Falkenstein witnessed the corporal’s bungled attempt from behind the sights of the 20 mm gun. Parked in the alley between the machine shop and the south garage, Vogel had nosed the vehicle beyond the corner just far enough so the captain could see. When the magnetic charge detonated, it set off the string of small antipersonnel mines that covered the deck. Strands of barbed wire unfurled. The tank picked up speed and continued on a diagonal, leaving the gravel road completely, as it neared the repair garage. As it passed the Mark IV, where Voss had taken cover, a jet of orange flame leaped out from the flamethrower. The fiery liquid splashed across the turret roof and immediately turned to black, oily smoke. The cannon fired point-blank at the garage wall. As it neared the end of the building, a grenade bundle skipped out from the wide intersection. The explosion resounded directly beneath the undercarriage. The tank stopped and shuddered, then traversed, with the purpose of turning into the intersection. The hull machine gun blazed.
It was Detwiler who had thrown the grenade bundle. He was exposed and too many meters from suitable cover. An overwhelming futility enveloped him as he made a run for safety. The burst from the T-34’s machine gun tore into his stomach; the impact spun him around and he hit the ground hard.
Falkenstein was aghast. Red Vengeance had done the one thing he was sure it would never do: enter the confines of the depot. The distance between the tank and the scout car was too far for the 20 mm to have any effect. He had Vogel circle around to the next intersection that separated the machine shop and the maintenance facility building.
Voss ran down the length of the garage and skidded across a pool of grease that coated the floor. He caught a glimpse of Khan at the far wall, attempting to get up. The armor-piercing shell had punched a hole clear through the building, and Khan had been pummeled by chunks of brick. There was nothing Voss could do for him now. He had reached the splintered doorway when Mueller bounded through, face drained of color, eyes bulging, mouth shaped in an expansive “O.” Why hadn’t the grenadier returned to the machine shop as he had ordered? Voss could only think the question but hadn’t the time to ask. Mueller croaked, hoarsely, but the words did not form. Voss could hear the racket just outside the door and knew. He pointed the flamethrower nozzle out the door, careful not to expose himself, and let loose with a stream of fire. The turret face and sloping front hull became awash in flame. The camouflage netting ignited into a sea of orange embers. The hull machine gun shifted within the confines of the mantelet and raked a sustained fire. The tank’s left flank was subjected to a series of hits as the scout car fired down the length of the maintenance facility at the target framed within the opening at the far end. The turret spun around to nine o’clock and responded. The cannon’s eruption resonated down the mangled corrugated building as a fine rain of dust and bird droppings fell from the shaken rafters. Vogel shifted into reverse the very moment the armor piercing round smacked into the machine shop wall. The 222 bucked from the force of the explosion as pieces of brick and mortar slammed against the armored skin. His composure severely ruffled, Vogel continued to back out into the street, then turned down a narrow aisle separating the workshops in search of concealment.
The tank traversed again, as did the turret, simultaneously, to twelve o’clock and entered into the maintenance building. Now that the deadly machine gun–fire no longer faced in his direction, Voss bolted from the garage doorway and hosed down the exposed flank with a prolonged burst, certain that enough fire and smoke had blinded the episcope. The tank accelerated and continued down the length of the building. No longer interested in the men on the ground, Red Vengeance was intent on pursuing the scout car. Lying at the end of the intersection, facing the railroad tracks, was Detwiler. Nothing short of a miracle had prevented the machine gunner from getting run over, but his abdomen had been shockingly torn open. He’d been repeatedly shot; immobile but still conscious, he uttered a stream of obscenities as Voss, with Mueller’s help, dragged him into the garage. They found Angst inside, sodden, muddy, and bewildered, trying to communicate something to Khan, who had managed to sit up. “Stay with him, Angst. We’re going after the tank.” Voss had to press forward; he knew his nerve would evaporate, if he allowed himself time to think about the madness he was presently engaged in. Mueller recovered the satchel charge and followed the lieutenant out of the garage.
There was nothing at hand to administer to Detwiler as he lay clutching his middle in an effort to keep his insides from spilling out. Angst could not help but think of the wisecrack Detwiler had made when the crewman was pulled from the Tiger. “Once things settle down, it’ll be safer to bring you to the first aid bunker.” Angst tried to console him.
“You really fucked it up with the mine,” Detwiler croaked.
Angst could not stomach to hear the words turn to liquid as the blood rose in the man’s gorge. “Don’t talk, Ernst, and try not to move.”
“Oh, fuck.” Detwiler winced and looked terribly afraid. Angst felt a pang of guilt, that his failed actions were directly responsible for the gunner’s mortal wounds. “The magnets wouldn’t take. The concrete paste…there was nothing I could do.”
Detwiler winced again; this time, it was what passed for a smile in his condition. “You looked like a schoolgirl who didn’t know how to throw a ball…I laughed so hard.” His face suddenly froze in a twisted grimace, as a final gasp of bloody breath mixed with the odor of his bowels escaped his lips. The eyes remained open but were terribly vacant. A wave of confused emotions flooded over Angst. There were times in their short, bitter acquaintance when he could have murdered the man with his bare hands; yet, in the space of a few hours, a bond had formed, a need, as natural as their shared loathing. In his last moments on earth, all Detwiler could do was mock him. No other thought entered the man’s brain—not of family, friends, or home. Only of Angst, the butt of his derision as death snatched him away. All alone, in a filthy, disgusting hole, Angst thought, fighting a twenty-ton metal beast, and instead of appearing heroic, I’m flailing about like some silly schoolgirl. He felt a surge of anger, but as the image Detwiler had presented to him congealed in his mind, he began to laugh, laugh until it hurt. Then he started to cry, but that hurt even more; so he laughed again, then cried uncontrollably, with Detwiler’s lifeless hand clutched in his all the while.