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his legs. With Baumann gripping his neck from behind, he allowed
himself to be steered to the privy beside the barracks.
"Inside," Baumann said, giving the Russian a shove. "You have latrine
duty, Ivan."
The thick plank that covered the cess pit had been removed and placed
on the floor next to the body of the other guard.
"Strip, Ivan," Baumann ordered. Numbly the guard did as he was
ordered, pulling off his shirt and vest over his head. Naked, he shivered as
much from fear as the biting cold of early morning.
"Hands against the wall, feet spread," Baumann commanded. "You
know the routine. Just like you made us do in the camp."
"I swear I am only a clerk," the Russian blubbered.
"Not with this," Baumann said, placing the blade of the bayonet against
the Russian's throat. "This is a German army bayonet, the kind you
bastards use to carve up 'vanished' Germans." He punched the Russian in
the small of the back. "Now, spread your legs and step away from the
wall."
Biting back a sob, the Russian did as he was told. Satisfied that his
prisoner wasn't going to try anything, Baumann bent down and stabbed
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the dead man half a dozen times in the abdomen, ventilating the corpse so
that expanding gases could escape. He was taking no chances that the
body, bloated from decomposition, would float to the surface of the cess
pit. Whenever the relief troops arrived, he wanted them to think that the
two Ivans had deserted.
"All right," Baumann said when he had finished. "Turn around."
The Russian slowly turned toward Baumann, then launched himself
forward and tried to grab the bayonet. The movement took Baumann by
surprise, but only for an instant. Balling his hand into a fist, he smashed
the Russian's jaw with one blow.
Pain momentarily stunned the Russian. As he staggered backward,
Baumann hit him again, this time in the solar plexus, doubling him up
against the edge of the concrete cess pit. For good measure, Baumann
kicked him in the ribs.
"Get up, Ivan. You've got work to do."
Slowly the Russian struggled to his feet, his jaw hanging from his face
at a crazy angle, a large purple bruise forming where Baumann's boot had
caved in several of his ribs.
"Pick up your comrade and lower him into the pit," Baumann ordered.
The Russian moved like a wounded animal, half dragging, half lifting
the dead man to the edge of the cess pit. Before the corpse could topple in,
Baumann reached over and caught it by one arm.
"You first, Ivan," he said nodding toward the pit. "Get in."
Whimpering now, the Russian sat on the rough edge of the pit and
eased himself over the concrete blocks that had supported the front edge
of the planks. Frost had hardened the top layer of the filth, and it cracked
as he lowered himself into the mire.
Standing waist deep in the pit, the Russian pulled the body of the dead
guard into the excrement and then, at Baumann's command, stood on it,
gradually forcing it to sink to the bottom of the pit. From his stamping up
and down on it, the body finally sank from sight. When the Russian got
off, the body did not reappear. At Baumann's gesture, the Russian came
back to the edge of the pit and started to climb out.
But as the man threw one arm over the side of the pit to hoist himself
out, Baumann pinned him to the edge with his foot. Leaning down with
the bayonet, he drew its rough edge across the guard's throat.
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With a scream that was a gurgle, the Russian brought his hand up to his
neck, eyes bulging. As he did, Baumann drove the point of the weapon
deep into the guard's chest, puncturing his heart. Several more quick stabs
with the bayonet, and Baumann was confident that the Russian would stay
at the bottom of the cess pit with his comrade.
Baumann felt the man go limp under his foot, and carefully let him
slide back down into the excrement. Returning to the barracks for a
moment, he came back with one of the Russian rifles and, holding it by
the barrel, used it to push the body down to the bottom of the pit. When
he was satisfied that the body couldn't be seen, he threw the rifle in after
and watched it sink slowly from sight. Then, picking up the thick plank
with the four holes cut in it, he replaced it over the cess pit and left.
The motorcycle had taken him as far as the mountains, and there
Baumann pushed the machine into a ravine and continued on foot. The
villages of Azerbaidzhan were filled with dark-eyed, furtive people, and
Baumann moved among them like a ghost. It took him four months to
reach the frontier and cross over into Turkey.
Istanbul, with its bazaars, crowded narrow streets, and opium
racketeers, became Baumann's hunting ground. In less than a year, he was
back on the Russian border, talking to the nomadic traders and renegade
cossacks. He bought information with gold or American dollars and
repaid lies with death. When the nomads would head to Baku and
Astrakhan, Baumann would see them off; and when they returned he
would be waiting waiting to hear of German prisoners. And while the
nomads searched for his comrades, and Kluge in particular, Baumann
stalked the streets of Istanbul.
CHAPTER 15
Da. Wampyr. Hier. As Baumann looked out across the expanse of
snow, watching the Soviet guards make their rounds at the prison hospital
where the Cossacks had led him, his escape from the Russians seemed as
if it had happened a thousand years ago. He had learned a great deal since
then. He watched the camp's inmates for the better part of a day, counting
them as they moved about, and decided that there were no more than a [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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