“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.”