood the lieutenant’s need to perform the courtesy. He lifted his hand to his brow, slowly and casually, and returned the gesture. After Voss had left, von Helmansdorff got up from the table and turned to the window to watch. Kreutzer had remained close to the oven for warmth. “He was a strange one, that Falkenstein. Don’t you think, Colonel?”

“I don’t know, Kreutzer. Obsessed, surely. If it were up to me, I’d have the field police clap him in irons and put him away. And I don’t mean prison. The man belongs in a lunatic asylum, not a battlefield.”

“Is there a difference?”

Von Helmansdorff slapped his adjutant on the back and laughed heartily. “May the Lord watch over his crew and protect them, not so much from the Russians but from their captain. Now, that’s a prayer for you, eh, Kreutzer?”

* * *

As he crossed the farmyard, avoiding the deep puddles that lay between the house and the barn, Voss was in a quandary. After all that was said, he needed to reevaluate the motives of his commanding officer. Falkenstein stood outside the barn, waiting for him. “That man is a fool, Voss,” the captain said. “He won’t survive the retreat. He’ll perish and, unfortunately, take the rest of the regiment with him.”

“What brings you to that conclusion, sir?”

“You saw him for yourself. The lieutenant colonel is a headquarters paper shuffler, who, in a moment of inspiration, desires to accomplish more than the parameters of his experience allows. So he volunteers for what he believes to be an adventure, not without merit or purpose, but it rapidly turns into a foray designed with more traps than his small imagination can possibly cope. He does not lead men, Voss, he loses them.”

The armored personnel carrier backed out of the barn, and Khan, perched on the armored siding like some bird of prey, unlatched the crew compartment doors. He took the captain’s arm and helped him onto the deck. The vehicle idled as Voss stood, indecisive. He entered the barn, where the troops languished more comfortably now, pleased to be rid of the vehicle.

“All you men are to form a detail at once!” Voss shouted roughly. They all turned, faces numbed with fatigue. “Get up! The lot of you! That’s an order.”

They shambled listlessly to their feet like draft animals done in from exhaustion.

“There is a break in the telephone line,” Voss continued. “The colonel is without communication to the forward position. You,” he pointed to two men,” are to find that break and make repairs.” He singled out two more and said, “The two of you will remain here and guard the colonel’s headquarters, and I don’t mean from inside this barn. Stay alert. Now, as for the rest of you, form a patrol. The Russians could be infiltrating throughout the rear. They could be digging in behind your lines, ready to start havoc. Get on with it, all of you.”

The group picked up their weapons and equipment, filed out of the barn, and began their long slog through the mud. They were obviously worn out, apathetic, some ill with fever, but it could not be helped. They can think me a real shit for making them do this, Voss thought, but their survival depends on the actions they now take.

Falkenstein looked down upon the proceedings with Khan at his side. “Noble effort, but I doubt if it will change a thing. When frustrated, our young lieutenant likes to bark out orders. Like all officers, eh, Khan? Let him remain anxious and irate—only make sure, Lieutenant, the orders you snap, the crucial ones, are derived from me.”

It was doubtful how much was understood by the Siberian as the captain spoke in German, but Reinhardt, still at the bow machine gun, overheard. Voss boarded the vehicle, and it wheeled around, pointed in the direction from which it had just come. Falkenstein took a seat. Someone had tidied up. The clumps of mud had been wiped off the seating, and the deck plating was reasonably clean. “Show me that map, Voss.”

Voss sat down beside the captain, removed the creased map from the folder, and opened it. Both officers held on to either end to keep it from fluttering away. “After we rendezvous with the scout car and retrieve the crew, we will strike out for here,” Falkenstein said, pointing to a town on the Zaporozhye-Dnepropetrovsk rail line. “Veranovka. The Reichsbahn had established a repair depot. Not a terribly large operation. I don’t know what condition the place will be in, as it falls on the very border of the sterilization zone, but no matter. It will become our base of operations.”

Voss looked closely at the map. The town lay twelve kilometers northeast of the Zaporozhye salient. The Greyhounds, Voss’s division and the captain’s former one, would have assembled near the reservoir by now. We could radio for assistance, if our situation deteriorates, Voss thought. The reconnaissance battalion will have advance patrols. And the river was twenty kilometers due west of the town. Suddenly there was good reason to have hope. “It’s a sound plan, Captain. Should things get too hot for us, we have the salient as a fallback position,” Voss said.

“You’re not getting cold feet, are you Lieutenant?”

“No, sir, but the safest and most logical course of action would be—”

“Good, because Veranovka is our only fallback position.”

31

Angst and Wilms found refuge inside the truncated fuselage of a downed Junker transport. The tail and flight deck were missing, as was the entire right wing and a small end section on the left. Pieces of the doomed aircraft lay scattered in a wide swath. The midsection was still relatively whole, except for rents and perforations along the port sides and the bulkhead. Wilms removed the radio and set it down on an empty ammunition box, rust showing where the drab brown-green paint had flaked away. A bivouac of sorts had been made here before as either an observation post or as a means of shelter. Empty field ration tins, cigarette stubs, and a pair of muddy socks, the heels and toes completely worn through, lay submerged with more litter in a lagoon of water that had seeped onto the deck.

The rain had stopped some time ago, but the wind became so furious that it was a struggle to walk. They were already done in from traipsing through the mud, and despite shelter halves, their clothing underneath was practically soaked through from sweat. No Russians were found taking cover behind the defile, as Schroeder had suggested there might be. At the last signal contact, the order was to stay put and maintain forward observation until further notice. Angst looked at his watch: sixteen-thirty hours. If Falkenstein did not return soon, he and Wilms and the rest of the crew stood a good chance of spending the night out here. While the signalman fiddled with the radio dial, Angst got comfortable by the port opening that faced east and kept a lookout with binoculars. Visibility extended for no more than a kilometer, where a veil of mist, stirred by the wind, had descended and blanked out the details of the landscape beyond. The thick cloud cover did not improve matters. The wind whistled through cracks and tears in the aluminum skin. After a time, Wilms removed the earphones, careful not to let the trailing wires droop in the puddles of water. “It’s dead out here,” he said, referring to the absence of chatter on the radio. “This whole sector must be clear of Russians.”

Angst hoped that was true. An unusually strong gust whipped through the open ends of the fuselage and caused their shelter halves to flap like sails. “If this wind continues, things should dry up a little,” Angst said, as he struggled to button the ends of his shelter half that had blown open.

“More than likely. We might even see some sunshine by tomorrow,” Wilms replied.

“Good. I was worried my remark was yet another indication of my ignorance of weather conditions around here.” The ugly scene with Detwiler earlier still gnawed at him. Angst had always prided himself on maintaining a certain amount of self-control and decorum, and he was angry for allowing the likes of the machine gunner to get to him. Utter fool that Detwiler was, he should have known to dismiss everything that came out of the man’s mouth.

“How did you come to be here, Angst? Some replacement battalion?” Wilms asked.

“Officially? I volunteered. Unofficially, I was transferred here as a cheap means of revenge to salvage the vanity of a superior officer.”

“A cheap means of revenge,” Wilms repeated, and shrugged. His interest was aroused, and he pressed Angst to tell him more.

Unsure as to why he was indulging the signalman with the details of his farcical military career thus far, Angst said, “I was a lieutenant’s orderly. Lieutenant Nieheus. He was an adjutant for one of the staff officers at division headquarters. I’d been in France ever since the invasion. Then came the occupation. Two years of drill, marches, exercises, and patrolling the beach. We stared at the ocean, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, month after month for an enemy that failed to materialize. The monotony, the boredom was…soul destroying. There were no dividends or amusements. Everyone struggled just to have enough tobacco to help smoke away the terminal hours.”

“Did you visit Paris?” Wilms asked.

“Once. There was an organized cultural excursion for enlisted men. A forty-eight hour pass. We weren’t allowed any time by ourselves, and certainly not to get into any trouble on our own. At least I got to see the main attractions. The Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame Cathedral, the tomb of—”

Wilms interrupted. “What about the women?”

Angst smiled bitterly. “For some. The lower ranks had very few dealings with the locals. Where our company was situated, the villages were few and sparsely populated. I and some of the guys in the platoon would barter for eggs and milk, usually with a farmer’s wife who was older than your grandmother.”

“So what about this superior officer? The one whose vanity you riled.”

“Christ! Are you going to make me recount the entire sorry tale?” It would be laughable, had it not had such tragic consequences, he thought.

“Sure, why not? We have some time to kill, and Schroeder doesn’t expect to hear from us for at least another fifteen or twenty minutes.”

Angst didn’t know why he felt inclined to confide in Wilms, a stranger. He’d not even related the details to Schmidt or Braun, whom he considered friends. “It was during last winter, when the top kick came around the barracks looking for anyone who possessed reasonable typing skills. The clerical pool down at division—most of them had contracted bronchitis. A severe bout was circulating, and headquarters found itself understaffed with so many guys out sick. Some of us from the company, myself included, were sent to fill in temporarily. Any sort of a change was something to look forward to. I wasn’t there long, a couple of days, when Lieutenant Nieheus singled me out. He thought I did a good job, was neat and conscientious. Eventually, he offered me the position as his orderly. His own man had fallen ill and had so far proven to be a disappointment. I accepted, and before long I was reassigned. It wasn’t a bad duty, really, and I was kept on at division, typing reports for the adjutant’s office. Nothing classified, really; it was mostly rosters, schedules, itineraries, and procurements. Of course there was the obligatory boot polishing, laundry, and pressing uniforms. Whenever the lieutenant had use of the colonel’s car, I was assigned to drive him around. Every other week or so, I had to report back to the company for drill, and there were maneuvers now and again, none of it lasting for more than a couple of days. The lieutenant’s duties were broadening not so much at headquarters as outside of it. The colonel had saddled him with assignments that were more of a personal nature. The lieutenant was in good with the colonel, so he told me. He claimed to be liked and trusted, and there was every indication a promotion was due him in the not-too-distant future. What the colonel relied on most was Nieheus’s discretion. You see, the colonel kept a mistress, and there was etiquette to be followed, because he didn’t want some of the other officers within his circle to know about this liaison. A brother-in-law, or maybe it was his wife’s cousin, was on the general staff, so he needed to be very careful. Lieutenant Nieheus scheduled their trysts.”

Wilms scoffed. “Quite a bureaucratic love affair.”

Angst agreed. “The colonel thought he was being very clever. Whenever Nieheus fetched the woman, booked a hotel, or rented a cottage, it gave the appearance that the assignation was his and not the colonel’s. At first Nieheus found the task demeaning and complained of acting as the colonel’s procurer. Despite all the shortages we all had to live with, the lady was kept in a reasonable state of comfort.”

“The colonel was buying her, then. Was she worth it?” Wilms asked eagerly.

“She had her charms, I suppose.”

“So you did meet her.”

“We were never introduced, but I’d seen her often enough. She possessed a certain opulent rapaciousness. I would drive the lieutenant over to the cottage the colonel had secured for her. Whenever he couldn’t get away, due to a last-minute briefing or staff meeting, he’d send the lieutenant over with a little gift of wine or flowers, maybe hosiery. The usual stuff. There was a fair amount of contact between the woman and the lieutenant, once again to fortify the impression that it was his affair. Nieheus had confided the particulars to me early on. He was a strange personality, the lieutenant. Our relationship as orderly and officer was a little unorthodox. He treated me as a chum, more out of circumstance and proximity than from any sort of affection as a friend or acquaintance. He seemed to strive at being liked, thought well of by both fellow officers and subordinates. He was curious, almost perversely so, about my experiences in the Polish and French campaigns and how I earned the IC second class. He confided in me once, and this was surprising from an officer, that he did not think he could suffer the demands of frontline service and considered himself fortunate to be attached to staff. I told him you don’t ever get used to the front, but somehow you learn to deal with it, you find your own way, but he did not think it possible in his own case.”

“All right, I got all that, now what happened?” Wilms fidgeted about and tried to get comfortable as he leaned against the fuselage wall, careful to keep his feet and the radio dry as more water seeped onto the deck.

“Soon it became quite obvious the lieutenant and the lady were having a fling of their own.”

“Sort of a rearguard action, eh?” Wilms’s imagination was at full speed. He waited expectantly to hear more.

“If you want to use a tactical analogy, yes. They would occupy each other for an hour or more, and afterward Nieheus would return to the car, smelling of alcohol and ‘eau de toilette.’ He would then admonish me to remain discreet. ‘A fellow can really move up the line if he uses discretion,’ he would tell me. Ha! The only place it got me was the Russian front. For all I would have known, the two of them could have been sipping tea, only Nieheus had to share his excitement, no matter how meager the details. Not that I cared to hear it.”

“What did he say? Was she a knock-out in bed?”

“Nothing too explicit, only that she was rather promiscuous and was easily bored.”

“So, infatuated as he was by the lady’s charms, your lieutenant became reckless.”

“Actually, no. Nieheus sampled the dish only when the opportunity afforded itself. He never pined over her or dreamt up transparent excuses to drive over to the cottage. It went on like this for several months, once or twice a week. The colonel found out, eventually.”

“How was that possible, if your lieutenant was such a model of discretion?” Wilms asked.

We are dead men, Angst, dead men. The sound of the lieutenant’s mournful voice echoed in Angst’s ears as he thought back to that time. Wilms had grown impatient with the silence. “Did the mistress give him away?”

“I don’t know how the colonel found out. Maybe she wanted to hurt the colonel for one reason or another, and during a lover’s quarrel, it slipped out. Or the lieutenant might have confided in a fellow officer. If he did, any tittering and sidelong glances would soon end, once the word got around that Nieheus and his orderly were sent packing to the eastern front.”

“I bet it was her that blabbed. Rubbed the colonel’s nose in it, just to show him who was boss in their little arrangement.” If Wilms harbored any suspicions about women of easy virtue, they were now confirmed. He appeared triumphant with his assumption, but he was also disappointed. The story lacked the smutty details and crudeness to make it memorable and worth repeating. “Maybe you were destined for Russia, Angst, either way. Not that it’s any consolation, but the way this war’s going, your colonel and the whole division will end up here sooner or later.”

No, it isn’t a consolation, Angst thought. He looked at his watch. “You had better report in.”

Wilms put on the earphones, flipped the transmit switch, and spoke into the mike. “Out distance calling Sundial, come in, over…this is out distance calling Sundial, do you read me, over…” This continued for several minutes without any response. “That’s odd. I could send and receive fine at the last check-in.”

“We’re not out of range, are we?”

Wilms shook his head and played with the dial in an effort to try another frequency. Angst took up the binoculars and refocused. The mist had become even denser, and except for a gray void, there was nothing to see. The wind had died down, and the sudden stillness and gathering dusk made for an eerie effect.

“Wait a moment…wait a moment…tank patrol. One of ours.” Wilms spoke with urgency. Eyes straining at the binoculars, Angst could not see a thing. Then a blue-white flash appeared within the obscurity and was immediately followed by the muffled crack of cannon fire. He started to describe what he had just witnessed when Wilms silenced him and switched on the radio speaker. Over the buzz of static, distressed commands were shouted. The patrol was in serious trouble as another flash was followed by the sound of a terrific explosion. The shock wave slapped against the port side of the fuselage. The sickening drama could be clearly heard over the radio as panic-stricken voices yelled, cursed, and screamed.

“Behind us! Traverse right!”

“How did it circle around so fast?”

There was another peal of cannon fire. Angst believed he saw the bulk of a machine, for a mere fraction of a second, and then the object dissolved into nothing. The sight through the binoculars remained gray, except for another brilliant flash. Voices over the radio continued to squawk. “Keep firing! Maintain continuous fire!”

“Look out—it’s coming around again. Fire!”

“A direct hit, but how…”

“Fire!”

“My God, why won’t it stop?”

“Kill it! Just kill the fucking thing!”

“Oh, please, God, please—” A wail of utter terror, short, loud, and final. Wilms tore off the earphones and lunged for the binoculars. Almost in a state of genuine grief, he said, “I heard this once before, and I’ll be damned if I have to listen to it all over again!”

Angst understood what the signalman meant. It was the same unmistakable feeling that had occurred on the night the self-propelled assault gun was destroyed. They were reliving the violent, chaotic drama all over again that was uniquely different from all other confrontations; that same strange feeling of something appalling that could not be named. Angst could see the unmistakable profile of a T-34 pierce the veil of mist not more than fifty meters away. Hulking and bestial, it looked like some overfed creature, waddling away from a banquet of flesh. “Red Vengeance,” Angst said in awe.

“How can you say that? We don’t know that for certain.”

“Look at it, Wilms. You know what it is.”

The tank with its shroud of netting geared up to a higher speed and veered south in the direction of the minefield. Good, Angst thought, lose yourself out there, and join the rest of the ruin. Wilms let go of the binoculars and tried to raise the 222 on the radio again, but the interference was too intense. Obstinately, he continued to try.

“There’s nothing Schroeder can do for us.”

“I’d sell my entire family for a panzerfaust right now.”

Enveloped by mist and dusk, the T-34 disappeared from view. “What happened that night when the assault gun got hit? Detwiler and Schroeder lost in a thicket. Sounds coming from nowhere and everywhere. And then in the ravine on the following night. What made it so unusual and strange, like the way it feels now?”

“Don’t try to make sense out of any of it, Angst, and don’t make me try.”

The clatter of tank tracks could be heard, loud and clear. Angst felt the adrenaline jolt through his chest and shoulders, tightening the sinews. The silhouette of a Tiger loomed out of the mist and passed by the broken fuselage. Smoke poured from the rear of the vehicle, and the engine plant ground terribly. “Let’s try to catch up,” Angst said, “The crew might need help.” Hurriedly, they packed up the radio, grabbed their rifles, and climbed out of the midsection. The Tiger chugged along, slowly, maintaining a heading of almost due west. The grenadiers struggled through the ooze but were able to follow alongside the enormous tank and call out to whoever remained alive within. The 120 mm frontal armor had been punctured by armor-piercing shot, as was the turret’s left side, which housed the commander and gunner compartments. It was a sure guess both crewmen were dead. That left the gun loader in the right-hand compartment of the turret. If he were alive, Angst reasoned, he would have seen them by now. Figures approached from the distance: Braun, Detwiler and Schmidt. The scout car followed, slowly, but with far less difficulty than before. Their shouts garnered no response from the crew within. The tank maintained the same course for several minutes more until its engine coughed and spluttered and finally seized. The Tiger rattled and became still. The squad and the scout car, with Schroeder at the 20 mm gun, converged on the lifeless machine. “We tried to hail them on the radio but got no response,” Schroeder said.

Braun climbed onto the deck and opened the turret hatch, releasing a noxious cloud of exhaust fumes. He reached down into the opening and struggled. Schmidt joined him on the deck and helped. As they pulled and tugged, finally a soot-blackened face came into view. The head lolled, mouth slack, eyes closed; and when more of the body was freed from the hatch opening, an enormous tear in the panzer crewman’s black overalls, from groin to chin, could be seen. “Burst like a sausage,” Detwiler exclaimed. Once the crewman was laid out on the deck, Braun searched for any signs of life. He turned to face the others and simply shook his head. Schmidt made the sign of the cross, mumbled a short prayer, and followed Braun off the vehicle. Inspecting the damage, they all marveled at how the Tiger could be subjected to so much abuse and still keep moving for as long as it had. The armorpiercing round that had struck the front end made a jagged hole larger than the size of a man’s head in diameter. Scorch marks at the edges determined the shot was made at extremely close range. Using a flashlight, Detwiler trained the beam through the hole and looked into the smoldering interior. He reared back and made a noise of revulsion. “I could sell tickets to see what’s smeared in here.”

His crudeness was getting on all their nerves, even Schroeder’s. “You asshole, Ernst,” he snapped.

Unfazed, the machine gunner turned to Angst. “Sure you won’t have a peek? I’ll let you look for free.”

“Gawking won’t improve my soldiering any.”

“Maybe it will. Go on, look. Get used to it. That’s what I say.”

“You wallow in it,” Wilms said. “Everything is a big joke for you.”

“Only because it’s all too horrible,” Detwiler said, grimly serious.

Schroeder had climbed down from the scout car and approached Wilms and Angst. “Did you see what happened?”

“The radio wouldn’t function.”

“It was Red Vengeance,” Angst said, blandly.

Wilms turned on him, noticeably shaken. “We don’t know that for certain.” So that the others would not overhear, Schroeder took them both to the side. “Which is it, Wilms? Did you see Red Vengeance or not?”

“I overheard a transmission. The Tiger was taking fire.”

Angst butted in. “They sounded terrorized.”

“I thought you said the radio didn’t work?” Schroeder questioned the signalman.

“It didn’t. Not until I overheard the panzer patrol.”

“Was Red Vengeance referred to by name?”

“No.”

“I saw it slip out of the fog. Wilms had the binoculars. He saw it better than I did.”

“Is that what you saw Wilms? Wilms?” Schroeder persisted.

“Only for a second. I can’t say for sure.”

“You don’t forget a thing like that,” Angst said, “not that tank.”

Schroeder contemplated what he had just heard, and suddenly there was a shout. “Here comes the Hanomag and the captain.” Braun had reboarded the deck of the stricken Tiger and waved broadly at the approaching vehicle with a series of arm signals to indicate there was danger and to proceed with caution.

“Don’t tell the captain,” Wilms pleaded.

Schroeder’s look of surprise turned to one of contempt. “What are you saying? This is why we’re here.”

When the Hanomag stopped alongside the tank, the officers regarded the smoking ruin with concern. “It’s the work of Red Vengeance, Captain. Angst and Wilms saw it,” Schroeder cried exuberantly.

Falkenstein seemed to swell upon hearing the news. His face took on an almost beatific expression. “Which way did it go?”

“Southeast. Toward the minefield,” Angst said.

“Then we pursue” Falkenstein cried in a voice resonating with a crazed edge.

“It’s getting dark, sir,” Voss interrupted. “Let’s not be taunted into making a false move.”

“Retreat or give chase—it makes no difference, should Red Vengeance decide to engage us. Get the men aboard, Lieutenant.”

All but Schroeder scrambled on to the vehicle. “Should Sergeant Vogel and I follow in the Two-Twenty-Two, sir?”

“If you can keep up, Corporal, by all means. Man that cannon!”

The armored personnel carrier wheeled about, nose pointed east. Hartmann pushed the vehicle as fast as it could go over the muddy terrain, urged on by Falkenstein’s ranting. Had the captain been in possession of a whip, Hartmann was sure he would have been lashed like a pack animal to keep up the pace. They passed the burning wreckage of a Mark IV. A charred head and torso lay on the ground, enclosed in a section of the command cupola that had blown free of the turret. “First a Tiger, and now this,” Braun murmured in disbelief, “and we’re expected to stop a T-34 in this thin skinned bucket of bolts. This is crazy.” Schmidt laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder in an attempt to reassure him, but Braun shrugged it off. The fear among the crew had become palpable as darkness rapidly enveloped the steppe. Falkenstein was not so reckless as to plunge directly into the minefield. Knowing the area well, he guided Hartmann through the dummy field that weaved around the live perimeter. A thunderous noise rolled above their heads. Magnesium star shells arched across the sky illuminating the landscape in a rancid wash of yellow light. The shriek of 76 mm cannon shells followed, and the ground started to erupt. Crouched low in the crew compartment, the grenadiers prayed the armored siding would hold as a cold bath of muddy water rained down. They had the sense that they were being sucked in by an undertow, all except the captain, who stood erect behind the shield of the bow machine gun and cursed the driver to deliver more speed. Rather than being an inspiration to strengthen morale, the sight of the captain only caused the men to feel more frightened and appalled. The Hanomag plunged down and up through shallow gullies and around shell craters. The men collided with one another and tried to steady themselves on the hand railings as the vehicle dipped and elevated sharply. “Faster…faster,” Falkenstein raved on. A horse galloped by, harnessed to a flaming panje wagon. Behind this unwittingly spooked torchbearer followed a desperate parade of German soldiers, their shrill, hysterical voices screaming one word again and again: “Tanks!” This remnant of some lost unit now in flight begged to be saved. Almost a platoon-sized number of troops turned and ran after the armored carrier in an attempt to climb on. Schmidt began to open the compartment doors, but Falkenstein instructed him not to. “Bolt those doors shut, or we will be swamped!” The vehicle slowed considerably as Hartmann skirted around a series of shell craters filled with rainwater. Taking advantage of the near stop, several of the troops worked their way on to the mudguards and hung onto the siding. Brazenly, a grenadier started to climb over the siding, only to be rammed in the face by a rifle butt. Detwiler. He smiled ruthlessly and watched as the grenadier sailed off, arms outstretched, and disappeared into the mud and darkness. Voss ordered the driver to find a suitable place and bring the vehicle to a halt. Countermanding the order, Falkenstein told him to speed up, but more troops had surrounded the armored vehicle as voices cried out to be let aboard and begged the crew to turn about. “Keep moving,” Falkenstein cried. “Run them over if you must!” Hartmann wouldn’t, making every effort to swerve out of the way as arms waved frantically to flag him down. The scout car had been keeping up the pace, but now it too had attracted a mob. There was a sudden burst of machine gun fire and the clatter of tracks as enemy tanks neared. Many of the panicked troops broke away from the two vehicles and dove for cover in the shell craters. They looked like frogs leaping into a dirty pond. Slowing down, Hartmann positioned the Hanomag behind a ruined tank hull that lay cantilevered across a depression. Falkenstein was vexed. “Corporal, my order was to drive.”

Voss, attempting to remain unruffled, said “We’re overburdened, sir.”

“This is not our fight, Lieutenant. Better game beckons us.”

“We cannot allow the whims of fate to decide for the lives of all these men. It is unconscionable.”

“Damn them to hell! They’re running away. Get them off the vehicle, or I will give the order to have them shot.”

Voss knew that Mad Falkenstein seemed very capable of giving that order at the moment. He shouted over the din and tried to reason with the crowd. “You are impeding our mission and endangering all of our lives. We can’t take you all on. Now move away.”

This language was not nearly strong enough for the captain’s taste. He loomed over the siding like an engorged Cyclops. “Stand clear, or I’ll give the order to open fire on you all.” Most of the squad had their weapons at the ready. Khan, Wilms, and Detwiler trained submachine guns on the crowd. Voss did not move, determined to take no part in it. Resigned, some of the troops hopped off the mudguards, but one fellow, a tall, bedraggled grenadier, stayed and challenged the officers. He stood face to face with the captain and sneered, “There are more of us than you. We could take over your vehicle. What have we got to lose? We’re getting slaughtered out here.” Voices shouted in agreement, and the troops started to advance on the Hanomag once again. With lightning speed, Falkenstein drew his P-38 and pressed the muzzle to the grenadier’s forehead. “Incite mutiny, dog, and you will be the first to fall.” Shocked rather than frightened, the grenadier let go of the siding and jumped down. One by one the others followed.

Hartmann called out from the driver’s cabin, “Captain! Lieutenant!”

In the dwindling illumination of the flares, an armored infantry vehicle flanked by two T-34s drove by in a northwesterly direction. “They haven’t seen us,” Voss said, relieved.

“Let them pass. We will have to evacuate this sector.” Falkenstein felt cheated.

“It might be too late,” Reinhardt countered. A third T-34 bore down upon their position.

“Get the panzerfaust, Sergeant,” Voss said. “We can’t outrun it now.”

“Our antitank weapons are too few to waste on this lot,” Falkenstein protested.

Despite the captain’s frustration, Voss remained firm. “Get into position, Dieter.”

Falkenstein had no choice but to concede. He nodded his assent, but Reinhardt wasn’t waiting for the commander’s go-ahead; he’d already opened the crate and lifted the grenade launcher carefully and exited through the crew compartment doors. He mounted the hull that lay over the depression, took cover behind the cracked turret, and maintained the picture of absolute coolness to the crew as the Russian tank came within range. He hugged the launching tube under his right armpit and looked through the vertical sight and past the squat, hollow charged explosive mounted at the front end. The T-34’s hull machine gun fired in short bursts as it drew near. Nerves were strained inside the crew compartment as everyone waited for the sergeant to fire. The tank was well within the sixty-meter maximum target range, but still Reinhardt waited. “Come on, just a few meters more” he said, quietly. The tank had gotten so close he could hear, above the sound of the diesel, a round being slammed into the breech. He could wait no longer and pressed the firing lever. A white shaft of flame belched from the rear of the tube as exploding gases sent the projectile smashing into the center of the sloping front hull. A loud thud was followed by a grating bang. The T-34 lurched and then stopped. Nearby, the 20 mm gun on the scout car spewed a series of bursts of armor-piercing rounds that chewed away at the tank’s skin. Small flames appeared along the left side of the vehicle, but mostly it was thick smoke that billowed out. The turret hatch cover swung open, and a crewman leapt out. He started to run for all he was worth but slipped and fell facedown in the mud. Frantic, he struggled to put as much distance between himself and the tank as it burst into flames. The crew laughed and jeered at the Russian’s antics. Detwiler swung the machine gun around on the rear bracket mount and took aim. “Let’s see if this can make him dance.”

Falkenstein ordered that no one shoot. “I want him alive. Khan!” The Mongol swung himself over the side in one move, landed upright, and ran effortlessly through the mud after the Russian. Falkenstein turned to Voss. “We will rendezvous at Veranovka as planned. No doubt your appetite for rescue is far from satisfied. God help you, should this vehicle break down under the weight of rabble you collect along the way.”

Voss saluted. “I understand perfectly, sir.”

Falkenstein returned the salute, curtly. Barking at the crew to make room, he pushed his way to the compartment doors. Schroeder had since exited the scout car and watched as the captain stepped down. Their eyes met. “Why are you frowning, Corporal?”

“I still have the stomach for a fight, sir.”

Falkenstein smiled. “There’s always tomorrow. We will try again, you and I. Red Vengeance won’t forget us. Mark my words.”

Pleased with the attention the captain had bestowed upon him, Schroeder boarded the Hanomag. Reinhardt climbed down off the hull, flung the used launching tube aside, muttered “Sir” to Falkenstein as he passed, and followed the corporal into the crew compartment, where he was greeted by all with slaps on the back and words of admiration for a terrific kill. Gears strained as the armored personnel carrier shifted in reverse and then heaved forward as it rocked across the soft, uneven earth and groaned under the added weight of more men and equipment. Falkenstein limped over to the scout car and watched as the vehicle drove away. “Don’t think you have gained the upper hand with me, Herr Voss…” Above the sound of the rattling engine, Vogel sat at the wheel and listened to the captain’s muttering through the opened side port. “…Out here I am lord and master. There are no other loyalties. Only total commitment to me.”

The enemy penetration, such as it was, fizzled out as quickly as it had begun. Falkenstein could only shake his head in wonder at the rout the diminutive action had produced, more so for his own command, as the opportunity to engage Red Vengeance was lost. Several flares burned weakly in the sky some distance away, yet the light produced was enough for him to watch as Khan dragged the Russian crewman along by the scruff of the neck and placed him, like a dog to heel, at his feet. Under the padded leather tank helmet, a set of eyes shone brightly from a mud smeared face. Despite the grime, Falkenstein saw that the crewman was young. He recognized the look he received, having witnessed it countless times before—defiance, even with Khan’s curved blade poised at the Russian’s throat. “Whether you live or die makes no difference to me, but it does to him,” Falkenstein said, indicating Khan. A glimmer of surprise betrayed the crewman’s poise. The captain’s use of his native tongue was far from perfect but his intent was made very clear “Answer my questions, and at least I can intervene on your behalf.” The crewman barely nodded, but it was enough for Falkenstein to continue. “Tell me everything you know about Red Vengeance. Where did it go?”

“You know all there is to know, German, probably more than I.”

“This is not a game. We have all run out of time. Now, answer my questions. What armored unit is Red Vengeance usually attached to? Has it gone to ground, and if so, for how long? Where and when will it appear next? Admit to me: whose control is it under?”

The crewman appeared momentarily confused by the barrage of questions. He took a deep breath and then became remarkably composed as his mouth curled into an icy smile. “Red Vengeance is a myth you Hitlerites made up for yourselves. The Red Army is defeating you, so you heap all your fears on one improbable machine. I personally don’t believe anything said of Red Vengeance. It’s an invention. Your invention.” The Russian laughed.

“Is that your only answer, then?”

“No! My answer to you is this: the might and will of the Soviet people will throw you Hitlerite criminals out of our motherland, and the war won’t end there. We will do to your country, in your cities and towns, and to your people the same as you have done to us. Someday all Germans will know what Red Vengeance truly means.”

Rather than be provoked to anger by the crewman’s words, Falkenstein was merely disappointed. He expected to garner some useful bit of information, however minute, instead of the drunken ideological parroting of Bolshevik propaganda. “Khan…”

A look of alarm crossed the Russian’s face. Khan raised the knife and waited for the slight nod from the captain that would cause it to fall. “Can’t kill me by your own hand, German? Instead, you let this treacherous swine do your dirty work!”

The sarcastic tone bit a little too deeply. Falkenstein removed the short-barreled PPK from the pocket of his riding coat, pointed it at the crewman’s temple, and pulled the trigger. The man keeled over, uneventfully, as tufts of helmet padding floated listlessly to the sodden ground. Falkenstein spoke to the dead crewman, who lay on the ground like an overturned sack of grain. “I am not a cruel man…only impatient.”

RED VENGEANCE

32

The fields had since turned to ash, and the houses, barns, and outbuildings had been reduced to piles of charred rubble. Islands of dead cattle, bloated and rotting, dotted the scorched land. The steppe was empty and the prevailing silence dreadful. A few of the stragglers from the night before were able to tag along, which was not difficult to do as the Hanomag drove slowly through the mud. Two dispossessed infantrymen had wormed their way into the crew compartment, a gloomy dark-haired fellow, Bruno, and Mueller, a youth of no more than eighteen. They had crouched on the deck by the doors and remained quiet and innocuous, as if their presence would thus go unnoticed. It did not matter to the crew, as they were too wet and exhausted to care. Three grenadiers from the same unit stood on the mudguard fenders and held on for the long ride. As for the rest of the panicked mob, there were noticeably fewer at dawn. Some lagged too far behind as they attempted to negotiate the mud and others had struck out on their own. Many simply remained lost, probably forever.

The command vehicle sloughed along a kilometer to the rear, and visual contact was finally established a short time after dawn. Voss was not inclined to signal the captain and ask if he needed assistance, and the captain did not radio any inquires to the armored carrier. This arrangement, temporary as it was, suited Voss just fine; it afforded him the opportunity to recoup his strength, now that he was out from under the captain’s oppressive personality. Veranovka lay half a kilometer further to the west when Voss had the vehicle stop so he could examine the site. What he observed through binoculars, he did not like. A makeshift gallows had been erected on the outskirts of the repair depot east of the railroad tracks. Five men, three women, and a boy hung, hands bound behind their backs. The boy’s age was difficult to determine, and the only clue that he was not an adult was that he was shorter than the others. Exposed to the weather overnight, perhaps longer, rain-soaked clothing clung tightly to the corpses, which had begun to swell. The colorless flesh of exposed arms and feet stood in gruesome contrast to the purple discoloration of their faces. Voss lowered the binoculars and ordered Hartmann to advance. Despite the crew’s exhaustion and discomfort, they found it impossible not to look and, if not feel pity, at least express an interest as to what crimes they had committed to earn such a final and lasting sentence. “Partisans,” said Schroeder. “Or looters,” Wilms said.

