Red Vengeance Read online

  Copyright © 2012 Peter Idone

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1-4792-1241-5

  ISBN-13: 9781479212415

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-63001-131-4

  Table of Contents

  ANGST

  VOSS

  FALKENSTEIN

  RED VENGEANCE

  ANGST

  1

  His eyes weary from continued scrutiny of the monotonous landscape, Johann Angst looked again through his binoculars and believed he was minutes away from the worst day of his life. More realistically, he thought this could well be the very last day of his life. The steppe grass had dried to gray-brown from the long, relentless summer. Scores of olive drab mounds—dead Russians—littered the desolate ground. The sun was still low, a white plate in a pale sky, and this day was proving to be as unbearably hot as they all had been since his arrival to the eastern front a little over a month earlier. He centered his attention on the balka, or ravine, that lay approximately eight hundred meters away. A natural feature that predominated throughout the region of the southern Ukraine, the balka meandered for several kilometers parallel to the network of the German defensive trench lines, which Army Group South called the Tortoise Line.

  Several hours into the new morning, the enemy assaults had become disjointed and confused and finally ended altogether, but the battalion sector still had to endure intermittent mortar fire. Kept awake by periodic doses of Pervitin, Angst was conscious but exhausted. He would succumb to intense jags of crying that would abruptly stop. He wiped his runny nose on the sleeve of his field tunic. Curiously, the tears would refresh him, if only for a short while. He could not remember when he last had a solid chunk of uninterrupted sleep, instead of the short nods that lasted ten or fifteen minutes—or a half hour, if he was lucky. No one was getting any sleep lately.

  Due to the combined offensives of the Red Army’s Southwest and South Fronts, the Sixth Army, which Angst’s division was part of, had withdrawn from the Mius River. Fighting by day and force-marching by night, the division, already weakened and spent, covered over sixty kilometers in two days as the Russian infantry hounded close at their heels. They had barely settled into their new position when the Russians attacked. The Tortoise Line had been hastily constructed by Todt Organization workers and was primarily established to defend the industrial center of Stalino. Adequate at best, Tortoise extended from Mariupol, by the Sea of Azov in the south, to as far north as Konstantinovka and beyond, in the combat sector of the First Panzer Army. Several factors had determined why the main line of resistance in Angst’s battalion sector had not been constructed well forward of the balka, thus utilizing the topographical feature as a tank trap. Shallow and not terribly steep-sided, the balka had numerous points for entry and exit, which the Soviets could make use of. This being the case, some brilliant strategist at either division or corps had decided the balka would best serve as an outpost position. Engineers had seeded the sides and floor of the balka with antitank and personnel mines; and squads from all the companies, supported by heavy mortars and machine guns, were sent in to occupy it. The routes to the outpost position and back to the main line were narrow and few. Ever since Angst’s division entered the line early the day before, all throughout the night, under the glare of star shells and signal flares, units of heavily armed Russian shock troops struck repeatedly. The German grenadiers sustained heavy casualties and were eventually forced out. With the outpost position in enemy hands, the main line had come under attack. Russian assault teams managed to penetrate the company strong points, and episodes of brutal hand-to-hand fighting ensued.

  Earth and smoke erupted from the balka. Ever since they gained a foothold, the Russians had embarked on a project to clear the balka of mines. Probably with the use of a penal battalion, Angst thought. Just line the poor bastards up, shoulder to shoulder, and make them walk. The work progressed steadily, if not safely, judging by the number of mines that were tripped. Once clear, artillery observers and more troops would be brought in, and the balka would be used as a jumping-off point for an attack more spectacular and deadly than the battalion had yet experienced.

  Something caught Angst’s attention on the horizon. He refocused the binoculars and observed a long curtain of dust. He found it difficult to judge distances in this wide open, redundant space. Five, perhaps six kilometers away? His eyes strained at the lenses as he tried to identify and count the vehicles through the dust clouds that approached from the east and headed in a northwesterly direction. Then he saw the dark steel carapaces of Soviet tanks.

  Angst dropped the binoculars to hang freely by the strap around his neck, grabbed his carbine, and hurtled down the trench. In the neighboring rifle pit, his friend Schmidt stared down the sights of his own weapon. Tired, sweating, but alert, he heard the clatter of gear and got Angst’s attention as he passed.

