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.”