“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.