As Khan lay on the cold, greasy floor of the garage all he could think of was the hole that suddenly appeared three meters from his head. An armored piercing round entered through the wall opposite from where he lay and traveled straight through and out the other side. Had it been a high explosive round he would most likely be greeting his ancestors. There was no magic involved in his survival this time; it was mere luck. The battle against the relentless armored beast had diminished his powers. The pieces of stone that had blown back at him were inconsequential. The welts and bruises hurt but the damage minimal. It was the concussion that was the worst. His skull felt as though it had doubled in size and the monotonous ringing in his ears added to the discomfort. He almost felt embarrassed by the manner in which the T-34 had bullied him as though he were a child. It was a formidable, an evil adversary and he knew, despite the skills of the captain and the tenacity of his men, even his own craft, that Red Vengeance would take them all.
At least the ringing in his ears was beginning to subside. He needed these few minutes to gather his wits although he didn’t have the luxury of time: moments, seconds, nothing.
The one called Angst knelt beside his comrade, Detwiler, holding his hand and crying and laughing all at once. It sounded strange; why do both? Khan wondered. The big man was dead; let his spirit leave this terrible place.
There was a dissonance of explosions, machine guns, and the hissing flamethrower as the steady noise of a great diesel engine continuously droned. He had propped himself up to a sitting position, his back against the concrete block wall for support. There were so many sounds of crashing and grating, he could not isolate them all but there was one sound he did detect. At first he thought it was a background noise caused by his abused eardrums but he distinctly heard it: a sweet fluted whistling song that piped somewhere to his left where the useless Mark IV blocked the opening at the rear of the garage. And then he saw it. Although stocky in girth it was a medium sized bird that stood with tiny legs on the armored front end of the abandoned tank. It spread its wings and flew no further than to the concrete floor and hopped closer to where Khan sat. The bird’s head and neck was pale brown with dark breast and flank spots and reddish brown wings. It kept singing as it tilted it little head and looked directly at him. Despite the terrible noises echoing through the empty garage the chubby bird had yet to fly away and Khan knew the bird was there solely to visit him. It was a Thrush native to the taiga in Siberia. “You are a long way from home my little friend. And you have been eating well I see.” It was an omen for Khan and he knew what it meant. “My wife is calling me home isn’t she? I’ve been ignoring her for these many months and she sent you to remind me, didn’t she.” No, that wasn’t the reason why the Thrush had come but he wanted to play, one final time before all else. Khan rallied and managed to get up using the anti-tank rifle for support. He would be leaving for home very soon and he didn’t feel the least bit afraid. His task was almost finished; his service to the captain nearly complete. “If you return home before I do tell my wife I’m on my way” he laughed, and then added in a mock serious voice, “And don’t try to seduce her with that sweet song of yours.” He reached for a shell from the canvas ammo bag that hung from his shoulder and holding firmly onto the bolt, the barrel slid forward so he could then insert the large projectile into the breach. When he looked up he saw that the Thrush was gone. From the depths of his diaphragm his own song arose and exited his mouth with the sound of a ferocious animal. He ran from the garage to join the furor outside.
The shaman’s war cry jolted Angst out of his laughing fit. He let go of Detwiler’s hand and stood up. The noises outside were nothing less than dreadful. He urged himself toward the shattered doorway and carefully poked his head out. A terrible groaning of heavy steel being twisted and torn and the continual clatter of the scout car’s 20mm cannon fire pierced his ears. Stop, please, just make it stop. Something dreadful was occurring over by where the Hanomag lay destroyed. He saw heavy plumes of diesel exhaust and a glance of orange fire from the flamethrower. From this vantage point all Angst could see were sheds and workshops that had been reduced to splinter and rubble. He then noticed Mueller crouched behind this wreckage, hanging back from the terrors that were occurring further up the narrow muddy road. Angst ran over to join him.
Above the din of grinding gears and squealing brakes, Falkenstein bellowed curses and commands as Vogel wove around and between the workshops and tool sheds. Like a rabid animal giving chase, Red Vengeance pursued the scout car without letting up. At any given moment, only a brick wall or the tar paper siding of a shed separated them from the plundering, mindless armor. The tank smashed through everything in its path in an effort to head off the elusive scout car and ram it. The small huts and sheds were splintered, flattened, and ground up in the tank’s wake. There was a groaning and tearing of wood and metal that was sickening to hear. Vogel outdistanced the enraged T-34 and turned into the supply yard, where he braked to a stop on the far side of the west perimeter. The sounds of destruction had diminished considerably. Red Vengeance was exhibiting a terrific burst of power before succumbing to the inevitable throes of death. And low on ammunition, too, Falkenstein thought, possibly out of shells. Why else hadn’t it fired? Now it would have to rely on bulk and diesel power to finish the job. Falkenstein did not consider this possibility lightly, yet he was satisfied and anxious. The demon has yet to perform its last trick. He activated the turret control and traversed 90, then 180 degrees and back again. Where did it go? He spoke into the throat mike. “Bring us around to the northeast end of the yard and drive down the nearest alley, west toward the gravel road…did you hear me, Klaus?”
