“Don’t tell the captain,” Wilms pleaded.
Schroeder’s look of surprise turned to one of contempt. “What are you saying? This is why we’re here.”
When the Hanomag stopped alongside the tank, the officers regarded the smoking ruin with concern. “It’s the work of Red Vengeance, Captain. Angst and Wilms saw it,” Schroeder cried exuberantly.
Falkenstein seemed to swell upon hearing the news. His face took on an almost beatific expression. “Which way did it go?”
“Southeast. Toward the minefield,” Angst said.
“Then we pursue” Falkenstein cried in a voice resonating with a crazed edge.
“It’s getting dark, sir,” Voss interrupted. “Let’s not be taunted into making a false move.”
“Retreat or give chase—it makes no difference, should Red Vengeance decide to engage us. Get the men aboard, Lieutenant.”
All but Schroeder scrambled on to the vehicle. “Should Sergeant Vogel and I follow in the Two-Twenty-Two, sir?”
“If you can keep up, Corporal, by all means. Man that cannon!”
The armored personnel carrier wheeled about, nose pointed east. Hartmann pushed the vehicle as fast as it could go over the muddy terrain, urged on by Falkenstein’s ranting. Had the captain been in possession of a whip, Hartmann was sure he would have been lashed like a pack animal to keep up the pace. They passed the burning wreckage of a Mark IV. A charred head and torso lay on the ground, enclosed in a section of the command cupola that had blown free of the turret. “First a Tiger, and now this,” Braun murmured in disbelief, “and we’re expected to stop a T-34 in this thin skinned bucket of bolts. This is crazy.” Schmidt laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder in an attempt to reassure him, but Braun shrugged it off. The fear among the crew had become palpable as darkness rapidly enveloped the steppe. Falkenstein was not so reckless as to plunge directly into the minefield. Knowing the area well, he guided Hartmann through the dummy field that weaved around the live perimeter. A thunderous noise rolled above their heads. Magnesium star shells arched across the sky illuminating the landscape in a rancid wash of yellow light. The shriek of 76 mm cannon shells followed, and the ground started to erupt. Crouched low in the crew compartment, the grenadiers prayed the armored siding would hold as a cold bath of muddy water rained down. They had the sense that they were being sucked in by an undertow, all except the captain, who stood erect behind the shield of the bow machine gun and cursed the driver to deliver more speed. Rather than being an inspiration to strengthen morale, the sight of the captain only caused the men to feel more frightened and appalled. The Hanomag plunged down and up through shallow gullies and around shell craters. The men collided with one another and tried to steady themselves on the hand railings as the vehicle dipped and elevated sharply. “Faster…faster,” Falkenstein raved on. A horse galloped by, harnessed to a flaming panje wagon. Behind this unwittingly spooked torchbearer followed a desperate parade of German soldiers, their shrill, hysterical voices screaming one word again and again: “Tanks!” This remnant of some lost unit now in flight begged to be saved. Almost a platoon-sized number of troops turned and ran after the armored carrier in an attempt to climb on. Schmidt began to open the compartment doors, but Falkenstein instructed him not to. “Bolt those doors shut, or we will be swamped!” The vehicle slowed considerably as Hartmann skirted around a series of shell craters filled with rainwater. Taking advantage of the near stop, several of the troops worked their way on to the mudguards and hung onto the siding. Brazenly, a grenadier started to climb over the siding, only to be rammed in the face by a rifle butt. Detwiler. He smiled ruthlessly and watched as the grenadier sailed off, arms outstretched, and disappeared into the mud and darkness. Voss ordered the driver to find a suitable place and bring the vehicle to a halt. Countermanding the order, Falkenstein told him to speed up, but more troops had surrounded the armored vehicle as voices cried out to be let aboard and begged the crew to turn about. “Keep moving,” Falkenstein cried. “Run them over if you must!” Hartmann wouldn’t, making every effort to swerve out of the way as arms waved frantically to flag him down. The scout car had been keeping up the pace, but now it too had attracted a mob. There was a sudden burst of machine gun fire and the clatter of tracks as enemy tanks neared. Many of the panicked troops broke away from the two vehicles and dove for cover in the shell craters. They looked like frogs leaping into a dirty pond. Slowing down, Hartmann positioned the Hanomag behind a ruined tank hull that lay cantilevered across a depression. Falkenstein was vexed. “Corporal, my order was to drive.”
