Panzer Soldier

Langer rushed in behind before the Slav could react and slice up the new piece of bacon lying helpless at his feet. He yelled, the Slav turned, a slightly surprised look on his face; what had happened hadn't really registered. The look of blankness stayed there until Langer's bayonet made a whisshing sound and gave the big man another mouth, gaping and spouting.

Yuri came out at the same time, his butcher knife held low; he raced at half crouch up to the young boy, and whipped him around by the shoulder, aiming for the gut. The youngster twisted as Yuri struck, and the blade slid between the ribs on his left side. The point of the knife reached the heart, but the spasms of muscles, combined with the natural adhesion of the rib cage, made it impossible for Yuri to draw the blade back out. He set a foot on the youngster's head to hold him and began frantically to twist the blade, trying to break it free, only to feel it snap at the handle. Spinning around, he had just enough time to see the look of pleasure on the Cossack's face, before the saber half-severed his head from the body at the neck. Another flick of the wrist and the saber flashed again; the head fell to the ground before the body knew it was dead. Yuri's head fell to rest beside the tracks of the T-34, the face looking up, eyes open, the mouth wide in his familiar gold-toothed smile.

The Armenian was shocked at first, then started to scramble up the side of the tank to get inside and batten down. He had rolled out from under Langer, and out of the pig guts, some still hanging to his face and chest. Growling, Gus struck at him with the edge of his shovel. There was a 'thunk,' then a wet sucking sound, as it pulled out of the Armenian's spine. Gus had hit him right at the junction between the shoulder blades with a straight thrust that sank the sharpened sides in to a depth of five inches. Gus caught a look at Yuri's head lying on the ground by the tracks, and screamed like a berserker of old. He lunged forward, swinging his tool like a meat cleaver, only to feel his hand go numb, and find he was holding only the wooden handle. The head of the entrenching tool had been severed with a clean quarter wrist sweep of the major's saber hand.

The Cossack paused, noting that the Germans were carrying no guns; he decided to enjoy himself a little. He fended off Gus's attempt to brain him with the shovel handle with a series of light taps and touches, leaving the big German's face pricked and cut in half a dozen places, in less than ten seconds. Gus couldn't get through the flashing blade, and backed away, a wounded animal, his eyes shrunk to tiny pinpoints, blood running freely down his face. The major moved in the classic fleche, the long, smooth, almost running lunge to the heart; Gus was backed up to the tank with nowhere to run. The saber blade moved off center to ring off the hull of the T-34. The Cossack recovered.

Langer stood between them, his bayonet held to the front. The major smiled and spoke in perfect German, with a slightly British accent, 'Well, well, what have we here, a sergeant who thinks he understands the saber. Too bad you're not an officer at least, then I might have the confidence that you would have at least had some rudimentary training. But perhaps you can provide me with enough entertainment to make up for the loss of my men.' He looked closely at the thick-set body of the man confronting him. 'You are a tough-looking swine at any rate.' He pointed the saber blade at Langer's face, at the scarred side. 'Schlager mensur, perhaps?' his voice hopeful as he referred to the German dueling scar students of the universities loved to inflict on each other as badges of courage. 'Perhaps you have had some experience after all.'

The Cossack stepped, made a mock enveloppement that ended in the en garde position and saluted the man with the bayonet. 'Sergei Ilye Rasdonovich at your service.' Gus started to move, but Langer called out, loud enough for Teacher to hear, 'Leave him alone. He's mine.' The major thought he was only addressing Gus.

Teacher removed the Mauser from his shoulder and moved to a position where he could get a better look at the proceedings. He had seen Langer with a bayonet on a rifle or, in hand to hand, but this was different, a bayonet against a saber. He consoled himself with the thought that if Langer was killed, at least he would have the pleasure of putting a bullet through the brain of the Russian major.

Langer watched the body of the Russian; he was good, but he held his blade a little too tight, the arm was stiff and he was over confident. Carl held his blade with the cutting edge facing out to the right, the blade held flat, extended. He waited, went into a half crouch, right foot extended, his left hand held low to his side, fingers open. The Cossack finished his salute and extended the point of his saber, making a circular parry, small circles around the point of Langer's weapon, feeling the distance, and then performed a glide, not really wanting to kill, just toy with his mouse for a moment. The glide ended up being turned back on itself. The Cossack flinched.

His sleeve was opened from the wrist to the elbow, nothing deep, just enough to irritate, but how had the mouse done it? Pivoting, he again faced the German; this time there would be no toying with his prey, it was time to kill. He went on to coupe, trying to pass his blade over the point of the German's shorter bayonet by raising his point with a flexible movement of the fingers and hand bending the arm just a hair and extending to pierce the heart. Again he felt a burning, as his blade was turned and somehow his victim had come under him and made a quick slice on the face in the same spot that the German wore his scar. The Hun stepped back and smiled, raised his blade in a straight-arm salute, mocking him. 'Ave! te moritu salutus.' The ancient salute of the Roman arena. Blood dripped down the Cossack's arm on to his hand and wrist, making the grip slippery to the touch. He bled just enough to fog the vision in his left eye slightly. The Fascist was playing with him. He was the mouse, and the smiling, blue-eyed man in the strange stance in front of him was the cat.

Well, this mouse could still kill; with a cry he lunged, making one circular sweeping attack after another, trying to use the longer reach of his weapon to beat the German back and break through his defense, only to find the German holding him chest to chest for a moment, moving around like they were dancing. The German smiled and Rasdonovich again felt a stinging pain; this time the German stepped back and laughed. Sergei touched his face; the German had slit his nose an inch on both sides, leaving only two bloody flaps to breathe through.

Langer stepped back; the Cossack was breathing heavily, bloody bubbles swelling out of the torn nostrils and bursting with each breath. He knew he was going to die; he waited, Langer moved in, low blade extended. He lunged, the Cossack tried to parry. Langer's left hand grabbed the Russian's wrist, pulling him forward off balance; he then moved and stepped to the side, putting the arch of his boot on the back of Sergei's knee, forcing him down to the ground on one knee, sword arm held in a steel grip; another quick burning and Sergei saw his left ear lying in front of the Tatar's head.

Raising his head he cried out, 'End it, in the name of God end it.'

Langer smiled, his face like granite flesh. 'As you wish.' One long circular stroke like that of a master barber, a strong tug on the hair, and the Russian's head joined that of Yuri, the two of them watching each other.

Carl wiped his blade off on the Russian's tunic, and then resheathed it in its metal scabbard. It was over, and once more the old feeling of being drained washed over him.

Teacher came out of the cellar and joined Gus, speechless. He had never seen anything like the way Langer had played with the Cossack, breaking the man's spirit down before killing him. The Cossack never had a chance, he might as well have been unarmed. The positions and techniques used by Langer were not those taught in the fencing schools of Europe, at least not in this century. They resembled some of the old frescoes he had seen of gladiators in the Roman arena, right down to the Roman salute.

Langer stopped him before he could make any comment. 'All right, let's take care of the bodies. We don't want them found until later. We'll haul them over to the side of the bakery, there's a small ditch, we'll bury them