Theoretically, the town lay within the sterilization zone, that twenty-kilometer band of destruction and lifelessness that was to aid the withdrawal and slow the Russian advance. The track wolves had since torn up the rail lines, but the buildings and structures that comprised the depot had yet to be leveled. As the armored personnel carrier made its approach toward the heart of the town, most of the houses that flanked the dirt road were either completely burnt to the ground or severely damaged by fire. Veranovka had the feel of a ghost town, the emptiness that follows the violence of ransacking: the valueless, unwanted objects and bric-a-brac that littered the grounds from looted homes and buildings. Telephone and power line poles had been cut down, porcelain insulators shattered, and the jumble of cables lay twisted and coiled over the ground like an intrusion of vines. A signpost lay broken in the mud at the railroad crossing. Written in both German and Cyrillic letters, the sign read “Old Cart Road.” Voss ordered the vehicle to stop and again raised the binoculars. He gestured, and Schroeder took his position at the bow machine gun. “What is it, Lieutenant?” Hartmann asked. He nudged Reinhardt, who had fallen asleep in the co-driver’s seat. With a snort he opened his eyes.

The project of ruination had yet to be completed, as a motley outfit still occupied the town. A Ukrainian auxiliary police squad was attempting to wreak more destruction, but its efforts seemed quite haphazard. The auxiliaries’ actions reminded Voss of the raucous behavior of schoolboys in a play yard. “They’re ours,” he informed the crew, and had Hartmann continue. The road led directly into the town square, where several lorries, an open-topped staff car, and a number of motorcycles with sidecars were parked. Among these vehicles was where the lead core of this indigenous paramilitary unit remained, the Einsatzgruppen, who appeared eager to move out. Huddled in the rear seat of the staff car was an SS Sturmbannfuehrer. The Hanomag stopped, and Schmidt opened the doors and got out. Mueller and Bruno followed, and the infantrymen hanging onto the outside of the vehicle jumped down. The crew needed to stretch and start to dry out in the scant sunlight that was available. Before Voss could say a word, the auxiliaries started to surround the vehicle. Obviously drunk—several brandished bottles of vodka, some had schnapps, others wine—each toted a submachine gun or rifle and waved these weapons around as freely as their bottles. It was a dangerous mix. Descending upon the crew, the auxiliaries greeted them with loutish comradeship. They began to climb onto the vehicle and peer over the siding with dull-witted inquisitiveness at what was stored inside the crew compartment. Voss and Reinhardt were on edge and too short-tempered from fatigue to put up with any harassment, no matter how good-natured the intentions. The auxiliaries sensed the hostility and began to talk loudly, even yell, and gesticulate wildly. The mood was beginning to sour quickly. They became interested in the fuel cans lashed to the sides and front end and started to untie the ropes. Voss shouted at them to stop. One policeman had climbed into the crew compartment and was rooting around in the stowage lockers. When he handled the flamethrower, Schroeder hustled him unceremoniously off the vehicle. A Sturmmann and two SS Obersoldaten strolled over, genuinely amused at the panzergrenadiers’ predicament. Exasperated, Voss called out to them, “Can’t you control this mob?”

“They’re drunk,” said the Sturmmann, as he and the Obersoldaten began to herd the auxiliaries away from the vehicle.

“I can see that they’re drunk,” Voss replied. “What do they want from us?”

“Gasoline to burn down the rest of town. They started on the workers’ settlement, but the wood was too wet. They ran out of fuel.”

“Then you should have used the vodka rather than allow them to drink it.”

The Sturmmann laughed. “Now, that’s a thought.”

“It wasn’t meant to be amusing. If you don’t get a handle on these men, there will be an incident. I will not allow my crew to be endangered or our equipment ransacked, and I don’t intend to give up a drop of fuel. Is that clear?”

“Take it easy, Lieutenant, there is no need to make threats.” The three SS men, now joined by two more, established something of a cordon to hold back their unruly charges. The crew, including one of the stragglers, the youth Mueller, reboarded the Hanomag for protection. The Sturmbannfuehrer remained in the staff car and watched the proceedings with an air of disinterest. He passed along no orders to the junior officers and NCOs who stood around the officer’s car, their flat, unsavory features expressing bored amusement. Voss found their lack of involvement to maintain discipline rather bizarre. “We will wait for the captain at the edge of town,” he said to Hartmann, who immediately turned the vehicle around and retreated back down the road. More stragglers watched questioningly as the armored personnel carrier flew past. “If they have any smarts, they’ll keep on walking,” Braun said.

After a wait of several minutes, the scout car arrived. Falkenstein was visibly annoyed to find the Hanomag idling wastefully. “Why haven’t you established yourself in town, Lieutenant?”

Voss explained the situation and the potential for violence under the circumstances.

“Einsatzgruppen, you say?”

“Yes, Captain, and the Ukrainians are all drunk.”

“I suppose our colleagues are responsible for that.” Falkenstein gestured toward the gallows that stood in plain view.

Voss nodded. “I would assume…”

Falkenstein thought for a moment and muttered a few words to Khan, who was positioned in the turret beside him. He then turned to Voss and said, “We’re going in. I’ll speak to the officer in charge and persuade him to hurry along.”

Khan materialized from out of the turret opening, taking with him several items of personal equipment and hauling the antitank rifle, from which he had become inseparable. He ran alongside the double set of riven railroad tracks, heading north, in the direction of the maintenance depot building. Falkenstein thought it prudent that Khan not draw any attention to himself from either the SS or his alleged countrymen. He then addressed the crew. “Remember, men, we are still in a combat zone, and you are under orders. Should anyone try to interfere, molest, or hamper us in any way, you are to take whatever action is necessary to maintain the integrity of this unit. Is that understood?”

The crew nodded and said, in unison, “Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Let’s get on with the business of occupying this town.”

The scout car took the lead and raced down the road, with the Hanomag bringing up the rear. The crew was at the ready, each with a weapon in hand, and possessed a far more confident manner as they reentered Veranovka with the captain in charge. Falkenstein understood the theatrics of the occasion, and he presented himself as both a formidable and dashing figure. He stood high in the turret with the scarf at his neck fluttering in the wind, goggles perched above the brim of his forage cap; the black eye patch only helped to add a rakish touch. The 222 nosed around and between the stationary trucks and motorcycles, Vogel handling the vehicle impeccably at high speed, and then came to a smooth stop beside the staff car. Falkenstein saluted from the turret. “Good morning, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer. Captain Hans Falkenstein. This is my Reconnaissance Group.” Careful not to exhibit any discomfort or fatigue, Falkenstein climbed down from the turret and stood beside the officer’s car. He saluted and offered his hand. The Sturmbannfuehrer displayed an almost dyspeptic manner as he shook hands. “Toller. A pleasure, Captain.” Toller sat deeply entrenched in his plush seat and pulled up the collar of his leather coat. He shivered, and it was quite evident the officer was not well. What at first appeared to be a deeply tanned complexion proved, on closer examination, to be a yellow tinge, the onset of jaundice.

“My group, such as it is, did not quite know how to interpret the reception it received from your auxiliary policemen.”

“These fellows can be something of a cross to bear, Captain, but I can assure you, at no time were they a threat to your men.”

“Yes, of course, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer. As we are about to settle in town, my only concern is that no unpleasantness occurs between your people and mine. My lieutenant described a situation of drunkenness and indiscipline, and no effort was made to keep your men in line.”

“A presumptuous interpretation on the part of your lieutenant. The situation is firmly in hand. They’re essentially good boys—for Ukrainians, that is. Remarkably thorough. We’ve been busy these past few days, and they’re only now letting off steam. You understand how it is.” Toller smiled, crookedly.

“An impressive reminder of your visit hangs at the edge of town. Partisans?”

“I’ve taken the time to settle some old accounts. A group has been active in these parts for some time, but they’ve always managed to elude me. Until yesterday. They were skulking about after the Reichsbahn people evacuated. They lacked a convincing reason as to why they hadn’t migrated across the river and pretended not to know what was going on. They had the nerve to feign innocence, can you imagine? Some claimed to have traveled all the way on foot from as far as Stalino. Hopeless cases.”

“The town appears remarkably intact. Have the engineers left behind any mines or booby traps we should be aware of?”

“There wasn’t the time. Army and civilian personnel made a rather hasty retreat last night before accomplishing the job. The fear of a Russian penetration ignited a stampede.”

“Undoubtedly the small armored detachment making a probe. We skirmished last night.”

“So it appears now, but the commandant in charge of this facility was among the first to take flight, and the rest followed. Inadequate behavior for an officer to say the least,” the Sturmbannfuehrer replied.

“I gather your business here is concluded, and you and your men will be crossing the river.”

The Sturmbannfuehrer nodded. “A ferry is still operating forty kilometers to the north. Our next destination.”

“So far to travel? Why not cross at the Zaporozhye carriageway? It’s closer.”

“True, but my command post is in Dnepropetrovsk. Besides, there are a number of fishing villages strung out along this side of the riverbank, and I want to make one last sweep before we cross. Why don’t you accompany us, Captain? We can serve as each other’s escort.” Toller’s eyes widened. He behaved as though he had come upon the most brilliant idea of his career.

“Thank you, but no, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer. I’m not ready to leave yet. I’ve an old account to settle myself.”

“Well, I for one have tempted the fates long enough. I’ll be thinking of you once I’m back in the safety and comfort of my headquarters…Have you noticed how strangely quiet it’s become, now that the countryside has been emptied? Soldiers, peasants, even animals. Everything gone. Poof. Who would have ever dared to think such a thing was possible? The loud voices and laughter of my men swallowed up in all this emptiness. Even the bleating cries of the executed sounded so hollow and muffled. Strange. The clouds part, and there is sun, but so little light. And look, that white mist, as thick as a blanket, continues to accumulate in the east. It causes one uneasiness, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps it can have that effect, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer.”

“Go about your business, Captain, and don’t fret. My troops are rounding up the boys. Some I fear have become lost and are too intoxicated to find their way back to the square. Well, it has been something of a party, hasn’t it? What an enormous country. A man can do as he pleases, that’s the beauty of it. It’s a pity to have to leave.” Appearing wistful, Toller sat up straight to look around, then wished Falkenstein luck and sank back deeply into the plush car seat, retreating into whatever illness that ailed him. Falkenstein turned away from the staff car and gave Voss a single nod. The crew and stragglers clamored off the armored personnel carrier, and the lieutenant assigned tasks. “We must secure the perimeter of town as quickly as possible. Corporal Schroeder, round up every newcomer who has tagged along since last night. No one leaves. Find out what their specialties are—medics, signal operators, any specialized skills—and have them report to me here, in the square. If anyone is without a weapon, I want to know who they are and the reason why.”

Schroeder pulled a face. He did not appear enthusiastic over the duty the lieutenant saddled him with. Voss then singled out Braun and Schmidt. “Reconnoiter the repair depot, and find a durable position to cover any threat from the east. After that has been done, one of you make a search for fuel. There might be some our Ukrainian friends have overlooked. Angst, Detwiler, find suitable quarters for the captain, preferably near the square. It shouldn’t take you long. Inform Sergeant Reinhardt of the location. When you’re finished, Angst, join Braun and Schmidt over at the depot. Detwiler, you can then assist Corporal Schroeder with the newcomers in getting positions fortified and establishing machine gun emplacements. Wilms, I spotted a water tower on the northeast side of town. That will serve as our primary observation post. Take the portable and, once you’ve established yourself, do a radio check with both vehicles.” The crew hurried off in their separate directions. Mueller remained by the armored carrier and waited for the lieutenant to complete his briefing. “What is it, Private…?”

“Mueller, sir. I have some signal experience. The corporal told me to stay here.”

“Good, Mueller. When the captain’s headquarters has been determined, you can help set up the communications that the captain will need. Sergeant Vogel, the captain’s driver, will show you what he wants done. I will need you to relieve Wilms on the tower, eventually, but in the meantime, stay available for Sergeant Reinhardt and do as he instructs.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

The SS Obersoldaten had begun to reassemble the auxiliaries amid much laughter and foolery. Some of the Ukrainian policemen were so drunk they needed to be carried aboard the trucks. One auxiliary, on hands and knees, heaved violently into the mud, as another, unconscious and propped up against a wall, sat in a pool of his own urine. Incapable of getting to their feet, the two were dragged to the waiting truck by their comrades and roughly tossed on board. They all expressed disappointment at having to leave the scene of arson, pilfering, and murder. Falkenstein limped over to the lieutenant’s side. “I have witnessed civilians behave with more discipline while under bombardment,” he said, observing the rabble now swarming around them with contempt.

“They shouldn’t be here for much longer, sir. I’ve assigned the men preliminary tasks in securing the town.”

“Very well. Let’s see if we can fine-tune our situation. Let’s have a tour.” Falkenstein entered the scout car by the co-driver’s side hatch as Voss followed and joined him in the turret. Placing the earphones on his head and speaking into the throat mike, the captain gave directions to Vogel. The scout car left the square by the same road they had entered. Except for the burned-out shells of the houses that lined the sides of the road, the surroundings were quite open. There was, however, a large area that had been set aside as an equipment dump and supply yard. Junked machine parts, steel drums, stacks of rails, and bins containing base plates and washers—the hardware leftover to regauge and upgrade the railroad tracks. Beyond the supply dump were the secondary buildings that comprised the repair depot. Set out in a long row was an agglomeration of workshops, tool sheds, and storage huts separated by narrow paths and alleys. As they approached the railroad crossing, Falkenstein had the sergeant turn left onto a gravel road that ran north to south, parallel to the splayed rails and churned-up embankment on one side and the complex of buildings that formed the heart of the depot. The buildings at the south end consisted of a repair garage and machine shop; next was the maintenance facility, a long, moderately tall structure fabricated of corrugated metal siding and roofing. This building, Falkenstein knew, was where the armored vehicles were repainted in the Wehrmacht-approved dark sand and green camouflage pattern. In winter, they were whitewashed. The depot at Veranovka was by no means a large facility, but it could service the needs of a modest panzer unit of several full batteries if necessary. During the counteroffensive earlier in the year, the depot had more work than it could handle. Vogel turned into the wide opening of the maintenance building as the captain instructed. Large pads of concrete, stained with paint, had been set into the earthen floor. Overhead, the truss work that supported the roof was encrusted with bird droppings. Chased from their habitat by the smoke and dust from over the past days, the birds flitted nervously from one beam to the next, chirping and cooing. Long sections of metal-paned louvered windows, many of which were broken, let in a gloomy light. At the north end, a wide path separated the maintenance building from yet another garage. Falkenstein told Vogel to stop. All the main buildings were spaced apart thus, with enough room for the girth of two tanks to pass through easily. The gravel surface was firm like the road. The street, or alley, that ran along the length of the main buildings in back was muddy and terribly rutted. This was where the workshops and tool sheds stood, flanking the opposite side of this muddy access way. Falkenstein made a mental note of the layout. The scout car as well as the sizeable Hanomag could squeeze in between these smaller buildings. The vehicles would have a far more difficult time where the concrete block workshops stood very close together, but it wasn’t impossible. Falkenstein had Vogel amble in and around the structures to get a feel of the space. While making this sweep, the officers saw Braun leave one of the workshops and fumble with a chain that held the double doors closed. The grenadier was surprised by the appearance of the command vehicle and saluted self-consciously as it drove by. “No gasoline yet, Captain.”

“You have barely begun your search, private. Keep looking,” Falkenstein said.

The scout car turned to the right and drove by the second repair garage. A Mark IV tank, lacking both turret and tracks, blocked the north entrance. There was ample room for a man to get through but certainly not a vehicle. Vogel was told to turn again, this time to the left, which brought them back to the gravel road. More huts and shacks flanked the road. Falkenstein considered the withdrawal by the town’s previous occupants feckless and haphazard. They now approached the water tower that stood between the gravel road and the railroad tracks. The support base of wood columns stood seven or eight meters high, with a wood-staved container, like an enormous barrel, that was another four meters in height. A narrow catwalk circled the base of the water tank, and a crudely fashioned ladder ran up the side of one support column. Another ladder ran up the side of the water tank and ended in a small platform of some kind attached to the very top. “The entire countryside can be seen from up there. We will know in good time when a hostile force attempts an advance,” Falkenstein said.

“I have Wilms on the detail. He should be in place momentarily.”

“Good. And I want him at the very top, not just circling that platform like some half-wit walking the wheel.”

“I’ll be sure to inform him.”

The valve assembly at the base of the tower was still intact, but there was no evidence that the water tank had been drained. Except for the pools of standing rainwater that had accumulated in the depressions and the ditch between the road and the embankment, there were no major puddles; Voss was certain the runoff would have been prodigious from a container that size. He doubted the saturated ground could absorb so many thousands of liters. The water wasn’t potable—and not because of the additives used to soften it and prevent scaling from occurring inside the locomotive boilers. Rather, Voss was thinking about the water’s source, the wells, polluted with some form of poison or feculence, as was every well and watering hole between here and the Donets since the retreat began. It was all part of the strategy to inhibit the Red Army’s advance with stomach cramps and diarrhea if necessary. The water in the tank could have been laced with something even more sinister; an industrial site as this would have any number of poisons on hand. He expressed his concerns to Falkenstein, who agreed. “Point well taken, Lieutenant. We will have to ration our own supply and prohibit use of the local water supply.” Driving past the tower, on their right, was another dumping ground seventy-five to eighty meters east of the tracks, consisting mostly of hillocks of gravel slag heaps as well as a stack of railroad ties that smoldered. The odor of creosote hung heavy in the damp air. Further along there was a coal elevator and two hoppers that stood close to the tracks. Gaps and seams in the planking of the elevator facade exposed the workings on the inside. The machinery seemed in place and undamaged. To the right, directly opposite, the road forked, and a gravel drive ran directly to the wide bay opening of a warehouse. The structure looked like an enormous L-shaped barn. A section of the roof had partially burned, and pieces of blackened and charred framing had collapsed within. Inside, the scout car maneuvered around the debris quite easily, as could any fighting vehicle. The structure was voluminous and totally empty. Two sets of stairs on either side led to the storage galleries on the second level. A rime of blond sawdust blanketed an area of the exposed dirt floor, and a lingering odor of milled lumber and mineral oil remained—a smell Voss found quite agreeable. Upon exiting the rear of the building, the scout car turned back onto the gravel road that continued for another fifty meters before it ended abruptly at the rail crossing. Another dirt road, running east to west, continued back toward the town square. The captain had Vogel stop and raised himself up in the turret opening to survey the crossing and the tracks that lay ahead and behind. As the track wolf had passed through, the split, shattered wood ties jutted up at odd angles. It would not be impossible for a T-34 to cross the double set of rails, but there was always the possibility that a tank’s ribbed, perforated tracks could get snagged on the thick splinters of wood. A tank trap of sorts, which, if it did not stop the vehicle or cause damage, would slow its progress considerably. And that could work to our advantage, Falkenstein thought. The best option to enter the town in this sector without difficulty would be to use the improved rail bed crossing both here or at the south end of the depot at the Old Cart Road. If Red Vengeance approached the town from the east, it would be at either of these two points. The same was true for both the armored personnel carrier and the 222. Any flanking or outmaneuvering, when the situation arose, would demand the use of the crossings. The scout car turned left onto the dirt road that returned to the town square. The captain explained that this road continued on to the river and was named, appropriately, River Road, whereas the Old Cart Road at the south end, although not on any map, was a meandering path that eventually wound up by the reservoir. Houses flanked the River Road on either side. The workers’ settlement was a collection of rough dwellings constructed of weathered planking. The rear of the houses were fenced in with either sunflower stalks or narrow boards, and the yards, both front and back, appeared to have been cultivated for growing vegetables for the inhabitants’ private use. There were coops and pens, all empty, and a small barn or at least a shack or woodshed in back. A collection of thirty houses with adjoining structures, the settlement reminded Voss of a rabbit warren. Voss had never ceased to be amazed at how, in all this open space, the peasants would constrict themselves—adults and children all crammed together with cows, pigs, chickens, and the inevitable lice. The settlement had the look of so much kindling.

He then considered a viable defense of the town as insurmountable, even counting the stragglers who were about to be temporarily inducted into their ranks. They were too few, and he said as much to the captain.

“It was never my intention to transform Veranovka into a strongpoint, Lieutenant. The best we can hope to accomplish is to maintain observation of all four cardinal points. My guess is we have twenty-four to thirty-six hours before a sizeable enemy force inhabits this immediate sector and that will be in the form of advance reconnaissance parties. But we needn’t bother with them. We have bigger fish to fry.”

Voss was intrigued at how the captain arrived at this particular time frame. Was it Khan’s interpretation of omens, or a strategic calculation Falkenstein formulated from scant enemy radio transmissions? Maybe it was something said by the Red Army tank crewman from the night before. He thought better not to ask, especially about the latter, as it would only stir up the memory of his own insubordinate behavior. The captain had not forgotten what had occurred, of that he was sure.

“Red Vengeance’s success has always taken place on the steppe. If it can be lured into town, which I believe our presence here will accomplish, these houses and buildings will afford us an advantage. The signalman on the water tower can observe every move in town and the surroundings, but more importantly, he can inform us when the beast makes its approach. We will have several minutes to get into place. The real test will be a confrontation at night. I will have to consider the possibility of sending out advance patrols to signal in the event Red Vengeance is on its way, but with limited communication, that could prove difficult.”

“Indeed. Very flares, even radio could not only tip off Red Vengeance but also arouse the interest of a local Soviet reconnaissance unit,” Voss said.

“My thoughts exactly. Ideally, I would rather have Red Vengeance come to us than risk a confrontation on the steppe in the dark. We will see how it develops. Under the right circumstances, the Hanomag can ferry men and equipment to the initial flash point and be utilized as a firing platform for the panzerfausts. And with the proper cover, Vogel can bring the Two-Twenty-Two into close range, and I can do some minimal damage with this,” Falkenstein said, patting the 20 mm cannon. “Damage the cogs at least,” Falkenstein added, “or the road wheels.”

“But will Red Vengeance allow itself to be lured in? Judging by what Corporal Schroeder said in the initial debriefing, the tank didn’t launch an all-out attack on the hamlet where he and the rest of Corporal Angst’s squad were holed up. Granted, they were fired upon, but Red Vengeance kept its distance.”

“But not for long. You forget, Voss, they had hostages. The only trump card in their favor. Only we are here, and that will tempt Red Vengeance to enter.”

Yes, and the gallows will serve as a beacon of our presence and what the Wehrmacht is capable of, Voss thought, whether we were a party to it or not.

“How many panzerfausts in our possession?” Falkenstein asked.

“Two.”

Falkenstein groaned. “And mines?”

Voss did the arithmetic. “Three magnetic antitank mines and the satchel charge.”

“And the flamethrower.”

“Yes, sir. And there is Khan’s antitank rifle,” Voss reminded him.

“Oh well, it will have to do.” Falkenstein did not sound at all convincing as to the effectiveness of this meager arsenal. Voss wondered what the captain thought of their chances for success but refrained from asking.

33

Angst regarded the scene with bewilderment and disgust as he and Detwiler made their way out of the town square. The majority of the Ukrainians wore mismatched parts of Red Army and German uniforms; some were dressed in mufti and had armbands signifying their status as auxiliary police. “Circus freaks. The whole lot,” Angst commented.

Detwiler became agitated. “Don’t stare, for Christ’s sake. The Einsatzgruppen can be real terrors when they want to be.”

“What is it they do? I mean, what purpose do they actually serve?”

Detwiler shook his head in amazement at the question. “They enforce the policies of the Reich, here in the east. Does that explain it for you? The Einsatzgruppen have followed on the heels of the army since the beginning of the invasion, policing the occupied areas against partisans and undesirables, mainly.”

“Like that sorry bunch strung up at the edge of town?”

“They have their orders, same as us; so just leave it be.”

“I remember hearing wild rumors circulating back at my company—”

“Forget everything you heard back home or in France, or wherever the hell you came from. It will serve you no good here. There are times when you will be called upon to do things that aren’t particularly to your liking. Things that go against the grain as to how you were brought up, but you do it anyway. Some things you didn’t know you were capable of.” Detwiler had grown unusually reflective, for someone so crass and obnoxious in Angst’s estimation.

“What kind of things?” Angst asked, expecting the machine gunner to tell him to fuck off or utter some other obscenity, but to his surprise, Detwiler became rather loquacious. “Our unit was taken out of the line. It happened during last year’s summer offensive. We were to support a group much like this one, making a sweep of the villages of all partisans or communists. They were Jews mostly. We were ordered to shoot everyone—it didn’t matter, men, women, even kids. It was like drowning kittens if you have the stomach for such things. I saw a hundred peasants herded into a barn, the doors nailed shut, and then put to the torch. Their screams rang in my head for days. I couldn’t get drunk enough to dampen that noise.”

Angst was appalled. The rumors he had heard—spoken furtively back at camp, in France, back home—that were met with skepticism, caution, and denial were true. “All those people, civilians, why? What was the reason? What could they have done to deserve such a brutal fate?”

“You don’t ask why, you simply obey. They’re Untermenschen, and that’s all you need to know. You don’t argue with the likes of the Einsatzgruppen, are you crazy? Those SS fellows are committed like no one else on earth. I see someone burned alive inside a locked barn, I’m not about to have an opinion. All I can say is, better them than me.”

“Was Schroeder in on that with you?”

Detwiler did not answer. As far as he was concerned, the conversation had ended. They had reached the north side of town, where the River Road ran diagonally from the east toward the west. The houses, spaced well apart at this end, were large, some even two-storied. The homes probably belonged to wealthy farmers before the revolution, Angst thought, and then later, under the Bolsheviks, the local party leaders. The houses varied in the degree of damage; all were looted and several partially burned. “Why don’t you look these over,” Detwiler said, indicating the three houses nearest the square, “While I scout further down the road?” He headed east, in the direction of the workers’ settlement, lugging the heavy MG42 over one shoulder and a belt of ammunition over the other. The weight did not seem to hamper his stride. Angst decided on a house, one of three that was nearest the square, as the lieutenant had requested, which from outward appearances possessed the least damage. The sloping tin roof was blemished with rust, and the gray wash on the planking had become streaked with chalking. An attempt had been made to burn the place; a section of the wood siding on the left side of the house was blackened with soot. No doubt the weather had dampened the flames and saved it from conflagration. What appeared to be draperies of a dull mustard color lay in a sodden pile on the ground in the front yard. A lavender-colored door, blistered and peeling, stood open. Angst stepped up on to the small stoop, entered, and took in the first floor at a glance. A small round-topped table lay overturned on the floor, and the only other piece of furniture was a tatty upholstered chair. The ghost outline of framed wall hangings was evident on the crème-colored walls. Although now empty, Angst sensed the house had once been furnished in a typically German middle-class manner, or at least as much as was possible under the circumstances, way out here in the wild eastern frontier. A small pantry lay to his left, the stove tiles smashed, and to the rear was a parlor or sitting room. He did not venture deeper into the house but immediately climbed the stairs to the second floor. A loft space had been converted into two bedrooms. Dust balls remained from where the furniture had been carted away. A cracked mirror leaned against a wall. Something caught his eye, an object on the floor, and he picked it up. It was a faux tortoiseshell ladies compact. He put it in his pocket. A musky fragrance lingered, perfume, and a rough human odor that was not entirely unpleasant. He heard thumping down below and called out “Detwiler, I’m up here.” There was no response so he returned to the first floor. The machine gunner was nowhere in sight. “Detwiler,” he called again. He walked into the parlor. The room smelled of stale beer, and he immediately understood why. At the far wall to the right was a small bar with two stools. The shelving that formed the back bar had been ransacked. Broken bottles and splinters of glass lay on the floor. Automatically, he stepped around behind the bar to see if any schnapps or whatever dregs might be stored underneath and had not been consumed by the bandits outside. What he saw took him by such surprise it took several moments to register. A red floral-patterned fabric stretched tightly across a wide, pear-shaped bottom. Someone knelt on all fours, a woman, in an effort to hide. The worn cloth slippers showed the callused heels of her feet. He poked her in the bum with a toe. “Rukiye verch!” he practically screamed. The woman scrambled to her feet and uttered a short cry. She turned and looked at Angst with bulging brown eyes. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” She shook her head to both questions. “Rooska-ya?” This she understood and kept nodding. He motioned for her to come out from behind the bar, waving the submachine gun threateningly. He told her to sit down and pointed the muzzle of his weapon at a barstool. “Elenya,” she said, introducing herself, and spoke in Russian or Ukrainian. Angst could not distinguish between the two languages. He then heard words spoken in German, but her accent was so deplorable, he found it difficult to follow. It sounded as though she had been a maid or cook for some colonel and the “railroad men.” Then she uttered something that sounded like “Don’t hurt us.”

“‘Don’t hurt us’? Is that what you said? Who else is here?”

Elenya did not understand, or pretended not to. She looked to be in her late twenties and, by her ample figure, well provided for. Her light brown hair was fastened with a mother-of-pearl barrette. She was breathing in short gasps, as if hyperventilating. “Don’t be afraid,” Angst said. “I’m not with that scum outside, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Fingering the dark gray patch with field gray stripes on the collar of his field tunic, he added, “See, regular army. Not SS.”

The young woman did not know how to respond. She gaped at the collar insignia, not knowing whether to look with seriousness or to smile. She tried the smile, coquettish and a little clumsy, and the color gradually returned to her cheeks.

“Are you here alone, or is there someone else? Please tell me. No one will hurt you. The SS men are leaving soon. My lieutenant will make sure that nothing happens to you. He’s a decent fellow.” Elenya crossed her arms and shook her head and prattled on in Russian. Angst decided to search the house again. “Stay here and don’t move,” he said loudly, as if the timbre of his voice would be translation enough. There was a door to the left of the room, and as he went toward it, he could hear Elenya gasp quietly. “Behind here? Inside?” he asked, but before he reached to turn the knob, the door opened of its own accord. Angst brought up the submachine gun. A pale, thin brunette stood in the doorway and regarded Angst and his pointing weapon with relative unconcern. She could have been attractive at one time, Angst thought, but now, in her late thirties, the finer, more appealing aspects of her face had aged and hardened. She wore a dark gray skirt and suit jacket and a pale gray blouse. There were no insignias or badges, but the clothes were definitely Wehrmacht. “There is one more in there,” the woman said in fluent German, “Valeria. She’s not well.”

“Come in here, Fräulein, and take a seat.” After she stepped aside, Angst peered into a small room cluttered with worn sofa pillows, curtains, lampshades, and boxes. A girl in her late teens sat on a small pile of luggage, dressed for traveling. A scarf was tied about her head, and she wore a raincoat and rubber boots. A small valise lay on her lap. “Will you step in here, please?” The girl did not move; she seemed to shrink deeper into herself and continued to stare at the same spot on the floor. “What’s the matter with her?”

The brunette sneered at the question. “Are you joking? With all the goings on around here, had we been discovered, we would be hung along with the rest. And a whole lot worse besides.”

“Come and get her. Bring her out.”

The woman did as she was told. “Get up, Valeria. It’s all right.” She coaxed the girl to her feet, still holding onto the handle of her little valise, eyes remaining downcast as she skirted past Angst. The thin woman slid the upholstered armchair from the foyer into the parlor and made Valeria sit down. “You’re German, aren’t you?” Angst said. The woman nodded. “I’m from Hamburg, originally. Monika Glammers. Elenya you have already met, and that poor creature sitting over there is Valeria. Have you a cigarette?” Monika went over to the bar and stood facing Angst, her elbows leaning on the bar top. Her bearing struck him as defiant. He continued to look at the fabric and cut of her jacket: field gray, like his own. “You’re an employee of the Wehrmacht.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“How did you end up in this godforsaken place?”

“It’s a long and undignified story. How about that cigarette?” Angst dug into the top left pocket of his field tunic and tossed the pack, with a box of matches, onto the bar. “You can lower that machine pistol, Corporal. We are all friends here,” Monika said, as she lit the cigarette. She moved to hand him back the pack. “Keep it,” he said, then asked, “What are you still doing here? Why didn’t you leave with the rest?”

“We were housekeepers for the officer in charge, Colonel Rausch, and his staff. I acted as the colonel’s secretary when needed. We were among the last to leave with the Reichsbahn workers. There was a lot of confusion as the Russians were about to attack, or so everyone believed. The Reichsbahn people must have thought we had already boarded the trucks. Before we knew it, they had driven off, and we were stranded. The Russians never showed, only those animals outside. It was horrible.”

“You mean those partisans on the gallows.”

“Partisans, my foot! Simple, harmless people, they’d been walking for days. They were wet, exhausted, and hungry, waiting for a train that would bring them to safety, a train that would never arrive. They were roaming the streets when the SS and their jackals arrived and rounded them up. Then the abuse started. The women were singled out for the harshest treatment. They did unspeakable things right in the town square. The Sturmbannfuehrer watched the show. I don’t know who is worse, the Nazis or the locals in their employ. After they were through with their games, the peasants were marched to the edge of town and were forced to help build their own gallows. Such screaming and wailing. It went on for hours. We were afraid they would do the same to us, so the girls and I hid.” Monika fell silent, and her gaze shifted to Angst’s left. Someone had entered the room.

“Well, hello.” It was Detwiler. He eyed the three women with lust. “Quite a find you have here, Corporal,” he said, and plopped the machine gun and a chain of bullets on the bar noisily.

“These ladies are in the employ of the Reichsbahn and were stranded.”

“Employed as what? Camp whores?”

“Really, Detwiler!” Angst said, noticing as Monika smiled bitterly and shook her head.

“She knows exactly what I’m talking about, don’t you?” Detwiler said to Monika. She stared back at the panzergrenadier with an expression of contempt. Detwiler turned his attention to Valeria, who remained seated, clutching the valise tightly with both arms and averting her eyes from the large man who hovered over her. “The only service to the Reich these women perform is done on their backs…or their knees.”

“That’s enough, you swine,” Angst said. He was at a loss as to why Monika did not defend herself or the other women from the insults. She exhaled a mouthful of smoke, tossed the butt on the floor, and stepped on it.

“You’re so fucking ignorant, Angst. I suggest we have our fun before anyone starts looking for us.” Detwiler took hold of Monika’s arm and started to pull, but she held herself rigid and did not budge. Angst brought up the MP40 and pressed the barrel against Detwiler’s middle. “You want her for yourself, just say so,” Detwiler said caustically, and let go of Monika’s arm. “I like something with more meat, anyway.” He spun around, grabbed hold of Elenya, and yanked her off the barstool so hard she came out of her slippers. Momentarily frightened, she let out a short squeal as Detwiler cradled her in his arms and laughed. “A face like a potato field, but you’ll do just fine.” Elenya did not protest as she was pushed into the storage room and the door slammed shut.

“Is what he said true? Are you prostitutes?”

“Do you care, Corporal?”

“I’m only interested in how you managed to be in this predicament, and if what Detwiler said is true.”

“You don’t want to hear my life story, Corporal. I am too tired to explain. So very tired.” The sound of metal clattered to the floor inside the storage room. Detwiler had unbuckled the harness of his assault pack and let it fall. Elenya could be heard giggling.

“You’re not a secretary like you said.”

Monika rolled her eyes in annoyance. “I was a secretary some of the time. I was also a bottle washer and housekeeper, as were Valeria and Elenya. We also entertained here. This was the officers’ club. Brothel, if you prefer.”

Angst looked at Valeria. She had not moved or expressed any interest in what was occurring around her. “What’s the matter with her?”

“The events of last night and this morning have finally caught up with her, but it did not begin there. Valeria had been the favorite of the Reichsbahn foreman. Although, by the way he treated her, you would never have thought so. His appetites were morbid.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why should you be sorry, Corporal? You have done nothing. On the contrary, you and your Kamerad have rescued us, and Elenya is being consoled as we speak. So, tell me, what have you in mind?” Monika’s tone was poisonous.

“You’ve managed to survive this far. I won’t get in your way.”

“With few options, one learns to make use of what one has.”