Vogel gave a gasp, the only language available to signify all his fear and fatigue. He’d had more than he could bear and simply wanted to drive away. Instead, he swung around to the left, as he was ordered. Falkenstein saw a narrow separation between two workshops with a minimum of debris littering the ground, where the vehicle could pass. “Turn down here!”
“Right or left at the end, Captain?” To their right was the water tower stand on the far side of the depot, and to the left, although not in view, was the wrecked personnel carrier. The space had opened up considerably here. All the shacks and tool sheds had been demolished, and the workshops were the only two buildings that remained standing. The tank had passed through this part of the depot like an unrelenting storm. “Right or left, Captain?” Vogel repeated urgently.
“Ease out, slowly, but be ready to turn on command.” Vogel did as he was ordered, and as he edged the vehicle halfway out from between the small buildings, he immediately heard a terrific grating sound that echoed throughout the driver’s cabin. The ruined Hanomag lurched forward propelled by the driving force of the tank. “Get under the gun,” Falkenstein screamed into the mike, as he let off a gout of 20 mm rounds that struck the bulges on the tank’s gun cradle. Vogel hesitated when he saw Red Vengeance, at point-blank range, shove the armored personnel carrier directly into their path. The wreck was all that separated them from the steel beast. The tank’s gun cradle was raised to protect the cannon barrel as the hull slammed into the Hanomag’s superstructure, causing its armor siding to collapse. The noise was horrendous as wrenching metal competed with the 20 mm gun and the captain’s rant. A shower of red-orange flame drenched the turret. Voss, at close quarters, mercilessly washed the tank with long spurts from the flamethrower. Somewhere off to the side, Khan was taking potshots as fast as he could reload and fire. Red Vengeance quit throwing its weight behind the wreck long enough to lower the cannon and fire. The armor-piercing round burst through the front end, into the driver’s cabin, and continued on through to the engine compartment, in the rear, where it exploded. A cyclone of shrapnel and fire whirled around the confined space. Vogel, mangled and burning, twitched about. Temporarily blinded by the smoke, Falkenstein tried to extricate himself from the turret. His game leg behaved more uselessly now, as the brace had become undone and new wounds had been inflicted by the exploding shell. The ruptured Hanomag had tipped over, and the powerful driving force of Red Vengeance pushed it along in front, as though it were a plow. Broadsided, the scout car was shoved further down the street until it tipped over onto its side. The tank tracks gained traction and started to mount the Hanomag as the siding buckled and collapsed under the weight. Out from the smoke and trailing flames, Khan appeared and ran headlong into the mass of scorched, twisted metal. Reaching into the turret opening, he took hold of the captain’s outstretched arms and pulled, almost effortlessly, like a feline carrying its young by the nape. Falkenstein was almost clear when the tank heaved upward and poised, motionless, for a moment before it came crashing down. Like some hapless swimmer engulfed by an ocean wave, Khan disappeared under the weight and mass of the machine, becoming part of the revolving tracks and cogs. Horrified, Falkenstein watched, yet again, the crazed, spinning assembly pass before his sight, so compellingly, maddeningly near, as the gore of once-living sinew and flesh became imbedded in the linked, perforated tracks, and the sickly sweet odor of lubricating grease was supplanted by the stench of decaying tissue. He reared back and scrambled, crablike, over the flattened armored bulkheads. Voss rushed to his side and helped support his weight as they limped and staggered toward the nearest workshop, simply to get out of the way and out of sight before the tank turned around or traversed its turret and did more damage. Upon entering the doorway, both men dropped to the floor, exhausted and hurt, the taste of soot and petrol in their mouths. The weight of the flamethrower’s cylinders pushed against Voss’s back and forced him to sit upright. Clumsily, he untangled the hose that had wrapped about his waist and then made a quick examination of the captain’s injuries. There were numerous rents in his tunic and trouser legs that were flecked with blood. Falkenstein waved the attentions aside. “See where Red Vengeance has gone off to.” Depleted, Voss staggered out the door. Faint odors of solvents and mineral oil were noticeable within the close space; the smell roused Falkenstein to a sitting position, but he could not get up, not without help. As he sat contemplating the multitude of small injuries he had received, he decided the wounds were of no serious account; suddenly, he was overcome by a sense of loss and gratitude for Khan. The method of his cohort’s extinction did not overwhelm him; no, the cruel sights of battle could not be averted and were to be accepted as part of the profession he embraced. What he wasn’t immune to was the mobility Red Vengeance continued to exhibit. That horrified him, and he reeled at the demands necessary to make it stop, finally and unequivocally.