Theoretically, the town lay within the sterilization zone, that twenty-kilometer band of destruction and lifelessness that was to aid the withdrawal and slow the Russian advance. The track wolves had since torn up the rail lines, but the buildings and structures that comprised the depot had yet to be leveled. As the armored personnel carrier made its approach toward the heart of the town, most of the houses that flanked the dirt road were either completely burnt to the ground or severely damaged by fire. Veranovka had the feel of a ghost town, the emptiness that follows the violence of ransacking: the valueless, unwanted objects and bric-a-brac that littered the grounds from looted homes and buildings. Telephone and power line poles had been cut down, porcelain insulators shattered, and the jumble of cables lay twisted and coiled over the ground like an intrusion of vines. A signpost lay broken in the mud at the railroad crossing. Written in both German and Cyrillic letters, the sign read “Old Cart Road.” Voss ordered the vehicle to stop and again raised the binoculars. He gestured, and Schroeder took his position at the bow machine gun. “What is it, Lieutenant?” Hartmann asked. He nudged Reinhardt, who had fallen asleep in the co-driver’s seat. With a snort he opened his eyes.
The project of ruination had yet to be completed, as a motley outfit still occupied the town. A Ukrainian auxiliary police squad was attempting to wreak more destruction, but its efforts seemed quite haphazard. The auxiliaries’ actions reminded Voss of the raucous behavior of schoolboys in a play yard. “They’re ours,” he informed the crew, and had Hartmann continue. The road led directly into the town square, where several lorries, an open-topped staff car, and a number of motorcycles with sidecars were parked. Among these vehicles was where the lead core of this indigenous paramilitary unit remained, the Einsatzgruppen, who appeared eager to move out. Huddled in the rear seat of the staff car was an SS Sturmbannfuehrer. The Hanomag stopped, and Schmidt opened the doors and got out. Mueller and Bruno followed, and the infantrymen hanging onto the outside of the vehicle jumped down. The crew needed to stretch and start to dry out in the scant sunlight that was available. Before Voss could say a word, the auxiliaries started to surround the vehicle. Obviously drunk—several brandished bottles of vodka, some had schnapps, others wine—each toted a submachine gun or rifle and waved these weapons around as freely as their bottles. It was a dangerous mix. Descending upon the crew, the auxiliaries greeted them with loutish comradeship. They began to climb onto the vehicle and peer over the siding with dull-witted inquisitiveness at what was stored inside the crew compartment. Voss and Reinhardt were on edge and too short-tempered from fatigue to put up with any harassment, no matter how good-natured the intentions. The auxiliaries sensed the hostility and began to talk loudly, even yell, and gesticulate wildly. The mood was beginning to sour quickly. They became interested in the fuel cans lashed to the sides and front end and started to untie the ropes. Voss shouted at them to stop. One policeman had climbed into the crew compartment and was rooting around in the stowage lockers. When he handled the flamethrower, Schroeder hustled him unceremoniously off the vehicle. A Sturmmann and two SS Obersoldaten strolled over, genuinely amused at the panzergrenadiers’ predicament. Exasperated, Voss called out to them, “Can’t you control this mob?”
“They’re drunk,” said the Sturmmann, as he and the Obersoldaten began to herd the auxiliaries away from the vehicle.
“I can see that they’re drunk,” Voss replied. “What do they want from us?”
“Gasoline to burn down the rest of town. They started on the workers’ settlement, but the wood was too wet. They ran out of fuel.”
“Then you should have used the vodka rather than allow them to drink it.”
The Sturmmann laughed. “Now, that’s a thought.”
“It wasn’t meant to be amusing. If you don’t get a handle on these men, there will be an incident. I will not allow my crew to be endangered or our equipment ransacked, and I don’t intend to give up a drop of fuel. Is that clear?”
“Take it easy, Lieutenant, there is no need to make threats.” The three SS men, now joined by two more, established something of a cordon to hold back their unruly charges. The crew, including one of the stragglers, the youth Mueller, reboarded the Hanomag for protection. The Sturmbannfuehrer remained in the staff car and watched the proceedings with an air of disinterest. He passed along no orders to the junior officers and NCOs who stood around the officer’s car, their flat, unsavory features expressing bored amusement. Voss found their lack of involvement to maintain discipline rather bizarre. “We will wait for the captain at the edge of town,” he said to Hartmann, who immediately turned the vehicle around and retreated back down the road. More stragglers watched questioningly as the armored personnel carrier flew past. “If they have any smarts, they’ll keep on walking,” Braun said.
After a wait of several minutes, the scout car arrived. Falkenstein was visibly annoyed to find the Hanomag idling wastefully. “Why haven’t you established yourself in town, Lieutenant?”
Voss explained the situation and the potential for violence under the circumstances.
“Einsatzgruppen, you say?”
“Yes, Captain, and the Ukrainians are all drunk.”
“I suppose our colleagues are responsible for that.” Falkenstein gestured toward the gallows that stood in plain view.
Voss nodded. “I would assume…”
Falkenstein thought for a moment and muttered a few words to Khan, who was positioned in the turret beside him. He then turned to Voss and said, “We’re going in. I’ll speak to the officer in charge and persuade him to hurry along.”
Khan materialized from out of the turret opening, taking with him several items of personal equipment and hauling the antitank rifle, from which he had become inseparable. He ran alongside the double set of riven railroad tracks, heading north, in the direction of the maintenance depot building. Falkenstein thought it prudent that Khan not draw any attention to himself from either the SS or his alleged countrymen. He then addressed the crew. “Remember, men, we are still in a combat zone, and you are under orders. Should anyone try to interfere, molest, or hamper us in any way, you are to take whatever action is necessary to maintain the integrity of this unit. Is that understood?”
The crew nodded and said, in unison, “Yes, sir.”
“Very well. Let’s get on with the business of occupying this town.”
The scout car took the lead and raced down the road, with the Hanomag bringing up the rear. The crew was at the ready, each with a weapon in hand, and possessed a far more confident manner as they reentered Veranovka with the captain in charge. Falkenstein understood the theatrics of the occasion, and he presented himself as both a formidable and dashing figure. He stood high in the turret with the scarf at his neck fluttering in the wind, goggles perched above the brim of his forage cap; the black eye patch only helped to add a rakish touch. The 222 nosed around and between the stationary trucks and motorcycles, Vogel handling the vehicle impeccably at high speed, and then came to a smooth stop beside the staff car. Falkenstein saluted from the turret. “Good morning, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer. Captain Hans Falkenstein. This is my Reconnaissance Group.” Careful not to exhibit any discomfort or fatigue, Falkenstein climbed down from the turret and stood beside the officer’s car. He saluted and offered his hand. The Sturmbannfuehrer displayed an almost dyspeptic manner as he shook hands. “Toller. A pleasure, Captain.” Toller sat deeply entrenched in his plush seat and pulled up the collar of his leather coat. He shivered, and it was quite evident the officer was not well. What at first appeared to be a deeply tanned complexion proved, on closer examination, to be a yellow tinge, the onset of jaundice.