  “Going to the dug-out?”

  Angst nodded. Even without the aid of binoculars, Schmidt had seen the dust and understood the significance.

  “How many?”

  Angst shrugged. “A battery at least.” He kept going, down another twenty meters, past the machine gun emplacement, until he finally reached the signals dugout.

  Private Wahl sat on an empty cable spool just inside the entrance, a field telephone at his feet.

  “Tanks are coming. Call it in,” Angst told him.

  “Oh, shit,” Wahl blurted. “How many?”

  “Ten, maybe more, and bearing right down on us.”

  “Terrific!” Wahl shouted. “Now Ivan will grow himself a new set of balls and start attacking in earnest, now that armor has arrived.”

  So far the Russians had fought without tank support, using only infantry—which, for the most part, was poorly trained and tactically uncoordinated. When they lacked the armor necessary to bolster their resolve, the Red infantry assaults had a tendency to fizzle out rather quickly. What they did have in their favor was sheer weight in numbers.

  “Put a call through to the company command bunker and inform…” Angst began.

  “Can’t. Line’s down. Seidel’s out there now trying to restore it. The lieutenant’s dead.”

  Angst was shocked at hearing the news and conveyed as much to the signal operator.

  “The command bunker was overrun during the last attack,” Wahl explained. “Lieutenant Bauer was already dead by the time it was secured. Sergeant Lustig has taken command.”

  “I didn’t know,” Angst said. and started to leave. “I’ll use the platoon radio.”

  “Lustig took it with him. Company radio got shot up in the fight.”

  Then I’ll have to go there myself, Angst thought, but he only said, “As soon as a connection is reestablished, notify the sergeant. Just in case.”

  He gripped the Mauser carbine firmly and started down the zigzagged trench. The company command bunker was situated further to the rear in the third platoon’s strongpoint. As he sought out the communication trench, Angst discovered the network had caved in due to the enemy artillery barrages. He had to crawl, hop, and jump from one gun pit, dugout, and machine gun emplacement to the next without the benefit of cover in some places. He tried not to get entangled in the concertina wire mixed in with the churned up earth. In a shell crater, he found Seidel frantically splicing lengths of salvaged telephone cable together. Upon seeing Angst, he held up two frayed ends, his eyes staring wildly. Dirt filled the creases of his face.

  “Too fucking short by half,” he cursed. “I’ll be damned if I want to go out there and keep scrounging.”

  Aside from the occasional 120 mm mortar round that sailed in, there were snipers eager to pick off anything that moved. Angst could have sworn he felt a bullet whistle past his face on the way over.

 
“I’ll tell Lustig the line’s too busted up,” Angst said.

  “He already knows. I told him.” Imitating the sergeant’s polished baritone voice, Seidel continued, “‘All lines of communication are to be repaired and kept functioning at all costs,’ he tells me. And ‘cost’ has nothing to do with the amount of spare change in your pocket. It means your one and only life. God, how I have come to hate that turn of phrase.”

  So did Angst. The desire to stop and rest, even to listen to Seidel’s woes, was tempting, but he had to keep moving. At all costs. There was more of the trench to negotiate, where many dead lay, German and Russian intertwined, the aftermath of butchery at close quarters with small arms, bayonets, shovels. The grisly scene made him nauseous, and as he stepped and crawled across the trench, the feeling grew as the bodies yielded under his weight. Several grenadiers stared hollowly out from the loopholes of their rifle pits, ignoring the carnage that lay around them. The trench widened considerably when he arrived at the company command bunker, dug deep and reinforced with a revetment of sand bags and timber. The only signs of life were the machine gun emplacement, as a gunner operated the MG42 on a continuous fire mounting, and the second gunner peered through a vertical scope and called out range adjustments. The gunner calibrated and fired short repeated bursts. A body lay before the narrow entrance of the bunker. Angst started to move the corpse aside when it suddenly came to life. Startled, Angst let go. “No room left at the inn,” a voice told him. It was Max Griener, usually known as “Old Max.” Dark, sunken eyes blinked from a lopsided face that was the color of flour paste. He lay there, immobile, like some dying animal feebly guarding the inhabitants of its den.