A loud droning noise started up outside. Angst went to the front of the house and looked out the window. The Einsatzgruppen had assembled. Motorcycle engines revved as the sidecar passengers settled in their seats. The auxiliaries, now crowded in the trucks and lorries, still expressed their disappointment at having to leave. The square had turned blue from the exhaust fumes. He watched Sergeant Reinhardt dodge the vehicles as he made his way directly toward the house. Angst rushed back to the parlor, certain that he and Detwiler would catch hell, but refrained from knocking on the supply room door. Let Detwiler explain his behavior to the sergeant, he thought.

Reinhardt was already in the house and, seeing Angst, entered the parlor. If the sergeant was surprised at the presence of the women, he did not show it. “What’s going on here, Corporal?” he asked, looking at Monika.

“I think I found the captain’s headquarters, sergeant.”

“Who are these women?”

“Employees of the—”

“Whores,” Monika snapped. Now Reinhardt appeared stunned. There was silence except for the noise of the vehicles departing the square.

“They were left behind, by mistake, when the Reichsbahn evacuated. This is Monika Glammers. She is German.”

“Did you see her identity papers for authenticity?” Reinhardt was livid at the oversight. Angst said nothing. “I saw Detwiler enter a little while ago. Where is he?”

Angst pointed to the supply room door, from where the unmistakable sounds of grunts and fumbling informed Reinhardt exactly as to what was going on. “We’ll see about this,” he said, ready to kick in the door, but he thought better of it. Instead he opened the door quietly. The couple had made a bed of the pillows and curtains. Trousers down around his muddy boots, Detwiler lay scissored between Elenya’s heavy thighs. His bare white buttocks rippled like kneaded dough. Reinhardt lunged into the room. “Get up, you miserable swine!” he shouted, as he took Detwiler by the collar and dragged him savagely off the woman. Elenya closed her robe and turned over on her side. “You disgusting little shit,” Reinhardt bellowed as Detwiler, still on the floor, wiggled into his trousers. “You have a wife back home, and little ones, don’t you?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Ever considered what they would think of their father behaving in this outrageous manner?”

“Be realistic, Sergeant” Detwiler replied sheepishly, as he got up and collected his belt and equipment.

“It will be a penal battalion for you once we get back. Is that realistic enough for you?” Reinhardt herded Detwiler into the parlor and then turned his anger toward Angst. “Evidently you lack the ability to control the men of your detail, Corporal.”

“I don’t have any men.”

“Go ahead and be flippant. You’re headed for the same place as this one.”

“I’m not being flippant. I have no control over what he does. Corporal Schroeder can keep him under control, when he has a mind to do so, but not me.”

“With such poor leadership qualities, I am amazed you have risen to the rank of corporal—but I can guarantee it will not be a rank you will hold for long.” Reinhardt lifted the weighty MG42 off the bar counter, thrust it into Detwiler’s arms, and practically threw the belt of ammunition at him. “Get over to the workers’ settlement on the north side of town and help Schroeder.”

“Yes, Sergeant.” Detwiler, now thoroughly cinched and buttoned, left the house.

Reinhardt turned back to Angst. “Collect the women’s identity papers. When the lieutenant arrives, get over to the repair depot. Maybe you will have better luck overseeing Braun and Schmidt.” Elenya had straightened herself up and now stood in the doorway. The sergeant regarded the women as one more irksome detail that he lacked the patience or the stamina to deal with. “Clean up this pigsty,” he told them. “Captain Falkenstein will use this as his headquarters. Fix some bedding, if there is any. Something unused. And open some windows. I don’t want this place smelling like a brothel.” He noticed Valeria glued to the armchair, unresponsive the entire time. “What is the matter with this one?”

“I believe she is in a state of shock,” Monika replied.

“Well, get her involved in something. It’s better than allowing her to brood.”

After Reinhardt had stormed out of the house, Angst suggested to Elenya that she change into more suitable clothing. “And give me your identity papers.” Monika merely reached into her jacket pocket and turned over the booklet. Angst pointed to where the near-catatonic Ukrainian girl sat. “What about hers?”

Monika stepped over to where Valeria sat and knelt down beside her. “Give me your papers, dear.”

Valeria looked up. “Are we going now?”

“Not yet, but very soon. We have to show the corporal our papers. It will be all right. You’ll see.”

Valeria undid the straps of the valise and rummaged through an assortment of clothing and personal articles. Growing impatient at the girl’s painstakingly slow movements, Monika took the valise and searched. She found the booklet and gave it to Angst. He was impelled to put both women at ease. “Make her understand that nothing bad will happen, now that the captain is in charge.”

“So we have nothing to fear from the likes of that brute with the machine gun?”

“You mean Detwiler?”

Monika nodded. “Should I assume he’s the worst of your lot?”

“No, I wouldn’t assume that. He’s only the most impulsive. Besides, your friend didn’t put up a struggle. If she had, then I would have intervened. I did on your behalf, remember.”

Monika’s eyes widened. “Elenya is a bighearted soul but something of a cretin.”

“Someone mention my name?” Elenya said in halting German, as she sashayed into the parlor. She had thrown on a light green shift, sweater and apron. She was still zippering and buttoning when she entered. The transformation was matronly, as opposed to the slovenly manner of near-undress when Angst had first discovered her. She handed Angst her identity booklet. “What is your captain like?”

“Your charms will have no effect. Now get to work, or there will be hell to pay for us all.”

Valeria was hustled out of the armchair and a broom thrust into her hands. Listlessly, she began to sweep the floor of broken glass. It was decided between Monika and Elenya that the storeroom would serve as sleeping quarters for the captain. They opened a window, and all nonessential paraphernalia was thrown outside. While Elenya busied herself with this chore, Monika took a small area rug, dragged it into the parlor and rolled it out. She turned the table that lay in the foyer upright, placed it on the rug, and arranged the upholstered armchair next to the table. Angst decided to keep out of their way and returned to the front door. The command vehicle had pulled up to the house, and Reinhardt conferred with the two officers. They all turned to look as Angst came out of the house, saluted, and handed the identification booklets to the lieutenant. “The women are making the quarters more habitable, Captain. Will there be anything else?”

“There are two new men,” Reinhardt said. “Help them with the aft machine gun from the vehicle, and set up a position on the south side of town. Then get over to the depot and keep watch.”

“Yes, Sergeant.” Angst turned to the captain and the lieutenant, saluted again, and cut across the square to where the Hanomag was parked. He was relieved not to be in for some form of punishment, at least for the moment; not that the sergeant would be reticent to describe Detwiler’s actions or his own lack of maintaining discipline. More urgent requirements needed attending to first, and Angst had no doubt that the matter would be dealt with, eventually.

At the vehicle, Hartmann introduced the new machine gun crew, Fritch and Herzog, who were weighted down with the MG34, a spare barrel, and boxes of ammunition. “You will want to dig in really deep,” Hartmann said, as he removed the clamps from the long-handled shovel mounted on the fender and gave it to Angst. The driver also provided them with a section of tarp, binoculars, and a Very pistol with several signal and illumination flares. His arms loaded with the extra gear, including an entrenching tool from his own personal equipment, Angst led the way down Old Cart Road. “What’s the idea of fortifying this place?” asked the one called Herzog. “Aren’t you crossing the river?”

“Not anytime soon. Nobody asked you to tag along, but now that you’re here, you belong to the captain.” Angst was in no mood to exchange comradely banter with the two men. He remembered Herzog from the night before; he was among those who tried to force their way aboard the vehicle and had nearly gotten them all killed. Herzog was wearing a forage cap, having either lost or thrown away his helmet. Neither man possessed a rifle. When they had walked halfway toward the railroad tracks, Angst steered the two grenadiers off the road. The houses, blackened piles of rubble, were few and spaced well apart. They walked south for another hundred meters, beyond the farthest outlying barns and shacks that had been reduced to cinders. Angst stuck the blade of the shovel into the soft ground, dropped the tarp and extra equipment, and removed the entrenching tool from the leather case attached to his belt. The view of the steppe was open for a number of kilometers, until the mist obscured the view in the distance. Fritch was of the opinion that this position was too vulnerable. “There’s no place to fall back to if we’re overrun.”

“You won’t be forgotten. Send up a red flare, and the Hanomag will pick you up.”

Fritch did not appear convinced; nonetheless, he set down the MG34, took up the long-handled shovel, and started to dig. Angst stood there, not moving. Reluctantly, Herzog picked up the entrenching tool. The two grenadiers looked every bit as tired and miserable as Angst felt, but still he was not inclined to help them. “What are you going to do?” Herzog asked. The question annoyed Angst, as he felt he did not owe these men any explanations. “I’m headed for the repair depot. Some of the crew is setting up an observation post.”

“What if the Russians come before we’re ready?”

Angst was not disposed to hand-hold two strangers or fight alongside them. He wanted to be among his friends. “Then this machine gun will be very useful,” he snapped. He left them to their digging and headed for the railroad tracks.

Coming to the gravel road, he turned and walked as far as the machine shop situated between the repair garage and the maintenance building. Schmidt waved from the window socket; the glass panes of the metal sash were either broken or missing. Low in height, the shop building was stoutly constructed of cement block. The concrete floor was stained with grease and oil and littered with a mix of small, worn machine parts and dirty rags. The skylight in the ceiling leaked. “That smell is giving me a headache,” Schmidt complained, referring to the pile of smoldering railroad ties. The slight wind was enough to stir the plume from the equipment dump east of the tracks.

“Where’s Braun?”

“Scrounging for fuel. He was here a little while ago and then took off again.”

Angst told Schmidt of what he had found at the house while searching for the captain’s headquarters and described the short-lived tryst Detwiler had with the Russian woman. “Considering the strain we’re under, day in and day out,” Schmidt remarked, “it’s no wonder a man should want a release.”

Angst was appalled. “That outlook is surprising, coming from someone as moral as you.”

“I’m not condoning it, but I can understand how such passions can inflame a man. He could be dead at any moment, so why not take advantage of the situation? You hate Detwiler a lot. Too much, in fact. If it was anyone else, you might be more sympathetic.”

“Reinhardt threatened to send him to a penal battalion.”

“Officially, we’re not supposed have intimate relations with so-called subhumans. From an ideological point of view, it is considered racial defilement. Our National Socialist masters like to think they have us all on a short leash, and for the most part, they do. But out here, as long as there are no party members or political officers about, the tendency is to look the other way. At least I haven’t heard of any punishments meted out for that sort of thing. I think Detwiler has the greater worry of being charged with dereliction of duty. And you, too, for that matter. It all depends on what happens here. Once we’ve returned to our lines, I doubt if Reinhardt will give too much consideration to the matter.”

“From my experience, you can never tell with a sergeant.” Angst gave Schmidt his binoculars. “I’ll see if I can lend Braun a hand.” He left his friend, feeling a trifle disconsolate. So, I hate Detwiler and find him disgusting. So what?, he thought. Schmidt was too understanding, especially for a Catholic. At least the ones he knew. The street and paths between the workshops and tool sheds were deeply rutted. The small buildings were constructed of wood slats, tarpaper, or tin; only a few were built with corrugated metal or brick. The structures were empty, except for work tables saturated with machine oil and covered with metal filings. Rusting cans, the labels obscured by dry streaks of paint, remained on the shelves. He spotted Braun turning the corner from a narrow passageway and called his name. The grenadier stopped short, looked relieved when he saw it was Angst, and signaled him to come over.

“Did you find any gasoline?”

“Something much better,” Braun said, his body tense with excitement. He had Angst follow as he backtracked down the narrow passage and stopped at a brick workshop that stood on the corner of the muddy street. Undoing the short length of chain looped through the hasp, he opened the double doors just enough to allow them to enter. “Careful, Wilms is on the water tower, and I don’t know if he can see us.” Inside, something bulbous lay concealed under a heavy tarpaulin. Rubber wheels could be seen where the edge of the cloth fell short of reaching the ground. Braun pulled a section of tarp aside and revealed the Volkswagen underneath. “We were saving up for one of these. Papa was, anyway. I’d contribute a few marks when I could. He’d buy coupons every month, religiously. Then along came the war, and production went on hold.” Braun gazed upon the automobile with awe. The dull black finish had been scraped along the door and fender, and there were a few dents in the body. The treads were worn, but the tires were firm to the touch. “We were nearly there, too, almost paid up in full. I deserve this one.”

“Do you plan to drive it across the Dniepr? I hear these things can float.”

“As soon as this business is finished, I have a mind to do just that, but don’t tell anybody.”

“I won’t say a word, but you will need gasoline, and the captain will want whatever is left for the Two-Twenty Two before he surrenders a drop to you.”

Braun smirked. “To hell with Falkenstein and his precious gasoline. I don’t need it. The fuel tank is half full, and it works. I started her up, and the engine turned over, nice, but now I don’t want to take any more chances.”

“You won’t be allowed to keep it.”

Braun grew immediately despondent. “I know, but still I earned the right to drive it back to our lines, south, back to the regiment. You, me, and Schmidt.”

The idea was pleasant to consider, but wholly impractical, Angst thought. But somebody had to remain hopeful, and today, at this moment, it was Braun’s turn.

“What do you think our chances are of getting out of here, Johann?”

“I’d settle for fifty-fifty, but I think it’s less.”

Braun considered the odds. “Fifty-fifty…this mission has been a lark from the very beginning. I wish I’d never laid eyes on Falkenstein.”

“You were all fired up to be one of his tank killers, from what I recollect, waving your rifle around and shouting ‘Death to Red Vengeance.’”

“Everyone was caught up in the excitement. So were you. The schnapps helped me along. What’s your excuse?” Braun pulled the tarpaulin over the Volkswagen. It seemed an angry gesture. When Angst tried to lend a hand, his friend’s gruff manner indicated he did not need any help.

“I think we’re guaranteed plenty of excitement before this is all over,” Angst said.

Braun remained silent. Once the car was suitably covered, they left the workshop. Braun replaced the chain, as a precaution, not that it could effectively bar entry. Without the chain, the weight of the doors made them tend to swing open. The car would help to keep some hope alive, Angst thought, as they walked back to the machine shop. It was reassuring, at least for Braun’s sake, to know that they possessed the ability to speed out of this accursed, tormented land.

34

The women had moved several more pieces of furniture into the parlor, including a paraffin lamp and even a lace doily for the armchair. The few extra items available transformed the former officers’ club into a respectable, if sparse, middle-class sitting room. Valeria moved about dully, if at all, only due to Elenya’s constant prodding. They had carried down a cot from the upstairs crawlspace—nothing more elaborate than a strip of canvas attached to a folding wood frame—and set it up in the storeroom. Now emptied of all the useless items that had previously occupied the room, the space could serve as the captain’s sleeping quarters. A gray wool blanket lay folded neatly on the cot.

Vogel repeatedly made trips back and forth from the command vehicle, hauling some of the captain’s personal equipment. Mueller had helped set up the field telephone and began the project of laying cable from the spool. It was decided to set up the second terminal with Schroeder at the workers’ settlement for the time being. There wasn’t enough line to reach that distance, so the young grenadier was given the added task of salvaging line from downed poles to supplement the length. Falkenstein hobbled into the parlor and set his map case, folder, belt, and pistol holster on the bar counter. If the women expected praise for their efforts, they were disappointed, as the captain ignored their presence. In the foyer Voss examined the women’s identity papers. The locals did not interest him. No mystery, there. Elenya was an ethnic Russian who came from the industrial city of Kirovy Rog; Valeria was more local, originally from a village west of Zaporozhye. Neither of the two women had party affiliations or held a post of any importance. Both had been in the employ of the Wehrmacht since late 1941 as cooks or factory help. An alleged theft of produce warranted a short detention for Elenya, and apparently some deal was brokered that landed her in the occupation she now found herself. The young Ukrainian girl, Valeria, was simply the victim of unfortunate circumstances. Her status as an “entertainer” did not evolve until shortly after her arrival at Veranovka some months ago. Monika Glammers, on the other hand, was something quite different. A graduate student at university when the National Socialists came to power, she was something of a socialist. Near the end of 1934, she was finally arrested and sent to a Wilde Laager for political and religious opponents of the Reich. Then three years at a concentration camp, where she learned her new trade by servicing camp personnel. The SS must have tired of her, as after the war broke out, she was invited to work for the army. Voss pulled her aside. “You’re political.”

“I’m chattel, now, bartered among rear echelon officers until finally ending up here.”

“Your papers indicate clearly—”

“Do you wish for me to give all the sordid details of what I have been doing for the past ten years of my life, Lieutenant?”

“I don’t have the stomach for it. I know all I need to know, which is that you are not to be trusted. The story you cooked up with your associates is fallacious.”

Monika gave no clear indication of a reaction. She simply shrugged and said, “How so, Lieutenant?”

“Don’t be disingenuous, Fräulein. I don’t believe for a moment that you were overlooked during the evacuation of Reichsbahn personnel and became stranded here. I suspect you planned it that way. The three of you hid out with the intention of turning yourselves over to the Russians upon their arrival, only your plan backfired. Instead of throwing yourself at the mercy of some enlightened Red Army officer, you hid from the Einsatzgruppen when they showed up. Your documents would probably prove useful, if examined by a sympathetic Russian officer. You, a victim of the Reich, thought they could extract some propaganda mileage out of your defection. Not to mention your willingness to cooperate with any information of a strategic nature, no matter how remote, that might prove helpful.”

“As your mind is already made up about me, and I can’t prove otherwise, what do you intend to do?” Monika asked wearily.

“This Reconnaissance Group is still involved with operations. I have neither the resources nor the facilities to keep all three of you under armed guard, despite my suspicions. As of this moment, your survival depends solely on how you behave. No matter the political or philosophical differences we have, all our lives are at stake. Do I make myself clear?”

“I think I understand you, Lieutenant. How I proceed from this moment on will determine whether or not I will be shot.”

“You need not sound so melodramatic, Fräulein Glammers, but don’t think for a moment I wouldn’t carry out such action personally, should the safety of my men become jeopardized.”

“I’m beyond melodrama, Lieutenant, being somewhat astute of martial justice and what to expect. After all, I have lived under its heel for quite some time.”

“So, we understand each other. Good. Now, on to more immediate and practical matters. As a resident, you must have some knowledge of the town. Are there any stores of provisions or fuel, a cache that might have been left behind during the evacuation? A place where my men could search?”

“The local harvests were carted away days ago. The cold cellars could be searched for any food the locals might have left behind, but I doubt there is anything left. Whatever they possessed had to be raised on their own. The authorities gave nothing away.”

Searching the cold cellars would be a start. Voss thought to organize a detail that would include the women. They might be able to recover just enough foodstuffs left behind to supplement the field rations that had run low. There were extra mouths to feed, and a hot meal would serve as something of a morale boost. “Where was your billet, Fräulein?”

“Upstairs. Elenya and I had our own room each. Valeria lived in a house nearer the workers’ settlement.”

“Very generous of your employers.”

“We had to remain on the premises to oversee the officers’ club and entertain.”

I bet you did, Voss thought. “Very well, Fräulein Glammers, you can begin by searching the cold cellar here. I presume there is one?”

Monika nodded. “In the kitchen, but it would be of no use. I know for a fact it is empty.”

Vogel was passing through on one of his frequent errands to and from the command vehicle. Voss summoned him. “Will you locate Sergeant Reinhardt and have him report to me?”

“Yes, at once, Lieutenant.”

Voss needed someone who would not be either intimidated or easily distracted by the women. Reinhardt would lead the search party, not that Voss could spare his best man for the duty, but the sergeant could be trusted not to behave foolishly or drop his guard. He turned back to Monika. “You are still in the employ of the Wehrmacht, and I expect the three of you to conduct yourselves accordingly under the circumstances. Make sure you stay out of the way, do exactly as you are told, and don’t bring any undue attention to yourselves.”

Monika agreed. “How long do you intend to stay at Veranovka, Lieutenant?”

“That depends on the captain’s mission. Why do you ask?”

“Will you see that we are transported across the river when your work here is completed?”

“That, too, depends entirely on the outcome of the captain’s mission. Enough questions. Find Elenya and the other girl, and wait here for the sergeant.” Voss entered the parlor and placed the documents on the table before the captain. He made a cursory inspection, thumbing through the booklets swiftly. “Does the initial impression of these three have any merit?”

“I believe so, sir. The ladies are designated as ‘entertainers,’ to use a polite form of reference. Veranovka must have proved a comfortable post for the Reichsbahn and Railway kommandos stationed here. Decent accommodations and rather pleasant amenities.” Voss was not speaking out of envy over the matter, only distaste. Falkenstein sensed this, apparently. “Nothing that occurs in the rear area surprises me any longer, Lieutenant.” He looked over Monika Glammers’s identity booklet with more detail. “That starved-looking one is German?”

“Yes, from Hamburg. A university student and something of a Bolshevik.”

“Didn’t manage to get very far with her education, did she?”

“The fräulein inquired what we planned to do with them once we withdrew.”

“If she and the other two wanted to leave, then they shouldn’t have missed the opportunity when the Einsatzgruppen departed.” Falkenstein tossed the identity booklet on the table and added, somewhat breathlessly, “I need to rest. In two hours’ time, I will take a tour of the positions. You will accompany me.”

“Very well, sir,” Voss replied.

His old wounds inflamed, limbs swollen with fatigue, Falkenstein urged his body forward to the storeroom, where the women had made up the cot. Before he reached the door, Voss interrupted the journey. “Captain, I request permission to send a coded message to my battalion and inform them of our position.”

“For what purpose?”

“To inquire if any forward patrols will be operating east of the salient and, should the need arise, if any reinforcements would be forthcoming.”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ve ordered Sergeant Vogel to raise Fortieth Panzer Corps and inform them of our whereabouts and to relay any intelligence on enemy troop movements in the area thus far.”

“Yes, sir, but it is my opinion that it would be more expeditious to raise my battalion, rather than attempt to explain our situation to an unknown entity at Corps.”

“I see your point, but once we have made ourselves clear, Corps will have a greater understanding of the larger picture than your meager battalion, Voss.”

“They know me. Every effort will be made…”

“The transmission to Corps will be the last. All signal activity will consist of monitoring enemy broadcasts and local communications among ourselves. Henceforth radio silence will be maintained with the outside. Is that understood, Lieutenant?”

“Perfectly, sir.” The door to the storeroom closed. Voss could hear the cot groan under the exhausted weight placed upon it, followed by the sound of a boot as it fell to the floor. He wanted to argue the precarious situation the captain had placed them all in, as if he could influence the man’s will any more than he could alter a force of nature. Voices at the front of the house indicated Reinhardt’s arrival. Voss returned to the foyer where Monika, Elenya and Valeria waited expectantly.

“You wanted to see me, Lieutenant?” Reinhardt asked.

“What progress is being made?”

Reinhardt proceeded to give a rundown. Wilms was already established on the water tower, and the radio check was completed. The signalman was a little nervous about exposure to possible snipers. Schroeder and Detwiler, along with four stragglers, were currently fortifying the workers settlement. “An emergency air raid bunker was discovered behind the administration building. There’s a medical orderly among that bunch of ‘tag-alongs’ from last night. I had most of the first aid gear transferred over to the bunker. It appears to be the best location for an aid station.”

“That’s first rate, Sergeant.”

“The orderly is…how should I put it…” and Reinhardt tapped the side of his head with a finger.

“Then he is in good company.”

“And there is something else.” Reinhardt opened the front door and stepped out. Voss followed, and the women crowded around the doorway to see. On the steps of the front stoop, one of the Ukrainian auxiliaries sat with his head in his hands. He looked up for a moment; his expression was one of sheer wretchedness. Flecks of dried vomit clung to his chin. He turned and forlornly supported his head once again.

“He hasn’t fully recovered. All I’ve gotten out of him so far is his name, Yvgeney, and that he passed out dead drunk somewhere.”

“He will be in for something of a shock as soon as he realizes his comrades have left without him.”

“That he’s already aware of. What should I do with him?”

“After he sobers up, he can tear down that gallows and bury the dead. That should keep him busy and out of our way.” Voss nudged the auxiliary with a toe. “Don’t you dare enter this house for any reason whatsoever. Captain’s quarters. Roh-zoo-meetih?”

With a slight wave of his hand, the Ukrainian indicated that he had understood. “Now, as to why I have summoned you, Sergeant. I want you to accompany these ladies in a search for more food.”

Reinhardt smiled in a lopsided manner. “So they told me.”

“Make them do the work,” Voss said with unusual seriousness, “and don’t let them out of your sight.”

Reinhardt suggested they search the houses near the square and work their way toward the settlement. He slung the MP40 by its strap across his shoulder and followed the women down the street.

The side hatch to the command vehicle was open. Vogel sat in the co-driver’s seat, wearing headphones, and tapped out a message on the radio key. He shook his head when Voss approached him. “No luck yet with Corps, Lieutenant.”

“Keep trying. When you receive a response, give it to me. The captain is resting, and I don’t want him to be disturbed.” He walked across the square to where the Hanomag was parked close beside the assembly hall. Hartmann sat at the radio as well, an earphone to one ear, carefully turning the dial. He nodded to the lieutenant as he sat down in the driver’s seat. “Anything of interest?”

Hartmann lowered the earphones. “Some chatter. Ours. Units reporting in along the salient.”

“Any familiar call signs?” Voss asked.

“Not from our people, although I had the urge to try and raise Meckler.” Hartmann was referring to the signalman at battalion headquarters.

“Don’t tempt yourself. The captain has issued strict orders for radio silence.”

“I got the word from Vogel. I reckon the Sixteenth has dug in by now. I’m glad for them. Maybe I can’t be there with them, but it’s good they’re settling in, you know, Lieutenant.”

Voss did not answer. He was in no mood to sulk over their separation from the division. There were other matters on his mind, so he changed the subject. “Has Ivan had anything to say?”

“Not a word. If the Russians are nearby, they’re keeping unusually quiet.”

That is good news, Voss thought, because the Russians have not been quiet of late when on the move. “Keep at it, Heinz. I’m going to have a look around.” After he had left the vehicle, Voss circled around to the rear of the administration building. The brick facade still remained upright, but the interior was completely gutted by fire. Sixty meters north of the site was a flak gun emplacement, stripped of hardware and empty. He made a mental note to have a machine gun set up there. The entrance to the air raid bunker was but a short run from the administration building. Sandbagged and well-timbered, the grade sloped down acutely to the narrow opening. Voss ducked under the lintel as he entered. A small paraffin lantern hung from a peg on a support beam, the small flame casting a dull light. In size the bunker was no larger than a rifle squad dugout and could hold the same number of men. The earthen walls had been excavated in places to form a long, narrow shelf, with a banquette effect, for either sitting or lying. There were a couple of wood benches with first aid kits, field dressings, medicines, and basic instruments laid out neatly. A man stared out at Voss from the gloom. “You must be the medical orderly,” Voss said.

“Yes, Matthias Bruno.”

Voss introduced himself. “We are fortunate to have you.”

“Don’t get your hopes up about the quality of my skills. I’ve applied a bandage or two and dug out a few shell splinters on occasion, but mainly I’m a stretcher-bearer. Under fire.”

“Whatever you can provide will be a help. It’s not necessary that you remain down here. There is no call for your services yet.”

“There will be soon, I’m sure. Besides, I’ve grown fond of holes. Dugouts, slit trenches, bunkers, cellars, tunnels, and even a sewer. I’ve been living underground in one form or another for years.”

“As you wish.”

“Like a mole,” Bruno said.

“I don’t follow.” Voss was puzzled.

“That’s how I live, how we all live, like moles. If I make it back home, I don’t think I could cope living above ground in a proper house ever again. A typical parlor or bedroom has become like an uncharted region. One would have to be armed with a spirit of adventure to enter. I will have to dig myself a deep, sturdy hole and furnish it simply with the barest necessities.”

“Perhaps when all this is over, you will feel differently.”

Matthias Bruno gestured broadly. “This will never be over. Our children and grandchildren, generations far into the future, will exist below ground so as not to insult the sun with their actions.”

“Too many spiders for my comfort, I’m afraid,” Voss replied.

“Spiders? Of course there are spiders. And worms and a host of infinitesimal creatures that go about the business of living and do no harm. Think of the quiet and the rich smell of the earth. We will spend an eternity buried. Best we get used to the idea beforehand, don’t you think?”

Voss would not commit himself to agree. He had engaged in this abnormal conversation for long enough. “There should be some food along, eventually. If you do not come out, I suppose I will have to send someone down.”

Bruno shook his head. “I’d rather have something to drink. It would help fortify my resolve.”

“I’m afraid the Ukrainian police drank everything this town had to offer.”

“A pity. I can tolerate the wounded more when I’m drunk than sober.”

Yes, I’m sure you could, Voss thought. He bid the orderly good morning, for the time being, and left the bunker. He squinted. The sun shone brightly through breaks in the clouds. Since the weather had turned, Voss had grown unaccustomed to the light. He set off across the square, fully cognizant that there were more insults, outrages even, to be performed under the sun’s glare and wondered what would be the extent of his own involvement.

* * *

Vogel had stepped out of the captain’s headquarters when Voss approached. The driver held a piece of paper in his hand, the deciphered transmission from Corps. “I informed the captain,” Vogel said, and gave the paper to Voss. Buildup of Soviet South-West and South Fronts continues. Two Armies and one Tank Corps assembled southeast of Zaporozhye. Large-scale enemy mechanized patrols operating all throughout vicinity. Present position of Recon Group Falkenstein untenable and advise immediate withdrawal to defensive perimeter. “We’re out on a limb. How did the captain respond when he read this?”

“Nothing, other than to say it was advice he was unwilling to accept.”

A profound bitterness overcame Voss. The weight of the Soviet forces was gathering just beyond the horizon, out of sight, and he did not need this piece of paper to tell him what the logical, sane move was. One individual sealed his fate and the crew’s. The entire Army Group has crossed the river, he thought, and we are still here. Malinovskiy’s South-West Front could descend upon us and then what—make a futile last stand? What a pathetic irony. It would be worth it only to live long enough to see Falkenstein in that moment of failure and frustration. Oh, but he’s a cool one, sure that Red Vengeance alone poses the only threat. That blasted tank! Why hadn’t it done a thorough job of it the first go-around? Falkenstein’s megalomania arose from the wreckage of that first encounter, and to wreckage he takes us.

Intent on having it out with the captain, one way or the other, Voss entered the house. The door to the storage room was closed. Voss tapped lightly and said, “Captain Falkenstein.” There was no response from within. He opened the door. A shade had been put up to cover the window, and it was dark. Falkenstein lay on his back, covered with the wool blanket. Leg brace and wet muddy boots stood at the foot of the cot. “Captain Falkenstein, there is a matter we need to discuss.” There was no answer. Voss stepped farther into the room, almost timid in the sleeping man’s presence. “Captain…” He went to touch the officer, to wake him, but quickly drew back his hand. Alone. Vulnerable. Without thinking, Voss had placed his hand on the holster at his belt and suddenly became aware of it. How easy this would be, he thought. He then became resolute in the action he was about to take but was immediately thwarted by a strong, willful presence. He whirled around and saw Khan standing in the doorway, stroking the antler horn knife still its sheath. The Mongol hissed like a snake. Voss was thrown completely off guard. He had not seen Khan since the command vehicle had arrived at the outskirts of town and he had run off toward the depot—and now he simply materialized out of thin air. Unnerved by the sudden manifestation, Voss hadn’t the slightest doubt the shaman knew exactly what murderous intensions he now possessed. “Fiend,” Voss spat out quietly, “have you come to guard this vampire while it sleeps!” As he pushed his way past, the eyes of both men locked. Voss was beaten quickly, unable to stare long into the black, icy depths. Khan smiled, scornful and triumphant. Frightened and humiliated, Voss rushed out of the house, knowing that never again would he have the captain so easily at his mercy.

35

The forage party yielded meager results. All the houses in proximity to the town square had been searched, and only a single onion and two small potatoes were found. The best find of all was a jar of sunflower seeds that Elenya had discovered. The women, under Reinhardt’s watchful eye, had begun a sweep of the workers’ settlement when the sounds of a commotion could be heard. Mueller was seen walking swiftly down the road in the direction of the square. Reinhardt stopped him. “Is that field telephone operational?”

“I don’t know, Sergeant.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t get a chance to hook it up…I think Corporal Schroeder has lost control of the men,” Mueller replied.

The sound of breaking glass and loud voices was coming from the northeast side of the settlement. “Keep an eye on this bunch,” he told Mueller, and set off to restore some order. That Schroeder had lost his grip on the stragglers was all too evident. Four men rampaged through the settlement with the gusto of a horde of brigands as they kicked in doors, shattered windows, and broke whatever piece of furniture or crockery that was left lying around. These men weren’t simply hungry but ravenous, and their search for something edible had turned into a riot. They vented their rage, fueled by the pangs of an empty stomach. Concealed behind a fence, Reinhardt watched as the group entered another house. The place shook from the violence within. This would prove more dangerous than anticipated, and he wouldn’t have minded a squad of field police at his side. He saw that Schroeder was observing the events from a distance, perplexed at what to do next. Reinhardt got his attention and signaled to the corporal to join him. “What set them off?”

“No drinking water. That was the last straw. Manure and pieces of rotting cattle have been tossed down all the wells,” Schroeder told him.

“Is there a ringleader?”

“A tall, skinny bastard. Otto they call him.”

Reinhardt had seen someone among the group a head taller than the rest and he was very familiar. Otto, the defiant grenadier from last night, had tried to force a takeover of the armored personnel carrier and was nearly executed by the captain. “I’m going to snuff Otto’s candle. If anyone interferes, shoot him, Corporal.” They ran up to the house and crouched down on either side of the door that hung broken on its hinge. Reinhardt figured he would have to lie and cajole this bunch if he wanted to avoid bloodshed. In a clear, loud voice, he yelled above the racket. “Chow line forming in the town square! Get it before it’s all gone!” The group bounded out of the house, with Otto the first out the door. With minimal effort, Reinhardt snatched his rifle away and, with the butt, dealt him a savage blow to the midriff. The others were brought up short by the sudden action and found themselves staring down the barrels of two submachine guns. “Blink and I’ll cut you in half” Reinhardt threatened. They watched as Otto curled up into a ball of pain. They understood immediately that there was no chow line forming anywhere just yet.

“We’re starving to death, Sergeant. We’ve not eaten for days,” said one.

Another chimed in, “And that idiot corporal is having us dig—”

“Shut your mouths, all of you. Food is on the way, but you must hang on. Get yourselves dug in. Fortify this side of town as best you can, and then you can eat.”

“Fortify the town from whom, Ivan?” said the other grenadier. “Why don’t we continue on toward the river?” He looked to his comrades for support.

“Yeah. Why should we wait around here so the Russians can kill us?”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Reinhardt said in full agreement. “Go ahead. Leave. But remember, it’s another twenty-five kilometers to the Dniepr, and you will have to find a way to get across. And you’ll be doing so on an empty stomach.”

Schroeder was certain they would make good on the sergeant’s offer, but the sober realization had taken hold. Their fire was dampened, it seemed, at least for a while. Otto started to groan and squirm about. “For as long as you are here, you will take orders from me or the corporal. Not him. Have I made myself clear?” They nodded in agreement and helped the whipped ringleader to his feet. Reinhardt rejoined the women; with Mueller’s help they searched a few more houses on the south side of the road and then returned to the square. A turnip was added to all that had been found.

* * *

“Having mouths to feed has become as critical as maintaining defense,” Reinhardt summed up after briefing the lieutenant on the incident at the workers’ settlement. Voss had listened but did not react in any particular way; he seemed preoccupied and, Reinhardt could not help but notice, despondent in the extreme. Having served under the lieutenant for some time, Reinhardt could sense his moods fairly accurately. This was more than the typical overwhelming fatigue the young officer was prone to exhibit lately; it was an unusual sadness. Reinhardt’s confidence ebbed slightly, and he suggested the lieutenant get some rest. “There will be plenty of time for that,” Voss said irritably.

