“Wait a moment…wait a moment…tank patrol. One of ours.” Wilms spoke with urgency. Eyes straining at the binoculars, Angst could not see a thing. Then a blue-white flash appeared within the obscurity and was immediately followed by the muffled crack of cannon fire. He started to describe what he had just witnessed when Wilms silenced him and switched on the radio speaker. Over the buzz of static, distressed commands were shouted. The patrol was in serious trouble as another flash was followed by the sound of a terrific explosion. The shock wave slapped against the port side of the fuselage. The sickening drama could be clearly heard over the radio as panic-stricken voices yelled, cursed, and screamed.
“Behind us! Traverse right!”
“How did it circle around so fast?”
There was another peal of cannon fire. Angst believed he saw the bulk of a machine, for a mere fraction of a second, and then the object dissolved into nothing. The sight through the binoculars remained gray, except for another brilliant flash. Voices over the radio continued to squawk. “Keep firing! Maintain continuous fire!”
“Look out—it’s coming around again. Fire!”
“A direct hit, but how…”
“Fire!”
“My God, why won’t it stop?”
“Kill it! Just kill the fucking thing!”
“Oh, please, God, please—” A wail of utter terror, short, loud, and final. Wilms tore off the earphones and lunged for the binoculars. Almost in a state of genuine grief, he said, “I heard this once before, and I’ll be damned if I have to listen to it all over again!”
Angst understood what the signalman meant. It was the same unmistakable feeling that had occurred on the night the self-propelled assault gun was destroyed. They were reliving the violent, chaotic drama all over again that was uniquely different from all other confrontations; that same strange feeling of something appalling that could not be named. Angst could see the unmistakable profile of a T-34 pierce the veil of mist not more than fifty meters away. Hulking and bestial, it looked like some overfed creature, waddling away from a banquet of flesh. “Red Vengeance,” Angst said in awe.
“How can you say that? We don’t know that for certain.”
“Look at it, Wilms. You know what it is.”
The tank with its shroud of netting geared up to a higher speed and veered south in the direction of the minefield. Good, Angst thought, lose yourself out there, and join the rest of the ruin. Wilms let go of the binoculars and tried to raise the 222 on the radio again, but the interference was too intense. Obstinately, he continued to try.
“There’s nothing Schroeder can do for us.”
“I’d sell my entire family for a panzerfaust right now.”
Enveloped by mist and dusk, the T-34 disappeared from view. “What happened that night when the assault gun got hit? Detwiler and Schroeder lost in a thicket. Sounds coming from nowhere and everywhere. And then in the ravine on the following night. What made it so unusual and strange, like the way it feels now?”
“Don’t try to make sense out of any of it, Angst, and don’t make me try.”
The clatter of tank tracks could be heard, loud and clear. Angst felt the adrenaline jolt through his chest and shoulders, tightening the sinews. The silhouette of a Tiger loomed out of the mist and passed by the broken fuselage. Smoke poured from the rear of the vehicle, and the engine plant ground terribly. “Let’s try to catch up,” Angst said, “The crew might need help.” Hurriedly, they packed up the radio, grabbed their rifles, and climbed out of the midsection. The Tiger chugged along, slowly, maintaining a heading of almost due west. The grenadiers struggled through the ooze but were able to follow alongside the enormous tank and call out to whoever remained alive within. The 120 mm frontal armor had been punctured by armor-piercing shot, as was the turret’s left side, which housed the commander and gunner compartments. It was a sure guess both crewmen were dead. That left the gun loader in the right-hand compartment of the turret. If he were alive, Angst reasoned, he would have seen them by now. Figures approached from the distance: Braun, Detwiler and Schmidt. The scout car followed, slowly, but with far less difficulty than before. Their shouts garnered no response from the crew within. The tank maintained the same course for several minutes more until its engine coughed and spluttered and finally seized. The Tiger rattled and became still. The squad and the scout car, with Schroeder at the 20 mm gun, converged on the lifeless machine. “We tried to hail them on the radio but got no response,” Schroeder said.
Braun climbed onto the deck and opened the turret hatch, releasing a noxious cloud of exhaust fumes. He reached down into the opening and struggled. Schmidt joined him on the deck and helped. As they pulled and tugged, finally a soot-blackened face came into view. The head lolled, mouth slack, eyes closed; and when more of the body was freed from the hatch opening, an enormous tear in the panzer crewman’s black overalls, from groin to chin, could be seen. “Burst like a sausage,” Detwiler exclaimed. Once the crewman was laid out on the deck, Braun searched for any signs of life. He turned to face the others and simply shook his head. Schmidt made the sign of the cross, mumbled a short prayer, and followed Braun off the vehicle. Inspecting the damage, they all marveled at how the Tiger could be subjected to so much abuse and still keep moving for as long as it had. The armorpiercing round that had struck the front end made a jagged hole larger than the size of a man’s head in diameter. Scorch marks at the edges determined the shot was made at extremely close range. Using a flashlight, Detwiler trained the beam through the hole and looked into the smoldering interior. He reared back and made a noise of revulsion. “I could sell tickets to see what’s smeared in here.”
His crudeness was getting on all their nerves, even Schroeder’s. “You asshole, Ernst,” he snapped.
Unfazed, the machine gunner turned to Angst. “Sure you won’t have a peek? I’ll let you look for free.”
“Gawking won’t improve my soldiering any.”
“Maybe it will. Go on, look. Get used to it. That’s what I say.”
“You wallow in it,” Wilms said. “Everything is a big joke for you.”
“Only because it’s all too horrible,” Detwiler said, grimly serious.
Schroeder had climbed down from the scout car and approached Wilms and Angst. “Did you see what happened?”
“The radio wouldn’t function.”
“It was Red Vengeance,” Angst said, blandly.
Wilms turned on him, noticeably shaken. “We don’t know that for certain.” So that the others would not overhear, Schroeder took them both to the side. “Which is it, Wilms? Did you see Red Vengeance or not?”
“I overheard a transmission. The Tiger was taking fire.”
Angst butted in. “They sounded terrorized.”
“I thought you said the radio didn’t work?” Schroeder questioned the signalman.
“It didn’t. Not until I overheard the panzer patrol.”
“Was Red Vengeance referred to by name?”
“No.”
“I saw it slip out of the fog. Wilms had the binoculars. He saw it better than I did.”
“Is that what you saw Wilms? Wilms?” Schroeder persisted.
“Only for a second. I can’t say for sure.”
“You don’t forget a thing like that,” Angst said, “not that tank.”
Schroeder contemplated what he had just heard, and suddenly there was a shout. “Here comes the Hanomag and the captain.” Braun had reboarded the deck of the stricken Tiger and waved broadly at the approaching vehicle with a series of arm signals to indicate there was danger and to proceed with caution.