“They shouldn’t be here for much longer, sir. I’ve assigned the men preliminary tasks in securing the town.”
“Very well. Let’s see if we can fine-tune our situation. Let’s have a tour.” Falkenstein entered the scout car by the co-driver’s side hatch as Voss followed and joined him in the turret. Placing the earphones on his head and speaking into the throat mike, the captain gave directions to Vogel. The scout car left the square by the same road they had entered. Except for the burned-out shells of the houses that lined the sides of the road, the surroundings were quite open. There was, however, a large area that had been set aside as an equipment dump and supply yard. Junked machine parts, steel drums, stacks of rails, and bins containing base plates and washers—the hardware leftover to regauge and upgrade the railroad tracks. Beyond the supply dump were the secondary buildings that comprised the repair depot. Set out in a long row was an agglomeration of workshops, tool sheds, and storage huts separated by narrow paths and alleys. As they approached the railroad crossing, Falkenstein had the sergeant turn left onto a gravel road that ran north to south, parallel to the splayed rails and churned-up embankment on one side and the complex of buildings that formed the heart of the depot. The buildings at the south end consisted of a repair garage and machine shop; next was the maintenance facility, a long, moderately tall structure fabricated of corrugated metal siding and roofing. This building, Falkenstein knew, was where the armored vehicles were repainted in the Wehrmacht-approved dark sand and green camouflage pattern. In winter, they were whitewashed. The depot at Veranovka was by no means a large facility, but it could service the needs of a modest panzer unit of several full batteries if necessary. During the counteroffensive earlier in the year, the depot had more work than it could handle. Vogel turned into the wide opening of the maintenance building as the captain instructed. Large pads of concrete, stained with paint, had been set into the earthen floor. Overhead, the truss work that supported the roof was encrusted with bird droppings. Chased from their habitat by the smoke and dust from over the past days, the birds flitted nervously from one beam to the next, chirping and cooing. Long sections of metal-paned louvered windows, many of which were broken, let in a gloomy light. At the north end, a wide path separated the maintenance building from yet another garage. Falkenstein told Vogel to stop. All the main buildings were spaced apart thus, with enough room for the girth of two tanks to pass through easily. The gravel surface was firm like the road. The street, or alley, that ran along the length of the main buildings in back was muddy and terribly rutted. This was where the workshops and tool sheds stood, flanking the opposite side of this muddy access way. Falkenstein made a mental note of the layout. The scout car as well as the sizeable Hanomag could squeeze in between these smaller buildings. The vehicles would have a far more difficult time where the concrete block workshops stood very close together, but it wasn’t impossible. Falkenstein had Vogel amble in and around the structures to get a feel of the space. While making this sweep, the officers saw Braun leave one of the workshops and fumble with a chain that held the double doors closed. The grenadier was surprised by the appearance of the command vehicle and saluted self-consciously as it drove by. “No gasoline yet, Captain.”
“You have barely begun your search, private. Keep looking,” Falkenstein said.
The scout car turned to the right and drove by the second repair garage. A Mark IV tank, lacking both turret and tracks, blocked the north entrance. There was ample room for a man to get through but certainly not a vehicle. Vogel was told to turn again, this time to the left, which brought them back to the gravel road. More huts and shacks flanked the road. Falkenstein considered the withdrawal by the town’s previous occupants feckless and haphazard. They now approached the water tower that stood between the gravel road and the railroad tracks. The support base of wood columns stood seven or eight meters high, with a wood-staved container, like an enormous barrel, that was another four meters in height. A narrow catwalk circled the base of the water tank, and a crudely fashioned ladder ran up the side of one support column. Another ladder ran up the side of the water tank and ended in a small platform of some kind attached to the very top. “The entire countryside can be seen from up there. We will know in good time when a hostile force attempts an advance,” Falkenstein said.
“I have Wilms on the detail. He should be in place momentarily.”
