“So, Captain,” von Helmansdorff said, lighting another cigarette, “what role does an autonomous reconnaissance group play in the greater scheme of things?”
Although the question was put to him earnestly, Falkenstein could not help but detect a note of sarcasm in the lieutenant colonel’s voice. He decided not to be vague.
“My role, as you put it, is specific. To search for and then destroy the T-34 known as Red Vengeance.”
“That’s it, then, in a nutshell?”
“If you prefer to put it that way, yes. That is the entirety of my mission.”
Von Helmansdorff maintained a straight face, but he was clearly amused. “Such a task at this point in time, given the predicament we all find ourselves in…I don’t mean to downplay the risks you and your men are exposed to or defame your courage, but that is, in a word, absurd.”
A jolt ran through Voss. He stopped writing but dared not look up. He maintained the pretense of examining something of interest on the map and not having heard.
“Absurd,” Falkenstein repeated, coldly, allowing the word to remain in his mind as he examined each facet of its meaning from every angle. Finally he said, “My mission has evolved from the direct interest of the commander of Fourth Panzer Army. I can name at least six divisional generals, any number of operations and intelligence senior staff officers in corps and army group who clamored for and lent their support for this mission. Are they to be characterized as absurd as well?”
“Perhaps I use too provocative a word, Captain. I only mean to say that while an entire Soviet Tank Army breathes down our throats, the value of hunting for one T-34, no matter the reputation, lacks the propaganda weight it might have if the front were more stable.”
“You do not fully appreciate the danger Red Vengeance poses or all it has accomplished.”
“I’ve heard the stories and understand the morale problems associated with it. Every Russian tank scares the pants off of me, Red Vengeance or not.”
“Had you encountered the beast and survived, you would understand the difference between fear and stark, mortal terror. Absolute. Unyielding. The kind of fear that flays the soul. Fortunately for you, Lieutenant Colonel, having been spared the experience, I will overlook your ignorance of the subject.”
“I am a patient man, Captain Falkenstein, even permissive to a fault regarding enlisted men and officers whose rank is below my own. But you try me, sir, with your attitude of superiority regarding this issue, and I cannot help but wonder if it is borne of arrogance.”
“I simply follow my orders, sir, for folk and fatherland.”
“As you should, Captain. As we all should. Now, indulge me for a moment in offering you some advice. Get yourself across the Dniepr. Join the rest of the fold in this arduous undertaking. Help prepare and sustain a viable defense of the eastern wall. It’s our last opportunity to stop the Russians. In due time, when conditions improve, you can organize a raiding party into enemy held territory and hunt your Red Vengeance.”
“I’m afraid there isn’t the time to pursue such a course of action at the leisurely pace you describe, Lieutenant Colonel. Red Vengeance has come out of the east like a mad wind of filth, death, and decay, from across the Volga, over the wasteland of the Kalmyk Steppe, crossing the Don, the Donets, and the Mius. It has to be stopped, here and now. Choked off at once, and for all time. Should it cross the Dniepr and establish a bridgehead, then watch the hordes follow across the river like rats carrying the plague. I will not allow it to cross another river. If that occurs, there will be no stopping it. Red Vengeance will cross them all. The Bug. The Vistula. The Oder. My God, even the Spree. All our efforts will amount to nothing, not only for the army but the whole of Germany.”
“Why imbue this tank with such omnipotence? It’s a machine, Captain, not some satanic instrument.”
“Satanic! When Red Vengeance lies in ruin by my hand, see if I don’t find the devil in the turret and his whelps at the controls.”
Silence followed. Nothing more could be said as von Helmansdorff studied his guest. Voss toyed with the pencil, as though it would help to unravel the knot in his stomach. He looked up from the map and saw the expression on the lieutenant colonels’ face, neither anger nor shock but more a look of sympathy. The captain truly believes every word he uttered, and von Helmansdorff knows this to be the case, he thought.
“Everything satisfactory, Lieutenant, with the map?” von Helmansdorff asked.
Falkenstein broke in. “Yes, Voss, let’s not take up the lieutenant colonels’ time or hospitality any longer than is necessary.” Rising from the bench, the captain limped stiffly to the front window. A mass of gray clouds hurtled across the sky. “This wind should firm up the ground somewhat, and then both sides will be prepared to make their move.”
There was no response. Voss made several more notations, folded the map, and stuffed it back into the leather folder. He mumbled his thanks for the tea and schnapps. Falkenstein left the house without a departing word or a salute. When he stood up and readied to leave, Voss said, “If our fuel reserves weren’t rationed, I could get your vehicle moving again, sir, but I will make every effort to contact army headquarters and inform them of your predicament.”
“We would appreciate the gesture, Lieutenant; thank you.”
Voss then saluted in such a perfect regulation manner, it was as though he was making up for the captain’s rude departure. A faint smile crossed von Helmansdorff’s lips; he did not need or expect it, but he understood the lieutenant’s need to perform the courtesy. He lifted his hand to his brow, slowly and casually, and returned the gesture. After Voss had left, von Helmansdorff got up from the table and turned to the window to watch. Kreutzer had remained close to the oven for warmth. “He was a strange one, that Falkenstein. Don’t you think, Colonel?”
“I don’t know, Kreutzer. Obsessed, surely. If it were up to me, I’d have the field police clap him in irons and put him away. And I don’t mean prison. The man belongs in a lunatic asylum, not a battlefield.”
“Is there a difference?”
Von Helmansdorff slapped his adjutant on the back and laughed heartily. “May the Lord watch over his crew and protect them, not so much from the Russians but from their captain. Now, that’s a prayer for you, eh, Kreutzer?”
As he crossed the farmyard, avoiding the deep puddles that lay between the house and the barn, Voss was in a quandary. After all that was said, he needed to reevaluate the motives of his commanding officer. Falkenstein stood outside the barn, waiting for him. “That man is a fool, Voss,” the captain said. “He won’t survive the retreat. He’ll perish and, unfortunately, take the rest of the regiment with him.”
“What brings you to that conclusion, sir?”
“You saw him for yourself. The lieutenant colonel is a headquarters paper shuffler, who, in a moment of inspiration, desires to accomplish more than the parameters of his experience allows. So he volunteers for what he believes to be an adventure, not without merit or purpose, but it rapidly turns into a foray designed with more traps than his small imagination can possibly cope. He does not lead men, Voss, he loses them.”
The armored personnel carrier backed out of the barn, and Khan, perched on the armored siding like some bird of prey, unlatched the crew compartment doors. He took the captain’s arm and helped him onto the deck. The vehicle idled as Voss stood, indecisive. He entered the barn, where the troops languished more comfortably now, pleased to be rid of the vehicle.