“And then do you think it’s possible that someone will guess ‘Maybe they’re digging a grave for that Russian that Sergeant Tedworth caught and they’re going to shoot?’ Everyone of course knows about the Russian because of Sergeant Loudmouth.”
“Oh, God!” Dunwiddie said. “I should have thought about that!”
“Let me catch up with Doc Lushwell, Captain,” Tedworth said. “I’ll tell him to keep his yap shut.”
“Thank you, but no thanks. If you think about it, what’s wrong with somebody guessing we’re going to shoot the Russian? If that word gets out — and I think it will — it will come to the attention of the Germans the NKGB has turned. Then they won’t be so surprised when they hear the shots when we ‘execute’ him.”
“Yeah,” Staff Sergeant Petronius J. Clark boomed appreciatively. “That’s how it would work all right.”
Then he blew gently on his red merbromin-painted hands and winced at the stinging sensation.
“Let’s carry that one step further,” Cronley went on. “Sergeant Loudmouth, please present my compliments to Major Orlovsky and tell him I would be pleased to have him attend me in my quarters.”
“Captain, you going to tell the Russian that we was digging graves?” Sergeant Clark asked dubiously.
“That’s exactly what I’m going to tell him. What are you waiting for, Sergeant Loudmouth? Go get Major Orlovsky.”
“With respect, sir,” Dunwiddie said. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”
“No, Sergeant Dunwiddie, I do not. Go get the Jack Daniel’s and some glasses.”
[SEVEN]
Staff Sergeant Harold Lewis Jr. and two soldiers from das Gasthaus, as Cronley had called the cell in the basement of the former chapel, led Major Konstantin Orlovsky of the NKGB into the room. Orlovsky’s head was covered with a duffel bag. He had a blanket over his shoulders, held in place with straps. His hands were handcuffed behind him and his ankles shackled.
Cronley gestured for Lewis to take off the duffel bag.
“Good evening, Konstantin,” Cronley greeted him cordially. “Some things have come up that we need to talk about. I thought you’d be more comfortable doing so here, over a little Tennessee whisky and some dinner, than in das Gasthaus.”
Orlovsky didn’t reply.
“Sergeant Clark, would you be good enough to take the restraints off Major Orlovsky?” Cronley went on. “And then, after he’s had a shower, get him into more comfortable clothing?”
Orlovsky came back into the room, now wearing the German civilian clothing he had been wearing when Sergeant Tedworth had captured him as he tried to sneak out of Kloster Grünau.
“First Sergeant Dunwiddie, Staff Sergeant Clark, and I are delighted that you could find time in your busy schedule to join us,” Cronley said, waving him into a chair at the table. “Please sit down.”
Orlovsky obediently sat.
“What’ll it be, Konstantin?” Cronley asked. “Whisky? Vodka?”
“Nothing for me, thank you.”
“Pour a little Jack Daniel’s for the major, please, Sergeant Clark,” Cronley said. “He may change his mind.”
“I never change my mind,” Orlovsky said.
“We say, ‘Never say never,’” Cronley said. “Pour the Jack, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know what’s wrong with that disguise you were wearing?” Cronley said. “If you don’t mind me saying?”
Orlovsky said nothing.
“You’re too well nourished, too chubby, for a German. You should have figured out a way to make your skin look gray, for your cheekbones to be more evident. Forgive me, Konstantin, but what you look like is an American trying to look like a German.”
Orlovsky shook his head in disbelief.
Sergeant Clark put a glass before the Russian and then poured two inches of Jack Daniel’s into it.
“Ice and water, Major?” Clark boomed. “Or you take it straight?”
Cronley saw that Orlovsky had involuntarily drawn himself in when the enormous black man had come close to him, then recoiled just perceptibly when Clark had delicately poured the whisky with his massive, merbromin-painted hand.
Orlovsky was disconcerted to the point where he forgot that he never changed his mind.
He said, “Straight’s fine. Thank you,” then picked up the glass and took a healthy swallow.
“I saw you looking at poor Sergeant Clark’s hands. Aren’t you going to ask what he did to them?”
“No.”
“Tell the major how your hands got that way, Sergeant,” Cronley ordered.
“Digging that goddamned practice grave,” Clark boomed.
There was no response.
“Aren’t you curious about the phrase ‘practice grave’?”
“No.”
“We was digging a practice grave,” Sergeant Clark volunteered. “To see how long it’s going to take us to dig the real one for you.”
“Quickly changing the subject,” Cronley put in, “how does pork chops and applesauce and green beans sound for dinner?”
“That would be very nice,” Orlovsky said.
“Would you tell the cook that, please, Sergeant Clark?”
“Yes, sir,” Clark boomed, and marched out of the room.
“I suppose that happens in the Red Army, too,” Cronley said.
“What?”
“That senior sergeants like Clark, who have held their rank for some time, develop soft hands. I mean, so that when they are called on to perform some manual labor of the type they were accustomed to perform when they were privates, they’re not up to it. Those hands must really be painful.”
“Obviously.”
“Well, we’ve learned our lesson. The next time we dig your grave, we’ll be good Boy Scouts.”
“Excuse me?”
“The Boy Scouts is an American organization that one joins at age nine, as a Cub Scout, and remains in, generally, until the age of eighteen, or until the Scout discovers the female sex. Whichever comes first. Roasting marshmallows over an open fire is great fun, but for an eighteen-year-old it can’t compare with exploration of the female anatomy.”
Orlovsky shook his head in disbelief again.
“How did I get on that subject?” Cronley asked rhetorically. “Oh! I started out to say that the motto of the Boy Scouts is Be Prepared. That’s what I meant when I said the next time we dig your grave, we’ll be good Boy Scouts. By that I mean, we’ll be prepared. The gravediggers will have gloves to protect their hands.”
Orlovsky didn’t reply.
“Do you remember the first time you went on a successful exploratory mission like that, Konstantin? Perhaps with the young lady who eventually became Mrs. Orlovsky and the mother of your children?”
“You do not actually expect me to answer a question like that!”
“I wasn’t asking for the details, Konstantin. I’m an officer and a gentleman. That would be like asking a fellow officer and gentleman what exactly he did on his honeymoon, and how often he did it. Bad form. All I was asking was if you remembered.”
Orlovsky failed in his attempt not to smile.
“Captain Cronley, you are very good. If I did not know who you are, and what you are trying to accomplish, I would believe that you were an amiable lunatic.”
“I remember my honeymoon well. Probably because it happened so recently and was so brief. Do you remember yours? Or was it so long ago that you’ve forgotten? Or maybe not all that pleasant?”