Angst made the mistake of grumbling about how miserable he was, and his own squad turned on him like a pack of feral dogs. Braun and Schmidt needled him about how they suffered the extremes of Mother Russia while he languished in France, posted to a safe, cozy headquarters with more schnapps, women, and leave time than he knew what to do with, and they had no sympathy for how disagreeable life had become for him. It was his turn now to experience firsthand the rigors that were in store for the luckless grenadier trying to survive at the eastern front. Angst was not about to argue that occupation duty was nowhere near the luxury his friends imagined it to be; rather, he wanted to punch both their faces in for turning on him the way they did, especially in front of the rest of the crew. Schroeder used the opportunity to lecture him on the topic of the Russian winter. Everyone had a horror story to contribute about the cold and snow. Detwiler offered up a tale so ludicrous that Angst would have normally laughed, had someone other than the infuriating machine gunner told it. Speaking in dead earnest, without the slightest trace of humor, he described a night in December when the temperatures plunged so low that the thermometers burst. In an effort to keep the fingers warm it was customary to urinate on one’s hands, but this night, “Your piss would immediately freeze. I had to break it off, first one stick of piss and then another, and another. I was not only in danger of losing my fingers but my prick as well, if I kept wagging it in the cold. When I was done, there were all these long yellow sticks on the ground. Icicles of piss.”
Angst was irate. “Do you take me for an utter half-wit to believe such a story? You’re not only a crude, stupid individual, but you’re disgusting.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“No, you are not. Piss turning to ice! It’s impossible.”
The grenadiers were entertained by the story, and Angst’s reaction only added to their amusement. “Just you wait and find out, come winter. That’s if you survive this mess of rain and mud,” Detwiler admonished.
“What are you threatening me with?” Angst’s tone, when he directed the question to the machine gunner, was filled with menace.
“I’m not threatening anybody.”
Angst was not about to let up. “Not only do I have the Russians to watch out for, not to mention this brutal weather, but you as well?” The squad looked to Schroeder to tone down the situation, but he only smirked, as he derived a wicked pleasure from the animosity between his machine gunner and the rifle squad lance corporal. “Forget it, Johann, it’s all in jest,” said Schmidt, a trifle nervous. And from Wilms, “Don’t pay Detwiler any mind. He’s an asshole.”
“It’s too late for that now. I’m going to keep Herr Detwiler very much on my mind. In fact, I’ll have to grow another set of eyes in the back of my head, because there’s no telling what bastardly ambush this thoroughgoing coward is liable to spring.”
“What did you call me?” Livid, Detwiler leaned in, and Angst met him half way, their noses almost touching. The others pressed back into their seats to keep as much distance as possible in the confined space from the flailing scuffle that was about to erupt.
“You heard me, you fucking idiot coward!”
Rain splattered loudly upon their helmets, followed by a resounding crash of metal. Reinhardt had yanked the tarpaulin away and tossed an empty ammunition box down hard on the deck. “Quiet, you pups!” The Hanomag jerked to an abrupt stop. The scout car had become stuck again, and they were all ordered out to free the vehicle from the clutches of the viscid Ukrainian mud. The task was monumental, as it had grown tiresome and demoralizing. Both vehicles had to be refueled yet again, and Falkenstein understood they were getting nowhere, and precious gasoline was wasted in the process. When the scout car finally gained some traction, Falkenstein had the Hanomag back up close to his vehicle. Leather portfolio tucked under an arm, he climbed out of the turret and edged carefully across the short sloping front hull and, with Khan lending a hand, got safely aboard the deck of the armored carrier as Voss held the crew compartment doors open. Down in the mud, the grenadiers fastened the steel towline to the hitch at the rear of the armored carrier and looped an end to the crossbar support on the front end of the scout car. While the work progressed, Falkenstein opened the portfolio, brought out a map and studied it for a few moments. He then considered a change in direction and pointed to the place on the map so the lieutenant could see. “East, Captain?” Voss did not try to hide his astonishment.
“To be more precise, east by northeast, Lieutenant.”
“What about the Russians?”
“We don’t know where the Russians are, or anyone else for that matter.” The Hanomag could better negotiate the terrain and burn less fuel, as eventually most of the crew would be temporarily left behind. Falkenstein, Khan, Voss, the sergeant, and the driver would attempt to make contact with the nearest friendly unit operating in the immediate sector.
“You intend to leave the rest of the crew exposed on the steppe in this weather?” Voss asked.
“I know of a place where they can utilize cover and wait for our return.”
The task of tying off the two vehicles now completed, the squad boarded, taking with them gobs of mud that had clung to their boots and uniforms. Vogel remained at the wheel to steer as the scout car was towed. Standing at the bow machine gun, Falkenstein challenged the sky with a string of muttered curses. Khan squatted down on the deck and leaned against the crew compartment doors; his rare presence seemed a trespass for the men and was all the more odd because, when not at the captain’s side, he remained unseen, encapsulated within the command vehicle. No one had set eyes on him since the ugly business with the horse. The men stared, but Khan paid little attention. He radiated a detachment, an absolute acceptance of his situation without discomfort or preoccupation with the surroundings. Angst believed the eyes of the shaman glowed in the dark but dismissed the phenomenon, deciding it was only his own sight that had become accustomed to the dim light beneath the tarpaulin. The men soon disregarded the alien intrusion and retreated silently into their own private miseries, hoping to escape the filth, the rain, and the stiflingly cramped quarters that tormented them so. They rocked from side to side as the armored carrier plowed across the muddy steppe. After an hour had passed, the vehicle underwent a series of jolting maneuvers and finally came to a stop. The scout car had been towed to a position beside the blackened hull of a destroyed tank, an early Mark II variety. Voss relayed the captain’s order for everyone to get out. The squad took rifles, an MG42 and the bell-shaped magnetic mines. Carefully, a panzerfaust was handed over and taken to the scout car. Wilms carried the portable radio. The landscape was one of utter desolation. Destroyed vehicles, both Soviet and German, were scattered throughout like tombstones in a graveyard, the ruin from a previous year left behind from the tides of battle that washed back and forth across the land between the Donets and the Dniepr. The squad was ordered to stay put, and Schroeder was placed in charge until the captain’s return. Vogel was to stay close to the scout car radio and man the 20 mm cannon if necessary.