When the firing started Langer hesitated, started to turn back, then stopped again. No, this was Teacher's to do alone the way he wanted it. He had no right to interfere. The crump of the Grenade going off told him it was over. He walked on out of the yards across to the road, where columns of men fresh from Germany were being herded up to the lines to fill gaps that couldn't be replaced with ten times their numbers. Bright young faces, full of confidence in the final victory. They knew the Führer would triumph and they would show those who went before them how to fight; all it took was the proper spirit and faith.
Carl moved on, his feet automatically taking him in the direction of the fighting, his body moving under its own accord, following the built-in patterns of years of conflict; at times battle did ease pain and the Russians he knew were no better than the Nazis, so what difference did it make who he killed?
Another winter was here; snow was in the air. His greatcoat fluttered around his legs, the pack on his back tugged familiarly at his shoulders, giving a hot spasm of tension in the muscles between the shoulder blades. He walked with his eyes on the road, joining in with the masses moving up. The steady, kilometer-eating step of the professional took over his subconscious and moved him. All that day, faces picked at the comers of his mind. A sense of emptiness all too familiar walked with him. The road turned to slush with a cold drizzle falling which softened the ground, and the treads of armor and trucks turned it into boot-sucking slush. Still, he moved on to the distant sound of thunder. With the dark, the first snow came, soft, fat white flakes that floated gently, melting at first, then increasingly one added its whiteness to another until the ground was covered. The temperature dropped, the mud began to firm, the snow fell steadily, one inch, then another. Before midnight he stopped and took shelter in a burned-down tavern. The beams were still holding, made of oak hundreds of years old. Time had turned them almost into iron; charred and discolored they still held up, part of the roof. Langer settled into a corner. There, sheltered from the snow, he built a small fire in a forgotten metal wash pan and hunched over it, the red glow bouncing off his face, the warmth pressing against whatever skin was exposed. He leaned over to soak it in. Taking his blanket out of his pack he wrapped it around him; sitting Indian fashion, he nodded and slept fitfully, head bobbing and jerking up for an instant, eyes opening, then just as fast, shutting again. Several times the waning fire woke him to feed it and restless sleep claimed him again, only to plague him with dreams and doubts.
The soldier's mental clock pulled his head up, eyes open, fully awake. Just before dawn the night's snowfall had reached five inches and the road was gone, vanished under its covering; only the trees and brush lining the way showed where it lay under the blanket of white. Scrounging through the rubble he found another battered tin pot. Filling it with fresh snow, he sat it by his fire to melt and warm him at the same time. Eating a ration, taking small bites of black bread, he held each bit in his mouth until it turned sweet and dissolved and he washed it down with a swallow of lukewarm ersatz coffee that tasted more like burned nut shells than anything else.
The Knight's Cross sparkled in the light of the fire as he took off his coat and tunic to wash in the melted snow water. Careful not to use too much of his remaining piece of soap, he gave himself what was known in less than polite circles as a whore's bath. Using a straight razor, he scrapped at the stubble on his face, cursing at the tugs and nicks. Drying himself with one of his dirty undershirts, he redressed. A momentary flick of consternation ran across his face when he put the Knight's Cross back on. But what the hell did it matter.
Thousands of passing trucks and men pulled him out on to the road. The rusting hulks of burned vehicles and tanks, both German and Russian, were common; relics from last year's battles, rusting skeletons that gave a sense of foreboding to those who saw them for the first time. For Carl Langer, they weren't even there.
Shortly after noon he stopped to rest in the shelter of a burned MK IV. Leaning up against the rusting bogie wheels, he eased off his pack and lit up, holding his hand cupped over the match to keep the wind from blowing it out. He looked at the sky. It would be dark soon, now probably around five o'clock. He had a few more hours before packing it in; there was no rush, if he didn't move fast enough it was a sure thing the war could come to him. A passing Kübelwagen with three men and a woman in it stopped beside him. The woman caught his eye. The fact that she had been worked over was obvious from the swelling around her left eye and bruised mouth. Her escorts were members of a special counter-guerrilla detachment of the SS. Tough-looking men, still wearing the distinctive SS leopard camouflage field jackets and helmet covers. The leader of the group, a Hauptsturmführer with a broken nose and crystal blue eyes, beckoned him over with a wave of the hand.
The SS captain beckoned Langer to him with a snap of the fingers. "Papers!"
Carl presented his paybook and movement orders to the "Golden Knight" of the new order, standing at attention. He glanced through the documents and quickly took in the decorations Langer had around his neck.
"Good enough, climb on, I have a job for you, it won't take long."
Langer knew better than to try and argue. Tossing his pack on the Kübelwagen, he climbed into the rear of the vehicle with the woman and her guards; it was crowded but the best they could do.
The jeep ran down the road for a few kilometers and turned on to a side road; headed into the trees for a couple of hundred meters and stopped. The Hauptsturmführer led the way up a narrow tree-lined trail to a log cabin. Standing back he let one of his men enter the door first; after all, one could never tell where one might find a booby trap, and enlisted men were expendable and easier to replace than officers. Once inside, one of the Sturmen built a fire in the rock fireplace, and stood by waiting for orders from his leader.
The captain pointed a gloved finger at Carl. "Sergeant, you will remain here with the prisoner until we return. We have to pick up a few more of the lady's compatriots being held for us further on. If she tries to escape, stop her any way you wish, but don't trust the treacherous bitch, she killed two of my men earlier today and we only caught her when a rifle grenade knocked her out and those that were with her left her behind. And besides," he said in a comradely fashion, "she's a Jew."
With a snap of his fingers, his men headed for the door. He seemed to have finger snapping down to a science; it wasn't easy to do with gloves on. Before leaving, he turned once more to Langer and in an off-handed way added, "Oh, by the way, if you like, you may use her for your amusement. After we return and have time to question her, we're going to hang her anyway, so enjoy yourself, comrade."
The sound of boots crunching their way off in the new snow soon diminished and they were left alone. Carl motioned for her to sit down in one of the two wooden straight-backed chairs at a plank table, careful to keep his weapons out of her reach. He had no idea about how dangerous a woman like this might be. He laid his pack down and sat in the other chair, taking a ration of black bread and a can of sardines out of his pack. He opened the tin and cut a slice of bread off and shoved them in front of her. "Eat! I'm not going to hurt you."