Field rations, mess tins, utensils, and the primus stove were removed from the Hanomag and set up inside the assembly hall. Voss had decided the women could be confined more easily and kept under closer scrutiny within the building. The hall was constructed roughly of wood, with a set of double doors at the front end and glass-paned windows with shutters on either side. Built shortly after the revolution, the assembly hall had been used by the local commissar to inform the peasants what the Soviet expectations were during the course of the successive five-year plans. More recently, the Reichsbahn officials would conduct meetings or hold briefings there, and Monika had said that on occasion films would be shown or banquets held. There were numerous benches that could be tiered and used as tables for the women to set up and prepare the food. There was a bucket of fresh water in the kitchen at the house, and Elenya went to fetch it, along with a large skillet. Voss told them to use everything—the field rations, chocolate, and coffee—for one last meal. He wanted the crew and stragglers calmed down and satisfied before any trouble brewed.

The auxiliary, Yvgeney, had reappeared. He informed everyone, the women especially, that his comrades had abandoned him to “this shit-hole of a town.” He received no sympathy from the women, their nerves still raw from what they had witnessed the night before. Valeria, who had begun to come around and behave with more animation, simply withdrew again in the man’s presence. “I won’t do another thing until that butcher is removed,” Monika threatened. Reinhardt hustled the auxiliary out of the assembly hall and admonished that he tear down the gallows and bury the dead, as the lieutenant had suggested. “Then we will see about getting you something to eat.” Yvgeney cursed but could do nothing, so he staggered out of the square. The women resumed their work. While the vegetables boiled, the last tins of beef were opened and their contents diced, and the coagulated aspic was spooned into the pot to flavor the broth. Monika suggested the sunflower seeds be added to stretch the portions. Elenya agreed, but said they should only be added at the very last minute. The seeds had a tendency to turn bitter if overcooked. Admitting she was not much of a cook, Monika deferred to Elenya’s talents.

Tempted by the aromas, Voss looked in to see how the meal progressed. Despite the crude manner in which the operation was carried out, there was a vague domesticity about the scene. The women seemed to work well together. The youngest, Valeria, timidly informed him that the supply of ersatz coffee was low, and she doubted if there was enough to go around. “Be sure the captain, myself, and my immediate crew get some. The rest will have to drink the last of the water…” He was interrupted by a noise. Loud, long, and filled with anguish, a terrible moaning—familiar, because he had heard it once before at the kolkhoz on the bank of the Samara. The busy, almost cheery scene in the hall became uncomfortably still. Racing out of the hall, he saw Mueller running across the square toward him. The youth had been stationed by the field telephone in the captain’s headquarters since his return from the settlement. The youth was pale. “Something’s wrong with the captain. He’s in a terrible state.”

Voss entered the house and found Vogel standing helplessly by the bar in the parlor. The door to the storage room was open, and they could hear Falkenstein continue to groan. Inside, the wool blanket lay on the floor, twisted into a knot. Drenched in sweat, Falkenstein sat upright on the cot as Khan, an arm around his shoulders, supported him and spoke his arcane language soothingly. The captain’s eyes fluttered and his mouth attempted to form words between stifled breaths. “Flask…coat…” The rubberized riding coat lay draped over a stool in the parlor. Voss searched the pockets and found a small silver flask. He brought it back to the storage room and unscrewed the thimble-sized cap. Hands shaking, Falkenstein took the flask and drank deeply. A minute or two passed, and then, having regained his strength, he was able to speak. “Horrible, such horrible dreams.”

Good, this might be the break in the man’s fevered brain, Voss thought. He was almost enjoying the suffering. “Is the captain in need of medical attention?”

The Mongol assisted as Falkenstein swung his legs down and placed his feet on the floor, but he was still too weak and overcome to stand. “Terrible, loathsome dreams. I have not rested. Instead, I awaken more exhausted than before.” He drained the flask.

Voss spoke coldly. “The captain has much on his mind.”

“These were no ordinary dreams…no, they were visions. Visions of what will come to pass should we fail.”

“The Wehrmacht is doing its utmost under trying circumstances, sir.”

Falkenstein tossed the flask aside. “No, Voss! I mean should we ourselves fail in this endeavor, this mission with which we have been entrusted and have a sacred duty to perform. We cannot fail. There will be no hope for us or anyone if we fail. We few men, our lives lost, that is to be expected. As soldiers we accept whatever the fates decide. But for Germany, our homeland… Berlin…I remember dreaming I was in Berlin, but nothing was familiar because the city lay in utter ruin and devastation. Building upon building reduced to rubble. Indescribable fires burning everywhere. I couldn’t recognize what part of the city I was in. I crawled amid the ruins and hid from the Russian troops that swelled over the piles of brick and crushed masonry. I remember feeling like a hunted animal. So many lay dead, coated in dust and ash. Mothers and children, old men and women. But then I watched as the Russians marched triumphant down the broken paving stones of Unter den Linden. The Red Star was raised over the shell-pocked city. Then I heard it, long before it materialized from out of the columns of smoke, I heard the cogs squealing like a million skewered pigs…Red Vengeance…plowing over the rubble and the dead. It came to a stop at the foot of the Brandenburg Gate. I watched as the Russian troops draped the beast with garlands of sickly bright flowers, and brash music drowned out the death rattle of our vanquished nation…”

The field telephone rang. The sound severed the hold that the nightmare had taken on the captain. Mueller appeared at the door. “Corporal Schroeder is on the line, Lieutenant.” Voss went to the parlor and picked up the phone. “In which direction? Very well. Maintain your position, Corporal. I’ll deal with it at this end.” He hung up the phone and turned to Vogel, who had been rooted to the storeroom doorway, listening with concern and some confusion. “Return to the command vehicle, Sergeant. Wilms must surely be trying to raise you on the radio.” Taking possession of himself, Vogel fled the house. Voss returned to the storeroom. The captain was pulling on his boots. “Sir, I have just been informed that a motorcycle from the SS column has returned. The rider appears wounded.”

* * *

The distinctive throaty purr of a BMW motorcycle engine had caught Wilms’s attention. He watched with binoculars as the motorcycle weaved and bobbed over the muddy steppe, heading directly from out of the north. Single rider. The sidecar, with a white skull and crossbones emblazoned on the hood, was empty. The motorcycle continued across the road, east of the workers’ settlement, and followed an erratic course past the warehouse and below the water tower. The rider leaned over the handlebars unnaturally, his hand gripping the throttle limply. The machine did not travel at an appreciable rate of speed as it swerved and skidded down the rutted alley between the maintenance depot and workshops. Immediately on the radio, Wilms tried to raise the command vehicle, but there was no answer. He watched as Braun and Angst ran out from the repair garage at the south end of the depot in an attempt to intercept the BMW, but the machine abruptly detoured down a side pathway that led into the equipment dump. Once past the dump, it made several large circles, around and around, engine spluttering, until it jerked to a stop. The rider was thrown from the seat and lay sprawled in the mud. By the time Braun and Angst reached the wounded man, Wilms had finally made contact on the radio.

* * *

Braun knelt beside the SS trooper, his tunic torn and bloodied, and tried to make sense of the words garbled through a mouthful of reddish foam. The scout car hurtled toward them, and the Hanomag followed close behind. “He’s dead,” Braun announced, as the command vehicle pulled up. Falkenstein leaned out of the turret with Khan at his side. “Did he manage to speak?”

“Nothing that made any sense,” Braun replied.

“Repeat it for me.”

“He said something about an ambush that came from out of the river. Moloch devours us. Moloch? What does it mean, Captain?”

“Moloch, the malevolent god of sacrifice from the Old Testament. But he meant Red Vengeance.”

The Hanomag came to a stop beside the command vehicle. Voss and Reinhardt contemplated the dead motorcyclist. “The Einsatzgruppen have been attacked,” Falkenstein informed them. “We’re going to the river to see what exactly has occurred.”

“It could be a trap, sir. We might encounter a sizeable force,” Voss cautioned him.

“Sizeable indeed, Lieutenant. Great and powerful. My dream came at an auspicious time. The beast is out in the open. Red Vengeance baits me.” The scout car swung about and headed west on River Road. Voss snapped his fingers. “Corporal Angst! You too, Braun. You’re coming with us.” Hartmann had the motor fired up and the vehicle moving as the two grenadiers climbed onboard. Voss raised Wilms on the radio. “Contact Schroeder and inform him he is to remain in charge until our return. Have him pull back anyone occupying a forward position. No one is to be left out in the open. And whatever you do, don’t leave that tower. Voss out.” He disengaged from the headphones, left the co-driver’s seat, and joined Angst and Braun in the crew compartment. The grenadiers had lifted the bench seats where the panzerfausts were stored. The lids to the cases were unlatched but not removed, so the weapons could remain secure from the shake and rattle of the speeding vehicle. As he crouched down on the deck, Angst said, “Maybe this is it, Lieutenant. We might be done with this business once and for all.”

“I pray you are right, Corporal.”

36

The din and vibration was deafening as Hartmann wrestled as much speed as was possible from the heavy Maybach engine. When they had traveled ten kilometers, the road began to decline subtly into the river valley. The further west the vehicle and crew traveled, the stronger the smell of the river became. Water, vast and fragrant, intoxicating in significance. When the Dniepr finally loomed into view, there was a gasp. “Look at it,” Braun shouted. The slate-blue water flowed placidly at a width of nearly six hundred meters. The River Road had come to an end at a muddy track that ran parallel to the riverbank. Hartmann turned right, as he had seen the command vehicle do several minutes earlier. Pale brown reeds stood tall in the gray sand at the river’s edge. To be this close, the end goal of the retreat for their comrades-in-arms, and not be allowed to cross to safety was torturous for the crew. Using binoculars, Voss and Angst concentrated on the surroundings. There were trees, interspersed singly and in small clusters, and small hamlets that had been laid waste, all with the potential of concealing danger. Two kilometers had passed since making the turn when Hartmann decelerated. The scout car had stopped before a thin column of black smoke that curled into the overcast sky from an epicenter of chaos. “Stay alert, men,” Voss stammered, agitatedly. “Heinz, pull over.”

The Hanomag veered to the right and braked to a stop. Armed with a panzerfaust each, Angst and Braun exited the vehicle and separated to provide cover and focused on the distance for any threat that might loom toward them. They waded through slaughter and destruction, beyond belief or imagination, that mired the road. Braun, every fiber of his being quaking with revulsion, began to heave bile. He sank to his knees, exhausted from the wrenching effort as the green oily substance erupted from out of his mouth. Angst tried not to look directly at the horror in the road, but no matter where he cast his gaze, some ghastly detail would violate his sight. Leg. Hand. Torso. The shapeless mass that had once been the Sturmbannfuehrer’s staff car still burned. Corpses lay on the ground, burnt clothing fused to seared flesh. Amid this blackened, smoking wreckage was the Sturmbannfuehrer, his face still brightly jaundiced despite being partially charred, his lipless mouth forever open in a helpless, silent scream. Voss, having witnessed his share of maiming and death, turned ashen. There was neither incident nor memory to compare with what he now confronted. This was annihilation taken to the extreme—willful, almost ritualized mutilation of men and machines by machine. A thick, pulpy jam of meat and bone lay in a smear across the muddy road amid twisted, shredded mechanical parts. The impression of tank tracks were evident all around, formed in crisscross and circular patterns. A slurry of mud, gasoline, and blood flowed into the river and discolored the water with a red oil-slicked plume. It was difficult to distinguish where the mud began and the blood ended, so thoroughly mixed had the two substances become. Reinhardt was numbed by the sight; to preserve his sanity, he blanked out the image. He cowered behind the shield of the bow machine gun, sweeping an arc, right to left, on the coaxial mount. He seemed to struggle for breath as he felt whatever was true, meaningful, and real slowly die within him. From the scout car turret, Falkenstein studied the details and attempted to play out the course of events in his mind. The staff car was the very epicenter, the bull’s-eye as it were, of the destruction. Trucks, motorcycles, and bodies radiated outward in a compact diameter; some had even ended up in the river. Separate vehicles had been targeted and destroyed in different positions in relation to the core of wreckage and then rammed or pushed closer. Those that had survived the initial volleys of high-explosive shells were raked by steady bursts of machine gun–fire. Afterward, the tank did some quail shooting, using cannon, to judge by the dismembered casualties who tried to run away from the opening onslaught. Others had been chased down individually and crushed. The tank had then returned to the center of the initial ambush and systematically rolled over the bodies and vehicles. The ground had been deeply churned and furrowed as the tank traversed from side to side on its tracks, grinding up and flattening its victims. Falkenstein made an attempt at some analysis as he viewed the scene with the coolness of a police inspector at a particularly ugly homicide. The hideous nature of the spectacle was remarkable. Red Vengeance wallowed in mutilation. The slaughter it left behind was not haphazard but willful. The tank seemed to dare the observer, the witness, to try and recreate the method of its depravity. Voss had stepped out of the Hanomag and approached the scout car. The captain still brooded from the height of the turret. No one, Voss believed, could survive such a rampage without his mind becoming unhinged. He did not want to linger any longer than was necessary. The residue of evil that hovered over the scene was palpable. “What are your orders, sir?” Falkenstein did not respond; he was so transfixed by what lay in the road that his subordinate’s presence had yet to register. “Captain! What do you intend to do now?” Voss asked again, but it was the sound of Khan’s distinct voice that broke the spell. Upon their arrival, Khan had left the scout car and ran some distance along the riverbank, carting along the weighty antitank rifle. He now stood some two hundred meters away, at the water’s edge, waving his arms and shouting. The captain muttered a few words into the microphone, and the scout car circled about the wreckage and drove off to where the shaman stood. Voss had Braun and Angst get back to the vehicle and, upon boarding himself, issued the order to follow the command vehicle. Although the retching had subsided, all the color had drained from Braun’s face. He looked terrible. “I can’t take any more of this.”

The lieutenant snapped. “And do you think I can? Well, Braun? I asked you a question!”

Submissive, Braun said nothing. Reinhardt took hold of the lieutenant’s arm, as it seemed he was about to strike the grenadier. Voss shook off the sergeant’s grip, then looked straight ahead and pointed to the ground alongside the wet riverbank. “See, the track imprints continue.”

Khan had followed the tracks as well, and when the Hanomag came to a stop behind the scout car, the shaman had removed his boots and waded into the river. The ribbed, waffled set of tank track imprints continued straight to the water’s edge and then ended. There were no other tracks either along the bank or down the road; no sign that Red Vengeance had changed direction to the north or east over open ground. Khan followed the track marks along the silt bed under the water, using his bare feet to guide his direction. He almost disappeared below the surface before paddling back. The gray water rippled with alarm. In his heavily accented Russian, he called out, “The beast hides in the river. Deep!”

Falkenstein nodded, as though the shaman’s absurd discovery made perfect sense. After he wrung the water from the hem of his tunic, Khan sat down and pulled on his boots. “We go back to Veranovka. Bad place here, Captain.”

“It knows I am here, Khan?”

“It comes for you, but not here. Not good time. Kill Red Vengeance at Veranovka. Much better.”

Falkenstein could not simply turn around, not after so many months of frustration and wasted opportunities, and certainly not after having to witness the aftermath of this slaughter and the memory of his own tragedy. Red Vengeance was too close not to attempt a kill. “Let’s see if I can’t raise the miserable, cowardly beast to the surface!” He swung the turret around, sighted the 20 mm cannon beyond the point in the water where the shaman had originally swam, and fired, one armored piercing round after the next, traversing the turret slowly from three o’clock to nine o’clock and back again. Reinhardt succumbed to the strain and squeezed the trigger of the MG42. A mad ballet danced upon the waters’ surface. Next, it became Braun’s turn to get sucked into the hysteria, and he fired the panzerfaust. The extreme arc of the trajectory sent the hollow charged projectile high into the air, and when it plopped down, a geyser of water and white smoke frothed. Counterblast gases filled the crew compartment. Braun flung the spent firing tube into the river. The captain continued to fire, despite Khan’s protests. “No, Captain! Nothing will raise it up! Please, Captain, we must go.”

Sickened by the ill logic manifesting all around him, Voss pushed Reinhardt away from the machine gun as he went to reload with another belt of ammunition. “Come to your senses! There is nothing hiding in that river.”

“Is all this madness then, Lieutenant? Did that really happen back there? Because if it is real, then we have been cast into a hell deeper than anything we’ve ever known over these past years.”

The shooting ceased. Khan had evidently brought Falkenstein under control, either that or, having used up a twenty-round magazine, he wasn’t inclined to invest any more ammunition on the submerged target. Wrung out, adrift, Voss felt as though the events to come would simply carry him along, and no influence or will of his own could he summon to alter the outcome. Not even Falkenstein could claim to be in control. Some other unnatural power navigated the course of their destruction, which now seemed inevitable.

37

The vehicles had returned to the town square and parked when Yvgeney stepped forward to greet them. As the crew piled out of the Hanomag, the auxiliary policeman latched onto Voss, and in a pitched, weaseling voice, he demanded some consideration for his predicament. He had not been fed; in fact he was refused, outright. It was not fair to be treated so unkindly; after all, he was an ally of the Germans. Voss cringed from the Ukrainian’s touch. The stench of vomit clung to the man’s breath, and the odor of alcohol exuded from every pore. Voss then erupted in a fury the crew—even the old hands, Reinhardt and Hartmann—had never witnessed before. “Get away from me! I want nothing to do with you or your wretched comrades! You’re on your own, do you hear? Find your own food and don’t dare to beg or steal a morsel from my men, or I will shoot you myself. I told you to cut down those corpses and tear down that gallows. I don’t want to see a single dead body hanging or littering the streets. Bury them! Bury them all, or I will kill you, do you understand? I will kill you! Now, get out of my sight!” Voss slumped against the fender of the armored carrier, his chest aching from screaming so hard. Cowed by the ferocious outburst, Yvgeney shrunk back. Angst removed the shovel and pickax from the fender on the opposite side of the vehicle and threw the tools at the Ukrainian’s feet. Whining quietly, he picked up the shovel and pickax and staggered off.

“Dumb son of a bitch, you don’t know how lucky you are,” Angst said, and immediately set off for the observation post on the east side of town. Braun followed, but the two did not speak. The color had returned to Braun’s face. There was little either could say, feeling so overwhelmed as they were. Angst would have done anything for a drink, to get drunk and forget. As they neared the supply dump, the motorcycle remained where it had originally stopped. One of the machine gun crew, Herzog, sat in the sidecar with his head thrown back, mouth open and snoring. Angst shook him brusquely. “Wake up, loafer.”

Bewildered, Herzog opened his eyes and closed his mouth. Reaction time not to his liking, Angst took hold of the man’s tunic and yanked him out of the seat. “Get up! And while you’re at it, explain why you’ve left your post.”

Herzog collected himself. “We were called in. All advance positions were to fall back. That was the order we received.”

Angst remembered the radio call the lieutenant made as they set out earlier. “That doesn’t apply any longer. Find your number two, and get back to your hole.”

“What’s the idea of manhandling me that way, Corporal?”

“Nobody ordered you to fall asleep, did they?”

Herzog gathered the shelter half that lay over the seat of the sidecar. “What happened, by the way?”

“Nothing. False alarm,” Angst lied.

“Pity that Oberschutz doesn’t know that.”

“Speaking of whom, what did you do with the body?”

Herzog pointed to a ruined farmhouse near the edge of the road. “Me and Fritch dragged him in there and covered him up.”

Again, Angst ordered the gunner back to his hole. Herzog uttered an expletive as he traipsed away. Although he didn’t hear what the gunner said, Angst knew to take offense. He picked up a hand full of moist earth, squeezed it into a ball, and was about to throw it when Braun stopped him. “Leave him alone. Let’s get back to the observation post. Schmidt’s waiting.”

“Let him wait. I want to see if this thing is serviceable.” He leaned on the handlebars and looked the machine over. Splattered with mud, sidecar dented and pierced with several bullet holes, the seat and flooring appeared to be stained with dried blood. He unscrewed the gas tank cap and rocked the motorcycle, listening as the gasoline sloshed around within the dark hole. “A third full, at least. Good.”

“Good for what?” Braun asked, confused.

“A joyride. Want to come along?”

Braun was in no mood. “I’ll see you back at the observation post.”

Joyride. Angst knew he would never feel joy ever again. Instead he would feel anger, as he did at this moment. Anger at having to be in Russia, or wherever this dirty little backwater was. He had anger for Lieutenant Nieheus and the miserable fix he’d gotten them both into. He was angry at the slaughter by the river and all the terrors he had witnessed since his arrival; anger at the fear, humiliation, and disgust it stirred within him. He kick-started the engine and climbed on to the saddle. The vibration on his rear end and lower back was a pleasant sensation. He was determined to stop thinking about all of it. He only wanted to ride…in enormously wide circles, spanning the globe, and not ever have to think again.

* * *

Entering the captain’s headquarters, Voss removed helmet and goggles and set both noisily on the bar counter. Falkenstein was already seated in the armchair, speaking with Schroeder on the field telephone. He appeared relaxed, legs crossed, a pad and pencil in easy reach on the table. He was having a discussion about field rations and who did or didn’t have an appetite. The relaxed tone of the conversation, under the circumstances, struck Voss as terribly odd. Having other concerns weighing on his mind, Voss opened the leather portfolio and thumbed through the numerous intelligence reports, schematics, and stats of the T-34, and testimonies of witnesses who survived encounters with Red Vengeance. Material he had read, and would read again, if only to find some clue or detail he might have missed. Perhaps Red Vengeance, despite standard outfitting, was manned by a crew of five, as German panzers were, thus allowing the commander to observe the action and be free to direct maneuvers and fire missions. The papers rustled loudly in the quiet room as he feverishly searched.

“You won’t find anything in that file to help you with what you saw today, Lieutenant.” Falkenstein had hung up the phone and regarded him with mild amusement. Voss was unwilling to give up so easily. There had to be an explanation, logical and sane. There had to be a reason why Falkenstein and Khan had believed it possible that Red Vengeance had become as submersible as a U-boat. Then it dawned on him what it was. He had figured it out for himself. “June, nineteen forty-one. Do you remember, Captain? A panzer regiment crossed the Bug River, at a depth of over four meters. The tanks drove blind, totally submerged.”

“I’m aware. All the tanks were made operational well in advance. Tests were conducted beforehand to iron out all the problems.”

“There were reports the Russians did something similar when crossing the Desna River. Every seam and opening on the turret and hull made waterproof with pitch and oiled canvas. The tanks were transformed into submarines for a short while, at least. I believe the crew of Red Vengeance did the same, only better, allowing the vehicle to remain submerged for a much longer period. You agree it’s possible in theory.”

Exasperated, Falkenstein went for the note pad and pencil on the table. “There is no crew. There never has been. The best we can hope for is that it operates on remote, directly from the Kremlin, by Stavka, or perhaps Stalin himself.”

Falkenstein was deadly serious. Voss did not really want to hear what was the worst that could be hoped for. However, he asked just the same, if for no other reason than to gauge to what degree of illness the captain’s mind had succumbed. “And the worst would be, sir?”

“I need to impress this single important fact upon you. The tank is empty, Voss. It is about time you get used to the idea.”

“A mindless juggernaut.”

Falkenstein smiled and stared up at the ceiling. “If I remember my studies, it has been a number of years…comparative mythologies…a lecture given by Professor Rittenauer…what was it he went on about… oh yes! The juggernaut was the chariot the Hindu god Krishna rode upon, and the faithful threw themselves under the wheels and were crushed. So the story goes. I don’t think that scenario applies in this case—quite the opposite, in fact. We will expend every effort to stay out from under the wheels of 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.”

38

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.”

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.

39

In a severe lean that caused the sidecar wheel to lift off the ground, Angst rode in ever-widening circles. When he shifted his weight and straightened out, the wheel touched the ground and caused the machine to bounce. While playing on the BMW, he was careful to not venture too close to the square; his motto was avoid all officers and NCOs. He raced over to the workers’ settlement and rode circles around the perimeter, between houses, and down the River Road. When Schroeder ran out, shaking his fist and yelling at him to stop fooling around, he just laughed uproariously, which infuriated the corporal even more. Splashing through puddles, he stood on the foot pegs as the machine swerved and slid through the mud. He turned east from the settlement to the firm gravel road; once on it, he opened the throttle and rode down and back over the relatively smooth surface, past the depot, braking recklessly just seconds before the stretch ended abruptly in mire. He was beginning to feel relaxed and, for the short time available, free; he wondered what it would have been like to serve in a motorcycle rifle squadron. That was the best time, early in the war, when the Kradschutzen were special. Not anymore. Now, the majority of units drove around in Kubelwagens or the dreary, light, small-version Sd.Kfz 250. But the Kradschutzen rode full bore over the countryside of Europe and the east, with the wings of Stukas overhead, lending protection and support. Angst would not have minded the duty as motorcycle dispatch rider, delivering messages from one command post or headquarters to another. That would be a nice way to finish out the war.

Eventually, as he rode around, Angst became self-conscious. On the tower, Wilms trained binoculars on him the entire time. Ratting me out, he thought. After completing one more pass down the gravel road, he turned into the heart of the depot and zipped between the workshops and tool sheds, past the shop where the Volkswagen was concealed, the doors still secured with a chain. He turned into the maintenance building, and the wheels spun around wildly for a moment on the sandy ground. Shifting into neutral, he gunned the engine, and the sound echoed throughout the barren, cathedral-like space. Wings flapped excitedly as frightened birds flew from their perches on the rafters above. He drove through the building and returned to the machine shop. Schmidt was keeping lookout from one of the metal-framed windows. Braun sat on a folded shelter half on the concrete floor, his back leaning against the brick wall. “Are you finished playing?” Schmidt asked, once he had come to a stop and turned off the engine.

“I’m never finished playing,” Angst replied. “You should have come along, Braun. It would have done you a world of good.” Sunk in a morose state, Braun did not respond. He had pulled in his legs and clasped his knees.

“You’re going to catch hell,” Schmidt said.

“Aren’t we all?” Angst joined them at the window, took the binoculars from Schmidt, and scanned the horizon. Yvgeney had torn down the gallows. Bodies and timber had collapsed in a degrading, haphazard pile. After cutting the nooses and binds, the Ukrainian proceeded to lay the corpses one way and the other, turning some over, laying some side by side, and some at odd angles. There was no apparent logic to the work.

The sky had a moist, opaque cast. “It’s starting to drizzle,” Angst said, then added quietly, “You must have had an earful.”

Schmidt nodded. Suddenly, as though he had heard, Braun looked up at his friends. “I’m getting out of here.”

“Go ahead. Ask Falkenstein for a furlough. I’m sure he’d approve it.” Angst gave the binoculars back to Schmidt.

“No, I’m serious. I’m going, and not just across the river. I’m going home. I want to see my folks again.”

“We all want to see our loved ones, Freddy,” Schmidt said, gently.

“I’m all for taking the Volkswagen and clearing out, tonight,” Braun said stubbornly.

“Come on now, you’re talking desertion,” Schmidt said.

“So I am. What have we to lose, Willi? Tell me! I thought I’d seen every horror this war could offer a man. And just as I was starting to get numb…I’d look at the dead, comrade or foe, a gruesome sight, and say to myself, well, that’s him, and this is me. I’m still breathing. No more to it than that. Simple, not another thought. Then something happens and it’s different, horribly different, like today. There is this new horror that takes hold of you. A fear like no other. Stifling, gnawing. It feels like you’re drowning in it. Nothing is worth living through that kind of fear ever again.”

“Try to get a grip of yourself, Freddy. Besides, it would be wrong to leave. Where could you possibly go?”

Braun stood up and faced Schmidt. The stance appeared menacing. “For once in your life, stop being such a fucking choir boy.”

The abusive, condescending language and threatening tone was not lost on Schmidt, but he refrained from getting angry. “I don’t want to see you do anything foolish that would put you in front of a firing squad.”

“That is the least of my worries. In fact, I would welcome a bullet from our guys, rather than have my guts decorate the countryside from that fucking tank. Believe me, I would. If you saw the kind of slaughter on that river bank, you would too.” He turned to Angst. “We’re going, right? A couple of hours driving at night, and we will be within our own lines.”

“Either that or a Russian patrol. Maybe Red Vengeance,” Angst said matter-of-factly.

“Don’t say that! We have the luck. That won’t happen to us. We survived Red Vengeance, remember? That first night out on the steppe—”

“I remember Walter Lustig.”

“Yeah, Walter. It happens. Some guys eat it, but we didn’t. All the following day and through the night in the ravine, we still had the luck. If these jackals want to stick around and get torn to bits, then let them.” Braun was adamant. He was leaving, and his friends could do as they wished. “But I’d rather not go alone. We have survived so much. We have the luck, us three, together. What do you say?”

Angst agreed to the plan but not without reservations. As far as he was concerned, they had been kidnapped into this unit, but leaving Veranovka and making the journey at night was not without its own set of dangers. The dead by the river flashed through his mind, an image that was becoming increasingly difficult to blink out. “I’ll go, but only if Willi goes too. It’s either all of us or count me out.” He said this with the expectation that Schmidt would remain the voice of reason and refuse, thus excusing himself from making the commitment to desert. Surprisingly, Schmidt was won over and agreed. Ecstatic, Braun reached out and embraced the two men and lowered his face, so that his tears of exhaustion and relief went undetected. The rejoicing was short-lived, as Wilms stood in the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt your reunion, but I’ve been temporarily relieved.” He said to Angst, directly, “I spoke to Vogel on the radio. The captain knows all about your antics.”

“I wonder who informed him.”

“What do you expect? We’re on full alert. You can drive that thing back to the square and report to Sergeant Vogel.”

Angst shrugged and returned to the BMW. As he climbed on, Wilms stepped into the sidecar and sat down. “I’m going that way myself to get something to eat. Might as well give me a lift.”

Angst wasn’t pleased. “Hold on.”

“No daredeviltry, please.”

As he kick-started the engine, Angst gave the thumbs-up. Schmidt and Braun returned the gesture. The signalman was bemused by the smiles. “Vogel said it was the worst ever,” he said, as Angst drove out of the machine shop. He was expecting some kind of reaction, specifically more details of what happened to the Einsatzgruppen. Angst studied the signalman and deliberately angled the sidecar through a deep puddle. Muddy water splattered over Wilms’s face, chest, and arms. “Hey! Watch where you’re going, damn you.” Angst laughed and opened the throttle.

* * *

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.

40

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?”

“Just a precaution.”

Herzog took the bundle from Fritch and felt its weight. “Are we pulling out tonight?”

The question stabbed at Angst. “What makes you ask?”

“Because I don’t see the point in lingering. We could have crossed the Dniepr by now. What’s your CO got planned?”

“He doesn’t confide in me. I have to get along; I’ve got more rounds to make.” They probably take me for a good fellow, Angst thought, as he rode over toward the repair depot to distribute the last of the chow and hand out cigarettes. And soon I’ll be leaving them in the lurch. They haven’t an inkling of what we’ve been doing out here, and no one has had the decency to inform them. Well, that’s the officers’ responsibility, not mine. Braun was right to want to get out. This place is a death trap. The best of men, in the heat of battle, is liable to panic and run. In this instance all three of us stand a good chance at arriving at our lines claiming to be stragglers. If it becomes necessary, we can ditch the car and go the rest of the way on foot. The details have to be worked out, and our story must ring true if the field police interrogate us individually. The slightest pressure, given the condition we’re in, and we could easily crack. What gnawed at him was how calculated they had become in an effort to save their own skins. And only their skins.

Schmidt was awakened by the sound of the motorcycle reverberating within the cold, damp stonewalls of the empty machine shop. It had been his turn to sleep. Braun rolled his eyes when Angst laid the grenade bundle on the ledge of the window casement. He refused the tin of herring. “I’ll burp fish for days.” He did opt for the coffee and a nibble of chocolate, mostly as an experiment to see if he could keep a little food down. Angst explained his new duty with the motorcycle. “The lieutenant will want to see me. I might be busy for a while.”

Braun drank directly from the canteen. “Make sure you’re here by dark. We’re not waiting.”

“I’ll be here. There’s one more thing… the women.”

“What about them?” Braun sounded unusually cantankerous.

“They’re coming with us,” Angst told him.

“Who says?”

“I already told them. Monika at least. She’ll inform the others at the proper time.”

“You did what?”

“We have to take them.”

Braun was livid and cringed with pent-up frustration. “What possessed you to do something so stupid? They’ll blab! Voss and the captain will be on to us.”

“Let’s not fight, Freddy,” Schmidt said, in an attempt at conciliation, but Braun was a lit charge and on the verge of exchanging blows. “What do we owe them? I don’t know these women. They mean nothing to me. You said they were whores, for Christ’s sake.”

“We’d be real shits if we didn’t take them along.”

“So, I’ll be a shit. There’s no room. All six of us packed in the Volkswagen? We’d sink in the mud.”

“No you won’t. Besides, I’ve got this.” Angst gestured toward the motorcycle.

“He’s right, Freddy, we can’t only think of ourselves. It might bring us bad luck.”

“The chivalrous nature of our friend here could be all the bad luck we could ever want or need, but I seem to be outnumbered. Very well—but they had better be here on time, or here they stay. And another thing…” Braun, with unmistakable menace, closed in on Angst. “If this plan falls short because of your big mouth, I’m taking you all the way down with me.”

Angst was more disappointed than angry at the way his friend chose to impress his point. “It won’t come to that.”

“Good. Just as long as there is no misunderstanding.”

41

The bow machine gun had been removed from the Hanomag and set up in the flak gun pit. Sergeant Reinhardt manned the weapon, and, standing some distance away, Voss observed the landscape with binoculars. Angst pulled up beside him. “You wanted to see me, Lieutenant.”

Voss nodded and climbed into the sidecar. A flare pistol was tucked into his belt. He signaled for Angst to go forward, due west. Riding at a reasonable speed, and careful not to splash through any standing water that had settled in the depressions, Angst drove for two kilometers before he was told to stop. “Turn off that motor, Corporal,” Voss said, and got out of the sidecar. Despite the accumulating overcast, the visibility was good. The flat terrain extended for another six to eight kilometers before the downward slope of the river valley began. “Will Red Vengeance make its approach from the west, Lieutenant?”

“It may, although I would think it would maneuver as far away from the defensive salient as possible. That would be the more logical choice, but with Red Vengeance, logic does not always play a role. So I’ve been told, anyway.”

“How do you mean, Lieutenant?”

Voss wondered if the corporal was being purposefully dense but hadn’t the strength to pursue the question. He let the binoculars hang by the strap and consulted his watch. “What is your precise time, Corporal?”

Angst looked at his wristwatch, waited for a moment, and then said, “Fourteen hundred oh nine hours.”

Voss made an incremental adjustment to the second hand and then let his arm fall heavily to his side. “What an interminably long day this has been. A beastly day.” Voss sensed that his entire life had been a preparation for this day and was astonished at how shortchanged he felt, now that it had arrived. “How good are you at following orders, Corporal?”

“No better or worse than the rest of the crew. Have I not carried out my duties to your satisfaction, Lieutenant?” Angst asked.

“That’s not why I asked. Over these past number of days since we have been confined aboard the Hanomag, I have yet to form an opinion of your character, not so much as an individual but as a soldier. Hard as it is to believe, in our time together, we have yet to serve under combat conditions.”

“What about last night?”

“I’m speaking more in terms of achieving specific objectives. What occurred last night seemed more of a fight among our Kameraden rather than against the enemy,” Voss said.

“Putting it that way, I guess you’re right, Lieutenant.”

“The reason I ask is because I need to know if you are the type of soldier who will act decisively when ordered? Or would you vacillate? At such moments, the luxury of weighing the outcome of one’s actions can’t be afforded, and there isn’t the time to consider one’s orders, because swift and immediate action is demanded.”

