“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.
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.