A knife, fork, metal cup, and wire cutters fashioned by hand from a nicked pair of pliers completed his assembly, though he had one other item on his person. This was a billfold, which contained, besides some money, a folded postcard of two tall and elegantly dressed, to say nothing of quite beautiful, young women. He’d have given up his food before giving up the postcard; food just fed the body; the image of one of the young women fed his soul.
Though Daniil might have mourned his scant assets, he had this much going for him, Who travels light, travels fast.
The on-duty sentry passed, none too quietly, walking the rampart surmounting the fort’s earthwork. At the same time clouds, thick and pregnant with snow, closed in over the fort, barring the moon, and dropping everything into something approaching pitch blackness.
If I don’t get moving soon, I won’t have to be caught; the Germans will simply come out in the morning and pry me off the dirt, then use me as an ice supplement to preserve food in their mess.
He had the sentry’s timing down already. Once the man had passed Daniil slithered down the glacis, finally settling into the slight depression he’d found by earlier study, while planning his break.
And now we wait for the guard to make his rounds again.
There was wire at the base of the glacis. With the next passing of the guard, Daniil low crawled to it, snakelike. Then he took the blanket and, putting the dark side out, covered himself with it. The sharpened pliers came out next. He selected a place as near the upright pole as possible, gripped just past that with his glove, put the snippers around the wire and squeezed. It made a noise but, Much quieter than I feared. We didn’t have to cut much wire in the east, but the British and French told me how it was done.
It took several more cuts, two of them much delayed by the return of the sentry, before Daniil had cleared a path through. It must be understood, too, that the barbed wire of the Great War was not much like cattle fencing. It was stouter, the barbs were longer, there were a lot more of them, and hence they were much closer together. More than once Daniil had to bite back a curse as the prongs pierced his skin.
Mentally crossing himself, he pulled the blanket in closer to his body—No time to roll it properly—then finished passing through the wire. The moat was right there, on the other side.
Daniil hesitated at the moat, afraid of what could happen when he crossed it. If they’d let some children skate or play on the ice I’d have more confidence in this… ah, but stop sniveling, you chose this way because the Germans don’t look as carefully here, probably figuring no one is dumb enough to try.
Slowly and carefully, he reversed the blanket. Now the light gray—interestingly enough, ice gray—side was up. Covering himself with this, he eased himself out onto the ice. Since I can’t be sure how strong it is, I must spread my weight out. Helps that I’m not very big, too. And, fortunately, I’ve lost a bit of weight here. The Germans are usually better with prisoners than that, nutrition-wise, too. Things must be hard if they’re feeding us as poorly as they are. Indeed, I think they’ve lost more weight than I have.
The ice was smooth as glass, as he’d expected. Now his mess knife and fork came to the fore. Taking one piece in each hand, he used them to dig ever so slightly into the ice, creating a grip, the sound mostly muffled by the blanket. He was a little surprised that he picked up a degree of speed; the more he travelled the faster he went.
Braking is going to be… uh, oh.
Unable to slow down on the nearly frictionless ice, Daniil crossed his arms overhead and waited for the worst.
The blanket helped again, here, deadening the sound of his arms smashing against the opposite bank, itself frozen as hard as any ice.
Didn’t do much to soften the pain, but I’m not complaining.
And, finally, here I am, at the far side of the moat, and pretty much out of the guard’s area of responsibility.
Speaking of which… Still keeping the gray side up, and putting his knife and fork away, he rolled over onto his back and looked. Yes, there the old Hun is, marching to and fro and with no clue I’m gone.
Daniil moved as the clouds covered the moon, in little fits and starts. Finally, with the moon down at six minutes after five, he felt he could move with a little less care and a lot more speed. He headed to the southwest, skirting the towns of Baar-Ebenhausen, Reichertshofen, and Langenbruech. He lost some time by doffing trousers, stockings, and boots, trying to disguise his scent in the Paar River. He also left a goodly sprinkling of his little store of pepper to upset the inevitable dogs. By the time he’d done all that, he thought he could see the first faint glimmer of morning, off in the east. Spying some haystacks, he ran to one of them. Then, after excavating an area for himself, he fed himself feet first into the hole he’d created, pulling the rest of the hay carefully in after himself.
And now we wait for night, for the search to reach this area and hopefully pass me by. Assuming, of course…
There are some problems that can certainly be foreseen but still not be provided against. One of these, in Daniil’s case, was morning roll call, conducted in the bailey of Fort IX. There’d be no dim light, here and now, to mask Moretti’s impersonation, no shadows to blend and mask faces. There’d be no hasty passageway to allow a prisoner to move from one place to another. Instead, there was:
“De Gaulle?”
“Here,” answered the tall, ungainly, big-nosed French officer.
“De Robiere?”
“Here,” said De Robiere.
“Desseaux?”
“Here,” agreed Desseaux, adding, “Unfortunately.”
“Kotcheskoff?”
“Here,” answered Kotcheskoff.
“Kostyshakov?”
“Here,” answered Moretti, still wearing his assumed coat.
“La Croix?”
“Here.”
“Le Long?”
“Here.”
“Lustianseff?”
“Here,” answered Lustianseff.
“Moretti?”
“Here,” answered Moretti.
“Blue Boy” looked up and glanced quickly at the spot from which he thought he’d heard two answers.
“Kostyshakov?” he repeated.
“Here,” answered Moretti, slouching low so as not be seen and with an attempt at a more convincing Russian accent.
“Moretti?” called “Blue Boy.”
“Here,” answered Moretti.
“Herr Feldwebel!”
German soldiers with bayonetted rifles, most of the soldiers older and some sporting limps and scars, walked around the hayfield stuffing their bayonets into the loosely piled, beehive shaped, haystacks.
“Come out! Come out, Captain Kostyshakov!” shouted the leader of the Germans, the small and rather intelligent noncom whom the prisoners called “Abel.”
“We know you’re somewhere in this area! Why don’t you save us all some trouble and just give yourself up? You’ve made a fine attempt; there no shame in failure when the odds are stacked so badly against you.”