“If I’ve learned anything, sir, timing is everything, especially at a critical moment.”

Voss smiled. “Would you say we are at a critical moment?”

“I would most definitely say we are.”

“So, I ask again, Corporal, would you be quick to follow an order, no matter how absurd, bizarre, or even questionable?”

My response is crucial, Angst thought; he’s fishing for a particular answer. “I’d follow any order that would get me and the last of my squad back to our outfit, sir.”

“We share the same sentiment.” Voss returned to his binoculars, and for the next three quarters of an hour, he maintained observation on the western horizon. When it came time to leave, he climbed into the sidecar. “At eighteen hundred hours, Wilms resumes his watch. Drive him to the tower, drop him off, and bring Mueller back to the square. Meet me behind the administration building at no later than eighteen thirty hours.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

“And bring along one of your men, the best of your squad. Someone you can trust. Make sure you both come fully armed. We’re still on alert.”

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

42

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.

“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.”

Falkenstein stopped writing and looked up. “Very well, Lieutenant. I’ll make an entry of it in my field notes. Care for a piece of fruit?” On the round table sat an apple, mushy with a multitude of bruises. Voss declined. “I was under the impression you worked well with indigenous troops, sir. You had many under your command.”

“I do. The Ost Truppen who served with me were motivated by a fierce love of their country. They may not have cared for us Germans or believed in our cause, whatever that might be at this time, but they were loyal. Not the character who has just left. His criminal tendencies overshadow any possibility for loyalty or trust. It’s best to be rid of him.” Falkenstein returned to his notes. With mock interest, Voss asked, “Is that the Reconnaissance Group war diary, sir?”

“This is a separate log. When this business is concluded, I will submit a detailed report to Army Group headquarters. There are some who will want an explanation as to why this operation has consumed so much of my time. You have no idea of the pressure I was under prior to the recent enemy breakthrough on September sixth. Despite unavoidable setbacks, the situation demanded that I perform other duties while in the field. The Reconnaissance Group lent its skills and fought defensive battles alongside units in whatever sector we happened to be operating. I want to set the record straight and avoid any misunderstanding.”

“I’m sure it will make for interesting reading.”

“Only the facts, Voss. Facts and figures.” He set down the pencil stub and regarded the lieutenant. “I have earned a reputation, deservedly or not, of having become obsessed. Initially I used the morale argument to convince my superiors that Red Vengeance needed to be taken seriously and dealt with accordingly. Oh yes, I would get carried away, now and again, and speak too passionately. Word circulated. My bête noire, as Major Beutel had come to call it. Then the name Mad Falkenstein took. Don’t look so surprised, Lieutenant, I know what is said of me while my back is turned. The innuendo. All those headquarters staff officers, trying to advance their careers with all that paper, charts, graphs, and telephone calls. Influence peddlers trying to sell their own worth. They haven’t a clue what life in the field is like, not the way you and I know it. And now their safe rear area has turned into a main line of resistance as they close up shop, evacuate comfortable quarters, and retreat even further. They can no longer deny the link that exists between that steel beast and the disasters occurring at the front with greater frequency. The Volga, Donets, Mius, the Dniepr, and everything in between lost; and always Red Vengeance is in full view of our setbacks and outright failures in this costly, miserable war of attrition. If you are born with sight in a world of blind men, will they not call you mad if you describe to them the world you see?”

Not if that sight is clear and true, Voss thought. Falkenstein was not waiting for an answer from his subordinate. He picked up his pencil and committed to paper his unique interpretation of events. “Will there be anything else, Captain?”

Falkenstein shook his head. “No, Voss. Get some rest. You look as though you need it.”

“Should you not try to get some sleep yourself, sir?”

“After this morning’s discovery, I have become reinvigorated, more out of anticipation I would think. The anticipation of success.”

* * *

“Have you decided on a route?” Angst asked.

“South. Ten, fifteen kilometers more or less and then whatever road or trail that heads west. It shouldn’t be too difficult. The ground has had a chance to dry out some,” Braun replied.

“You will have to drive in total darkness, and it will be slow going. The real difficulty will be once you’ve reached our lines. You could easily take fire.” Angst looked at the luminous dial of his wristwatch. Almost time to pick up Wilms and then meet the lieutenant.

“Either Schmidt or I can go in on foot and establish contact. Make it safe for the others to follow. I’ll ditch the car in the mud if I have to. It isn’t worth getting killed over.”

Angst mulled over the hurdles Braun had set for himself. No radio, no password, unseen in the dead of night, and attempting to explain yourself to weary troops who are waiting for an entire Soviet front to fall on top and bury them. “It will be risky.”

“And hanging around here won’t be?”

Angst was in no mood to argue, especially now that Braun had his mind so firmly set on the endeavor. “You better establish a pretext for the machine gun crew on the south side of town. As soon as they hear the car go by they’ll be prone to open fire.”

Braun made it very obvious as he felt the bayonet handle tucked in his boot and made sure it was snug. “I can remedy that situation very easily if I have to.”

Due to the darkness, Angst was unable to see the look on his friend’s face to know if he was serious or not. “That isn’t funny.”

“Why should I concoct some half-baked story that will only arouse suspicion?”

“So instead you creep up and shove a knife in their backs?”

“I don’t owe those guys. They almost got us killed last night when they swarmed the vehicle. That kind would use a drowning man for a life raft if they had the opportunity. Should I wager their stupidity and have them shoot us to pieces?”

“And yours is a winning alternative, because you haven’t the imagination to use a pretext.”

“I’m not a clever thinker.”

This is how brutal, desperate men behave, Angst thought. He was too hollow and worn out to summon disgust or even shock; rather, he was disappointed at how easy his friend made it sound.

“I’ll talk to them,” Schmidt said. Their voices had awakened him and he heard the more crucial parts of the conversation. “I’ll tell them we have been in communication with a patrol. Panzers. We’re sending out a vehicle to link up. It’ll be worth the risk, because we could use the support. Men are comforted when they hear panzers are on the way.”

Angst looked at Braun, although he could not see him. “Satisfied?”

Braun shrugged and laid a hand on Angst’s shoulder. It was a mock friendly gesture. “I was only joking, by the way, so don’t judge me too harshly. Filling those poor bastards with false hope is equally criminal, but I’m willing to live with that.”

* * *

How many hours will the lieutenant make me spend on top of that infernal tower? Wilms felt miserable and cursed himself for not getting the sleep he so desperately needed. Ten minutes remained before the appointed hour, so he shoved Reinhardt to wake him. The sergeant said nothing about the rude manner in which he was roused to consciousness. Muddle-headed, he unwrapped himself from the cocoon of tarpaulin and shelter half and settled behind the MG42. Without so much as a word, Wilms got up and returned to the assembly hall in the hope of getting another cup of coffee before Angst arrived. Unbarring the door, he entered and found, as luck would have it, the last of the coffee reheating on the primus stove. The women were getting on each other’s nerves, having been confined to the hall for the greater part of the day. Elenya complained the most—and the loudest—of boredom and questioned why they had to spend their time under lock and key. She was more than willing to lug the pot around and serve all the troops, just to have something to do. “You might be mistaken for a Russian and shot,” Monika told her, dryly.

“I am Russian.”

“All the more reason.”

Valeria giggled and hid her toothy smile with a small hand. “She wants to visit her boyfriend.”

“Shut up! That pig means nothing to me.”

“That’s not what I saw.”

“And how would you know? I suppose that was playacting when you were suffering from so much shock?”

“Give me some of that coffee before you dump the pot on her,” Wilms said to Elenya. He found the spat entertaining. So many hours had elapsed, and the opportunity of getting one of the women had proved futile. He liked the youngest one, Valeria, but she was beset with too nervous a disposition to cue in on his advances, which, he knew, were obvious and simple. He cursed himself. The other two were simply not interested, especially Monika. His fellow countrywoman made it clear from the beginning she had no use for him. He was simply one of a series of jailors who kept watch over her life. Every word and gesture was laced with anger and resentment. She was hard, brittle, yet Wilms could not help but find that quality all the more attractive. Elenya was a bouncy creature, though. He could see why Detwiler went for her right from the start. Lucky bastard, that bull! There’s no stopping him. He takes what he wants. Wilms’s thoughts were fraught with envy and self-loathing for his inadequacies. Given the opportunity, he wondered if he could have satisfied any of them—or himself. Nothing stirred down there. He chalked it off to poor diet, depletion, and stress. “How despicable,” he said aloud.

“What did you say, Private Wilms?” Monika challenged.

“Nothing. Mind your own business.” The motorcycle could be heard puttering out the door.

“That must be for you.” Monika smiled coldly.

“About time. This hen party is getting on my nerves.” He drained the last of his coffee and collected his rifle and shelter half. Angst opened the door, although he still remained on the saddle. The machine filled the doorway. Monika found this amusing. “Our signalman is ready and waiting. Aren’t you, Wilms?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Wilms said, basically ignoring her and turned on Angst. “Christ, everybody has to pull double duty tonight except you, Angst. How did you become the lieutenant’s favorite all of a sudden?”

Angst put his hand out and looked skyward. “It’s raining.”

“Damn, just my luck,” Wilms cursed as he replaced the bar across the door and, in the confined space of the sidecar, struggled into his shelter half as Angst pulled away.

* * *

I’m having difficulty containing myself, Voss thought. He had taken the captain’s advice and napped, if only to be more alert when it came time to act. Since he had woken up, he lurked around the square and kept an eye on the comings and goings at Falkenstein’s headquarters. No one had entered or left the house, as far as he could establish. He resumed his post by the ruins of the administration building; the charred odor of burnt debris had grown stronger now that the rain had begun. He put up the hood of the camouflage field jacket. “I’m wavering,” he said aloud. It’s only nerves, he told himself; nerves and worry. Waiting and not knowing, especially about Khan. He’s not been seen since he went off with the captain, hours ago, and has yet to return. That means he could be anywhere. Then Voss remembered he had lain down for a time in the Hanomag. Khan could have returned then. Damn, how could I be so thoughtless! Voss was tempted to nose around the scout car but thought better of it. That would only arouse suspicion. Wait until Angst arrives, along with whomever else he brings along. My accomplices. The thought made him laugh. Christ, where is Angst? He looked at his watch. Eighteen hundred thirty hours. How long does it take to ride from one end of this flyspeck of a town to the other? Then he heard the motorcycle. Angst drove with a little too much fanfare as he entered the square, circling around broadly before stopping in front of the assembly hall. There was only one passenger—Mueller—in the sidecar, and no one on the seat behind the driver’s saddle. Terrific! The corporal cannot follow a simple basic order. How will he fare with something truly challenging? Voss watched as the two grenadiers entered the hall, his stomach quivering in anticipation, and a terrible urge to defecate became all too real. His body was revolting against him. He looked at his watch again. Come on, Angst, the administration building…drop Mueller off and meet me by the administration building at eighteen hundred thirty hours, of which you are late by two minutes, eight seconds, and counting! How explicit must I be? I have to stop thinking, worrying. This is worse than precombat jitters. The anxiety was uniquely different, decidedly so. Of course it is. I have never staged a coup before. Perhaps Reinhardt was right, a mutiny. I’m a mutineer. No, absolutely not. The king is mad. Falkenstein!

The rain splattered noisily. Voss turned his attention to the house. Nothing. Dark and lifeless. Footsteps padding across the wet ground. Angst, finally! Wordlessly, the corporal drew up beside him, submachine gun dangling from a strap thrown over a shoulder. “You’re late and alone. Didn’t I tell you to bring someone along?”

“Sorry, Lieutenant. I considered Braun, but he’s experiencing something of a nervous condition since our return from the river. He’s too rattled.”

“What about the other one, Schmidt? Has he a delicate constitution as well?”

“I didn’t think you’d want him to abandon his post. I can go fetch him.”

Voss could have struck him. “Never mind, it’s too late for that. This will only mean more work for the two of us. Our task won’t be easy.”

“And what might that be, sir?”

“I’m going in to see the captain. I want you to work your way to the house from the rear. Station yourself near the front, but don’t let anyone see you, and don’t let anyone enter. Should Khan venture anywhere near the house, shoot him on sight.”

Angst’s heart began to race. “You’re taking over command.”

“Know your place, Corporal. The less you know, the better off you will be for it. Have you already forgotten our little chat from this afternoon?”

“Does Sergeant Reinhardt know what you plan to do?”

Voss was exasperated by the question but realized if he was to solicit the grenadier’s aid, he would have to be more forthcoming. “The sergeant will not participate or interfere. That is why you are here—to help me police the situation, should it become necessary. That’s why an extra hand would have been helpful.”

The irony of the situation was not lost on Angst. Had he known he would have brought along two sets of hands, Braun and Schmidt. “You’ll hang for this, Lieutenant.”

“Possibly. Should that be my eventual fate, then my death will have served a larger purpose. I will have freed you all from the grip of a madman.”

Thoughts swirled around Angst’s tired brain. This was all happening too fast. Monika was waiting for word, and Braun was chomping on the bit to leave straight away. He was tempted to tell Voss of their plan to leave: the women, the car, everything. “Why don’t we just go, Lieutenant? Everyone who wants to, pile into the Hanomag and drive off. Let the captain and anyone else crazy enough to join him battle it out with Red Vengeance.”

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Corporal. Besides, it’s not my way. Announcing our departure will only pit one camp against the other and some, for whatever reason—lack of conviction, indecision—would be left to dangle in between. I’m doing this in the hope of avoiding catastrophe, not force a bloody confrontation.” Enough talk. It is time to act. “Cover me, and remember, don’t let Khan into the house.” He walked across the square toward the scout car. The ground was starting to turn into a sea of mud. The armored shutter on the side port was open, and Voss peered in. He could barely distinguish Vogel sitting before the illuminated dials of the radio set. Vogel removed the headphones. “All quiet, Lieutenant. The weather has chased everyone under cover.”

Voss grunted. “I’m going in to see the captain. Khan isn’t in there with you, is he?”

“No, Lieutenant.”

“Is he inside with the captain?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve not seen him since this afternoon. Why?”

The question irritated Voss considerably. “Because, Sergeant, when I report to the captain that all personnel are accounted for, I can’t as far as Khan is concerned, now can I?”

“No, I guess not, Lieutenant.”

Voss stepped up to the house and opened the door slowly. Dark and silent like a tomb. The flame from the paraffin lamp had been turned down low, and only the faintest illumination exuded from the clubroom. Papers and maps were spread messily on the table; aerial reconnaissance photographs and schematics littered the floor. Falkenstein paced the room, deep in thought. I can take him now, easily, Voss thought, as he watched from the threshold, but the officer deserved better than an ambush. Suddenly, Falkenstein looked up and peered through the half-darkness with one sharp eye. “Voss, is that you? Anything to report?”

“It’s raining.”

“I can hear it on the roof. Anything else?”

“Wilms has resumed his post on the tower, and all the men are accounted for except Khan. I have failed to locate him. Perhaps the captain knows where he is?”

“Somewhere outside, preparing his soul for battle, or whatever it is shamans do.”

“He isn’t in the house, then?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Falkenstein said, blandly. Voss did not appreciate the captain’s ignorance or like the feel of the situation. Did the shaman sense a threat? Did Falkenstein? Have I been preempted, so soon, and a trap ready to be sprung? Steady, steady man, Voss urged himself. Falkenstein sat down and looked through the papers scattered over the table. “Let’s have a review, shall we? So little time remains. How many panzerfausts have we?”

“One, sir.”

“Of course. That fool of a grenadier by the river.”

“Three adhesive mines, satchel charge, an assortment of grenades, and petrol bombs, the effectiveness of which is highly doubtful,” Voss said.

“Don’t forget the flamethrower. That should give us an edge. Who do you have in mind to operate that infernal device?” Falkenstein asked.

“I haven’t given it much consideration.”

“Sergeant Reinhardt. He’s a stout fellow. I don’t want to supersede your authority over your immediate crew or volunteer anyone. Perhaps you yourself, Voss?”

Voss struggled with paralysis. He had been all set to act the moment he entered the room, but a spell, what else could it be described as, prevented him. Was it the force of the captain’s personality that intimidated him, or was it some magic the shaman had woven, Voss wondered, fretfully.

“Voss! Whatever is the matter? You seem preoccupied.”

“Do I, Captain? I was only wondering where Khan has gone off to.” He became alarmed at the unintentional mention of the name.

“Khan again. Why do you insist on concerning yourself? He’s probably turned himself into a bird again and is hovering about, keeping an eye out for our enemies. Or a snake, lying coiled in the night, ready to strike death into the hearts of those who wish me harm.” Falkenstein then pointed to a place in the dark room, somewhere in the far corner, behind Voss’s back. Unnerved, Voss turned around to look. Falkenstein laughed. “I don’t think I could have gotten this far without him. He tells me of whom I should beware and when.”

“Other than Red Vengeance, whom should the captain be wary of?” Voss asked.

“Can you not answer that for yourself?”

“How is that possible? Khan intimates nothing to me.”

“But he has to me, Lieutenant. He has told me, in that rather elliptical manner of speaking he has, that every conflict can be narrowed down to one essential factor. Will. Who possesses the greater will between antagonists, be they heads of state, entire armies or single individuals?”

“And concerning the will of Falkenstein and that of Red Vengeance, has Khan made mention which of the two is greater?”

“We stand at the very edge of the world. There are no guarantees. A trying place for a man to be for such a length of time.”

“Yet, you do want to win more than anything. Even at the expense of all concerned.”

“Nothing short of ripping this earth in two. Yes, I do want to win, but I find myself doing battle on two fronts, and it exhausts me. Red Vengeance and treachery within my command.”

Voss drew the heavy Walther P-38 from its holster and trained it on the captain, his arm quivering, as though a subtle current of electricity coursed through his body. Falkenstein did not show surprise; in fact, he remained terribly calm. “Watch where you point that gun before it goes off prematurely. I have a few more words that need to be said before you carry out your plan.”

My God, this madman is sure of himself, Voss thought. He lowered the pistol, but not by much.

“From the beginning you were never committed to this effort, were you, Voss?”

“No, not this particular effort.”

“When did it occur, this unwillingness, this lack of resolve? The decorations you’ve earned attest to the fact that you’re a good officer. Your disposition didn’t evolve simply under my command.”

“There were a number of mitigating factors,” Voss replied.

“Name one.”

“I have grown ill watching men die around me. I am weary with shame at giving orders that account for nothing other than men’s lives. I’m tired of trying to complete objectives that are beyond the scope of achievement. We’re not officers. We can’t even call ourselves soldiers. Instead, we’ve become undertakers, and this war, this entire world we’ve helped to create, is one gigantic mortuary. Right now my only concern is for the crew, to give them a fighting chance. I want nothing for myself.”

“The loyalty for your men is admirable, but you do them an injustice with such reckless behavior.”

“Me? Reckless?” Voss laughed with contempt.

“You are under the impression I have no feelings for those under my command, that I buy their loyalties with tinned meats, schnapps, and tobacco, and then do with them as I please. When I pursued Red Vengeance at first, my sole motivation was revenge. I once enjoyed the comradeship and, yes, even the love, of an entire company of men as equally deep and binding as the relationship you have with your sergeant and driver—the very last of your company, am I correct? I truly wished to have died that day. To walk away from that slaughter, alone, has been more than I can bear. Somehow, over time, I have managed to cool. My desire for revenge has yet to fade completely, but other factors propel me to continue this hunt. I’m not provoked to action merely out of obedience to the Fuehrer or the National Socialist creed. Institutions and politicians, for better or for worse, inevitably change, but Volk and fatherland…that is something entirely different. The German people, our culture and heritage must be preserved always, at the expense of our lives, if necessary. Red Vengeance is the chalice of poisoned wine. A mere touch of the lips brings death. It is the vermin that carries the plague on its back, spreading defilement and putrefaction with its alien culture and ideology. Spill the cup of its poison, shatter it, and the cup bearers will fall. Lives will be saved, time bought for our Kameraden and our people. Do you really believe that by killing me, you will save the lives of your men? Red Vengeance lurks out there, waiting for the right moment…when it knows the body has lost its head. In your elation of freedom, as the final step is taken to cross the river, Red Vengeance will be waiting. No matter what road you choose, it will be there. You know this is so, Voss. Kill me, and you will make no difference to the inevitable outcome. You will have to face the monster alone. My only wish would be that I could have been alive to help you.”

The muzzle was centimeters from Falkenstein’s head. “You malignant wreck of a man!” Voss shook violently, every nerve stretched to the point of tearing. In these few moments, his entire body waged a war as ferocious as any he had fought at the front. He was empty of all feeling: hope, despair, not even grief or longing. He wanted nothing and expected nothing for himself or for anyone else. “May God forgive me.”

* * *

The rain muffled the sound as Angst worked his way over to the captain’s headquarters. The darkness was interrupted by a series of flashes that would bring the surroundings into sharp relief. A faint rumble followed. At first he thought the light and noise was associated with artillery but realized it was lightning accompanied with thunder. When he reached the rear of the house, he crouched down and quietly edged along the siding. At the doorway that led into the kitchen, he peeked in. It was dark, and the muted sound of voices could be heard. Afraid of causing the slightest noise, he did not venture in to listen, although his curiosity was aroused. Water poured from the edge of the tin roof, the narrow eave above affording inadequate relief from the rain. He crawled the remaining distance to the front of the house and peeked around the corner. Past the front yard he could make out the shape of the scout car. The vantage point offered a good view of whoever approached, well before they reached the front door. Angst wondered if he could actually shoot the Mongol in cold blood. What punishment was meted out for killing a Hiwi did not concern him much at the moment. It was murder, plain and simple; and more importantly, he had nothing against the man personally. Khan was strange and intimidating by nature, and not because of any unique powers he might possess; that was hearsay. He seemed to resonate total awareness—maybe that was it, Angst thought. It would be better to meet up with the likes of Khan in the dead of night as an ally and not as an adversary. If the lieutenant’s plan backfired, Angst knew he would be headed for a penal battalion, at best, for his involvement. Voss was a sure candidate for a firing squad, if the captain didn’t shoot him on the spot. Angst could not fathom how he allowed himself to become involved in this power struggle. What flaw or defect in my character was so evident that anyone with a harebrained scheme would seek me out for help? Once again, an officer, a lieutenant, has set upon a personal course of action that will impinge directly on my fate. So far the results have been catastrophic. Instead of the boredom of guard duty at the Atlantic Wall, I’m fighting for my life on the eastern front. If the lieutenant’s maneuver works, we have everything to gain, at least a shot at getting out of here in one piece, but if it fails… the ramifications were beyond his imagination.

The silence from inside the house was excruciating. He expected to hear shouts, the sounds of a struggle, even gunfire, but he heard nothing other than the steady droplets of rain tapping annoyingly on his helmet. The front door opened finally. Voss stepped out with deliberate slowness, removed a cigarette case from his field jacket pocket, took one, and attempted to light it. He was having difficulty. Angst joined him on the stoop, the rain pattering loudly on the overhang, struck a match, and cupped the flame with both hands. Voss offered him a cigarette and stared blankly into the night. Angst lit up and then said, “What happened, Lieutenant?”

“The captain is a very persuasive man. He could very well be mad, or he is as lucid and sane as one can be when thrust in an insane situation.”

“I don’t understand.”

Voss smiled. “It was pointless of me to try to effect change. I think it would be best if we return to our posts. You will want to resume watch with your squad mates at the repair depot.”

“It might be too late for that, sir.” Voss looked at him quizzically. Overcome by frustration and guilt, Angst explained about the Volkswagen and the planned desertion that he, Braun, and Schmidt had agreed to, including taking the women along. Wearily, Voss sighed. “If the vehicle is serviceable, then by all means take it.” Perhaps the lieutenant wasn’t listening, Angst thought, as he seemed unfazed by the admission. Voss searched through an inner pocket of his tunic and brought out a folded piece of paper, a map of another sector, far away, a place he would never return to. He kept it for sentimental reasons. “Elista…”

“What did you say, Lieutenant?”

Voss motioned for Angst to turn around. “If you would allow me, Corporal, to use your back to write on.” Angst did as he was asked and bent forward, slightly. He could feel the pressure between his shoulder blades as Voss wrote with a charcoal pencil on the blank side of the map. When he finished, he gave the map to Angst. “Your new orders. Whatever you do, don’t lose it.”

With the aid of the cigarette ember for light, Angst read: “To certify Cpl. Johann Angst and his immediate squad (Pvts. Braun and Schmidt) to accompany and ensure the safe passage of 3 Wehrmacht civilian employees to within XL Corps defense zone upon my order.” It was signed “Voss, Lieutenant, Erich-Rainer 156 Panzergrenadier Regiment.” “Why, Lieutenant?”

Voss dismissed the question. “I will radio ahead, to my division, to expect you. They’re dug in north of the city, by the reservoir. My battalion commander, Captain Griem, will see that you are returned to your unit. Tell him for me…just tell him everything, Corporal. The truth. You had better get the women and leave immediately. Mueller and I will resume your watch after you’ve gone.”

Angst hesitated. “What did the captain say to make you change your mind?”

“It was nothing that he said so much as something I knew to be inherently true…now, get moving.”

Angst did not know what to say. Thanks? Good luck? The words were too hollow and ineffectual for the moment. Voss nodded, a small gesture, but it was the impetus Angst needed. He ran across the square to the assembly hall. The door was locked from inside. “Mueller, open up. It’s me, Angst.” He heard the bolt slide away, and the door opened. Elenya and Valeria sat on a bench shoulder-to-shoulder, heads leaning together, asleep. Monika stood up, expectantly. Angst nodded. “It’s time.”

Monika woke the two women and started to speak very rapidly in Russian. At first they appeared dazed, but as Monika talked, their eyes widened in amazement. Mueller hung on to his carbine a little too nervously. “What’s happening?”

“Internal business. It doesn’t concern you.”

“Maybe it should. Are the Russians here?”

“No. The lieutenant wants me to stash these three in a safe place before anything starts. He’ll be dropping by any minute.”

The young grenadier knew something unorthodox was taking place. “You’re saving your own skins, aren’t you?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Angst snapped, guiltily. He watched as Mueller’s face, a mixture of anger, jealousy, and fear, quivered. Valeria picked up her little valise and started for the door. “Tell them no luggage,” Angst barked. Monika began to explain, but Valeria protested, as did Elenya. “But our clothes—”

“There’s no room. We are saving our lives, not our clothes,” Monika warned them firmly. How much of the conversation Mueller actually understood was open to question, but as far as Angst was concerned, the cat was out of the bag. He did not want a struggle with the kid. Exasperated, Mueller sat heavily on a bench, looking in his hurt like a puppy that had been kicked aside by an ogre. Angst was sickened by guilt. How old was he, all of nineteen? He possessed the smooth, soft face of a child. The women, having put on their coats, gathered by the door and waited for Angst to lead the way. “Take me with you,” Mueller pleaded.

Angst cursed. “I’m not going anywhere, goddamnit! I’m coming back. Wait here until the lieutenant comes for you.” He could not tell if the words consoled the youth any, but he himself felt a little better. He opened the door. It was teeming outside. The sky had grown more active with lightning. He held the door as the women filed out. “Walk quickly, but don’t run. If anyone stops us, let me do the talking, understand?” Monika translated, and then all three nodded their heads in agreement and followed Angst as he skirted the square and led them to the Old Cart Road, the same road Falkenstein had led them down when they first entered town. That was only this morning, Angst suddenly realized, having the sense that time had elongated. Such a long day, and so much had occurred—and it wasn’t over yet, not by half. He turned around to make sure the women were keeping up. Behind him, illumined by lightning, three spectral forms walked in single file.

43

Using the flashlight attached to his belt, Braun removed the tarpaulin from the Volkswagen and tossed it aside. He took the key from his pocket and kissed it. Fortune had smiled upon him, but the weather had turned foul, and that was worrisome. Angst was taking too long, and so was Schmidt, for that matter. Five more minutes and then he would leave, alone, if necessary. He leaned inside the car and inserted the key into the ignition. The workshop doors swung open: Angst and the women, finally. “Welcome to Friedrich Braun’s frontline excursions, ladies.” He turned off the charm and looked at Angst. “About time. We’re going to sink in the mud.”

“No, we won’t. Where’s Willi?”

“He went to have a word with that machine gun crew. I expected him back ages ago. I should have dealt with them myself.”

“You will be glad you didn’t. Here.” Angst handed over the map for him to read.

“Should I ask how you got this? Unless it’s a fake.”

“The lieutenant signed it himself. He’s breaking radio silence and informing his division of your arrival.”

“My arrival… what about you?”

“I’m following on the BMW, remember?”

“No, you’re not. You’re staying, aren’t you? What a fool! Why?” Braun exclaimed.

“Somebody has to man this post until the lieutenant and Mueller show. We can’t leave this side of town unprotected. Let’s get this thing out of here. Everybody…”

Braun opened the driver’s side door and released the hand brake, pushing and operating the steering wheel as the women joined Angst at the front of the car and applied all their strength. Once clear of the shop doorway, Braun turned the wheel until the car pointed south. The narrow street was sodden, and the tires settled into the muck. The women piled into the back seat with Valeria in the middle. It was a snug fit. Braun got in behind the wheel. Leaning in through the passenger side window, Angst said, “Take the Old Cart Road, and it will bring you closer to the reservoir, where the lieutenant’s battalion is dug in. The CO is Griem. There’s no sense in trying for Zaporozhye. You’ll never make it in all this mess.”

“I don’t much like doing this with a bunch of strangers. It was supposed to be you, Schmidt, and me. We have the luck, remember? The three of us, together.”

Angst looked up and saw Schmidt as he turned a corner and approached the car.

“Here he comes now.” Braun turned over the engine and revved the gas when their ears were assaulted with an insultingly loud noise. The muffler had worn through. Angst was about to tell Braun to lay off the gas pedal when suddenly he saw Schmidt light up like a solo act on a stage. He put his hands up to his eyes to shield them. Angst yelled above the noise, “Turn off the headlamps, idiot.” But Braun hadn’t switched on the headlamps. The light originated from a different source. Schmidt’s face turned from surprise to horror.

“Tank!” he screamed and began to run. Braun shifted into gear and lurched forward. Instinctively, Angst dove away from the car and rolled across the ground until stopped by the corrugated wall of the maintenance building. The Volkswagen started to make a turn down a side alley when a shuddering blast coursed down the length of the narrow street. A high-explosive round caught the small, toylike vehicle in mid turn. It disintegrated in a ball of fire and smoke. Angst covered his head as a slew of glass and metal shards showered upon him. Above the ringing sound in his ears, he heard the clatter of tank tracks advance down the narrow passage. Only the chassis and two flaming tires remained of the car. Debris lay everywhere; seats, a section of roof, crumpled doors, and mangled fenders. To his shock and horror, he saw the occupants scattered across the ground in smoldering chunks and wet pieces. He pressed hard against the wall, as if to meld with the metal surface. The tank passed by so close, he became dizzy as the cogs and wheels spun wildly, encrusted with mud and a necrotic odor so acute he gagged as it filled his nostrils. The tank brushed aside the burning wreckage as though it were a meager pile of trash and then turned down a side alley out of view. “My friends,” Angst choked, “my friends…” and then he passed out.

* * *

Wilms felt miserable. He tried to shrink under the folds of the shelter half, the only protection he possessed against the rain. He was so tired he could have fallen asleep despite the rain, thunder, and periodic flashes of lightning. A stream of water would find its way under his collar and drip coldly down his back, and he would brood on this torment. There was barely enough room on the small platform at the top of the water tank to set the radio and for him to sit with his feet resting on the top rung of the ladder. Now that it was dark, he did not feel the need to remain this high and would return to the catwalk that circled the base of the water tank, in spite of the captain’s order. He was not about to gamble against the odds of getting struck by a bolt of lightning. The only problem was he would have to lug the radio and constantly pace the catwalk. At least that would keep him alert and dispel the desire of having to snooze. As he was ready to slip his arms through the shoulder harness of the radio, something red and bright caught his eye, a flare from a Very pistol originating from the north, some distance beyond the warehouse. Simultaneously he heard an engine, but not a tank. It sounded like an automobile, only terribly loud, but how could that be, he wondered. Then a bright shaft of light cut through the wet pudding night. An explosion. He saw an aura of flame amid the cluster of workshops and tool sheds, then he heard the distinctive noise of tank tracks. Wilms spoke into the microphone. “This is observation post Wilms calling Two-Twenty-Two, over.”

“This is Two-Twenty-Two.” The voice was Vogel’s.

“We are under attack.”

“Red Vengeance?”

“Cannot confirm identity of enemy armor at this time. An explosion has occurred behind maintenance facility building. A vehicle has been destroyed.”

“That’s impossible; both vehicles are accounted for. Where’s the tank now?”

“Heading south on passage at rear of depot. Wait…it’s turning…turning again. Now heading north on gravel road and passing right below…Red Vengeance, I can now confirm that T-34 is Red Vengeance.”

“Maintain visual contact and raise Two-Five-One and inform. Vogel out.”

* * *

Falkenstein slammed the field telephone down. Schroeder had observed a red flare and heard the explosion. “Observation posts on all sides, and yet it successfully penetrates without being seen or heard.”

“The responsibility is mine, Captain. I have failed.” Voss had signaled his battalion on the Hanomag’s radio. As he was returning to the headquarters, he too heard the explosion and listened in on Vogel’s conversation with Wilms.

“What are you saying, Voss?”

“I released several of the men from their duty and gave them separate orders to evacuate with the civilian Wehrmacht employees. I believe the attack has occurred on the east sector of town.”

“Separate orders to evacuate? What orders?” Falkenstein gathered his helmet and goggles from the bar counter.

“Stemming from my attitude and behavior, after our last conversation…”

“What is done is done. I will deal with your extraordinary lapse in judgment later.” As quickly as he was capable, Falkenstein rushed out of the house. The qualms of his adjutant no longer mattered to him now; Red Vengeance had arrived, finally. Something close to elation, a release welled up from within him. There was a tinge of worry, though. Khan. Where is he, Falkenstein wondered, if he hasn’t met a cruel fate? He struggled through the scout car’s narrow door and entered the turret. The Hanomag pulled up with Reinhardt and Mueller in the crew compartment, securing the MG42 to the bow coaxial mount. Everyone’s attention was turned toward the workers’ settlement. Machine guns clattered. Another flare went up. Falkenstein had put on the headphones and adjusted the throat mike. “This is Two-Twenty-Two Falkenstein. What can you see, Wilms?”

“Tracer rounds… hull machine gun engaged.”

“Is it stationary or mobile?”

“Heading west to east, it’s on a rampage through the settlement. Cannon fire…” They heard the blast from the 76 mm gun and the resulting explosion. “Direct hit on a house at point blank range… incendiary shell… house is burning white hot. Movement… men running. T-34 has moved from out among the houses.”

“What direction?”

“North of settlement. I can no longer see it.”

“Stand by, Wilms.” Falkenstein leaned out of the turret. “We’re going over. Voss, look for any survivors by the repair depot. Take the motorcycle and bring that flamethrower along. Depending on how fluid the situation gets, meet us at the settlement. Sergeant Reinhardt, direct the Two-Five-One to the settlement, but remain on the south side of the road.”

Mueller passed the flamethrower down to Voss, and the two vehicles sped off. Voss slipped his arms into the shoulder harness and hustled across the square to the assembly hall, where Angst had last parked the BMW. He dumped the weapon into the sidecar and kick-started the engine. Bruno, the medical orderly, stepped out from the dancing shadows. The fires at the settlement burned brightly. “It has begun,” Bruno commented. “I should be receiving customers soon.”

“I might bring one or two back with me, God willing,” Voss replied.

“I’ll take the first aid kit and go to the settlement.”

“No, not yet. Wait until the situation is more stable.”

