“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.