Before he had the chance to stub out the cigarette, Angst took it from him and smoked the last few drags. He flicked the butt into a puddle, and the ember hissed loudly. He hurt all over, even worse than from before, when the Volkswagen was destroyed and all his friends were killed. He did not want to think about it. He could not afford to, not now. How many times have we been exposed to this tank and walked away? It was extraordinary luck—unheard of, even. He started to pick up the weapons and ammunition when Detwiler stopped him. “Leave all that shit. We can get it later. Take the satchel charge and your weapon. I still have the mines.” They slipped out of the alley, past the burning Hanomag, utilizing the cover that was available. There were fewer buildings at this end of the depot, and spaced further apart. Most had been flattened by the tank or the shelling. They crawled on hands and knees, at times on their bellies, Angst swearing all along that he could hear the turret rotate and the gun cradle raise and lower. “How many shells can a T-34 keep on board?” He had known the answer at one time but could not recall.
“Seventy-five, I think. Maybe more,” Detwiler replied.
“You would think it has used up most of them by now.”
“I haven’t been counting.”
They crawled the distance to the support stand of the truncated water tower. Amid the debris of wood staves that had once formed the container, they found Wilms. He lay on a narrow width of ground between the gravel road and the gully that ran along the base of the tower. Water had flooded the depression and had formed a long, narrow lake. Upon inspecting the body, they deduced that it was the fall that killed him, not the effects of the high-explosive round. There were no marks or glaring shrapnel wounds that either of them could see. Detwiler stepped into the water and suddenly found himself knee deep. He cursed as his boots flooded. Getting out, he remarked that had Wilms landed a few more centimeters over, he would have landed in the muddy water, which might have lessened the severity of the fall. “It was his time, I guess,” Detwiler commented. Taking an arm each, they dragged the body to the base of the tower. Detwiler pulled the tattered shelter half over Wilms’s head. “We can bury him later.”
An ominous shape materialized over their heads. Before they had time to unsling their weapons, Khan had leaped off the lower support strut and landed among them. He shook his head condescendingly as the grenadiers fumbled with their submachine guns. In a heavy, piping accent, he spoke a few words in German, pointed in the direction of the equipment dump, and then started to rattle on in Russian. Detwiler attempted a translation. “Red Vengeance has retreated to the east. Very far to the east.”
“Does this mean it’s over?”
“No such luck,” Detwiler said, and, for Khan’s benefit, he pointed to the north and said, “Warehouse. Captain.”
Khan spoke again and waited in expectation for a word or some sign from them, but Detwiler pointed again and said, “Captain. Mach schnell.” The shaman fell in behind them as they slithered through the dark. Angst heard Detwiler mutter, “He’s a strange one, but I’m glad he’s on our side.”
Fires burned everywhere. Ruins had rekindled, and the workers’ settlement had become concentrated with so much heat and flame that Voss had to detour off the River Road. The ground appeared on fire as the pools of collected rainwater reflected the inferno. He rode as fast as possible, but it was slow going; the slightest bump and dip caused Reinhardt to moan. At least he’s still breathing, Voss thought. The BMW slid to a stop as he braked at the entrance to the bunker. “I need help! Bruno, get out here!” Matthias Bruno hurried up the slope, hands encased in bloody rubber gloves. “Help me lift him.” The orderly took hold of the ankles and Voss the shoulders. The body sagged in the middle as they carried the sergeant down the slippery grade. Once inside, they laid him on several benches that formed a small, low table. Reinhardt’s legs dangled off the end. Taking the paraffin lamp so he could see better, Bruno examined the body. The field dressing had soaked through. Handing the lamp off to the lieutenant, Bruno took surgical scissors and cut away the shirt and tunic and threw aside the bloody bandage. Inspecting the abused torso, he said, “Multiple penetrations to the shoulders and chest cavity. Very deep. Looks like shrapnel.”
Voss nodded. “What can you do for him?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. I can apply dressings with enough pressure to slow the blood loss and reduce whatever pain he’s in with morphine. But all this is beyond me. These men need to be evacuated to a field hospital, and even that’s not a guarantee.”
“Where are the others?”
“Others? There is only one,” Bruno said, pointing to a form lying on an earthen bunk. A wad of bloody rags was wrapped below the calf where the foot should have been. The rest of the leg was horribly crushed. He was one of the stragglers. Voss did not know his name. “That poor wretch is all that’s left from the workers’ district. He’d been run over. The foot was missing when I got to him. I’m trying to work up the nerve to cut off the rest.”
Voss nearly became ill. How many casualties have been sustained since the battle started? he wondered. He pictured faces and started to count. “Didn’t you hear me, Lieutenant? No one had been briefed that your captain was prepared to engage Red Vengeance. That was the whole purpose of this ‘advance observation post.’ An outright lie. Your commanding officer and you, by complicity, lied to these men. Had they known the insane truth, they would never have stuck around. So they ran, but it was too late. Red Vengeance mowed down everyone in its path. Our one-legged friend over there told me before he passed out. These men were lied to, and now they’re all dead.”
“Wilms eleven, and the women make fourteen…”
“What are you going on about?” Bruno spoke roughly.
“Seventeen casualties. That is including dead and wounded, and Mueller, who is missing.”
“Your arithmetic is impeccable, no thanks to you or your captain.” Methodically, Bruno cleaned and dressed the wounds as best he could under the primitive conditions. Voss had retreated to the bunker entrance to smoke. He looked at his wristwatch. Almost twenty-four hundred. It seemed as though only an hour had passed since he had tried to put an end to this business with Falkenstein. Was it easier to battle Red Vengeance than the captain, he wondered? First Hartmann and now Reinhardt, barely clinging to life. He had to believe he acted correctly, that the horror and bloodshed would have been inevitable, whether he removed Falkenstein or not. The choice, he realized, may have cost him the very last of his crew.
Having finished trussing the sergeant with bandages, Bruno removed the gloves and signaled for Voss to come over. “You might want to have a word before the morphine takes effect. I was very liberal with the dosage.”
Voss knelt down beside the bench. “I’m sorry, my old friend,” he said quietly, and brushed a strand of hair that lay across the cold, clammy brow. “I have to go now, but I will come back for you.” Reinhardt had heard something and touched Voss weakly with his hand. “Rest now, Dieter, rest. I will look in on you soon.” Reinhardt’s eyes remained closed, but the look of anguish on his face receded. Voss placed the hand gently at the sergeant’s side and said to the orderly, “Do your utmost for him. He deserves better than this.”
“So do we all, Lieutenant.”
Large, heavy drops splashed into the bunker entrance; the aura of lightning was followed by peals of thunder. There was more to be endured, Voss thought, as he stepped into the wet, brittle chill of early morning. He threw aside the bloody pallet and started the motorcycle. He barely made it to the repair depot on the fumes left in the gas tank.