Voss started to ride away, and the orderly ran a few steps after him. “When the situation is more stable?” he shouted. “Sometime in the next century, I shouldn’t wonder!”

44

With each movement there was pain; right shoulder, left knee, elbows, right hip… an assortment of sharp twinges in so many places Angst had difficulty trying to distinguish exactly where or what hurt the most. He didn’t know how long he had been unconscious. The rain had let up considerably. Slowly and painfully, he got to his feet and steadied himself. Glass and metal fragments fell from off his back. A crumpled section of the Volkswagen’s metal skin, part of a fender or hood panel, had been blown against the wall where he had lain and struck him, which would account for some of his injuries. A large contusion had formed above the knuckle on his left hand, and his cheek was bloody. He passed his hands over his groin, abdomen, and ribs to make sure nothing was torn or broken. His eardrums throbbed from the noise of the blast, but there was no sign of blood. He looked around, trying to adjust his sight to the darkness and his abused ears to the background dissonance of shouting and gunfire. His eyes sought out his companions. Schmidt was the only one whose body remained relatively intact, but he had absorbed a lethal dose of glass and metal. The force of the explosion had hurled the body into the open front of a tool shed. As for the others… “My God, the women!” A terrific wave of anguish engulfed him as he thought of Monika, Valeria, and Elenya. They had appeared radiant when they heard they were leaving to presumed safety. Instead, he had delivered them to be slaughtered. He tried to distinguish Braun amid the destruction and became ill with grief; the acids in his stomach welled up and burned his throat. He heard the sound of an engine and panicked, believing the tank had returned to finish him off. Fear overturned all grief as he tried to collect his thoughts. The MP40 submachine gun lay in the mud. He scrambled to pick it up and trained it on the thing that turned into the street. He put up the weapon before letting off a burst. It was the familiar putt-putt-putt of the BMW. The motorcycle braked and Voss jumped off and joined Angst beside the ruined body of his friend, Schmidt. The lieutenant’s gaze took in the carnage. “How badly are you hurt?”

“I’m doing better than most. The muffler was shot on the Volkswagen. The noise must have obscured the tank’s approach. I sent them all straight to hell.”

“You did no such thing. I’m largely at fault.”

“And now we must do something heroic, you and I, brave and foolish, with deadly consequences, but necessary. We owe it to our fallen Kameraden,” Angst said bitterly.

Voss ignored the cynicism and helped Angst drag Schmidt deeper into the tool shed. Angst knelt beside the body. “Willi was very kind, did you know that, Lieutenant? He was almost too kind, and religious to a fault. That’s what Braun said when we first met. They were best friends. Schmidt was always reading from that worn missal of his. I think he prayed the rosary every night before he went to sleep.”

Voss had to urge the corporal along. “Let me take you to the aid station.”

“There’s no need. I’m only banged up a little. I can’t account for why Red Vengeance didn’t run me over. It passed right by me.”

Because it’s not infallible, Voss thought. “It’s attacking the workers’ settlement right now. We should get over there, if you’re ready to travel.” Angst said that he was and climbed on the seat behind the driver’s saddle. After Voss had gotten on, Angst leaned his head on the lieutenant’s shoulder and closed his eyes. He was tired, so desperately tired. “Try to rally yourself, Corporal. There is plenty more that still needs to be done.”

Despite his fatigue, Angst was willing to do anything now. He wanted revenge. For the first time in this war, in his life, he wanted somebody to pay dearly for the loss of his friends and the misery he felt. Somebody or something.

* * *

The Hanomag nosed up to the road on the settlement’s far right flank. Hartmann stopped the vehicle between two houses, leaving ample space to swing around should it become necessary. The scout car pulled up from behind. Machine gun fire was sporadic. Wilms kept them abreast of the tank’s whereabouts as it continued to probe behind the houses on the north side of the settlement. Two figures rounded a corner and ran down the middle of the road at breakneck speed, one carrying an MG 42 and the other a box of ammunition. Reinhardt got their attention before they ran past the parked vehicles. It was Schroeder and Detwiler. They gasped for breath when they finally came to rest by the armored personnel carrier. Schroeder dropped the ammo box and went over to the captain’s vehicle. “What happened, Corporal?” Falkenstein asked.

“Red Vengeance tore us apart. They all panicked and ran but didn’t get very far.”

“Was Khan with you?”

Schroeder shook his head. “It must have been his flare we spotted. And then the tank.”

Falkenstein was at a loss as to why Khan had failed to materialize. It was apparent that the first flare Wilms reported and then the second, observed from the square, were his. The Mongol could be wounded and no longer able to signal, but Falkenstein didn’t want to dwell on the possibility. He summoned Reinhardt. “Take the panzerfaust, Sergeant, and an adhesive mine. Corporal Schroeder will assist you.” Detwiler had skulked around to the far side of the armored carrier to avoid notice. Schroeder witnessed this and muttered, “Bastard.” The doors of the vehicle swung open, and Reinhardt stepped off as Mueller passed the weapons along, first the magnetic antitank mine, which Schroeder took, and then the panzerfaust to Reinhardt.

“Two-Twenty-Two Falkenstein to observation post, do you read me, over?”

“Observation post. I read you, Two-Twenty-Two, over.”

“Can you give an estimate on target position, over?”

“Still north of settlement trolling east-west axis…can barely make it out from the light of the fires. Tank has made second attempt to continue east toward rail crossing, but target’s course has been altered by antitank rifle fire.”

“Are you sure, observation post?”

“Affirmative, Two-Twenty-Two.”

Falkenstein was relieved. The right flank had been covered all along. Khan was still in the hunt.

“Excellent news, Wilms. Keep us informed. Without you, we’re blind down here. Two-Twenty-Two out.” He then returned to Schroeder and Reinhardt. “Make your way to the north side of the settlement and try for a clean shot at the tank. Vogel and I will cover the left flank. If Red Vengeance attempts to get past us, we’ll either have the good fortune to stop it there or send it back in your direction. Khan is somewhere to the east, covering the far right flank and will continue to do so.”

The two panzergrenadiers understood what they had to do. When Red Vengeance made a sweep close to the defensive positions, before breaking out, they would strike, at close quarters. They set off across the road at a run, ducking from one house to the next for cover. “Remain here for the time being, Corporal” the captain instructed Hartmann. “Should the need arise, either Wilms or I will inform you where to reposition the vehicle.” The scout car sped over to the southwest end of the settlement.

* * *

Like kindling, the main strong point had gone up in flames; the fencing and fruit trees that dotted the front yards had also caught fire. Above the sound of crackling timber, the powerful T-34 diesel roared. Although Reinhardt and Schroeder could see each other plainly by the light cast by the flames, thick smoke wafted through the backyards and had begun to obscure the details of the settlement north of the fires. Red Vengeance would use this screen to its full advantage. The anxiety Reinhardt now felt was not from the risk of carrying out an assault at close quarters; rather, it was the possibility of failure in the attempt. Schroeder followed as he ran further down the street past several more houses, following the sound of track links working the ground. The tank was closing in. “In here,” Reinhardt said to the corporal, and ducked into a weathered, dilapidated house. The dull glare of fire-light reflected on the walls provided enough illumination to see by. Drafts of smoke seeped in through the windows. As Schroeder followed, he walked to the back end of the house and turned right at a doorway that led to a small adjoining room. A basin on a stand and a scrubbing board were the only furnishings, and a number of uneven wood planks imbedded in the damp earth served as a floor. A door led out to the fenced-in backyard. Schroeder opened the door and was ready to step outside when the sound of a revving motor and breaking wood made him pause. Red Vengeance plowed through the adjoining yard, splintering fences. Outhouses and woodsheds fragmented and collapsed. The noise of destruction increased. The tank was only a backyard away. “When it passes, I’ll fire into its diesel plant,” Reinhardt said, poised in the doorway, “It might try a one-eighty degree traverse, so get that mine fixed on the hull directly over the fuel reservoir.”

“I know where,” Schroeder answered, petulantly. The armor around the engine is thick, Reinhardt thought, but I’ll be close—too close, in fact. The fence to their right burst into splinters, and the house trembled as the tank raged past, its girth knocking down the posts that supported a low overhanging roof. The entire section crashed down and blocked the doorway and the small window to the left of the door. Reinhardt threw his weight against the section of tin and wood framing and, with Schroeder’s help, tried to shove it aside. Valuable seconds were lost, and the sergeant cursed the useless effort. Finally, a narrow opening was achieved, and Schroeder barely managed to squirrel through. “Give me the panzerfaust,” the corporal shouted above the racket. The opening was too small for Reinhardt’s bulk. He passed the weapon over, knowing the opportunity had been missed. He picked up the bell-shaped magnetic mine that Schroeder had set down on the floor and ran out the front of the house with the intention of circling around and then trying to intercept the tank from another backyard further on.

Schroeder stepped over the debris left in the tank’s wake. Red Vengeance had continued through two more sections of fencing and had entered yet another yard. He ran after it to get closer, tucked the launching tube under his arm, and sighted down its length at the machine’s broad rear end. Engaging the firing mechanism, he was seized by a jolt from the blowback. At the very moment the projectile escaped the launching tube, the tank tracks had kicked up a large piece of trash. A flattened metal washtub deflected the course of the hollow charged grenade. There was an explosion, but the only appreciable damage was to the long wooden toolbox mounted on the right mudguard. Wrenches, spanners, nuts, and bolts flew in all directions as the box disintegrated. Schroeder knew he was in trouble and started to run. He could hear the whine of rheostats as the turret traversed to six o’clock. There was a deafening roar, and at once he was caught within the vortex of a raging storm. The high-explosive shell struck the back end of a neighboring house, and pieces of wood, metal, and glass pummeled him mercilessly. Something punched him in the chest, repeatedly, and his lungs collapsed like pierced balloons.

* * *

After the second explosion, Reinhardt waited by the side of the house before venturing into the backyard. The tank had rumbled on. Everything was in a shambles as he picked his way through. Amid the trash he found the corporal, sprawled on a section of downed fencing. The caved-in rear of the house that had been hit by the shell smoldered. Schroeder looked like a child’s doll would after a large hound had finished playing with it; at least, that was the only analogy Reinhardt could summon when viewing the battered, pulpy remains. The corporal had been skewered with a number of large, thick splinters of wood. Then he listened as the 20 mm gun on the command vehicle knocked out a series of rounds. By the sound, Reinhardt could gauge that Red Vengeance had made it to the left flank of the settlement and was attempting to cross the road. He waited to see if the captain was successful in driving it back. Apparently that wasn’t to be. He found the spent firing tube and picked it up. He should have never handed the weapon to Schroeder. They should have left the house together and circled around. Cursing his bad luck, he flung the tube as hard as he could into the night sky and ran back to where the Hanomag was parked. The whites of Hartmann’s eyes were orange with firelight when he looked into the driver’s side portal. “Did you manage to score one?” he asked Reinhardt.

“Either it was me or Schroeder—one of us fucked it up somehow. Anyway, he’s dead, and that’s the last of the panzerfausts. Any word from the captain?”

“He got off a few rounds as Red Vengeance zipped by.”

“Where is it now?”

Hartmann pointed over his shoulder at Mueller, sitting in the co-driver’s seat wearing headphones and speaking quietly into the microphone. Reinhardt mounted the fender and eased over the armored siding. After a moment, Mueller gave a report. “Red Vengeance has receded beyond the southern perimeter of the square. The captain has followed at a distance and is now stationary.”

Reinhardt had the novice signalman click on the radio speaker and hand over the microphone. “Two-Twenty-Two, this is Two-Five-One, come in, over.”

“This is Two-Twenty-Two. I gather you were unsuccessful in your attempt, Sergeant.” The captain’s tone wasn’t shaded with sarcasm, Reinhardt noted, only blunt. “Affirmative. Schroeder is dead. What is your recommendation, Two-Twenty-Two?”

“Stand by for now, Two-Five-One.”

Reinhardt put his hand over the mike and said to Mueller, “See if you can find the lieutenant. He should have been here by now.” As Mueller got out of the seat, Reinhardt took his place. The youth leapt over the siding and ran into the street. Indecisive, he looked both ways, as a pedestrian might, and then headed east. While the sergeant watched, he suddenly became aware of someone else in the crew compartment. Detwiler sat in the far left corner by the doors. “Sorry about the corporal,” Reinhardt said.

Detwiler looked up. “Yeah… I want a smoke.” The machine gunner took a cigarette from the mangled pack and offered one to Reinhardt. He shook his head; his throat was dry from the running, the cordite, and the fear. He went for the water can behind the seat and drank sparingly. There wasn’t much left. Chatter erupted over the headphones, and he listened as Wilms reported from the water tower. The tank was making a sweep of the town square, employing the hull machine gun and firing high-explosive rounds. They could hear it plainly from the vehicle. The captain’s headquarters and the assembly hall each took a direct hit. Suddenly, the motorcycle pulled alongside the Hanomag. Voss had finally arrived. Still a bit unsteady, Angst got off the back. Reinhardt called out to the lieutenant, “You found a survivor.”

“He’s still battle-worthy. So he claims, anyway,” Voss said, and helped usher Angst into the crew compartment. Mueller was just then returning to the vehicle. He climbed aboard, sweating, despite the chill in the air, and breathing hard. Voss crouched behind the co-driver’s seat. “Any word from the captain?”

“He said to hold our position for the time being.”

“Sorry for the delay, but we ran into Khan on the way over.”

“You better alert the captain.” Trailing wires, Reinhardt passed the headphones and mike to the lieutenant.

“Two-Five-One Voss calling Two-Twenty-Two, come in, over…”

“This is Two-Twenty-Two, over.”

“Five casualties sustained from initial encounter at repair depot. The women and two grenadiers, Braun and Schmidt, are dead. Corporal Angst survived with slight injury,” Voss said.

“He is an unusually lucky young man.”

“Khan has been located and sends abject apologies for allowing Red Vengeance to get through. Apparently he’d been outwitted.”

“That is of no importance now. I’m relieved to know he is still among us.” Falkenstein signed off. A voice burst from the rear of the crew compartment. “You’re all so goddamn clever. You think Red Vengeance can’t listen in on the same frequency?”

“Keep your voice down,” Reinhardt ordered.

“The crew speaks fluent German and knows our every move,” Detwiler continued angrily.

“We don’t know that for certain,” Reinhardt replied.

“How many casualties will it take before you are certain, Sergeant? Or you, Lieutenant?”

Wilms’s voice crackled over the radio speaker. “Cannon fire one hundred meters southwest of square perimeter.” They heard the report of the 76 mm gun, followed by the wail of an incoming round. A white ball of phosphorus erupted to the northeast of where the armored carrier was parked. “Incendiary,” Voss said.

“It knows, I’m telling you, it knows.” Detwiler placed his hands over his helmet and leaned down.

Wilms again: “Heads up! Second volley on the way.” Another whistle, this time directly above the vehicle as the shell landed among the houses on the opposite side of the road. The explosion took on the aspect of some multilegged creature as glowing white embers arched in all directions, followed by trails of illuminated smoke. The embers set small fires to everything combustible they came into contact with, the damp wood of the houses notwithstanding. The fire pattern was more general than precise as several more rounds volleyed over. The tank was igniting a fire screen, Voss thought, to create enough light to pick out targets and cause confusion. He raised the command vehicle. “Settlement under intensive blanket fire. Two-Five-One requests an immediate withdrawal.”

“Do as you see fit, Two-Five-One. Rendezvous by central maintenance complex, over.”

Voss returned the headphones to the sergeant. “The captain will meet us over by the repair facility. Let’s get out of here before the entire settlement goes up in flames.” Reinhardt nodded and switched seats as the lieutenant jumped off the vehicle and started up the motorcycle. Throwing it into gear, Hartmann wheeled the lumbering, brutish Hanomag through a yard, taking down a section of fence before maneuvering onto the dirt road. Flames had begun to fan out in all directions. Voss rode out in front, leading the way. He could have easily outdistanced the armored carrier on the smaller, faster motorcycle, but thought it better for the men, psychologically, that they take the short, dangerous trip together.

* * *

Well beyond the square, to the south, Red Vengeance remained outside the effective range of the captain’s 20 mm gun. Vogel had positioned the vehicle behind the ruins of the administration building, and there was no other cover to advance or retreat to. The tank had complete control over this part of town, including points north and east. Earlier, when the scout car covered the settlement’s left flank, Falkenstein had fired six rounds at the T-34 as it flew past. It had occurred shortly after Reinhardt and Schroeder’s failed attempt. The tank had wedged a path for itself between two houses, near the west end of the settlement, and raced across the road on a diagonal. It didn’t turn to the right and head down the road toward the square; instead, the tank continued south at full speed. The 222, parked to the side rear of the second to last house on the extreme southwest end, opened fire, striking the hull’s flank. Falkenstein regarded this as a momentous occasion. This was the very first time he had Red Vengeance directly in his sights and had fired upon it from ten meters away. Before the turret traversed to respond, Vogel was off between the buildings and taking the long way around to the square. The event was anticlimactic somehow. Falkenstein tried to remember what he was feeling at that precise moment, but in all honesty, he did not remember feeling anything. He had anticipated this moment for so long with a fervor that bordered on lust; and when the moment actually arrived, he did not feel anything special at all. He disengaged from the throat microphone and eased down from the turret. “What do you think, Klaus, should we try to get out of here?”

Vogel turned in his seat to face the voice that spoke to him in the darkened compartment. “Go or stay, Captain, the decision is yours.”

“I’m asking for an expert opinion. Has it been so long since I’ve asked for your advice you’ve forgotten how to give it?” The moment he’d asked the question, Falkenstein instinctively knew it had indeed been a long time. Since Khan had joined him, he had hung on to the shaman’s every word.

“Red Vengeance could arbitrarily fire upon our exact location at any time,” Vogel told him. “I could bring us around to the opposite side of the emergency air raid bunker and swing wide, north by northeast, to the far side of the settlement. The fires will then afford us plenty of cover.”

“Indeed. What are your reservations?”

“The speed I can do it in. More importantly, how good is Red Vengeance’s gun layering under these conditions? We will be exposed as I make that swing, in the full glare of the fires. With all I’ve heard, I don’t want to find out firsthand how good an aim that tank has.”

Falkenstein weighed his driver’s words. The reasoning was sound. It was a cat-and-mouse game, he was reminded; it had been so from the start. The tank did not know their exact location, but he was sure it presumed, correctly, that the scout car was close. The brick facade of the ruins offered some protection at the distance the tank was at now, but it would not stop an armor-piercing round at close range. Should the T-34 reenter the square, Falkenstein had the option of firing if it passed by within ten or fifteen meters. “I have decided, Klaus. We will stay here for the time being. Let’s find out who has the greater patience, shall we?”

“Radio silence, Captain?”

“Yes. Voss will simply have to wait.” Falkenstein worked his way up into the turret and settled behind the 20 mm cannon. He looked through the sighting mechanism, past an empty window socket, beyond a section of missing wall to the square and the darkness that lay even further to where his quarry resided. The tank had ceased firing, although the loud idling engine could be heard. Falkenstein thought he could see a vague reflection of firelight flicker across the hull. “I will defeat you,” he whispered. “You know our weakness but not our strength. My strength. You are trapped in this struggle the same as I, only my determination is greater, and that is what will destroy you.”

45

An hour passed, and still no sign of the scout car or word from the captain. Wilms had tried to raise the captain, as had Voss, but without success. Voss had gone so far as to make the request that Falkenstein click his set three times to at least acknowledge he was receiving. There was no response. If he was still alive, Falkenstein kept still, like a quarry in hiding. The settlement was burning quite magnificently, as were the captain’s former headquarters and the neighboring houses, including the few stores and sheds along the eastern perimeter of the square. Voss checked his watch yet again and decided, after five more minutes, to embark on a scouting mission of his own in an effort to locate the captain. Nerves were tense inside the Hanomag as the men took an opportunity to catch their breath, although rest was impossible. They were parked along the wall of the garage north of the maintenance building; Khan had eventually gravitated to their position and waited quietly, unobtrusively, for word of his master. A tinny voice sounded in Voss’s headphones. It was Wilms. “Target moving.”

“Direction?”

“South, southeast… full speed.” The crew became galvanized as the distant clatter from an MG34 sounded. The aura of a flash could be seen above the depot buildings, followed by an abrupt bang; definitely not the report of a 76 mm cannon. Another explosion followed, again not of the T-34’s cannon. It was the second grenade bundle to have detonated. Schmidt must have left his bundle with the machine gun crew when he informed them of their phony mission to link up with the nonexistent panzers. The poor saps, Angst thought, the only armor on the way belonged to the enemy. Another pang of guilt over the misery he was responsible for.

Wilms: “Grenade and machine gun fire south of the Old Cart Road.”

Falkenstein: “Who is covering that sector?”

Voss/Wilms: “Captain… Captain, are you all right?”

Falkenstein: “I repeat, who is in that sector?”

Voss relayed the question to the crew. Angst spoke up. “Herzog and… I can’t remember the other one…”

“Fritch,” Mueller responded.

Voss: “Two stragglers. Not ours.”

Wilms: “Well, looks like they just got squashed.”

Falkenstein: “That will be quite enough! What is the target’s heading?”

Wilms: “Target has crossed the tracks and continuing on a course due east; engine noise receding considerably.”

Falkenstein: “Maintain your position, Two-Five-One, on my way.”

Mueller got up off the bench and stood beside Reinhardt at the bow. “I can go over and see if they need help.”

“I don’t want to expose anyone right now. Let’s wait for the captain,” Reinhardt said.

Helplessly, Mueller sat back down. “They’re decent guys, Fritch and Herzog. I hope they’re all right.”

“Do yourself a favor, kid, and don’t hope,” Detwiler said, his voice brittle with anxiety.

Wilms: “It’s returning! Driving at top speed.”

Voss: “Where? Be precise.”

Wilms: “By the slag heaps… still making an approach… turret in traverse, gun angling high… it stopped. Oh, my God…”

Voss: “What is happening Wilms?”

Wilms: “It’s aiming at the water tower… at me!”

Wilms tore off the headphones and started to climb down the ladder. The thought that his actions were fruitless never occurred to him, quite the opposite in fact. He looped his arms through a rung in anticipation of the blast and was determined to hang on. The cannon fired, and before the noise completely registered, a terrific explosion rocked the tower. The front section of the enormous, barrel-like container blew out. A cascade of thousands of liters of water crashed down like the sound of shattering glass. Despite the concussion, Wilms miraculously held on, although his feet dangled, and he had to reposition both on the rungs so he could continue the descent. With each move, he realized how stressed the ladder had become from the explosion; the fastening hardware had loosened considerably. The rear side of the container still remained, but torrents of water spilled from the ruptured seams. He was not only getting soaked but also the waterfall pushed down on his head and arms with such force he was finding it a challenge to maintain a grip. He was almost to the catwalk when another high-explosive round struck. The ladder writhed, and he was caught in a whorl of twisting lumber, gobs of pitch, splinters, and water. He never let go of the single rung he still held as he plummeted to the ground.

Falkenstein: “Get out of there immediately, Two-Five-One; Red Vengeance has crossed the tracks and is heading toward the depot.”

Voss shouted the order to go, leaped over the siding, and was on the motorcycle as Hartmann had the Hanomag in gear and moving. Seemingly unfazed by the approaching threat, Khan stayed put. He turned the corner of the garage and, using the stout brickwork for cover, prepared his weapon. There was no time for the crew to react except to crouch low in their seats and expect the worst. Angst wished he had jumped clear, but the vehicle had gained too much speed and raced down the length of the narrow muddy street. Hartmann needed to turn to the right, fast, but the space he needed wasn’t available until he was past the machine shop. Under the best conditions, the Hanomag was a beast to maneuver. Detwiler watched from the rear, speechless. The gunner’s form was crisply illuminated by the glare of the tank’s spotlight at the far end of the muddy street. Reinhardt shouted, “Do it now, Heinz!” and Hartmann yanked the wheel and braked the left track assembly. The massive personnel carrier wiped out a tool shed as it made the wide turn. At the same moment, the 76 mm tank cannon barked. The armor-piercing shell screamed over the crew compartment, as heads ducked, and landed down the far end of the street, where it exploded. The rumbling bulk slowed as Hartmann eased up on the gas and turned, with more finesse this time, into the supply yard. Red Vengeance was not about to follow down the long, darkened street. The men breathed a sigh of relief and then listened to the rapid knocks of the command vehicle’s 20 mm and the crack of an antitank rifle.

* * *

Red Vengeance glided over the double set of torn tracks somewhere between the demolished water tower and the warehouse without bothering to use the road, crossing further to the north. The scout car had intercepted the tank only moments after it had turned on to the narrow, muddy street and fired its volley. When Vogel braked perpendicular to the target, a distance of only five or six meters separated the two vehicles. Aiming for the lead cog assembly, Falkenstein had time to fire off eight rounds as the turret began its traverse to three o’clock. Vogel responded by shifting into reverse and swinging neatly behind a cluster of tool sheds, flimsy cover at best. At the corner of the garage, Khan lay on his stomach, the bipod of the antitank rifle having settled a little too deeply in the mud. The tank’s girth filled the mouth of the street. The rifle barked and the recoil shoved the padded butt hard into his shoulder. The 14.5 mm projectile struck the lower edge of the front hull, below and to the right of the driver’s hatch. As the turret was already engaged in a traverse, the hull machine gun let off a long peal. Ready for this reaction, Khan had rolled back around the corner of the garage, dragging the long-barreled weapon with him, as the bullets kicked up mud and gravel and pieces of stonework splintered from the wall. The tank withdrew from the street quickly by turning to the left, picked up speed, and then turned right onto the gravel road. The turret traversed to three o’clock yet again and fired the 76 mm gun at will, its target being the entire depot. High-explosive shells punched holes through the brick and mortar walls of the repair garage. The thin corrugated siding of the maintenance building was torn apart as jagged fragments and large angular pieces flew about from the shattering explosions. The metal around the edges of these gaping shell holes were peeled back like a picked scab. Red Vengeance continued to fire down the entire length of the road, striking the repair garage to the south of the maintenance building and the machine shop. Reaching the end of the road, it braked and swung around 180 degrees and sped back up, its turret traversing to nine o’clock, and more deliberate care was taken as the cannon fired down every alley and intersection separating the depot complex of buildings. The rounds struck storage huts and work shop facades on the next street over and beyond; several more landed within the supply yard, fore and aft from where the Hanomag idled. One shell detonated amid a tier of oil drums. A mixture of paint sludge and gasoline used as solvent began to leak out from the ruptured containers. After the initial fireball was exhausted, the flames were negligible, but the smoke was thick and noxious. The armored carrier soon became engulfed by smoked laced with the heavy, almost sweet odor of paint. “We’ll be poisoned if we stay here,” Hartmann said. Reinhardt was of the same opinion. He sighted for the driver as best he could and called out directions—to the right or to the left—through stacks of worn tires, steel rails, crates, and skids. The junked materiel was at least concentrated into separate islands, leaving room to drive around; nevertheless, despite Hartmann’s careful maneuvering, the front end would clip one obstruction or another. The light cast from the settlement fire reappeared. Out from under the smoke, they could see again, and Hartmann eased to a stop. Reinhardt turned to the last of the crew, huddled on the benches. “This is where you get off. Take your weapons and the mines. Everything. You too, Mueller.” The order seized Angst in the chest. Detwiler let out a whimper. “Sooner or later Heinz will be forced to get the vehicle out of here. I’m going with him. That bastard of a tank will only continue to circle around and chew its way from the outside in.” The grenadiers collected all they could carry. Angst shouldered the satchel charge and slung the MP40 by its strap over his neck. Detwiler placed the three magnetic mines inside the canvas sack. He was not about to tote the machine gun and ammo but he did remove a carbine from the rifle mount on the siding. The sergeant thrust an ammunition box into Mueller’s arms. Inside were two petrol bombs and a grenade bundle. “Create as much havoc as possible with these,” he told the youth, and to Detwiler he cautioned, “But save the mines for the right moment. Understand?” All three nodded their heads in unison. They understood only too well as they piled out of the crew compartment.

* * *

Voss had narrowly escaped being torn apart. He had parked the BMW behind a workshop and weathered the fury on the ground, curled up at the base of the brick wall. His body pulsed with the vibrations from the barrage. A minute or more elapsed, and it became quiet again. Smoke from the explosions and a fire somewhere in the direction of the supply yard obscured what little he could see. He climbed back onto the motorcycle, drove around the small building, and looked down the narrow muddy street. He saw three figures scurry across and enter the garage down at the south end. He rode over and pulled up to the open entrance. A shell had blown a neat hole in the opposite wall. Crouched amid the broken brick and mortar scattered over the concrete flooring were Angst, Mueller, and Detwiler, passing around the contents of their lethal parcels. When the motorcycle appeared in the doorway, Detwiler registered shock. Engine noises were causing him to be seized with panic. “The sergeant booted us off the Hanomag,” Detwiler complained.

“Where is the vehicle now?” Voss asked.

“In the supply yard, somewhere.”

“And the captain?”

Nobody knew. Frustrated, Voss wished he had access to a radio. The Hanomag should be abandoned immediately, he thought; it served no other purpose than as a large, pondering, easy target for the T-34. Hartmann and Reinhardt had a better chance on foot. “I’m going over there now to find them,” he announced.

“What should we do, Lieutenant?” Mueller asked.

“Split up… take cover… exploit every opportunity… Over and out.” The motorcycle peeled away. Detwiler shook his head violently. It was a gesture of hopelessness. “That is some brilliant tactical thinking you just heard, fellows.” Angst separated the contents in the ammunition box. The fuse cords of the grenade bundle were looped together and ready to go. He gave it to Mueller. “Once you pull the lead cord, toss it directly under the tank chassis. Remember, you’ll have five seconds before it blows, so time your throw.” He then split the two petrol bombs between himself and Detwiler. “Let’s spread out. Keep your ears open, hug the buildings, and stay low,” he said, mostly for Mueller’s sake, who still contemplated the grenade bundle with worry.

“I’m headed for the water tower,” Detwiler said. “I want to get Wilms.” There was no chance the signalman could have survived the tower’s destruction or the fall, Angst knew. “This is no time for a bone recovery,” he told the machine gunner.

“I’m not about to leave him on the ground so he can get run over. You can do as you please,” Detwiler said, hoisting the canvas sack over a shoulder and taking the petrol bomb. He looked like a deranged Santa Claus as he left the garage.

“Stay here, Mueller, and keep an eye out at this end. There’s no point in having us all wandering around in the dark. Remember, if you get the chance, throw the bundle under the tank.”

“Right, Corporal.”

Angst patted the boy on the shoulder and urged himself into the darkness, his teeth chattering.

* * *

Vogel had moved the scout car out from behind the flimsy sheds and parked alongside the stout facade of a workshop to better withstand the rabid shelling. If Red Vengeance was trying to unnerve him, it was doing a splendid job. At the north end of the gravel road, the tank had turned left in the area between the water tower and the warehouse. Activating the turret traverse control, Falkenstein had the 20 mm pointing at six o’clock to cover their rear. The tank advanced beyond the sheds and workshops in line with the scout car’s position and, to judge by the nimbus cast by its searchlight, turned left again and continued south either within or just outside of the supply yard perimeter. Vogel zipped around to the narrow street on the opposite side of the workshop. Falkenstein spoke into the mike. “Two-Twenty-Two calling Two-Five-One.”

“Two-Five-One receiving.”

“Target is now west of supply yard and heading south.”

Reinhardt wanted to inform the captain exactly where they were without betraying their position. “We sure could use some advice, Two-Twenty-Two…”

There was a pause. Falkenstein understood the situation all too clearly. The armored carrier was near or directly in the tanks path. “Do what is necessary to protect your vehicle, Two-Five-One. I repeat, protect your vehicle at all cost. You are not alone. Two-Twenty-Two out.” Falkenstein switched off the mike. “This is going to be tricky, Klaus. Red Vengeance is on the west perimeter of the supply yard heading south. If you can negotiate the vehicle into the supply yard, we can slip in behind the tank as it passes. Red Vengeance will certainly turn left further down, either before or on the Old Cart road.”

“I’ll give it a try, sir,” Vogel replied.

“Take us back around so I can have a look.”

Vogel turned and edged forward slowly. The T-34’s searchlight was an attractive beacon, daring, even begging for interaction.

* * *

“Get us out of here—Red Vengeance is on the way,” Reinhardt said, and bolted from the co-driver’s seat to direct the maneuver from the crew compartment. Hartmann shifted into forward, then reverse, then back again to get the vehicle turned around in the right direction. A subtle change in the wind caused the smoke from the oil drums to blow in a more easterly direction. A harsh beam of light stroked the darkness as the Hanomag wove around the scattered piles of materiel. The tank was still some distance away and its searchlight was aiding in their escape, although the driver worked at remaining outside of the beam. Once he emerged from the supply yard, Hartmann continued across the muddy street, down the wide alley that separated the machine shop and the repair garage, and slowed, almost to a complete stop, at the gravel road. Reinhardt looked and gave the all clear. The vehicle turned left onto the road and picked up speed. Then something happened. Engine noises? A light? Reinhardt wasn’t sure but Hartmann became spooked and floored the accelerator. “Did you see the spotlight? It was right behind us!”

“I can’t tell…”

“I’m getting the hell off this road, now!” Hartmann had yet to reach an intersection or turnoff wide enough to accept the vehicle; instead, he downshifted and turned the wheel violently to the left, driving through an enormous breach in the corrugated metal wall of the maintenance building. “Watch your head,” he shouted as the fanglike edges of metal skin screeched abrasively against the armored siding. Reinhardt ducked down and held his head, reflexively, so as to keep it on his shoulders. The tracks churned up the debris of wood framing and metal panels that lay on the ground as the Hanomag raced down the interior of the building and out the far end. The vehicle was traveling too fast to make the turn at the immediate intersection. Hartmann tried, but the momentum was too great; the vehicle barreled across the alleyway directly toward the garage on the opposite side. The wooden doors remained only partially open as the armored bulk rammed through; there was a deafening roar as the wood disintegrated, and Hartmann braked hard and fast. Complete and utter blindness. He hit the switch on the dash that activated the headlamps on the front wheel fenders. Wheels and linked tracks slid over the oil-saturated concrete flooring as the vehicle screeched to a halt. The way out was blocked by the Mark IV wreck that stood in the entry. There was too much weight to the hull to try and push through. Hartmann bellowed a stream of obscenities as he swung the vehicle around. The garage wasn’t spacious enough for the size of the Hanomag to make a successful U-turn, but that didn’t stop Hartmann from trying. The front right end smacked into a wall, and the engine stalled. Reinhardt was rudely bounced around in the crew compartment. “Stop right here, Heinz, goddamn it!” Above the sound of his own panting, Reinhardt heard an engine. His stomach tightened as he went for a grenade bundle but remembered Mueller and the others had taken everything. As the sound increased, he relaxed. It was only the BMW. He called out as the motorcycle bounced past the garage entrance. Voss slowed and wheeled around. Timber from the ruined door lay in the opening. Inside, nose to the wall, the Hanomag looked like a zoo animal too exhausted to leave its cage. “We were trying to get to the other side of the depot,” Reinhardt said, “and hide the vehicle among the slag heaps on the other side of the tracks.”

“To hell with the Hanomag. It’s not worth the risk. Red Vengeance is around here, somewhere,” Voss replied.

Reinhardt looked at Hartmann, who remained slumped over the wheel, and said rather loudly, “To the south of us, by my reckoning. The captain warned us. His order was to protect the vehicle.” That was exactly what Voss was afraid of. The armored personnel carrier and his two best men were to be used as bait. “We might get lucky, Lieutenant,” Hartmann said.

