The lieutenant snapped. “And do you think I can? Well, Braun? I asked you a question!”
Submissive, Braun said nothing. Reinhardt took hold of the lieutenant’s arm, as it seemed he was about to strike the grenadier. Voss shook off the sergeant’s grip, then looked straight ahead and pointed to the ground alongside the wet riverbank. “See, the track imprints continue.”
Khan had followed the tracks as well, and when the Hanomag came to a stop behind the scout car, the shaman had removed his boots and waded into the river. The ribbed, waffled set of tank track imprints continued straight to the water’s edge and then ended. There were no other tracks either along the bank or down the road; no sign that Red Vengeance had changed direction to the north or east over open ground. Khan followed the track marks along the silt bed under the water, using his bare feet to guide his direction. He almost disappeared below the surface before paddling back. The gray water rippled with alarm. In his heavily accented Russian, he called out, “The beast hides in the river. Deep!”
Falkenstein nodded, as though the shaman’s absurd discovery made perfect sense. After he wrung the water from the hem of his tunic, Khan sat down and pulled on his boots. “We go back to Veranovka. Bad place here, Captain.”
“It knows I am here, Khan?”
“It comes for you, but not here. Not good time. Kill Red Vengeance at Veranovka. Much better.”
Falkenstein could not simply turn around, not after so many months of frustration and wasted opportunities, and certainly not after having to witness the aftermath of this slaughter and the memory of his own tragedy. Red Vengeance was too close not to attempt a kill. “Let’s see if I can’t raise the miserable, cowardly beast to the surface!” He swung the turret around, sighted the 20 mm cannon beyond the point in the water where the shaman had originally swam, and fired, one armored piercing round after the next, traversing the turret slowly from three o’clock to nine o’clock and back again. Reinhardt succumbed to the strain and squeezed the trigger of the MG42. A mad ballet danced upon the waters’ surface. Next, it became Braun’s turn to get sucked into the hysteria, and he fired the panzerfaust. The extreme arc of the trajectory sent the hollow charged projectile high into the air, and when it plopped down, a geyser of water and white smoke frothed. Counterblast gases filled the crew compartment. Braun flung the spent firing tube into the river. The captain continued to fire, despite Khan’s protests. “No, Captain! Nothing will raise it up! Please, Captain, we must go.”
Sickened by the ill logic manifesting all around him, Voss pushed Reinhardt away from the machine gun as he went to reload with another belt of ammunition. “Come to your senses! There is nothing hiding in that river.”
“Is all this madness then, Lieutenant? Did that really happen back there? Because if it is real, then we have been cast into a hell deeper than anything we’ve ever known over these past years.”
The shooting ceased. Khan had evidently brought Falkenstein under control, either that or, having used up a twenty-round magazine, he wasn’t inclined to invest any more ammunition on the submerged target. Wrung out, adrift, Voss felt as though the events to come would simply carry him along, and no influence or will of his own could he summon to alter the outcome. Not even Falkenstein could claim to be in control. Some other unnatural power navigated the course of their destruction, which now seemed inevitable.
37
The vehicles had returned to the town square and parked when Yvgeney stepped forward to greet them. As the crew piled out of the Hanomag, the auxiliary policeman latched onto Voss, and in a pitched, weaseling voice, he demanded some consideration for his predicament. He had not been fed; in fact he was refused, outright. It was not fair to be treated so unkindly; after all, he was an ally of the Germans. Voss cringed from the Ukrainian’s touch. The stench of vomit clung to the man’s breath, and the odor of alcohol exuded from every pore. Voss then erupted in a fury the crew—even the old hands, Reinhardt and Hartmann—had never witnessed before. “Get away from me! I want nothing to do with you or your wretched comrades! You’re on your own, do you hear? Find your own food and don’t dare to beg or steal a morsel from my men, or I will shoot you myself. I told you to cut down those corpses and tear down that gallows. I don’t want to see a single dead body hanging or littering the streets. Bury them! Bury them all, or I will kill you, do you understand? I will kill you! Now, get out of my sight!” Voss slumped against the fender of the armored carrier, his chest aching from screaming so hard. Cowed by the ferocious outburst, Yvgeney shrunk back. Angst removed the shovel and pickax from the fender on the opposite side of the vehicle and threw the tools at the Ukrainian’s feet. Whining quietly, he picked up the shovel and pickax and staggered off.
“Dumb son of a bitch, you don’t know how lucky you are,” Angst said, and immediately set off for the observation post on the east side of town. Braun followed, but the two did not speak. The color had returned to Braun’s face. There was little either could say, feeling so overwhelmed as they were. Angst would have done anything for a drink, to get drunk and forget. As they neared the supply dump, the motorcycle remained where it had originally stopped. One of the machine gun crew, Herzog, sat in the sidecar with his head thrown back, mouth open and snoring. Angst shook him brusquely. “Wake up, loafer.”