  “Out of the way, Max. I have to make my report.”

  The old grenadier would not budge. Unable to rouse the man out of his state of inertia, Angst jumped over the prostrate body and half-tumbled down the carved earthen steps that descended below ground. “Tanks,” he shouted as he landed unceremoniously at the bottom.

  Sergeant Lustig held the field telephone receiver to his ear and motioned Angst to keep quiet with an upraised finger to his lips. The bunker was gloomy; a small candle burned on a table fashioned from wooden crates. There were four other men inside the bunker, one at the controls of the radio appropriated from the platoon and two more who sat against the dirt walls. All wore bandages, although their wounds did not require evacuation to the aid station. Angst recognized them as company men—all except one, Kessler, the top kick from the battalion CO’s staff. He sat on an empty wicker shell crate, legs drawn up, rocking back and forth ever so slightly. Once Angst’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he noticed the outline of a man lying on a camp bed at the opposite side of the bunker. A pair of boots, the black leather worn almost white at the toe and heel, stuck out from under a gray blanket.

  “Lieutenant Bauer,” the top kick said. He gestured to Angst to sit down beside him.

  “I heard the bunker was overrun…”

  Kessler nodded. “These fellows, what’s left of them, managed to toss the Russians out. Took a lot of casualties. Unfortunately, the lieutenant could not be saved. Why are you here?”

  “Tanks have been spotted—”

  “Oh yes, that. A bad business,” the top kick commented dreamily. Angst nodded in the direction of Sergeant Lustig, who stood with telephone in hand, listening but saying little except for an occasional grunt while he traced an imaginary line with his finger on a map spread out on the improvised table.

  “Is the sergeant in contact with battalion?” Angst asked.

  “A Nebelwerfer battery has moved up to offer support when the occasion so dictates.”

  “Artillery, finally,” Angst said, relieved. “I was beginning to wonder if all the big guns hadn’t packed up and gone home.”

  Kessler looked around furtively. It seemed a conspiratorial gesture.

  “A breakthrough has occurred to the north. We’re cut off from our neighbors, the First Panzer Army. Now do you understand why we have had next to no artillery support? Practically all guns point toward the gap on our left flank.”

  “How big of a gap?”

  “Thirty kilometers.”

  Angst was ready to fold when he heard this news. Granted, going by the way he presented himself, Kessler was headed over the edge; everyone was forced to function well beyond his endurance, and the cracks were beginning to show all too plainly. As he was a fixture at battalion headquarters, Kessler’s information was bound to be founded more on fact than rumor.

  “An entire mechanized corps has penetrated—”

  “Sergeant Kessler!”

  The top kick immediately shut his mouth. Lustig had just cradled the phone and was staring hard at him. It was difficult to determine if he regarded Kessler with anger or despair.

  “Corporal Angst has sighted Russian tanks,” Kessler said, chastened.

  Lustig nodded. “Packs of T-34s are probing all along the line to renew the impetus of their flagging infantry. Regiment has sent up an assault gun with a grenadier escort of platoon strength. We have little time before the Russians get organized. How are things on your end, Corporal?”

  “We’re spread pretty thin.”

  Lustig nodded. “Is there anything else?”

  Hesitantly, Angst decided to broach a more controversial subject. “Sergeant Kessler mentioned something about a breakthrough—”

  “You would be well advised to limit your interests only to what occurs directly in front of you, Corporal. Anything outside the realm of your gun pit or your rifle squad is my concern. Is that understood”?

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  With a conciliatory gesture, Lustig had Angst join him by the table. He spoke quietly. “Listen carefully. Sergeant Kessler was sent over here because he can no longer assist the captain. He’s not been much good since the outpost was lost. It was a disaster. Kessler was in charge. No one could have done any better or worse under the circumstances, and personally, I considered the position indefensible. The sergeant has reached the end of his tether. Only for the moment, I should hope.”

  Angst said that he understood; however, when he looked back at the top kick, he had serious doubts the man would ever regain the moment. The telephone rang. Lustig picked up, listened, and then said, “Keep me informed as to how those tanks are deployed. And spread the word an assault gun is on its way. That should lift all your spirits.” He hung up the phone and turned to Angst. “That was Wahl, checking in.”

