The Cossack stepped, made a mock enveloppement that ended in the en garde position and saluted the man with the bayonet. "Sergei Ilye Rasdonovich at your service." Gus started to move, but Langer called out, loud enough for Teacher to hear, "Leave him alone. He's mine." The major thought he was only addressing Gus.
Teacher removed the Mauser from his shoulder and moved to a position where he could get a better look at the proceedings. He had seen Langer with a bayonet on a rifle or, in hand to hand, but this was different, a bayonet against a saber. He consoled himself with the thought that if Langer was killed, at least he would have the pleasure of putting a bullet through the brain of the Russian major.
Langer watched the body of the Russian; he was good, but he held his blade a little too tight, the arm was stiff and he was over confident. Carl held his blade with the cutting edge facing out to the right, the blade held flat, extended. He waited, went into a half crouch, right foot extended, his left hand held low to his side, fingers open. The Cossack finished his salute and extended the point of his saber, making a circular parry, small circles around the point of Langer's weapon, feeling the distance, and then performed a glide, not really wanting to kill, just toy with his mouse for a moment. The glide ended up being turned back on itself. The Cossack flinched.
His sleeve was opened from the wrist to the elbow, nothing deep, just enough to irritate, but how had the mouse done it? Pivoting, he again faced the German; this time there would be no toying with his prey, it was time to kill. He went on to coupe, trying to pass his blade over the point of the German's shorter bayonet by raising his point with a flexible movement of the fingers and hand bending the arm just a hair and extending to pierce the heart. Again he felt a burning, as his blade was turned and somehow his victim had come under him and made a quick slice on the face in the same spot that the German wore his scar. The Hun stepped back and smiled, raised his blade in a straight-arm salute, mocking him. "Ave! te moritu salutus." The ancient salute of the Roman arena. Blood dripped down the Cossack's arm on to his hand and wrist, making the grip slippery to the touch. He bled just enough to fog the vision in his left eye slightly. The Fascist was playing with him. He was the mouse, and the smiling, blue-eyed man in the strange stance in front of him was the cat.
Well, this mouse could still kill; with a cry he lunged, making one circular sweeping attack after another, trying to use the longer reach of his weapon to beat the German back and break through his defense, only to find the German holding him chest to chest for a moment, moving around like they were dancing. The German smiled and Rasdonovich again felt a stinging pain; this time the German stepped back and laughed. Sergei touched his face; the German had slit his nose an inch on both sides, leaving only two bloody flaps to breathe through.
Langer stepped back; the Cossack was breathing heavily, bloody bubbles swelling out of the torn nostrils and bursting with each breath. He knew he was going to die; he waited, Langer moved in, low blade extended. He lunged, the Cossack tried to parry. Langer's left hand grabbed the Russian's wrist, pulling him forward off balance; he then moved and stepped to the side, putting the arch of his boot on the back of Sergei's knee, forcing him down to the ground on one knee, sword arm held in a steel grip; another quick burning and Sergei saw his left ear lying in front of the Tatar's head.
Raising his head he cried out, "End it, in the name of God end it."
Langer smiled, his face like granite flesh. "As you wish." One long circular stroke like that of a master barber, a strong tug on the hair, and the Russian's head joined that of Yuri, the two of them watching each other.
Carl wiped his blade off on the Russian's tunic, and then resheathed it in its metal scabbard. It was over, and once more the old feeling of being drained washed over him.
Teacher came out of the cellar and joined Gus, speechless. He had never seen anything like the way Langer had played with the Cossack, breaking the man's spirit down before killing him. The Cossack never had a chance, he might as well have been unarmed. The positions and techniques used by Langer were not those taught in the fencing schools of Europe, at least not in this century. They resembled some of the old frescoes he had seen of gladiators in the Roman arena, right down to the Roman salute.
Langer stopped him before he could make any comment. "All right, let's take care of the bodies. We don't want them found until later. We'll haul them over to the side of the bakery, there's a small ditch, we'll bury them there."
Gus pointed at Yuri. "What about him?"
"Him, too, but we'll bury him the way he would have liked, as chieftain of the high steppes."
Gus wondered what the hell that meant, but didn't really give a damn, his mind already on the fresh pork. The dead, it does no good to feel any more for them. Their troubles were over, and right now he was still hungry.
Teacher had a suspicion of what Langer meant, but kept his own council. Gus found out what his sergeant meant when Carl laid the dead Russians at the feet of the Tatar, placing Yuri's head where it belonged on his shoulders, his butcher knife in his hand. He held the Cossack's head in his own hands, grasping it to his chest. Langer backed away after they had filled the ditch, and faced the four corners of the world all the time making a slow, upward sweeping motion of his hand and chanting low beneath his breath. Gus knew he was watching some kind of religious ceremony, but just what, he couldn't fathom.
"What is he doing. Teacher? You know everything, all those books you read."
Responding, in a low voice in order not to interrupt the proceedings, he explained as best he could, for Gus's simple mind.
The ceremony completed, Langer looked at the wondering faces of Gus and Teacher. "I'll tell you about it later. Right now let's get loaded and haul ass out of here."
Once in the T-34, Gus took a moment to familiarize himself with the controls. "It's just like a tractor, Sarge; no problem."
"Teacher, you take the hull gun, I'll handle the turret and 76 mm."
Gus squealed with pleasure. "Look here, Sarge." He held up one of the new Russian PPs 43 submachine guns and a bottle of vodka. "We're loaded for bear now." He cracked open the bottle and drained it. The pig's carcass rested right behind the driver's seat, close to him. He wasn't going to let anything happen to his dinner. If they had to bail out of the tank, it was even odds which he would take, the submachine gun or the pig. Langer gave odds mentally on the pig.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
They spent the rest of the day in a wrecked bam, moving the tank straight through the side. They had been bypassed in the night; the rest of the German forces in the pocket were an hour's march to the west. Most of them would never make it to the new line outside Kaunas. Langer would wait for dark and move through the Russian lines right down the rail tracks after bypassing the German pocket of resistance. Once past that, they should have easy going until they reached the bridge at Nieman. They would have to be careful or the defenders, thinking they were Russians, would blow them away.