Falkenstein ordered that no one shoot. “I want him alive. Khan!” The Mongol swung himself over the side in one move, landed upright, and ran effortlessly through the mud after the Russian. Falkenstein turned to Voss. “We will rendezvous at Veranovka as planned. No doubt your appetite for rescue is far from satisfied. God help you, should this vehicle break down under the weight of rabble you collect along the way.”
Voss saluted. “I understand perfectly, sir.”
Falkenstein returned the salute, curtly. Barking at the crew to make room, he pushed his way to the compartment doors. Schroeder had since exited the scout car and watched as the captain stepped down. Their eyes met. “Why are you frowning, Corporal?”
“I still have the stomach for a fight, sir.”
Falkenstein smiled. “There’s always tomorrow. We will try again, you and I. Red Vengeance won’t forget us. Mark my words.”
Pleased with the attention the captain had bestowed upon him, Schroeder boarded the Hanomag. Reinhardt climbed down off the hull, flung the used launching tube aside, muttered “Sir” to Falkenstein as he passed, and followed the corporal into the crew compartment, where he was greeted by all with slaps on the back and words of admiration for a terrific kill. Gears strained as the armored personnel carrier shifted in reverse and then heaved forward as it rocked across the soft, uneven earth and groaned under the added weight of more men and equipment. Falkenstein limped over to the scout car and watched as the vehicle drove away. “Don’t think you have gained the upper hand with me, Herr Voss…” Above the sound of the rattling engine, Vogel sat at the wheel and listened to the captain’s muttering through the opened side port. “…Out here I am lord and master. There are no other loyalties. Only total commitment to me.”
The enemy penetration, such as it was, fizzled out as quickly as it had begun. Falkenstein could only shake his head in wonder at the rout the diminutive action had produced, more so for his own command, as the opportunity to engage Red Vengeance was lost. Several flares burned weakly in the sky some distance away, yet the light produced was enough for him to watch as Khan dragged the Russian crewman along by the scruff of the neck and placed him, like a dog to heel, at his feet. Under the padded leather tank helmet, a set of eyes shone brightly from a mud smeared face. Despite the grime, Falkenstein saw that the crewman was young. He recognized the look he received, having witnessed it countless times before—defiance, even with Khan’s curved blade poised at the Russian’s throat. “Whether you live or die makes no difference to me, but it does to him,” Falkenstein said, indicating Khan. A glimmer of surprise betrayed the crewman’s poise. The captain’s use of his native tongue was far from perfect but his intent was made very clear “Answer my questions, and at least I can intervene on your behalf.” The crewman barely nodded, but it was enough for Falkenstein to continue. “Tell me everything you know about Red Vengeance. Where did it go?”
“You know all there is to know, German, probably more than I.”
“This is not a game. We have all run out of time. Now, answer my questions. What armored unit is Red Vengeance usually attached to? Has it gone to ground, and if so, for how long? Where and when will it appear next? Admit to me: whose control is it under?”
The crewman appeared momentarily confused by the barrage of questions. He took a deep breath and then became remarkably composed as his mouth curled into an icy smile. “Red Vengeance is a myth you Hitlerites made up for yourselves. The Red Army is defeating you, so you heap all your fears on one improbable machine. I personally don’t believe anything said of Red Vengeance. It’s an invention. Your invention.” The Russian laughed.
“Is that your only answer, then?”
“No! My answer to you is this: the might and will of the Soviet people will throw you Hitlerite criminals out of our motherland, and the war won’t end there. We will do to your country, in your cities and towns, and to your people the same as you have done to us. Someday all Germans will know what Red Vengeance truly means.”
Rather than be provoked to anger by the crewman’s words, Falkenstein was merely disappointed. He expected to garner some useful bit of information, however minute, instead of the drunken ideological parroting of Bolshevik propaganda. “Khan…”
A look of alarm crossed the Russian’s face. Khan raised the knife and waited for the slight nod from the captain that would cause it to fall. “Can’t kill me by your own hand, German? Instead, you let this treacherous swine do your dirty work!”
The sarcastic tone bit a little too deeply. Falkenstein removed the short-barreled PPK from the pocket of his riding coat, pointed it at the crewman’s temple, and pulled the trigger. The man keeled over, uneventfully, as tufts of helmet padding floated listlessly to the sodden ground. Falkenstein spoke to the dead crewman, who lay on the ground like an overturned sack of grain. “I am not a cruel man…only impatient.”
RED VENGEANCE
32
The fields had since turned to ash, and the houses, barns, and outbuildings had been reduced to piles of charred rubble. Islands of dead cattle, bloated and rotting, dotted the scorched land. The steppe was empty and the prevailing silence dreadful. A few of the stragglers from the night before were able to tag along, which was not difficult to do as the Hanomag drove slowly through the mud. Two dispossessed infantrymen had wormed their way into the crew compartment, a gloomy dark-haired fellow, Bruno, and Mueller, a youth of no more than eighteen. They had crouched on the deck by the doors and remained quiet and innocuous, as if their presence would thus go unnoticed. It did not matter to the crew, as they were too wet and exhausted to care. Three grenadiers from the same unit stood on the mudguard fenders and held on for the long ride. As for the rest of the panicked mob, there were noticeably fewer at dawn. Some lagged too far behind as they attempted to negotiate the mud and others had struck out on their own. Many simply remained lost, probably forever.
The command vehicle sloughed along a kilometer to the rear, and visual contact was finally established a short time after dawn. Voss was not inclined to signal the captain and ask if he needed assistance, and the captain did not radio any inquires to the armored carrier. This arrangement, temporary as it was, suited Voss just fine; it afforded him the opportunity to recoup his strength, now that he was out from under the captain’s oppressive personality. Veranovka lay half a kilometer further to the west when Voss had the vehicle stop so he could examine the site. What he observed through binoculars, he did not like. A makeshift gallows had been erected on the outskirts of the repair depot east of the railroad tracks. Five men, three women, and a boy hung, hands bound behind their backs. The boy’s age was difficult to determine, and the only clue that he was not an adult was that he was shorter than the others. Exposed to the weather overnight, perhaps longer, rain-soaked clothing clung tightly to the corpses, which had begun to swell. The colorless flesh of exposed arms and feet stood in gruesome contrast to the purple discoloration of their faces. Voss lowered the binoculars and ordered Hartmann to advance. Despite the crew’s exhaustion and discomfort, they found it impossible not to look and, if not feel pity, at least express an interest as to what crimes they had committed to earn such a final and lasting sentence. “Partisans,” said Schroeder. “Or looters,” Wilms said.