46
From a small window on the warehouse’s second tier, Falkenstein stood watch. Flashes of lightning illuminated the landscape at brief intervals. If he was seeing correctly, with the aid of binoculars and his one good eye, Red Vengeance had taken a stationary position one kilometer to the east with a clear line of fire at anything that tried to make an approach. There would be no chance of getting into effective range, Falkenstein knew, not with the puny weapons at their disposal. “It sits there and doesn’t move. I wonder what it is thinking. If it can think,” he mused aloud.
“The beast smarts from its wounds, Captain.”
He was relieved to have Khan at his side once again. The shaman took responsibility for allowing the tank to penetrate their meager defenses. Falkenstein did not affix blame and would not listen to an apology, especially from Khan. The lightning and the sound of the automobile all played a hand, not to mention his adjutant’s behavior. Red Vengeance exploited a moment of weakness and confusion. “It must be suitably injured, so a mistake is made so fatal it cannot back out. It’s aware of our limitations. All of our weapons haven’t the necessary range.”
“No more can it run about like a big cat,” Khan replied.
There was truth to this simple analogy. The front cog on the left track assembly had been damaged. Falkenstein had deliberately aimed at the wheels when chance permitted, and he was also aware that some damage had been sustained to one of the track links. Very little effort would be needed before maneuverability was seriously impaired. He entertained the notion of sending out a demolition party, under the cover of darkness, to blow up the tank with the mines and satchel charge. He could finish the job with the flamethrower himself, if he had a mind to.
“Remember, Captain, do not think of Red Vengeance as a machine but as an animal. Cunning. It wants to lure you onto the steppe,” Khan warned him, seeming to sense what Falkenstein was considering.
“What alternative is there?”
Khan gestured with the antitank rifle. “Let me sting it with this and force it to move again.”
“Out there? Alone? You wouldn’t have a chance.”
“As long as I have the dark, I can.”
“Take one of the grenadiers along, at least.”
“No, Captain. I can hide in the dark, as other men cannot. Let me enrage the beast and send it blindly into your grasp.”
They worked out the details of a plan. Khan would need time to find a suitable firing position. Then he would have to dig a hole—very narrow, but deep, so he could retreat to it if necessary. If he were discovered, he would have a greater chance of survival in a properly excavated foxhole. The tank could swivel and traverse over the narrow opening but not bury him alive. The whole point was to keep that from happening. To accomplish this, Khan would need two or three hours; he wouldn’t know exactly how long until he was out on the steppe. That would be the real test: covering the nearly one kilometer of distance in the open. Falkenstein didn’t press for a more specific timetable. The operation had ceased to be purely military; other factors had long since come in to play. He would have to trust the ancient, native methods Khan employed. It was the only real power that remained in a depleted arsenal. Nevertheless, Falkenstein could not help but express some doubt. What if Red Vengeance were to maneuver to another location or launch an attack before Khan was ready?
Khan allayed the captain’s fears. “The beast is frustrated and prefers to wait, until dawn if necessary.” He was confident that he could force the tank to move before that time.
Together, they descended the stairs to the scout car parked in the mouth of the entrance bay. Angst and Detwiler sat close to the vehicle’s rear quarter to absorb the warmth emanating from the armored engine covering. Khan took inventory of the small box of 14.5 mm armor-piercing shells for the antitank rifle. There were only eight. He placed the box in the canvas shoulder bag and removed an entrenching tool from the toolbox. He was ready to leave. “Come back to me, Khan.” The sincerity in Falkenstein’s voice was plainly evident.
“And you, Captain, beware. After you strike the final blow, that is when the beast will be more alive than ever before.” He gathered rifle and gear and waited a moment before leaving the warehouse. Falkenstein watched as the shaman crossed the railroad tracks, using the coal elevator for cover, moving from there to the coal hoppers, running and turning at sharp angles as he skirted around, behind, and in between the slag heaps. Anticipating lightning before it flashed, Khan would either hide from view or lie motionless as the sky lit up for a split second or two. He would be off and running when the darkness returned.
Exhausted of fuel, the motorcycle glided to a stop at the edge of the supply yard. Abandoning the vehicle, Voss shouldered the flamethrower and made his way through the repair depot. He came across the scene of the first attack. The Volkswagen chassis smoldered, and the metal and viscid human wreckage lay churned and run over in the mire. He continued down the muddy narrow street, past the water tower on his far right, to the most recent encounter—and, for Voss, the most costly: the Hanomag. A high-explosive shell had since landed in the crew compartment and a door had been shorn from its hinges, the siding buckled outward. The seating and stowage lockers were scorched, and the equipment left onboard was scattered and broken. The smoke reeked of singed horsehair as the bench cushions burned. Someone poked through the trash that lay around the vehicle. Mueller. When Voss called out his name, the youth whirled, ready to throw what he held in his hand. It was the grenade bundle. “Careful with that thing,” Voss cautioned him.
“I thought everyone had left, and I was all alone, with only the dead for company,” Mueller said, in an unsteady voice.
“The captain has regrouped at the warehouse. I’m going there now,” Voss told him.
The interval of suspected isolation and abandonment had shaken the youth to a substantial degree. He had been crying but now, in the officer’s presence, attempted to appear in more control. He had spent his time covering Hartmann’s body with a frayed tarpaulin and salvaging some more items from the vehicle. He showed Voss the Very pistol and box of flares. He also discovered the small arms left behind by Angst and Detwiler. “Leave the weapons here for now,” Voss recommended. “We won’t need them for what we have to do.”
“I was so terribly thirsty and started to look for some water. Corporal Angst had me cover the south end of the depot, only the tank never showed. I don’t know what I would have done if it had.” He handled the grenade bundle self-consciously. It was obvious to Voss the boy had hid from the fight and was either ashamed or worried that he would have to give an account of his behavior. “You will have another opportunity to throw your bomb. Now, let’s get over to the warehouse. I can officially remove you from the missing-in-action list.” Mueller smiled weakly and followed the officer.
“I see you have brought reinforcements.” Falkenstein stood in the doorway of the warehouse, binoculars in hand. Mueller saluted the captain and immediately joined the others, who were napping beside the scout car. When Voss outlined the full casualty situation to the captain, the news was received coldly. “The prognosis for Sergeant Reinhardt and the grenadier is not optimistic,” Voss added. “There is little the medical orderly can do for either one.” Even if they were to evacuate immediately, the task of saving the wounded—or even their own lives—would prove impossible, Voss thought. Between Red Vengeance and the mud, it was doubtful the command vehicle would get very far. The fuel reserves were all but finished. “Where is the tank now, sir?”