Reinhardt concurred. “While Red Vengeance concentrates on us, the captain can intercept and score a few good hits. Immobilize it, finally.” Voss didn’t like any of it, but his sergeant and driver were keen on the idea and too fond of the vehicle to surrender it to the likes of Red Vengeance. He thought for a moment and worked out a route. They would stay off the gravel road. North of the garage, the nearby huts and tool sheds thinned out considerably. They would zigzag around and between these outbuildings and, once past the area in line with the water tower, make straight for the warehouse, drive through it, and then out the far end. Next, they would turn right—east—on River Road and over the railroad crossing; then, immediately, make a right turn again using the coal hoppers and elevator for cover before reaching the slag heaps near the equipment dump. “I’ll lead you over,” Voss said. “If Red Vengeance gets anywhere close, abandon the vehicle and get clear. That is my order.” Turning the motorcycle around, Voss rode to the end of the alley and looked down the gravel road. He gave the all clear, then wheeled about and did the same at the other end. The Hanomag fired up and exited to the right out of the garage and got on the motorcycle’s tail. Voss turned and saw Reinhardt standing at the bow machine gun. The sergeant waved. Voss waved back, then let out the clutch with one hand and opened the throttle with the other as he made the turn.

* * *

Once Falkenstein was sure the tank had driven past their position, he told Vogel to turn into the supply yard. They expected to see the searchlight but instead saw nothing. Slowly, the scout car eased through to the far side of the yard, and Falkenstein, raising himself half out of the turret, strained to see. Then he gagged. Smoke enveloped them. It had become as black as pitch and not a breath of air. “Back up,” he rasped. Vogel reversed and rear-ended a drum of burning sludge. A diesel engine roared and track links clattered. Between fits of coughing, Falkenstein urged his driver to continue to the west. Vogel managed to clear the smoke and had an easier time extricating the 222 from the supply yard. The captain choked and spat. Vogel turned south and, once on open ground, free of any obstructions, picked up speed. He continued almost to the Old Cart Road and swung left. Red Vengeance was nowhere to be seen. Falkenstein ordered him to turn onto the street separating the workshops and the repair depot complex. There was still no sign of the T-34. Further down, the poisonous cloud of smoke covered the street like a dense black fog, obscuring whatever lay beyond from view. He told Vogel to head over to the gravel road. On the way over, the realization of what had actually occurred dawned on him. Red Vengeance had not traveled to the south end of the supply yard, as he presumed it would. The tank changed direction while they fumbled in the smoke. That’s why he had heard the tank’s diesel engine so acutely; the tank used the smoke from the burning drums of paint sludge as a screen to confound them as it reversed completely and headed in the opposite direction. Falkenstein tried to raise the Hanomag over the radio but was greeted by static, followed by a sudden high-pitched wail that felt like an ice pick driven into his ear. He ripped off the headphones, in pain and dumbfounded. Reception perfect, and now this! “We’ve been fooled, Klaus. Stay alert! Red Vengeance is about to pounce at any moment!”

Vogel pushed the scout car down the gravel road as fast as it could go.

* * *

The night was swollen with noise and fire, men running, and machines that seemed to behave with the instincts of animals. From the beginning this had been a contest of machines, so Khan withdrew from this phase of the battle for the time being to allow it to run its feverish course. He did not excuse himself out of cowardice or contempt for his allies but merely out of wisdom. He climbed to the top of what remained of the water tower. A section of catwalk was still in place, but the water tank had collapsed in a pile of shattered lumber. The heavy supports had been weakened by the two explosions, but Khan was not concerned as he kept still and watched. He laid the antitank rifle across a stave that jutted from the mass of timber. The captain had insisted on fighting the beast at close quarters with his lightly armored car and 20 mm gun, which was no match for the densely armored Soviet tank. The weapon was not powerful enough—no weapon was, not even the behemoth Tigers the Germans believed were so invincible. Not where Red Vengeance was concerned. Khan had told the captain from the outset that the red monster could only be killed with help from the air. The hawk-winged airplane with the siren on its belly could dive from out of the sky and pounce on the beast. The captain took his advice but could not cultivate an ally among the pilots or the officers in charge. Yes, early in the hunt a few token missions were flown, but the pilots had no luck. Patience was required, and concentration, and time, but the airmen had none of these—at least not for the captain, for he himself lacked these qualities. Only anger, will, and white-hot revenge. It took many weeks to temper these faults, to rein the captain in; and Khan knew he was only moderately successful, even after he had employed his arsenal of craft and medicine. Without the combined use of fighter planes, their task had become all the more difficult. He told the captain that the beast must be made lame and destroyed by fire, crippled and set upon from all sides and heaped with relentless fire. But for now the Germans must be made crazy with their machines. There was no convincing them otherwise. They were a people who had absolute, unshakable belief in their machines. It was as powerful as magic or religion with all the whites. Khan watched the events unfold. Many men had died, and more would follow, some needlessly. Drive. Turn. Brake. Stop. Go. Forward. Reverse. It was so foolish and without result. Khan didn’t scoff or take delight in the knowledge that he was right. He could see everything, all the details of the fight, the poor maneuvers and misapplied tactics…quite clearly a situation that was headed for disaster. Especially for that armored battlewagon. A cow had more speed and sense than that machine. Khan saw the Germans not fighting in concert, together as one, but separately, each man fighting the same battle alone. He watched as the smoke from the supply yard fire entrapped and confused. The men in the battlewagon grew fearful when there was no immediate danger. A stray beam from the red beast, a gasp of flame from the settlement fire, perhaps even a distant flash of lightning had caught the driver’s eye. He went crazy with fear and crashed into the garage. The big man with the machine gun ran along the railroad embankment to find his dead comrade. The noises of all the machines filled him with terror. Khan could smell the man’s fear. Even more so now that he was alone, and he hated to be alone. The machine gunner could never find any solace within himself and craved company. Overwhelmed with fear and loneliness, he ran from the embankment and hid in a little shack north of the garage. Khan saw the other fellow, Angst, the one whose name meant “fear.” The captain and Vogel spoke of this, amused; they hoped the grenadier did not live up to this name. What sort of father would keep such a name for himself and his sons? This Angst fellow had grown confused by the smoke that blanketed the muddy street as he ran along the wall of the maintenance building. He stopped and entered the building but then came out again. His fright made him believe Red Vengeance hid within the smoke. He wavered with doubt that this could be, but with all the strange tales he had heard about the beast, he believed it was so. He struck a match, lit the fuse on the petrol bomb, and threw it. A muted orange ball of flame displaced very little of the dense smoke. The beast was not there, so Angst fled. He reentered the maintenance building and ran through to the other side, toward the disaster that was about to occur. Khan watched as the captain became lost in the smoke. This was saddest of all, because he allowed himself to be outwitted so easily. The beast traveled only as far as half the length of the supply yard, keeping close but well on the outside perimeter, unimpeded. The beast had switched off its searchlight, turned completely around, and drove in the opposite direction. It turned again, and Khan understood everything now as the beast positioned itself behind the sheds, almost directly across the way from the tower on which he stood. Khan tried to warn the lieutenant as he led the battlewagon out of the garage and turned north, but his voice was too weak—a great weakness, he always felt. It had been so ever since he was a child, but he made up for it with the animal voices he employed. He could bark louder than any dog and screech better than the owls. If he had a cartridge left, he would have fired a signal flare directly at where the beast was hiding, no matter what the risk. But all he could do was bark and howl as he got into position and aimed the antitank rifle. The machine gunner hiding in the shed near the garage became aware of the sound. He’d been frightened by the bark once, Khan remembered. He knew something was wrong, so he ran out of the little shed and called out to the men in the battlewagon, but they did not hear. Angst ran as well, having reached the garage only moments after the two vehicles made the fateful turn. On the gravel road, the captain’s machine raced toward the inevitable disaster. Khan made ready to fire.

* * *

Upon making the turn, Voss immediately sped forward to allow Hartmann the distance necessary to gear up. He had not ridden far when a host of sounds converged upon his ears: dogs, voices, and motors. The Maybach engine of the armored personnel carrier had developed a loud knock, a clear indication it had sustained damage, and Voss wondered if it would make it around to the slag heaps. He was in line with the water tower, thirty or forty meters away, when the distinct crack from Khan’s antitank rifle was heard. There followed a more horrific noise. Deafened, Voss instinctively leaned low over the handlebars as a 76 mm shell screamed centimeters over his head. The Hanomag seized up as an armor-piercing round struck the front end. Pieces of armor, engine parts, and shell fragments rocketed through the flooring, the firewall, and the dash, filling the driver’s compartment with a howl of steel. Hartmann thrashed about wildly but stilled in moments, and Reinhardt was pitched backward on to the crew compartment deck. Red Vengeance plowed through the thinly constructed tool sheds and storage huts, leaving a swath of crumbled siding, smashed workbenches, and planks and an assortment of mangled debris. Voss swerved to the right, out of the tank’s way, but it had no interest in him. He was no more a threat than would be a fly. It fired a second round, again into the vehicle’s front end. Both armored engine covers blew off completely, and from the well, flames and hissing smoke issued. Glass shattered, and liquid flame dripped down the side of the tank’s hull. Detwiler had tossed a petrol bomb and ran for cover, as the hull machine gun opened fire, and the barrel swept from side to side within the confines of the mantelet. Another crack from the antitank rifle, and the lead bogie on the tank’s left track was hit and pieces chipped. The 20 mm cannon hammered away at the hull and turret. The scout car had arrived and was within range, having taken cover behind the flimsy outbuilding near the garage. Falkenstein didn’t let up until an entire magazine was emptied of shells. Red Vengeance reversed its course from out of the street, backing over the sheds and crumbled remains, clearly in flight, and headed for the railroad crossing. Now that the danger had temporarily passed, Voss circled back to the Hanomag. Flames lapped at the sides of the front end. The rubber road wheels were burning. Voss boarded the crew compartment and found Reinhardt, lying wedged between the seating. He was groaning; arms, shoulders, and chest were torn and bloodied. Detwiler and Angst joined him on deck and helped to carry the mauled body off the vehicle and set him on the ground. Voss reboarded to see after Hartmann. The driver’s cabin had filled with smoke, and small tongues of flame stabbed in through the ports. Hartmann was clearly dead; a deep gash across his throat and his torso perforated by shrapnel, like the radio that was gored and spilling its elements. Voss called for help, and once again the two grenadiers were at his side, tugging the mangled remains out from behind the steering wheel. They laid the body down on the cold, wet mud, out of the way of any potential traffic. “Salvage as much of the equipment as you can,” Voss ordered. The scout car had since pulled up, and he and Vogel worked feverishly to make a pallet on the top of the motorcycle sidecar. First Vogel shifted the flamethrower so it lay more flat. Next he set several planks, salvaged from the nearby wreckage, and laid them across the top. With Voss’s help, he lifted the sergeant and set him lengthwise on the planks over the sidecar. Falkenstein kept vigil from the turret. “Take him to the emergency bunker, Lieutenant. We will regroup in the warehouse and take stock of our situation.”

“We tried to raise you on the radio before we left the garage,” Voss told him.

“I did the same, only there was interference. Red Vengeance allowed us to communicate for only as long as it was beneficial to itself,” Falkenstein replied.

Vogel had brought over the first aid kit from the 222 and applied a field dressing to the sergeant’s chest wound. “This is really bad,” Voss heard him mutter. Blood flowed liberally from the numerous wounds and pooled on the makeshift stretcher. “Where is Khan?” the captain asked.

“On the tower,” Detwiler called from the ruined vehicle. “He tried to warn us.” Falkenstein looked across the way and saw the shaman wave. The T-34’s cannon barked. The incoming shell whined and then crashed somewhere beyond the damaged sheds. “Off with you, Lieutenant! Klaus! And you grenadiers had better work fast.” Another volley sailed in and landed further down the street. Red Vengeance had retreated east, somewhere in the vicinity of the equipment dump. The captain had to admire the beast. It knew they would center on the destroyed vehicle to tend to the wounded and the dead. “Find us some cover, Klaus.” The scout car took the long way around to the warehouse, entering the building from the rear. Voss sped off to the bunker on the opposite side of town. Aware of the salvage operation in progress, Red Vengeance continued to fire high-explosive rounds while Angst and Detwiler made haste. They unlashed equipment from the siding, ammunition from under the seats, weapons from the storage lockers behind the backrests, and the water can. The bow machine gun had been severely damaged by the blasts. Detwiler didn’t bother with it and grabbed his own MG42. Although the shells landed short of the intended target, the sheer volume of noise and cascading debris hampered their efforts. Detwiler slung the Pshagin submachine gun over a shoulder and rooted for another magazine drum. “We still have the antitank mines to haul,” Angst reminded him. The shells began to zero in closer as they clamored off the wreck, laden with weapons and mines. Angst had difficulty keeping up, with the weight of the water can and satchel charge in each hand, the MP40 and belts of ammunition draped around his neck. The hot breath of detonating shells blew at their backs as small, deadly fragments winged past. Angst stumbled, and the weight of all he carried sent him sprawling. Something took hold of his tunic collar and yanked him out of the mud. Detwiler. The panzergrenadier half-dragged, half-carried him along, as well as the loads they both carried, to the safety of a narrow alley between two workshops. They dropped to the ground and lay flat on the soft, wet earth, an arm thrown over each other’s heads for protection until the barrage lifted. Then all became silent, except for the blood throbbing in their ears. Self-conscious of the position in which they lay, both men sat up. Angst leaned against the workshop wall, the stonework cold against his back. Although he breathed heavily from the exertions he was impelled to make, Detwiler wanted a cigarette. He searched around in all his pockets. “Damn, I think I smoked my last.” Angst removed the flat rectangular box from the breast pocket of his tunic and handed it over. “Last one,” Detwiler commented. Angst nodded to indicate it was all right. The water can was leaking from shrapnel punctures. There was no sense in allowing what little remained to go to waste, so he drank freely and passed the can to Detwiler. Once it was empty, Detwiler tossed the can aside. “One less thing we have to carry,” he said, and continued to smoke. Angst smiled but did not respond. He owed the machine gunner his thanks for saving his life but was at a loss for words. They had been at each other’s throats from the time they had first met; at least Angst was, never forgetting the erection Detwiler displayed after the battle of the Tortoise Line. How abhorrent he found the man. Yet, despite the animosity and seething antagonism, even outright hostility on occasion, Detwiler had risked his own life to drag him to safety. What Angst now realized, so bitterly, was that he would not have done the same; had Detwiler fallen, he would have left him and continued to run, all because he didn’t like him. “Thanks…for back there,” he choked out.

“Forget about it, Corporal. Let’s call a truce to our differences and leave it at that. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Angst replied.

“Good, because I’m counting on you to watch my back when the time comes.”

“You’re not half as stupid as you make yourself out to be.”

“Oh yeah? Well, maybe I’m not. All I know is, we lost all our friends this night, and we have only each other to rely on.”

Before he had the chance to stub out the cigarette, Angst took it from him and smoked the last few drags. He flicked the butt into a puddle, and the ember hissed loudly. He hurt all over, even worse than from before, when the Volkswagen was destroyed and all his friends were killed. He did not want to think about it. He could not afford to, not now. How many times have we been exposed to this tank and walked away? It was extraordinary luck—unheard of, even. He started to pick up the weapons and ammunition when Detwiler stopped him. “Leave all that shit. We can get it later. Take the satchel charge and your weapon. I still have the mines.” They slipped out of the alley, past the burning Hanomag, utilizing the cover that was available. There were fewer buildings at this end of the depot, and spaced further apart. Most had been flattened by the tank or the shelling. They crawled on hands and knees, at times on their bellies, Angst swearing all along that he could hear the turret rotate and the gun cradle raise and lower. “How many shells can a T-34 keep on board?” He had known the answer at one time but could not recall.

“Seventy-five, I think. Maybe more,” Detwiler replied.

“You would think it has used up most of them by now.”

“I haven’t been counting.”

They crawled the distance to the support stand of the truncated water tower. Amid the debris of wood staves that had once formed the container, they found Wilms. He lay on a narrow width of ground between the gravel road and the gully that ran along the base of the tower. Water had flooded the depression and had formed a long, narrow lake. Upon inspecting the body, they deduced that it was the fall that killed him, not the effects of the high-explosive round. There were no marks or glaring shrapnel wounds that either of them could see. Detwiler stepped into the water and suddenly found himself knee deep. He cursed as his boots flooded. Getting out, he remarked that had Wilms landed a few more centimeters over, he would have landed in the muddy water, which might have lessened the severity of the fall. “It was his time, I guess,” Detwiler commented. Taking an arm each, they dragged the body to the base of the tower. Detwiler pulled the tattered shelter half over Wilms’s head. “We can bury him later.”

An ominous shape materialized over their heads. Before they had time to unsling their weapons, Khan had leaped off the lower support strut and landed among them. He shook his head condescendingly as the grenadiers fumbled with their submachine guns. In a heavy, piping accent, he spoke a few words in German, pointed in the direction of the equipment dump, and then started to rattle on in Russian. Detwiler attempted a translation. “Red Vengeance has retreated to the east. Very far to the east.”

“Does this mean it’s over?”

“No such luck,” Detwiler said, and, for Khan’s benefit, he pointed to the north and said, “Warehouse. Captain.”

Khan spoke again and waited in expectation for a word or some sign from them, but Detwiler pointed again and said, “Captain. Mach schnell.” The shaman fell in behind them as they slithered through the dark. Angst heard Detwiler mutter, “He’s a strange one, but I’m glad he’s on our side.”

* * *

Fires burned everywhere. Ruins had rekindled, and the workers’ settlement had become concentrated with so much heat and flame that Voss had to detour off the River Road. The ground appeared on fire as the pools of collected rainwater reflected the inferno. He rode as fast as possible, but it was slow going; the slightest bump and dip caused Reinhardt to moan. At least he’s still breathing, Voss thought. The BMW slid to a stop as he braked at the entrance to the bunker. “I need help! Bruno, get out here!” Matthias Bruno hurried up the slope, hands encased in bloody rubber gloves. “Help me lift him.” The orderly took hold of the ankles and Voss the shoulders. The body sagged in the middle as they carried the sergeant down the slippery grade. Once inside, they laid him on several benches that formed a small, low table. Reinhardt’s legs dangled off the end. Taking the paraffin lamp so he could see better, Bruno examined the body. The field dressing had soaked through. Handing the lamp off to the lieutenant, Bruno took surgical scissors and cut away the shirt and tunic and threw aside the bloody bandage. Inspecting the abused torso, he said, “Multiple penetrations to the shoulders and chest cavity. Very deep. Looks like shrapnel.”

Voss nodded. “What can you do for him?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. I can apply dressings with enough pressure to slow the blood loss and reduce whatever pain he’s in with morphine. But all this is beyond me. These men need to be evacuated to a field hospital, and even that’s not a guarantee.”

“Where are the others?”

“Others? There is only one,” Bruno said, pointing to a form lying on an earthen bunk. A wad of bloody rags was wrapped below the calf where the foot should have been. The rest of the leg was horribly crushed. He was one of the stragglers. Voss did not know his name. “That poor wretch is all that’s left from the workers’ district. He’d been run over. The foot was missing when I got to him. I’m trying to work up the nerve to cut off the rest.”

Voss nearly became ill. How many casualties have been sustained since the battle started? he wondered. He pictured faces and started to count. “Didn’t you hear me, Lieutenant? No one had been briefed that your captain was prepared to engage Red Vengeance. That was the whole purpose of this ‘advance observation post.’ An outright lie. Your commanding officer and you, by complicity, lied to these men. Had they known the insane truth, they would never have stuck around. So they ran, but it was too late. Red Vengeance mowed down everyone in its path. Our one-legged friend over there told me before he passed out. These men were lied to, and now they’re all dead.”

“Wilms eleven, and the women make fourteen…”

“What are you going on about?” Bruno spoke roughly.

“Seventeen casualties. That is including dead and wounded, and Mueller, who is missing.”

“Your arithmetic is impeccable, no thanks to you or your captain.” Methodically, Bruno cleaned and dressed the wounds as best he could under the primitive conditions. Voss had retreated to the bunker entrance to smoke. He looked at his wristwatch. Almost twenty-four hundred. It seemed as though only an hour had passed since he had tried to put an end to this business with Falkenstein. Was it easier to battle Red Vengeance than the captain, he wondered? First Hartmann and now Reinhardt, barely clinging to life. He had to believe he acted correctly, that the horror and bloodshed would have been inevitable, whether he removed Falkenstein or not. The choice, he realized, may have cost him the very last of his crew.

Having finished trussing the sergeant with bandages, Bruno removed the gloves and signaled for Voss to come over. “You might want to have a word before the morphine takes effect. I was very liberal with the dosage.”

Voss knelt down beside the bench. “I’m sorry, my old friend,” he said quietly, and brushed a strand of hair that lay across the cold, clammy brow. “I have to go now, but I will come back for you.” Reinhardt had heard something and touched Voss weakly with his hand. “Rest now, Dieter, rest. I will look in on you soon.” Reinhardt’s eyes remained closed, but the look of anguish on his face receded. Voss placed the hand gently at the sergeant’s side and said to the orderly, “Do your utmost for him. He deserves better than this.”

“So do we all, Lieutenant.”

Large, heavy drops splashed into the bunker entrance; the aura of lightning was followed by peals of thunder. There was more to be endured, Voss thought, as he stepped into the wet, brittle chill of early morning. He threw aside the bloody pallet and started the motorcycle. He barely made it to the repair depot on the fumes left in the gas tank.

46

From a small window on the warehouse’s second tier, Falkenstein stood watch. Flashes of lightning illuminated the landscape at brief intervals. If he was seeing correctly, with the aid of binoculars and his one good eye, Red Vengeance had taken a stationary position one kilometer to the east with a clear line of fire at anything that tried to make an approach. There would be no chance of getting into effective range, Falkenstein knew, not with the puny weapons at their disposal. “It sits there and doesn’t move. I wonder what it is thinking. If it can think,” he mused aloud.

“The beast smarts from its wounds, Captain.”

He was relieved to have Khan at his side once again. The shaman took responsibility for allowing the tank to penetrate their meager defenses. Falkenstein did not affix blame and would not listen to an apology, especially from Khan. The lightning and the sound of the automobile all played a hand, not to mention his adjutant’s behavior. Red Vengeance exploited a moment of weakness and confusion. “It must be suitably injured, so a mistake is made so fatal it cannot back out. It’s aware of our limitations. All of our weapons haven’t the necessary range.”

“No more can it run about like a big cat,” Khan replied.

There was truth to this simple analogy. The front cog on the left track assembly had been damaged. Falkenstein had deliberately aimed at the wheels when chance permitted, and he was also aware that some damage had been sustained to one of the track links. Very little effort would be needed before maneuverability was seriously impaired. He entertained the notion of sending out a demolition party, under the cover of darkness, to blow up the tank with the mines and satchel charge. He could finish the job with the flamethrower himself, if he had a mind to.

“Remember, Captain, do not think of Red Vengeance as a machine but as an animal. Cunning. It wants to lure you onto the steppe,” Khan warned him, seeming to sense what Falkenstein was considering.

“What alternative is there?”

Khan gestured with the antitank rifle. “Let me sting it with this and force it to move again.”

“Out there? Alone? You wouldn’t have a chance.”

“As long as I have the dark, I can.”

“Take one of the grenadiers along, at least.”

“No, Captain. I can hide in the dark, as other men cannot. Let me enrage the beast and send it blindly into your grasp.”

They worked out the details of a plan. Khan would need time to find a suitable firing position. Then he would have to dig a hole—very narrow, but deep, so he could retreat to it if necessary. If he were discovered, he would have a greater chance of survival in a properly excavated foxhole. The tank could swivel and traverse over the narrow opening but not bury him alive. The whole point was to keep that from happening. To accomplish this, Khan would need two or three hours; he wouldn’t know exactly how long until he was out on the steppe. That would be the real test: covering the nearly one kilometer of distance in the open. Falkenstein didn’t press for a more specific timetable. The operation had ceased to be purely military; other factors had long since come in to play. He would have to trust the ancient, native methods Khan employed. It was the only real power that remained in a depleted arsenal. Nevertheless, Falkenstein could not help but express some doubt. What if Red Vengeance were to maneuver to another location or launch an attack before Khan was ready?

Khan allayed the captain’s fears. “The beast is frustrated and prefers to wait, until dawn if necessary.” He was confident that he could force the tank to move before that time.

Together, they descended the stairs to the scout car parked in the mouth of the entrance bay. Angst and Detwiler sat close to the vehicle’s rear quarter to absorb the warmth emanating from the armored engine covering. Khan took inventory of the small box of 14.5 mm armor-piercing shells for the antitank rifle. There were only eight. He placed the box in the canvas shoulder bag and removed an entrenching tool from the toolbox. He was ready to leave. “Come back to me, Khan.” The sincerity in Falkenstein’s voice was plainly evident.

“And you, Captain, beware. After you strike the final blow, that is when the beast will be more alive than ever before.” He gathered rifle and gear and waited a moment before leaving the warehouse. Falkenstein watched as the shaman crossed the railroad tracks, using the coal elevator for cover, moving from there to the coal hoppers, running and turning at sharp angles as he skirted around, behind, and in between the slag heaps. Anticipating lightning before it flashed, Khan would either hide from view or lie motionless as the sky lit up for a split second or two. He would be off and running when the darkness returned.

* * *

Exhausted of fuel, the motorcycle glided to a stop at the edge of the supply yard. Abandoning the vehicle, Voss shouldered the flamethrower and made his way through the repair depot. He came across the scene of the first attack. The Volkswagen chassis smoldered, and the metal and viscid human wreckage lay churned and run over in the mire. He continued down the muddy narrow street, past the water tower on his far right, to the most recent encounter—and, for Voss, the most costly: the Hanomag. A high-explosive shell had since landed in the crew compartment and a door had been shorn from its hinges, the siding buckled outward. The seating and stowage lockers were scorched, and the equipment left onboard was scattered and broken. The smoke reeked of singed horsehair as the bench cushions burned. Someone poked through the trash that lay around the vehicle. Mueller. When Voss called out his name, the youth whirled, ready to throw what he held in his hand. It was the grenade bundle. “Careful with that thing,” Voss cautioned him.

“I thought everyone had left, and I was all alone, with only the dead for company,” Mueller said, in an unsteady voice.

“The captain has regrouped at the warehouse. I’m going there now,” Voss told him.

The interval of suspected isolation and abandonment had shaken the youth to a substantial degree. He had been crying but now, in the officer’s presence, attempted to appear in more control. He had spent his time covering Hartmann’s body with a frayed tarpaulin and salvaging some more items from the vehicle. He showed Voss the Very pistol and box of flares. He also discovered the small arms left behind by Angst and Detwiler. “Leave the weapons here for now,” Voss recommended. “We won’t need them for what we have to do.”

“I was so terribly thirsty and started to look for some water. Corporal Angst had me cover the south end of the depot, only the tank never showed. I don’t know what I would have done if it had.” He handled the grenade bundle self-consciously. It was obvious to Voss the boy had hid from the fight and was either ashamed or worried that he would have to give an account of his behavior. “You will have another opportunity to throw your bomb. Now, let’s get over to the warehouse. I can officially remove you from the missing-in-action list.” Mueller smiled weakly and followed the officer.

* * *

“I see you have brought reinforcements.” Falkenstein stood in the doorway of the warehouse, binoculars in hand. Mueller saluted the captain and immediately joined the others, who were napping beside the scout car. When Voss outlined the full casualty situation to the captain, the news was received coldly. “The prognosis for Sergeant Reinhardt and the grenadier is not optimistic,” Voss added. “There is little the medical orderly can do for either one.” Even if they were to evacuate immediately, the task of saving the wounded—or even their own lives—would prove impossible, Voss thought. Between Red Vengeance and the mud, it was doubtful the command vehicle would get very far. The fuel reserves were all but finished. “Where is the tank now, sir?”

“Another half of a kilometer beyond those ruined farmhouses and out-buildings. Approximately one kilometer in total. Khan is out there now, setting up a firing position. You will want to take the remainder of the crew back to the repair depot and take up positions. Khan and I will attempt to herd the tank over in that direction. With any luck, Vogel and I will keep Red Vengeance contained within this immediate area and restrict its movement, so it doesn’t withdraw to an open space and dominate the surroundings.”

“And if not?”

“Then we will have to improvise, Lieutenant. I’ll risk getting as close as possible.”

“Offering the scout car as bait this time?” Voss asked.

“No, but certainly as the most logical target—but not without adequate cover. I want to relish the tank’s destruction, not succumb to it,” Falkenstein replied.

It only stood to reason, Voss knew, that after so much time spent and so many lives lost, Falkenstein would want to savor the final abuses upon the object of which he had poured so much hatred.

“This is our last chance, Voss. I want you and Corporal Angst to be especially aware of this fact.” In a manner of unprecedented subtlety, Falkenstein reminded the lieutenant of his responsibility for the deaths of the two crewmen and the women. Voss had given orders that were not his to give and broke radio silence. These two infractions irked the captain more than the parlor room showdown he’d attempted earlier. That he could almost forgive, under circumstances of extreme stress and fatigue. But however well-intentioned and misguided his motivations were, Voss would have to make good for his complicity for the casualties.

“Corporal Angst and I will make a supreme effort. Will that be all, Captain?”

“This may take some time. The men should take the opportunity to rest up, by turns, while Khan prepares.”

Voss wished the captain luck, then roused the three grenadiers and led them out the rear of the warehouse, along the exterior wall. At brief intervals, one man at a time, they crossed over the open stretch of ground before dropping behind the damaged sheds for cover. The repair garage at the north end was the closest, and that was where he had them converge. He called a short briefing of his own to inform them of the captain’s plan. “There is no guarantee how Red Vengeance will react or even if it can be coaxed before daylight. Detwiler, I want you and Mueller at the south end of the depot, but no further than the machine shop. Keep out of the maintenance facility building—it offers no protection whatsoever. Angst, you will stay close to me and do exactly as I tell you. Most important of all, be aware of the scout car. It will be firing upon the tank at every opportunity. The captain will try to drive the tank toward us, so don’t take any unnecessary risks out in the open. Be absolutely sure of the scout car’s position and where it’s firing. The purpose is to render the tank immobile and then finish it off, not get cut in half by a 20 mm shell.” He then had the men discard every piece of nonessential equipment and paraphernalia. They would all have to work fast and loose when the time came. Per the lieutenant’s instructions, Angst was given a magnetic mine from the sack, and Detwiler kept the rest. The satchel charge was given to Mueller as along with his grenade bundle. “Good luck, fellows. Make no mistakes.” Detwiler and Mueller exited the garage at the opposite end. While Voss unbuckled the shoulder harness of the flamethrower, Angst took some of the weight of the double fuel canisters and helped set it down on the concrete floor. The rain had let up but, feeling chilled, Angst wished he had brought his shelter half along. He couldn’t remember where he’d left it and asked to return to the wrecked Hanomag and look. The lieutenant forbade him and instead removed his own camouflage field jacket for Angst to wear. The inside of the jacket was warm. Voss suggested they take turns getting some rest. “I’ll wake you in an hour,” he said. The cement flooring was damp and cold, so Angst took a section of broken door panel to sit on. Every muscle and joint ached, yet his mind was clear and overactive. He dreaded the upcoming battle, but the fight was better than the lull, because it didn’t allow him time to think. All he could do at the moment was to think of Braun, Monika, and the final look of horror on Schmidt’s face. When he was engaged in the fighting, he thought of nothing but getting even, but now the time afforded him nothing but worry over his fate. If his friends could be destroyed so easily, in the blink of an eye, what chance would he possibly have? He had the desire to talk, about nothing in particular, but Voss was not in the mood. He had his own manner of wrestling with what lay ahead. “Calm yourself,” Voss said, as he listened for any clues of the tank’s intent. Calm myself, Angst thought, as his nerves bundled tightly into a fist of anticipation.

* * *

Vogel drained the last drops of gasoline into the fuel tank and set the empty can aside. He removed all the external equipment on the vehicle—the heavy tools from the toolbox, the spare tire—to lighten the load. “Everything in working order, Klaus?” the captain asked.

“Like a charm, sir.”

“You’ve managed to extricate me out of many difficult situations because of your skill driving that thing. Now the true test of your abilities. This time we will enter straight into the fire.”

Vogel patted the armored siding. “She’s a good machine, Captain.”

Falkenstein continued to make small talk for a while longer, mainly about the weather and the damp chill in the air and how long it would take before Khan was ready to act. This was unusual for the captain, Vogel thought; perhaps he was displaying signs of nerves. He climbed into the turret, verified that the ammunition rack was stocked to capacity with twenty-round magazines of armor-piercing shells, and double-checked the weapon to see that it was in perfect operational condition. The long wait was oppressive, so Vogel busied himself with a string of chores, some necessary and others superfluous, doing anything to quell the anticipation. Straight into the fire…the captain’s words echoed in his ears. We could get burned this time, he thought.

47

A dull thud resounded in the distance, followed by a sharp metallic knock. Moments passed, and the same noise was repeated. Khan had fired off two rounds from the antitank rifle. The tank’s searchlight came to life, and the beam arced from left to right, seeking a target. The diesel coughed, and then the rattle and clank of ribbed tracks sloughed through the saturated ground. Red Vengeance was on the move. The scout car idled as Falkenstein climbed aboard and entered the turret. Vogel eased the vehicle out of the warehouse bay, stopped, and waited. The glare from the searchlight illuminated the churned soil as Red Vengeance drove toward the railroad tracks. The turret swiveled from nine to three o’clock in anticipation of where the next threat would originate. Never before had the machine appeared more animalistic than now, with its piglike snout on the alert. When the cannon shifted its aim toward the opposite direction, Falkenstein gave the order, and the scout car raced from the warehouse entrance to the next cover position, the coal elevator. Vogel remained on the west side of the tracks but kept the vehicle in line with the tall, narrow structure. He nosed forward at the captain’s command. The 20 mm cannon fired off a succession of rounds at the tank’s right flank. The small, armor-piercing shells sparked against the thick, armored hide. Falkenstein knew he was out of effective range and had to get closer. Before the turret swiveled back to three o’clock to bring its gun to bear on the exposed scout car, Vogel shifted into reverse and braked behind the elevator. The tank no longer possessed the same speed and maneuverability it once had. Reaction time showed signs of sluggishness, but the machine wasn’t stupid. No sooner had the scout car braked than an armor-piercing shell punched a hole through the elevator siding. The air was displaced above Falkenstein’s head as the projectile streaked by like a comet. Vogel was in tune with the situation. They only had seconds as the tank slipped in behind the slag heaps, where it was protected but would have difficulty aiming a killing shot. Without needing the captain to tell him to do so, Vogel turned about and sped north, down the gravel road, and turned left to the back end of the warehouse before another round could be loaded, sighted, and fired. When the shell did strike, the scout car was safely out of the way. Once past the slag heaps, Red Vengeance turned sharply to the right, crossed the tracks, and continued down the gravel drive that led to the warehouse entrance.

* * *

Voss stood behind the junked Mark IV and watched as the fight resumed. Dawn had barely arrived; a diffuse light under a pileup of clouds; the surroundings gray, ruined, and sordid. After Khan’s opening volley, only minutes had elapsed since the sound of the engine was heard and the subsequent bark of the 20 mm gun and the booming cannon that answered. The support stand of the water tower obstructed Voss’s view, so he left the cover of the useless panzer and walked to the gravel road. Focusing the binoculars, he observed the T-34 edge slowly toward the warehouse entrance, stop, and then fire into the building. High-explosive, Voss assumed, judging by the smoke and debris that mushroomed out the rear end. Angst ran over and stood beside him. “Can you see the captain?”

“No, but I gather the command vehicle is somewhere in or near the back end of the warehouse. At least that’s where Red Vengeance believes it to be. I should take the flamethrower and help out.”