Voss, attempting to remain unruffled, said “We’re overburdened, sir.”
“This is not our fight, Lieutenant. Better game beckons us.”
“We cannot allow the whims of fate to decide for the lives of all these men. It is unconscionable.”
“Damn them to hell! They’re running away. Get them off the vehicle, or I will give the order to have them shot.”
Voss knew that Mad Falkenstein seemed very capable of giving that order at the moment. He shouted over the din and tried to reason with the crowd. “You are impeding our mission and endangering all of our lives. We can’t take you all on. Now move away.”
This language was not nearly strong enough for the captain’s taste. He loomed over the siding like an engorged Cyclops. “Stand clear, or I’ll give the order to open fire on you all.” Most of the squad had their weapons at the ready. Khan, Wilms, and Detwiler trained submachine guns on the crowd. Voss did not move, determined to take no part in it. Resigned, some of the troops hopped off the mudguards, but one fellow, a tall, bedraggled grenadier, stayed and challenged the officers. He stood face to face with the captain and sneered, “There are more of us than you. We could take over your vehicle. What have we got to lose? We’re getting slaughtered out here.” Voices shouted in agreement, and the troops started to advance on the Hanomag once again. With lightning speed, Falkenstein drew his P-38 and pressed the muzzle to the grenadier’s forehead. “Incite mutiny, dog, and you will be the first to fall.” Shocked rather than frightened, the grenadier let go of the siding and jumped down. One by one the others followed.
Hartmann called out from the driver’s cabin, “Captain! Lieutenant!”
In the dwindling illumination of the flares, an armored infantry vehicle flanked by two T-34s drove by in a northwesterly direction. “They haven’t seen us,” Voss said, relieved.
“Let them pass. We will have to evacuate this sector.” Falkenstein felt cheated.
“It might be too late,” Reinhardt countered. A third T-34 bore down upon their position.
“Get the panzerfaust, Sergeant,” Voss said. “We can’t outrun it now.”
“Our antitank weapons are too few to waste on this lot,” Falkenstein protested.
Despite the captain’s frustration, Voss remained firm. “Get into position, Dieter.”
Falkenstein had no choice but to concede. He nodded his assent, but Reinhardt wasn’t waiting for the commander’s go-ahead; he’d already opened the crate and lifted the grenade launcher carefully and exited through the crew compartment doors. He mounted the hull that lay over the depression, took cover behind the cracked turret, and maintained the picture of absolute coolness to the crew as the Russian tank came within range. He hugged the launching tube under his right armpit and looked through the vertical sight and past the squat, hollow charged explosive mounted at the front end. The T-34’s hull machine gun fired in short bursts as it drew near. Nerves were strained inside the crew compartment as everyone waited for the sergeant to fire. The tank was well within the sixty-meter maximum target range, but still Reinhardt waited. “Come on, just a few meters more” he said, quietly. The tank had gotten so close he could hear, above the sound of the diesel, a round being slammed into the breech. He could wait no longer and pressed the firing lever. A white shaft of flame belched from the rear of the tube as exploding gases sent the projectile smashing into the center of the sloping front hull. A loud thud was followed by a grating bang. The T-34 lurched and then stopped. Nearby, the 20 mm gun on the scout car spewed a series of bursts of armor-piercing rounds that chewed away at the tank’s skin. Small flames appeared along the left side of the vehicle, but mostly it was thick smoke that billowed out. The turret hatch cover swung open, and a crewman leapt out. He started to run for all he was worth but slipped and fell facedown in the mud. Frantic, he struggled to put as much distance between himself and the tank as it burst into flames. The crew laughed and jeered at the Russian’s antics. Detwiler swung the machine gun around on the rear bracket mount and took aim. “Let’s see if this can make him dance.”