from the workshops at Dachau, its crisp patterns, green on paler green, flecked with brown and black. But Repp had vanity too: against regulations, he’d indulged in one of the traditions of the Waffen SS and had the German eagle and swastika sewn onto his left sleeve.
Against whose regulations? he wondered. For now not only did he represent the Waffen SS, he
“Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer?” The young driver stood looking at him as he snapped the last of the buttons.
“Yes?”
“Sir, wouldn’t it be safer to travel in civilian clothes, in hiker’s kit? That way, if—”
“No matter what I’m wearing, I’ll have
“But the boy has a good point,” called Felix, “after all—”
“And finally, this is no SD operation. It’s the last job of
“Well,” said Felix wearily, “it’s your funeral, not ours.”
“No,” said Repp. “It won’t be my funeral.”
He went over; he could see smudge marks from Felix’s fingers on the sheen of the cool, oily metal of the rifle components; these somehow bothered him.
“Of course it has not been opened until just now?”
He knew Felix was giving the driver a look of disbelief, but he heard the voice ring out, though without conviction, “Just as we were instructed.”
Repp assembled the rifle quickly, threading the gas piston, operating handle and spring guide into the receiver, inserting the bolt camming and locking units, forcing the pin into the hinge at the trigger unit pivot, and locking the whole together. It took seconds. Then, without ceremony, he loaded each of the six magazines, thirty rounds apiece, with the special subsonic ammunition with the spherical bullet heads. He set the rifle and clips aside, and checked off the connections and wiring in the electro-optical pack. Finally, after examining it closely for defects and finding none, he locked the night scope itself with its infrared lamp to the zf.4 mount on the receiver of the STG-44, using the special wrench. Turning the bulky weapon sideways, he edged a magazine into the housing, feeling it fit into the tolerances; then with a sharp slap from the heel of his palm he drove the magazine home, hearing it snap in as the spring catch hooked.
“You look like a doctor getting ready to operate,” said Felix.
“It’s just a tool, that’s all, a modified rifle,” Repp responded, uneasy at the man’s apparent awe of the equipment. “Now help me with this damned thing.”
He put on the battle harness, with canteen and pouches for the magazines, and over that fitted the instrument rack. Felix and the youngster helped lift the thing into position, and he stepped into it like a coat, pulling the straps tight. He stepped away from them, taking the full weight.
“Christ, that’s a heavy bastard. Will you make it?” asked Felix.
“I’ll make it all right,” said Repp grimly, as he looped the sling on the rifle over his shoulder. One last glance at his watch; it was 2:45 P.M.
“Sir?” The driver. He held something bright out. “For you. For afterward.”
Repp took it: Swiss chocolate, wrapped in green foil.
“Thanks. Breakfast. A good idea.” He dropped it in the pocket of the Tiger coat, then stepped away from the table, taking the full heft of the rifle for the first time. He felt the blood drain from his face with the effort. A hand touched his shoulder.
“Are you all right?” Felix asked.
“And if I’m not, you’ll go?” Repp said. “No, I’m fine, just have to get used to the weight. I’ve been living too soft lately.”
“Too many
Repp left the barn, into the sunlight, blinking. Already he could sense his body growing used to the weight.
Quickly the trees swallowed Repp. He moved among them in plunging, deliberate strides, a manifesto of purposefulness. But already the straps cut into him. Sweat broke out on his skin. His muscles became warm and fluid in the effort and he knew — from Russia — that if one pushed hard enough, if one had enough resolve, enough need, enough concentration, one reached a stage beyond pain, where great feats of endurance and stamina were possible. Repp knew he needed greatness today; he needed everything he had, and then more, and he was prepared to offer it. He was quite cheerful at this stage, full of confidence, hungry for the test, alert and content.
He forced his way through the underbrush, not looking back at all. He knew that higher, where the air was thinner, this rough new forest of elm and oak and a thousand tangles would give way to an ancient one of virgin pine, somewhat like the interior of the Schwarzwald. The travel would be much easier then, through solemn ranks of trees on pine-needle-packed dust which would billow up in great clouds, catching in the slanting sunlight as he rushed along. But that was hours away still; now, only this thick green stuff, sticky with sap and gum, every step of the way urging him to slow. He felt himself moving through screens and curtains, each one yielding finally to another; the visibility was limited and the air moist and close. The leaves were all wet; steam seemed to rise here and there. He felt he was in jungle. But he knew he’d be all right if he just stuck to his compass bearing, ignoring the paths he now and then passed, leaping over them, feeling clean each time he avoided their temptation. He aimed to reach the spine of the mountain and there stick to it for a long session of even-keel walking, before dipping down on the other side. He’d begin the descent long before reaching the severe peak that loomed above the timberline 5,000 meters or more.
He forged ahead, fighting the increase in the incline, sidestepping where possible, climbing over where not, the clumps of rocks that began to sprout in his way. As he rose along the mountain the forest began a gradual change; he almost didn’t notice it and could pick no one moment when it had one character and another when it had a different one; or perhaps a cloud, far above, had sealed off the sun. At any rate, it ceased soon to be a jungle; the trees, though more majestic, were farther apart; denseness gave way to longer, gloomier perspectives; that sense of tropical green light, opaque chlorophyll in the sun, vanished in a darker pall. He felt as if he were in a cellar, clammy cool, tubed and catacombed, a jumble of ambiguous shadows, pools of abstract blackness, sheer thrusts of light at unexpected points where a gap in the canopy admitted the sun. The trees grew huge and gnarled. The undergrowth remained but now it fought its way through a carpet of decomposition, matted leaves, vegetable matter returning to the gunk of creation. There was a splendor in this dark vision, but Repp was in no frame of mind to enjoy it. He concentrated on movement, on pace, though once in a while reached with relief a flatter place where the mountain itself seemed to pause in its race upward.
In one such he himself seized a moment for rest. He was alone in the trees. He could hear his own breathing, ragged and forced, in the gloom. He was uncomfortably warm. He still hadn’t reached pines. Nothing seemed familiar; it was like no forest he knew and he knew plenty of forests. He actually wished he’d hear a bird hoot or an animal cry: sign of some animate thing. His eyes scanned ahead: only massed-together trunks, white or gray scars of rocks standing out among them, some mossy and dull, and utter silence. The rifle sling was taut against his shoulder and the straps from the pack knifed deeply into him. He ignored a dozen or so other small agonies — scratches, a twisted ankle, sore joints, the beginnings of a cramp — but the straps really bothered him.