“That’s suicide, Lieutenant,” Angst protested. “There’s no cover for you to get that close. You’ll be cut to pieces.”

Through the binoculars Voss could see a puff of smoke emanate from the hull’s right side, followed by an emphatic clash of metal. The turret swung around to five o’clock and fired another high-explosive round at the coal elevator. Timber and siding planks hurled through the air, exposing the skeletal coal lift machinery within. That was Khan who had fired, to divert attention from the 222, Voss realized. If the Mongol was as acutely aware as the captain claimed, he had fired from a position near the elevator but not in the building itself. The shell from the antitank rifle, although not crippling, had the desired result. Red Vengeance traversed to the right and, at a crawling speed, heaved its bulk on to the gravel road and proceeded north. “I’m not sure, but the captain’s vehicle might still be in the game,” Voss said, as he gave the binoculars to Angst. What caught Angst’s attention when he looked was the veil of blue exhaust fumes that poured from the tank. “It’s definitely hurting,” he said. Turning, he noticed the lieutenant’s annoyance as he looked at a newcomer. Detwiler had joined them. “Why did you leave your post?” Voss asked.

“We heard shooting.”

“Of course there’s shooting. Now, get back to where you belong and stay there,” Voss ordered angrily. Every action was critical from this moment onward, and patience, Voss knew, was necessary if they were not to incur more losses. Everyone wanted it over with, himself included. The fight had dragged on for too long. He shook his head with exasperation as he watched Detwiler turn the corner at the end of the garage, where Mueller waited for him. So, both grenadiers had come forward to watch and satisfy their curiosity. He called out to them again to move back.

The turret revolved, its cannon pointing at six, three, and twelve o’clock and back again. Angst pointed in the direction of the elevator. “Look, Lieutenant!” Voss detected movement and lifted the binoculars. Khan, covered completely in mud and grime, darted around the piles of slag. His short, powerful legs worked furiously, but he didn’t seem to pick up any speed. Something was obviously wrong as he bounded over the split ends of railroad ties, across the road, as he held the rifle by the squared muzzle end, dragging the shoulder stock in the dirt. He wobbled over to Angst and the lieutenant by the Mark IV. The magic vest might protect him from bullets and shrapnel, but his head had been clobbered by debris from the exploding elevator. A contusion had developed on the left temple, and a clot of blood filled his ear canal. “He should wear a helmet,” Angst commented. Khan pointed in the direction of the warehouse and tried to communicate something. Difficult to understand under the best of circumstances, his speech was now slurred as well. Voss translated as best he could. “He saw the Two-Twenty-Two exit the rear of the warehouse and take cover behind a group of outbuildings along the back end, just as the tank fired.” Khan grew more animated as they heard, then caught a glimpse of, the scout car as it drove behind the cluster of damaged sheds and workshops near the site of the ruined Hanomag. The vehicle then reappeared as it turned in between a narrow opening separating a workshop and tool shed and pulled up alongside the garage wall to escape the tank’s notice. A shroud of wood splinters, brick, and mortar dust coated the surface of the vehicle, evidence of a close call. “Red Vengeance needs room to maneuver and will not venture down these narrow streets,” Falkenstein called down from the turret opening.

“Judging by its slow rate of speed, some damage has been sustained,” Voss said, optimistically.

“And it will continue to run circles around us, despite the pace, until its task is complete…what the devil is the matter with Khan?”

The shaman had sunk to the ground, an arm slung over a cog for support.

“Concussion. He was by the coal lift when it blew up,” Voss explained.

“Damn! See that he’s placed under cover for now. Where are Detwiler and Mueller?”

“On their way back to the machine shop. Their interest was aroused.”

“Vogel and I will be at the south end. Keep it on this road, Voss. Wear it down. Let it run the gauntlet on this road and grind it down.” Falkenstein’s voice trailed off as the scout car U-turned and sped down the muddy street. Voss returned to the Mark IV and joined Angst. The tank had followed the gravel road as far north as the crossing and traversed a full 180 degrees. It would return down the same road, as the captain had said. Voss had Angst gather the antitank rifle and shoulder bag and help him carry Khan into the garage. They laid him down in a far corner with his weapon close at hand. “Keep your head covered next time,” Angst said, but Khan did not seem to understand, so he pointed to his own head. Voss hoisted the flamethrower onto his back and cinched the shoulder straps. “Corporal, I want you to get into the ditch by the water tower. Red Vengeance should pass by close enough for you to fix a charge.”

Angst’s bowels churned. “It’s covered in cement paste…”

“You might get lucky. Don’t dawdle, there isn’t time.” They went over to the Mark IV, where Angst took off the camouflage jacket, removed the Walther P-38 from his belt, and set both on the rusting hull. “Bear in mind, Corporal, the closer you are to the tank, the less you will be observed by the crew within.” Angst was fully aware but didn’t know why he had to get soaking wet in the ditch to carry out the assault. Armed with the magnetic mine and the lieutenant’s words of encouragement, Angst sprinted to the base of the water tower. The ditch that ran alongside the road was at its deepest point here, he remembered, and filled with an obscene mix of muddy water, oil, and grease. He looked at Wilms’s corpse lying under the tower, the shelter half still covering his face. Then he stepped into the water, a half-meter in depth, shocked by the reptilian cold. He settled in as deeply as possible, careful to keep the magnetic charge out of the slime. The T-34’s diesel engine strained as it drew closer. Angst raised up just enough to steal a peek over the rim of the ditch. The tank clattered onward, slowly, thirty meters away. The cannon, pointed at two o’clock, covered the buildings as it advanced. Angst ducked back down and listened as the armored symphony increased in volume, worried that his joints would seize at the decisive moment. He lay flat, his shoulders pressed against the sides of the ditch, and held the mine up with two tired arms. The sound had swiftly transformed into a deafening roar. Any moment now, he thought. The tank was too close for the crew to see him now. In the scant, gloomy light, he sensed the oppressive mass burgeoning terribly near. Angst shifted about and again looked up to get an exact fix, and, horrified, he saw that the tank had straddled the ditch. Urinating uncontrollably, he still had his wits about him to pull the delayed fuse on the charge. Darkness engulfed him as Red Vengeance loomed directly overhead, and with both hands he pushed the mine against the armored under carriage. He let go, but the four strong magnets would not adhere to the metal. He tried again, and as his knuckles grazed the surface, he understood why the mine wouldn’t take. The undercarriage had been textured with the same concrete that covered the outer hull. The magnets, the mine was useless. How ingenious. Thorough. The tank seemed to take forever to pass overhead as the charge hissed, and Angst panicked with the belief that all he would accomplish in this life was to blow himself to pieces in a rank, dark hole. Suddenly there was light, and he leaped out of the ditch, ran several steps behind the tank, and hurled the mine onto its rear deck. He turned around and dove back into the cold ooze, like some mud-born creature, certain never to reemerge.

* * *

Falkenstein witnessed the corporal’s bungled attempt from behind the sights of the 20 mm gun. Parked in the alley between the machine shop and the south garage, Vogel had nosed the vehicle beyond the corner just far enough so the captain could see. When the magnetic charge detonated, it set off the string of small antipersonnel mines that covered the deck. Strands of barbed wire unfurled. The tank picked up speed and continued on a diagonal, leaving the gravel road completely, as it neared the repair garage. As it passed the Mark IV, where Voss had taken cover, a jet of orange flame leaped out from the flamethrower. The fiery liquid splashed across the turret roof and immediately turned to black, oily smoke. The cannon fired point-blank at the garage wall. As it neared the end of the building, a grenade bundle skipped out from the wide intersection. The explosion resounded directly beneath the undercarriage. The tank stopped and shuddered, then traversed, with the purpose of turning into the intersection. The hull machine gun blazed.

It was Detwiler who had thrown the grenade bundle. He was exposed and too many meters from suitable cover. An overwhelming futility enveloped him as he made a run for safety. The burst from the T-34’s machine gun tore into his stomach; the impact spun him around and he hit the ground hard.

Falkenstein was aghast. Red Vengeance had done the one thing he was sure it would never do: enter the confines of the depot. The distance between the tank and the scout car was too far for the 20 mm to have any effect. He had Vogel circle around to the next intersection that separated the machine shop and the maintenance facility building.

* * *

Voss ran down the length of the garage and skidded across a pool of grease that coated the floor. He caught a glimpse of Khan at the far wall, attempting to get up. The armor-piercing shell had punched a hole clear through the building, and Khan had been pummeled by chunks of brick. There was nothing Voss could do for him now. He had reached the splintered doorway when Mueller bounded through, face drained of color, eyes bulging, mouth shaped in an expansive “O.” Why hadn’t the grenadier returned to the machine shop as he had ordered? Voss could only think the question but hadn’t the time to ask. Mueller croaked, hoarsely, but the words did not form. Voss could hear the racket just outside the door and knew. He pointed the flamethrower nozzle out the door, careful not to expose himself, and let loose with a stream of fire. The turret face and sloping front hull became awash in flame. The camouflage netting ignited into a sea of orange embers. The hull machine gun shifted within the confines of the mantelet and raked a sustained fire. The tank’s left flank was subjected to a series of hits as the scout car fired down the length of the maintenance facility at the target framed within the opening at the far end. The turret spun around to nine o’clock and responded. The cannon’s eruption resonated down the mangled corrugated building as a fine rain of dust and bird droppings fell from the shaken rafters. Vogel shifted into reverse the very moment the armor piercing round smacked into the machine shop wall. The 222 bucked from the force of the explosion as pieces of brick and mortar slammed against the armored skin. His composure severely ruffled, Vogel continued to back out into the street, then turned down a narrow aisle separating the workshops in search of concealment.

The tank traversed again, as did the turret, simultaneously, to twelve o’clock and entered into the maintenance building. Now that the deadly machine gun–fire no longer faced in his direction, Voss bolted from the garage doorway and hosed down the exposed flank with a prolonged burst, certain that enough fire and smoke had blinded the episcope. The tank accelerated and continued down the length of the building. No longer interested in the men on the ground, Red Vengeance was intent on pursuing the scout car. Lying at the end of the intersection, facing the railroad tracks, was Detwiler. Nothing short of a miracle had prevented the machine gunner from getting run over, but his abdomen had been shockingly torn open. He’d been repeatedly shot; immobile but still conscious, he uttered a stream of obscenities as Voss, with Mueller’s help, dragged him into the garage. They found Angst inside, sodden, muddy, and bewildered, trying to communicate something to Khan, who had managed to sit up. “Stay with him, Angst. We’re going after the tank.” Voss had to press forward; he knew his nerve would evaporate, if he allowed himself time to think about the madness he was presently engaged in. Mueller recovered the satchel charge and followed the lieutenant out of the garage.

There was nothing at hand to administer to Detwiler as he lay clutching his middle in an effort to keep his insides from spilling out. Angst could not help but think of the wisecrack Detwiler had made when the crewman was pulled from the Tiger. “Once things settle down, it’ll be safer to bring you to the first aid bunker.” Angst tried to console him.

“You really fucked it up with the mine,” Detwiler croaked.

Angst could not stomach to hear the words turn to liquid as the blood rose in the man’s gorge. “Don’t talk, Ernst, and try not to move.”

“Oh, fuck.” Detwiler winced and looked terribly afraid. Angst felt a pang of guilt, that his failed actions were directly responsible for the gunner’s mortal wounds. “The magnets wouldn’t take. The concrete paste…there was nothing I could do.”

Detwiler winced again; this time, it was what passed for a smile in his condition. “You looked like a schoolgirl who didn’t know how to throw a ball…I laughed so hard.” His face suddenly froze in a twisted grimace, as a final gasp of bloody breath mixed with the odor of his bowels escaped his lips. The eyes remained open but were terribly vacant. A wave of confused emotions flooded over Angst. There were times in their short, bitter acquaintance when he could have murdered the man with his bare hands; yet, in the space of a few hours, a bond had formed, a need, as natural as their shared loathing. In his last moments on earth, all Detwiler could do was mock him. No other thought entered the man’s brain—not of family, friends, or home. Only of Angst, the butt of his derision as death snatched him away. All alone, in a filthy, disgusting hole, Angst thought, fighting a twenty-ton metal beast, and instead of appearing heroic, I’m flailing about like some silly schoolgirl. He felt a surge of anger, but as the image Detwiler had presented to him congealed in his mind, he began to laugh, laugh until it hurt. Then he started to cry, but that hurt even more; so he laughed again, then cried uncontrollably, with Detwiler’s lifeless hand clutched in his all the while.

* * *

As Khan lay on the cold, greasy floor of the garage all he could think of was the hole that suddenly appeared three meters from his head. An armored piercing round entered through the wall opposite from where he lay and traveled straight through and out the other side. Had it been a high explosive round he would most likely be greeting his ancestors. There was no magic involved in his survival this time; it was mere luck. The battle against the relentless armored beast had diminished his powers. The pieces of stone that had blown back at him were inconsequential. The welts and bruises hurt but the damage minimal. It was the concussion that was the worst. His skull felt as though it had doubled in size and the monotonous ringing in his ears added to the discomfort. He almost felt embarrassed by the manner in which the T-34 had bullied him as though he were a child. It was a formidable, an evil adversary and he knew, despite the skills of the captain and the tenacity of his men, even his own craft, that Red Vengeance would take them all.

At least the ringing in his ears was beginning to subside. He needed these few minutes to gather his wits although he didn’t have the luxury of time: moments, seconds, nothing.

The one called Angst knelt beside his comrade, Detwiler, holding his hand and crying and laughing all at once. It sounded strange; why do both? Khan wondered. The big man was dead; let his spirit leave this terrible place.

There was a dissonance of explosions, machine guns, and the hissing flamethrower as the steady noise of a great diesel engine continuously droned. He had propped himself up to a sitting position, his back against the concrete block wall for support. There were so many sounds of crashing and grating, he could not isolate them all but there was one sound he did detect. At first he thought it was a background noise caused by his abused eardrums but he distinctly heard it: a sweet fluted whistling song that piped somewhere to his left where the useless Mark IV blocked the opening at the rear of the garage. And then he saw it. Although stocky in girth it was a medium sized bird that stood with tiny legs on the armored front end of the abandoned tank. It spread its wings and flew no further than to the concrete floor and hopped closer to where Khan sat. The bird’s head and neck was pale brown with dark breast and flank spots and reddish brown wings. It kept singing as it tilted it little head and looked directly at him. Despite the terrible noises echoing through the empty garage the chubby bird had yet to fly away and Khan knew the bird was there solely to visit him. It was a Thrush native to the taiga in Siberia. “You are a long way from home my little friend. And you have been eating well I see.” It was an omen for Khan and he knew what it meant. “My wife is calling me home isn’t she? I’ve been ignoring her for these many months and she sent you to remind me, didn’t she.” No, that wasn’t the reason why the Thrush had come but he wanted to play, one final time before all else. Khan rallied and managed to get up using the anti-tank rifle for support. He would be leaving for home very soon and he didn’t feel the least bit afraid. His task was almost finished; his service to the captain nearly complete. “If you return home before I do tell my wife I’m on my way” he laughed, and then added in a mock serious voice, “And don’t try to seduce her with that sweet song of yours.” He reached for a shell from the canvas ammo bag that hung from his shoulder and holding firmly onto the bolt, the barrel slid forward so he could then insert the large projectile into the breach. When he looked up he saw that the Thrush was gone. From the depths of his diaphragm his own song arose and exited his mouth with the sound of a ferocious animal. He ran from the garage to join the furor outside.

* * *

The shaman’s war cry jolted Angst out of his laughing fit. He let go of Detwiler’s hand and stood up. The noises outside were nothing less than dreadful. He urged himself toward the shattered doorway and carefully poked his head out. A terrible groaning of heavy steel being twisted and torn and the continual clatter of the scout car’s 20mm cannon fire pierced his ears. Stop, please, just make it stop. Something dreadful was occurring over by where the Hanomag lay destroyed. He saw heavy plumes of diesel exhaust and a glance of orange fire from the flamethrower. From this vantage point all Angst could see were sheds and workshops that had been reduced to splinter and rubble. He then noticed Mueller crouched behind this wreckage, hanging back from the terrors that were occurring further up the narrow muddy road. Angst ran over to join him.

* * *

Above the din of grinding gears and squealing brakes, Falkenstein bellowed curses and commands as Vogel wove around and between the workshops and tool sheds. Like a rabid animal giving chase, Red Vengeance pursued the scout car without letting up. At any given moment, only a brick wall or the tar paper siding of a shed separated them from the plundering, mindless armor. The tank smashed through everything in its path in an effort to head off the elusive scout car and ram it. The small huts and sheds were splintered, flattened, and ground up in the tank’s wake. There was a groaning and tearing of wood and metal that was sickening to hear. Vogel outdistanced the enraged T-34 and turned into the supply yard, where he braked to a stop on the far side of the west perimeter. The sounds of destruction had diminished considerably. Red Vengeance was exhibiting a terrific burst of power before succumbing to the inevitable throes of death. And low on ammunition, too, Falkenstein thought, possibly out of shells. Why else hadn’t it fired? Now it would have to rely on bulk and diesel power to finish the job. Falkenstein did not consider this possibility lightly, yet he was satisfied and anxious. The demon has yet to perform its last trick. He activated the turret control and traversed 90, then 180 degrees and back again. Where did it go? He spoke into the throat mike. “Bring us around to the northeast end of the yard and drive down the nearest alley, west toward the gravel road…did you hear me, Klaus?”

Vogel gave a gasp, the only language available to signify all his fear and fatigue. He’d had more than he could bear and simply wanted to drive away. Instead, he swung around to the left, as he was ordered. Falkenstein saw a narrow separation between two workshops with a minimum of debris littering the ground, where the vehicle could pass. “Turn down here!”

“Right or left at the end, Captain?” To their right was the water tower stand on the far side of the depot, and to the left, although not in view, was the wrecked personnel carrier. The space had opened up considerably here. All the shacks and tool sheds had been demolished, and the workshops were the only two buildings that remained standing. The tank had passed through this part of the depot like an unrelenting storm. “Right or left, Captain?” Vogel repeated urgently.

“Ease out, slowly, but be ready to turn on command.” Vogel did as he was ordered, and as he edged the vehicle halfway out from between the small buildings, he immediately heard a terrific grating sound that echoed throughout the driver’s cabin. The ruined Hanomag lurched forward propelled by the driving force of the tank. “Get under the gun,” Falkenstein screamed into the mike, as he let off a gout of 20 mm rounds that struck the bulges on the tank’s gun cradle. Vogel hesitated when he saw Red Vengeance, at point-blank range, shove the armored personnel carrier directly into their path. The wreck was all that separated them from the steel beast. The tank’s gun cradle was raised to protect the cannon barrel as the hull slammed into the Hanomag’s superstructure, causing its armor siding to collapse. The noise was horrendous as wrenching metal competed with the 20 mm gun and the captain’s rant. A shower of red-orange flame drenched the turret. Voss, at close quarters, mercilessly washed the tank with long spurts from the flamethrower. Somewhere off to the side, Khan was taking potshots as fast as he could reload and fire. Red Vengeance quit throwing its weight behind the wreck long enough to lower the cannon and fire. The armor-piercing round burst through the front end, into the driver’s cabin, and continued on through to the engine compartment, in the rear, where it exploded. A cyclone of shrapnel and fire whirled around the confined space. Vogel, mangled and burning, twitched about. Temporarily blinded by the smoke, Falkenstein tried to extricate himself from the turret. His game leg behaved more uselessly now, as the brace had become undone and new wounds had been inflicted by the exploding shell. The ruptured Hanomag had tipped over, and the powerful driving force of Red Vengeance pushed it along in front, as though it were a plow. Broadsided, the scout car was shoved further down the street until it tipped over onto its side. The tank tracks gained traction and started to mount the Hanomag as the siding buckled and collapsed under the weight. Out from the smoke and trailing flames, Khan appeared and ran headlong into the mass of scorched, twisted metal. Reaching into the turret opening, he took hold of the captain’s outstretched arms and pulled, almost effortlessly, like a feline carrying its young by the nape. Falkenstein was almost clear when the tank heaved upward and poised, motionless, for a moment before it came crashing down. Like some hapless swimmer engulfed by an ocean wave, Khan disappeared under the weight and mass of the machine, becoming part of the revolving tracks and cogs. Horrified, Falkenstein watched, yet again, the crazed, spinning assembly pass before his sight, so compellingly, maddeningly near, as the gore of once-living sinew and flesh became imbedded in the linked, perforated tracks, and the sickly sweet odor of lubricating grease was supplanted by the stench of decaying tissue. He reared back and scrambled, crablike, over the flattened armored bulkheads. Voss rushed to his side and helped support his weight as they limped and staggered toward the nearest workshop, simply to get out of the way and out of sight before the tank turned around or traversed its turret and did more damage. Upon entering the doorway, both men dropped to the floor, exhausted and hurt, the taste of soot and petrol in their mouths. The weight of the flamethrower’s cylinders pushed against Voss’s back and forced him to sit upright. Clumsily, he untangled the hose that had wrapped about his waist and then made a quick examination of the captain’s injuries. There were numerous rents in his tunic and trouser legs that were flecked with blood. Falkenstein waved the attentions aside. “See where Red Vengeance has gone off to.” Depleted, Voss staggered out the door. Faint odors of solvents and mineral oil were noticeable within the close space; the smell roused Falkenstein to a sitting position, but he could not get up, not without help. As he sat contemplating the multitude of small injuries he had received, he decided the wounds were of no serious account; suddenly, he was overcome by a sense of loss and gratitude for Khan. The method of his cohort’s extinction did not overwhelm him; no, the cruel sights of battle could not be averted and were to be accepted as part of the profession he embraced. What he wasn’t immune to was the mobility Red Vengeance continued to exhibit. That horrified him, and he reeled at the demands necessary to make it stop, finally and unequivocally.

Standing in the doorway, Voss watched as the tank’s rear quarters rattled down the smashed muddy street, traversed forty-five degrees to the right, and disappeared down an alley. He followed the signature of heavy exhaust fumes that rose above the workshop rooflines and piles of rubble. “It’s heading toward the supply yard,” Voss said. Across the street he noticed Angst scuttling along the garage wall with Mueller, close behind, carrying the satchel charge. There was still one more magnetic mine in Angst’s possession. The two grenadiers had stayed out of the crossfire of cannons and flamethrower. The street had filled with smoke and reeked of gasoline. Seeing Voss, the men bounded across the street, using the burning hulls for cover, and ducked into the workshop with the lieutenant. Seeing the captain struggle, Angst helped him to his feet. The knee brace had been wrenched; leather straps and metal struts hung loosely about a torn boot; his face was blackened by oily smoke. Yet again, Falkenstein had arisen from the wreckage like some redundant Lazarus, only this time he had more the look of an apprentice whose attempt at sorcery had backfired horribly. He regarded the last of his crew, each one as battered and miserable as he. “No quarter! Not a moment’s peace. Let’s get after it, then.” He draped an arm around Angst’s shoulder and hobbled out of the workshop. Voss took the lead, with Mueller a few steps behind, as they walked out of the building and down the alley. The captain, supported by Angst, brought up the rear.

48

Red Vengeance had progressed no more than a hundred meters southwest of the supply yard perimeter before it had come to a stop. The right track had unfurled from the wheel assembly and lay inert, like a crushed snake. Perhaps some final shaman’s trick had brought this about, as Khan was absorbed into the track links, Falkenstein mused. Unable to move forward, the tank could only traverse in a counterclockwise direction, as the trackless road wheels dug deeper into the wet soil and forced a thick berm along its flank. After a few minutes, the wheels became so immersed in the ground that a traverse in either direction was impossible. Except for the turret, the tank was stilled. Scorched and blackened, pools of oil and diesel fuel seeped out from the wounded hull. Smoke issued from the grill vents above the diesel engine; from out of the view slits; and through every crack, fissure, rent, and penetration made by their guns. The crew must be asphyxiating by now, Angst was sure; why they didn’t open the hatches and surrender, simply for the need of air, was beyond comprehension.

Like ice-age hunters gathering around a beast that was hard to kill, they advanced upon the tank to deliver the final blow. No longer in need of support, Falkenstein took the last steps alone. Voss was the first to reach the tank. He did not behave with conscious volition but acted simply, determinedly, with an insectlike impulse. Circling around to avoid coming head on with the rotating turret, and careful not to step out in front of the hull machine gun, he shot clots of flame at the crippled machine.

Mueller set the satchel charge on the ground and attempted to light the fuse but was having difficulty. He was dragging the striker over the fuse end, but the sparks would not take. Damp. Falkenstein watched with impatience and joined in the effort, as the situation for the lieutenant had reached a state of crisis in a matter of a few seconds. The flamethrower was out of fuel. He pulled the trigger on the firing mechanism, and the 9 mm cartridge fired and ejected until the magazine was empty. Small, inconsequential globs of flame dripped from the nozzle. Voss backtracked. The turret started to swivel, and the gun cradle lowered. He turned and ran, unbuckling the shoulder harness, and let the empty fuel cylinders fall in midstride. The turret sceeched from the friction of metal against metal. Voss ran toward a farmhouse badly singed by a previous fire that stood near the Old Cart Road. This was not the ideal cover he would have wanted, but there was little choice; he had to get out from the open, be less of a target. He could hear, clearly, the shell being loaded and the breech closed. There is still hope, he thought as he ran; the episcope was certain to be damaged or at least obscured by soot. The gunner would have to shoot wild. Voss ran into the house the moment before it exploded.

A thin trail of smoke hissed from the satchel charge fuse cord. Being the most agile of the group, Mueller took the small but heavy canvas bag by the shoulder strap, ran to the back end of the tank, and tossed it underneath the hull. He dove to the side, behind the high berm, and curled into a ball. A bright flash was followed by a piercing bang. Metal parts spat out, and smoke billowed from the undercarriage. The tank heaved and then collapsed deeper into the earth.

Angst ran over to the farmhouse. The high-explosive shell had struck high, blowing off a section of roof and causing a portion of the upper story to collapse. Once inside, he had to clear away floorboards and rafters that had fallen from the ceiling above to get to the lieutenant. Voss lay partially buried but was still alive, staring clear-eyed, almost bemused at the exposed sky overhead. Angst knelt and worked some of the heavier joists and wood lath off his body. His light brown hair was matted with blood and dirt. The goggles had slipped down over Voss’s mouth, the lenses filmed over with soot and oil. Carefully, Angst removed them. “How goes the battle?” Voss asked. It seemed like days, weeks had passed since he had asked someone this question. Who might it have been, Reinhardt? Angst? Captain Griem? He thought it important that he remember.

“I think we’re finally making some progress, Lieutenant.”

Voss asked for a cigarette. “I can’t feel anything, Corporal. Nothing moves.” He told Angst which tunic pocket to look in for the cigarettes. Angst removed the case, took one, and lit it. Dutifully, he held the cigarette to the lieutenant’s lips and allowed him to inhale. “I think my back is broken,” Voss said.

“We will get you out of here, Lieutenant,” Angst said, not without a little false optimism. Secretly he wondered how. The clouds had thinned, and small patches of blue sky were revealed.

Voss smiled weakly. “It may turn out to be a fine autumn day after all.”

* * *

Red Vengeance was still; the turret had come to rest with the gun cradle lowered to the extreme. In this sunken tilt, the cannon muzzle nearly touched the ground. Falkenstein sent Mueller to find more weapons—anything he could lay his hands on. The young grenadier ran off and left the captain to drink in this moment of victory. The last stroke, the coup de grace, was his alone. One year and a month, almost to the very day, had passed since the tragic loss of his company, followed by weeks of suffering in the hospital and long nights plagued with horrid memories. He had come full circle, and the object of his revenge lay vanquished at his feet. He had fulfilled everything he had set out to accomplish. “With my bare hands,” he uttered aloud, but only the tank was present to hear his words, if indeed it listened. Falkenstein picked up the mine Angst had dropped when he ran over to see after Voss. He limped over to the tank and ran a hand over the front of the sloping hull. Some of the concrete on the armored surface had chipped away from repeated weals and dents made by Khan’s antitank rifle and the scout car’s cannon. He applied the magnetic charge to the hull’s face, between the driver’s hatch and the machine gun mantelet, and removed his hand. The magnets took, and the mine remained in place. He pulled the fuse cord and swung himself around quickly to the berm side and stepped back. The charge detonated inward, creating a molten opening the size of a man’s fist. Pieces of metal knocked around inside the compartment and echoed like stones hitting the bottom of an empty well. Falkenstein waited as the smoke and gases vented and the glowing edge of the blast induced aperture cooled. Removing the P-38 from its holster, he aimed into the hole and emptied the clip. There was no more he could do, so he wandered around the stricken tank until Mueller returned. Nearly ten minutes had elapsed before the grenadier showed up with an armful of weapons. Falkenstein had his choice: the Pshagin, an MP40, Angst’s Walther P-38, and a Very pistol, all bundled in a camouflage field jacket. Falkenstein wanted them all. He began with the Russian submachine gun by poking the muzzle into the hole and firing one fully automatic wail until the biscuit tin–shaped magazine was empty. Tossing the gun aside, he did the same with the MP40, spraying the interior with both short and long bursts until it was completely discharged of ammunition. Next came the Walther P-38, and finally, waiting as Mueller opened the breech and inserted a flare, the Very pistol. Like a surgeon’s nurse, Mueller pressed the flare gun firmly into the captain’s open palm, and he fired it into the hull. Bright yellow-white smoke from the burning magnesium poured out of the hole. As a precaution, Mueller then helped the captain to walk a good distance away, in case the tank blew up. They waited. What these acts of overkill accomplished, Angst could only wonder as he observed the final scene of the drama from the ruined house. He could only surmise that the captain wanted to prolong whatever sensation he now experienced, be it pleasure or satisfaction; either that, or it was simple thoroughness. The mission would not be completed until the T-34 was embroiled in flames. The smoke thickened, but the tank did not ignite. There was no terrific, shuddering burst. Its fuel and ammunition had all been spent, and there was nothing left to cook. Falkenstein returned to the tank once again and, using the berm as a step, climbed onto the mudguard. He stepped over to the rear deck, carefully avoiding the barbed wire and any antipersonnel mines that might still be active. Mounting the foot bar welded to the rear side of the hexagon shaped turret, he pried and clawed at the hatch covers. Both seemed welded in place. He growled like some animal and tore his nails in the pathetic effort to raise the hatch covers and peer inside. “The tomb is sealed,” he ranted, “like your fate. Secrets that lie within, devils or men, unrevealed. Smoke, only smoke…as it should be…as it was always meant to be.” He gave up the struggle and lay on the turret roof, arms outstretched in an exhaustive embrace. Minutes passed; finally, he straightened up and climbed off the foot bar and back on to the mudguard. His foot hovered in midstep over the berm when he heard a noise that caused him immediate concern. It was the sound of metal grating against metal. He turned to look and saw the sliding movement of the pistol port, located just under the view slit on the turret’s side. An inconsequential report sounded, followed by a puff of smoke. Falkenstein felt a hard punch to the chest as the small-caliber bullet struck. He fumbled for the cannon barrel to hold so he would not fall. Stunned, but then awed, he tried to remember the words Khan had spoken—a prophecy or admonition—the exact phrase obscured by shock. Poor Khan, he thought, always so circumspect. Reeling around, Falkenstein fell backward and became entangled in the loose strands of barbed wire and charred netting. As he writhed to free himself, he became even more enmeshed in the snare and hung, suspended, like prey caught in a spider’s web. He struggled, weakly, until he no longer bled. The one good eye stared out lifelessly, and the dead face retained the same grim, remorseless expression as it had in life.

49

“He’s dead.”

Angst regained consciousness to find the medical orderly, Matthias Bruno, nudging him in the ribs with a toe. He had passed out soon after the captain was killed. He had watched for a minute or two as Mueller ran excitedly around the tank, shouting obscenities and throwing clods of dirt at the thing in frustration. Then it went dark for Angst, either from exhaustion or the inability to bear the ghastly, pathetic outcome of the mission. “He’s dead,” the orderly said again, referring to Lieutenant Voss. “They’re all dead, even the wounded. I couldn’t save a soul.” Slowly and painfully, his body feeling as though it had turned to stone, Angst got to his feet and looked down at the lieutenant. The face in repose—Angst could pretend, for a little while, that he was only asleep. Leaving the shambles of the house, he saw Mueller waiting for them outside. He had dressed in the camouflage field jacket and was extravagantly armed. Evidently he had scavenged about, as his full battle dress and weapons had once belonged to Angst and others of the crew. The MP40 was slung over a shoulder, the black leather suspenders with double matching pouches for the magazines; a full assault pack with gas mask canister; and a bayonet tucked in his right boot. Sporting the camouflage cloth helmet cover, the youth reminded him of Schroeder, only his face wasn’t set in that despicable frown the corporal always wore. Actually, despite all the war paint, Mueller appeared self-conscious. Then Angst noticed the P-38 tucked in his belt, the pistol that he’d taken off of Walter Lustig. He stepped up to Mueller and took the pistol away. “I don’t care about the rest, you can keep it—but this belonged to a friend.” Angst tucked the pistol in the back waistband of his trousers.

“We have to make a try for our lines” Bruno said with urgency. “The Russians could arrive at any moment.”

Angst agreed. “Not the bridge, though. We’ll take the Old Cart Road to the reservoir. It’s closer. The Greyhounds are dug in there. They’ll want to know what happened to the lieutenant… and Captain Falkenstein.”

They looked to the ruined tank as plumes of smoke continued to emanate from the ruptures and seams in the hull. Mueller and the orderly had since cut down the Captain’s body from the charred netting and laid him out on the ground near the kill. “It can’t hurt us any more, can it, Corporal? The crew inside is dead. All shot up and choked to death on the fumes.” The noticeable trace of disbelief in Mueller’s voice belied the affirmation of his own words, and Angst could not reassure him that it was so. This enemy cannot be killed, Angst thought. Their tolerance to withstand pain, suffering, and abuse cannot be fathomed by the Germans or the rest of the world. The only ones who do understand are the old hands who have walked and fought over these thousands of kilometers and have since fallen. They know. This is an enemy who will contest every centimeter of ground, sustain unimaginable losses, only to attack again and again. An enemy who will not cry out when horribly wounded and dying; no, they will spit and curse at us with their last breath before giving up the ghost. Neither will they whimper nor gasp for breath as the smoke of their burning machines fills their lungs. And before they smother, it is their counterpoint that is last heard. We will never win this war in the east, Angst was sure. The destruction of Red Vengeance is a signal of doom, not victory. One only has to cast an eye to the east and see thousands more like it gathered on the horizon, ready to crush us all. “You will get the Iron Cross for what you did here today, Mueller.”

The youth, in spite of his weapons and combat stance, trembled. “All I wanted was to hitch a ride…”

“You have put an end to the myth of Red Vengeance. He’ll get the Iron Cross, won’t he, Bruno?” Angst insisted.

The medical orderly shrugged, noncommittally, and prodded the others to get a move on. As they walked past the smoldering tank, Angst stopped beside the captain’s body and looked one last time. “I wonder, at the very last moment, if he thought it was all worth the trouble.” No one answered. There was no need for comment. Judging by the expression frozen on the dead officer’s face, Angst did not believe it had been worth it.

“We can’t afford to linger,” Bruno said, as he led them down the Old Cart Road—the road they had arrived on only yesterday; the road that would take them west to the river, finally, and away from a scorched and bleeding world. A desperate hope quickened their pace.

RED VENGEANCE by Peter Idone, December 2002

Copyright

Copyright © 2012 Peter Idone

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1-4792-1241-5

ISBN-13: 9781479212415

eBook ISBN: 978-1-63001-131-4

Content

Peter Idone
RED VENGEANCE

ANGST

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VOSS

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FALKENSTEIN

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RED VENGEANCE

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Copyright