  It appeared Seidel had managed to fix the line after all, Angst thought. He would have to commend him for his efforts. But Lustig had more important matters to grapple with than listen to the praise of a grenadier who was only doing the job he was entrusted with.

  “The platoon leader from the assault gun escort is on the way over,” Lustig said. “Apparently Captain Raeder could not convince him that the tank thrust will occur directly in our company sector. The ‘little snot-nosed corporal,’ as the Captain described him, wants to see for himself, so he can then inform the assault gun where to go. I don’t want this fellow getting lost on the way. Bring him to me, so I can satisfy his curiosity and waylay any doubts he might have.”

  “Right away, Sergeant,” Angst replied. As he started to leave, Lustig caught him gently by the arm.

  “It would serve no purpose to repeat anything you heard, regarding what Sergeant Kessler has said.”

  “I can’t remember what the Sergeant was talking about,” Angst said, and hustled up the steps. Lustig sat down on an upturned crate and began to organize the company field reports and maps that were spread across the table. Some of the papers were horribly stained. Several items of personal equipment had belonged to Lieutenant Bauer: signal flare gun, compass, field glasses. Lustig had no qualms about incorporating them into his own possessions for the time being. He only wished he could have silenced Kessler sooner and hoped Angst would truly forget what he had heard. Soldiers expressed themselves in volumes on the little they knew, or believed they kne
w; but rumors, good or bad, based on facts or not, circulated and were discussed at length. And this was bad. Kessler might not have all the specifics, but he had heard enough from the battalion CO. Even Lieutenant Bauer had become overwhelmed by the alarming reports generating from regimental and battalion headquarters and had found it necessary to confide in the company sergeant. Before the attack on the bunker, the company receiver had picked up numerous en clair messages, and the lieutenant pieced it together. No sooner had they occupied the Tortoise Line than the situation started to deteriorate. In First Panzer Army sector, a Soviet Mechanized Corps punched its way through north of Konstantinovka. And last night something absolutely devastating had occurred—the Russian Twenty-Third Tank Corps steamrolled over the left end of their division that bordered First Panzer Army’s southernmost flank. What this armored armada had planned, or where it was headed, no one seemed to know at regiment—or division or corps, for that matter. Wave upon wave of Red infantry followed in the armor’s wake. The gap in the front line was estimated at over forty kilometers. We can’t hold out any longer, Lustig thought. He looked over at Kessler, who still rocked on his seat. This knowledge had not done the sergeant much good. The only rumor Lustig would hold onto was the inevitable retreat across the Dniepr River. And the river was over a hundred kilometers away.

  2

  The battalion command bunker lay six hundred meters to the rear, and the only access was a wide but shallow communication lane that snaked through mine fields and nests of barbed wire. Angst scurried along, bent at the waist, so as not to be exposed. The lane had become a temporary repository for the dead. Corpses lay on either side, pushed apart so as not to obstruct foot traffic. The German dead were covered with shelter halves or blankets—Angst had counted thirty so far—whereas the Russian dead were stacked like cordwood to economize on space. The numbers were an indication to Angst as to how many of the enemy had penetrated the company strong points. There had been some costly “housecleaning” all through the day and night before. Teams of stretcher-bearers collected the German dead on stained canvas stretchers to make yet another long trek to the rear area for transport to the burial site. The grim chore fell to the Hilfswillige—helpers, Red Army deserters who had thrown in with the Wehrmacht rather than be sent off to a prison camp or forced labor gang. The Hilfswillige, or “Hiwis,” as they were called, worked as cooks, drivers, ammunition carriers, medical orderlies, and, in this instance, casualty removal personnel. With the ever-increasing deficit of manpower, most of the personnel in the service and supply companies had been combed out and sent as replacements to the front line for combat duty. Now the Hiwis were entrusted with these tasks. They carried out their duties reliably and, when treated fairly and decently, exhibited a high degree of loyalty to the German officers and enlisted men. Although it was rare, some Hiwi units served in a combat roll; their contempt and hatred toward the Soviets was especially acute.