Standing in the doorway, Voss watched as the tank’s rear quarters rattled down the smashed muddy street, traversed forty-five degrees to the right, and disappeared down an alley. He followed the signature of heavy exhaust fumes that rose above the workshop rooflines and piles of rubble. “It’s heading toward the supply yard,” Voss said. Across the street he noticed Angst scuttling along the garage wall with Mueller, close behind, carrying the satchel charge. There was still one more magnetic mine in Angst’s possession. The two grenadiers had stayed out of the crossfire of cannons and flamethrower. The street had filled with smoke and reeked of gasoline. Seeing Voss, the men bounded across the street, using the burning hulls for cover, and ducked into the workshop with the lieutenant. Seeing the captain struggle, Angst helped him to his feet. The knee brace had been wrenched; leather straps and metal struts hung loosely about a torn boot; his face was blackened by oily smoke. Yet again, Falkenstein had arisen from the wreckage like some redundant Lazarus, only this time he had more the look of an apprentice whose attempt at sorcery had backfired horribly. He regarded the last of his crew, each one as battered and miserable as he. “No quarter! Not a moment’s peace. Let’s get after it, then.” He draped an arm around Angst’s shoulder and hobbled out of the workshop. Voss took the lead, with Mueller a few steps behind, as they walked out of the building and down the alley. The captain, supported by Angst, brought up the rear.
48
Red Vengeance had progressed no more than a hundred meters southwest of the supply yard perimeter before it had come to a stop. The right track had unfurled from the wheel assembly and lay inert, like a crushed snake. Perhaps some final shaman’s trick had brought this about, as Khan was absorbed into the track links, Falkenstein mused. Unable to move forward, the tank could only traverse in a counterclockwise direction, as the trackless road wheels dug deeper into the wet soil and forced a thick berm along its flank. After a few minutes, the wheels became so immersed in the ground that a traverse in either direction was impossible. Except for the turret, the tank was stilled. Scorched and blackened, pools of oil and diesel fuel seeped out from the wounded hull. Smoke issued from the grill vents above the diesel engine; from out of the view slits; and through every crack, fissure, rent, and penetration made by their guns. The crew must be asphyxiating by now, Angst was sure; why they didn’t open the hatches and surrender, simply for the need of air, was beyond comprehension.
Like ice-age hunters gathering around a beast that was hard to kill, they advanced upon the tank to deliver the final blow. No longer in need of support, Falkenstein took the last steps alone. Voss was the first to reach the tank. He did not behave with conscious volition but acted simply, determinedly, with an insectlike impulse. Circling around to avoid coming head on with the rotating turret, and careful not to step out in front of the hull machine gun, he shot clots of flame at the crippled machine.
Mueller set the satchel charge on the ground and attempted to light the fuse but was having difficulty. He was dragging the striker over the fuse end, but the sparks would not take. Damp. Falkenstein watched with impatience and joined in the effort, as the situation for the lieutenant had reached a state of crisis in a matter of a few seconds. The flamethrower was out of fuel. He pulled the trigger on the firing mechanism, and the 9 mm cartridge fired and ejected until the magazine was empty. Small, inconsequential globs of flame dripped from the nozzle. Voss backtracked. The turret started to swivel, and the gun cradle lowered. He turned and ran, unbuckling the shoulder harness, and let the empty fuel cylinders fall in midstride. The turret sceeched from the friction of metal against metal. Voss ran toward a farmhouse badly singed by a previous fire that stood near the Old Cart Road. This was not the ideal cover he would have wanted, but there was little choice; he had to get out from the open, be less of a target. He could hear, clearly, the shell being loaded and the breech closed. There is still hope, he thought as he ran; the episcope was certain to be damaged or at least obscured by soot. The gunner would have to shoot wild. Voss ran into the house the moment before it exploded.