“Good. And I want him at the very top, not just circling that platform like some half-wit walking the wheel.”
“I’ll be sure to inform him.”
The valve assembly at the base of the tower was still intact, but there was no evidence that the water tank had been drained. Except for the pools of standing rainwater that had accumulated in the depressions and the ditch between the road and the embankment, there were no major puddles; Voss was certain the runoff would have been prodigious from a container that size. He doubted the saturated ground could absorb so many thousands of liters. The water wasn’t potable—and not because of the additives used to soften it and prevent scaling from occurring inside the locomotive boilers. Rather, Voss was thinking about the water’s source, the wells, polluted with some form of poison or feculence, as was every well and watering hole between here and the Donets since the retreat began. It was all part of the strategy to inhibit the Red Army’s advance with stomach cramps and diarrhea if necessary. The water in the tank could have been laced with something even more sinister; an industrial site as this would have any number of poisons on hand. He expressed his concerns to Falkenstein, who agreed. “Point well taken, Lieutenant. We will have to ration our own supply and prohibit use of the local water supply.” Driving past the tower, on their right, was another dumping ground seventy-five to eighty meters east of the tracks, consisting mostly of hillocks of gravel slag heaps as well as a stack of railroad ties that smoldered. The odor of creosote hung heavy in the damp air. Further along there was a coal elevator and two hoppers that stood close to the tracks. Gaps and seams in the planking of the elevator facade exposed the workings on the inside. The machinery seemed in place and undamaged. To the right, directly opposite, the road forked, and a gravel drive ran directly to the wide bay opening of a warehouse. The structure looked like an enormous L-shaped barn. A section of the roof had partially burned, and pieces of blackened and charred framing had collapsed within. Inside, the scout car maneuvered around the debris quite easily, as could any fighting vehicle. The structure was voluminous and totally empty. Two sets of stairs on either side led to the storage galleries on the second level. A rime of blond sawdust blanketed an area of the exposed dirt floor, and a lingering odor of milled lumber and mineral oil remained—a smell Voss found quite agreeable. Upon exiting the rear of the building, the scout car turned back onto the gravel road that continued for another fifty meters before it ended abruptly at the rail crossing. Another dirt road, running east to west, continued back toward the town square. The captain had Vogel stop and raised himself up in the turret opening to survey the crossing and the tracks that lay ahead and behind. As the track wolf had passed through, the split, shattered wood ties jutted up at odd angles. It would not be impossible for a T-34 to cross the double set of rails, but there was always the possibility that a tank’s ribbed, perforated tracks could get snagged on the thick splinters of wood. A tank trap of sorts, which, if it did not stop the vehicle or cause damage, would slow its progress considerably. And that could work to our advantage, Falkenstein thought. The best option to enter the town in this sector without difficulty would be to use the improved rail bed crossing both here or at the south end of the depot at the Old Cart Road. If Red Vengeance approached the town from the east, it would be at either of these two points. The same was true for both the armored personnel carrier and the 222. Any flanking or outmaneuvering, when the situation arose, would demand the use of the crossings. The scout car turned left onto the dirt road that returned to the town square. The captain explained that this road continued on to the river and was named, appropriately, River Road, whereas the Old Cart Road at the south end, although not on any map, was a meandering path that eventually wound up by the reservoir. Houses flanked the River Road on either side. The workers’ settlement was a collection of rough dwellings constructed of weathered planking. The rear of the houses were fenced in with either sunflower stalks or narrow boards, and the yards, both front and back, appeared to have been cultivated for growing vegetables for the inhabitants’ private use. There were coops and pens, all empty, and a small barn or at least a shack or woodshed in back. A collection of thirty houses with adjoining structures, the settlement reminded Voss of a rabbit warren. Voss had never ceased to be amazed at how, in all this open space, the peasants would constrict themselves—adults and children all crammed together with cows, pigs, chickens, and the inevitable lice. The settlement had the look of so much kindling.