Matthias Bruno gestured broadly. “This will never be over. Our children and grandchildren, generations far into the future, will exist below ground so as not to insult the sun with their actions.”
“Too many spiders for my comfort, I’m afraid,” Voss replied.
“Spiders? Of course there are spiders. And worms and a host of infinitesimal creatures that go about the business of living and do no harm. Think of the quiet and the rich smell of the earth. We will spend an eternity buried. Best we get used to the idea beforehand, don’t you think?”
Voss would not commit himself to agree. He had engaged in this abnormal conversation for long enough. “There should be some food along, eventually. If you do not come out, I suppose I will have to send someone down.”
Bruno shook his head. “I’d rather have something to drink. It would help fortify my resolve.”
“I’m afraid the Ukrainian police drank everything this town had to offer.”
“A pity. I can tolerate the wounded more when I’m drunk than sober.”
Yes, I’m sure you could, Voss thought. He bid the orderly good morning, for the time being, and left the bunker. He squinted. The sun shone brightly through breaks in the clouds. Since the weather had turned, Voss had grown unaccustomed to the light. He set off across the square, fully cognizant that there were more insults, outrages even, to be performed under the sun’s glare and wondered what would be the extent of his own involvement.
Vogel had stepped out of the captain’s headquarters when Voss approached. The driver held a piece of paper in his hand, the deciphered transmission from Corps. “I informed the captain,” Vogel said, and gave the paper to Voss. Buildup of Soviet South-West and South Fronts continues. Two Armies and one Tank Corps assembled southeast of Zaporozhye. Large-scale enemy mechanized patrols operating all throughout vicinity. Present position of Recon Group Falkenstein untenable and advise immediate withdrawal to defensive perimeter. “We’re out on a limb. How did the captain respond when he read this?”
“Nothing, other than to say it was advice he was unwilling to accept.”
A profound bitterness overcame Voss. The weight of the Soviet forces was gathering just beyond the horizon, out of sight, and he did not need this piece of paper to tell him what the logical, sane move was. One individual sealed his fate and the crew’s. The entire Army Group has crossed the river, he thought, and we are still here. Malinovskiy’s South-West Front could descend upon us and then what—make a futile last stand? What a pathetic irony. It would be worth it only to live long enough to see Falkenstein in that moment of failure and frustration. Oh, but he’s a cool one, sure that Red Vengeance alone poses the only threat. That blasted tank! Why hadn’t it done a thorough job of it the first go-around? Falkenstein’s megalomania arose from the wreckage of that first encounter, and to wreckage he takes us.
Intent on having it out with the captain, one way or the other, Voss entered the house. The door to the storage room was closed. Voss tapped lightly and said, “Captain Falkenstein.” There was no response from within. He opened the door. A shade had been put up to cover the window, and it was dark. Falkenstein lay on his back, covered with the wool blanket. Leg brace and wet muddy boots stood at the foot of the cot. “Captain Falkenstein, there is a matter we need to discuss.” There was no answer. Voss stepped farther into the room, almost timid in the sleeping man’s presence. “Captain…” He went to touch the officer, to wake him, but quickly drew back his hand. Alone. Vulnerable. Without thinking, Voss had placed his hand on the holster at his belt and suddenly became aware of it. How easy this would be, he thought. He then became resolute in the action he was about to take but was immediately thwarted by a strong, willful presence. He whirled around and saw Khan standing in the doorway, stroking the antler horn knife still its sheath. The Mongol hissed like a snake. Voss was thrown completely off guard. He had not seen Khan since the command vehicle had arrived at the outskirts of town and he had run off toward the depot—and now he simply materialized out of thin air. Unnerved by the sudden manifestation, Voss hadn’t the slightest doubt the shaman knew exactly what murderous intensions he now possessed. “Fiend,” Voss spat out quietly, “have you come to guard this vampire while it sleeps!” As he pushed his way past, the eyes of both men locked. Voss was beaten quickly, unable to stare long into the black, icy depths. Khan smiled, scornful and triumphant. Frightened and humiliated, Voss rushed out of the house, knowing that never again would he have the captain so easily at his mercy.
35
The forage party yielded meager results. All the houses in proximity to the town square had been searched, and only a single onion and two small potatoes were found. The best find of all was a jar of sunflower seeds that Elenya had discovered. The women, under Reinhardt’s watchful eye, had begun a sweep of the workers’ settlement when the sounds of a commotion could be heard. Mueller was seen walking swiftly down the road in the direction of the square. Reinhardt stopped him. “Is that field telephone operational?”
“I don’t know, Sergeant.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t get a chance to hook it up…I think Corporal Schroeder has lost control of the men,” Mueller replied.
The sound of breaking glass and loud voices was coming from the northeast side of the settlement. “Keep an eye on this bunch,” he told Mueller, and set off to restore some order. That Schroeder had lost his grip on the stragglers was all too evident. Four men rampaged through the settlement with the gusto of a horde of brigands as they kicked in doors, shattered windows, and broke whatever piece of furniture or crockery that was left lying around. These men weren’t simply hungry but ravenous, and their search for something edible had turned into a riot. They vented their rage, fueled by the pangs of an empty stomach. Concealed behind a fence, Reinhardt watched as the group entered another house. The place shook from the violence within. This would prove more dangerous than anticipated, and he wouldn’t have minded a squad of field police at his side. He saw that Schroeder was observing the events from a distance, perplexed at what to do next. Reinhardt got his attention and signaled to the corporal to join him. “What set them off?”
“No drinking water. That was the last straw. Manure and pieces of rotting cattle have been tossed down all the wells,” Schroeder told him.
“Is there a ringleader?”
“A tall, skinny bastard. Otto they call him.”
Reinhardt had seen someone among the group a head taller than the rest and he was very familiar. Otto, the defiant grenadier from last night, had tried to force a takeover of the armored personnel carrier and was nearly executed by the captain. “I’m going to snuff Otto’s candle. If anyone interferes, shoot him, Corporal.” They ran up to the house and crouched down on either side of the door that hung broken on its hinge. Reinhardt figured he would have to lie and cajole this bunch if he wanted to avoid bloodshed. In a clear, loud voice, he yelled above the racket. “Chow line forming in the town square! Get it before it’s all gone!” The group bounded out of the house, with Otto the first out the door. With minimal effort, Reinhardt snatched his rifle away and, with the butt, dealt him a savage blow to the midriff. The others were brought up short by the sudden action and found themselves staring down the barrels of two submachine guns. “Blink and I’ll cut you in half” Reinhardt threatened. They watched as Otto curled up into a ball of pain. They understood immediately that there was no chow line forming anywhere just yet.