Panzer Soldier

own belt. He gave her one of the MP-40s and slung another over his shoulder. He knew they would need them before long. He had another war to fight now.

Deborah led him by the hand out of the hut into the snow, leaving the SS men to be found later. Their feet crunched on the frozen surface layer and then sunk down to ankle deep. They moved into the darkness of the woods; their tracks would soon be covered by the gently falling large clean flakes. As they walked, Langer ripped the patches from his uniform and threw them along with his paybook and orders into the snow. Last to go was the Knight's Cross from around his neck. He let it fall from limp fingers and sink into the softness, the silver edges gleaming until it too was covered.

By the end of January the German forces had withdrawn to the western banks of the Oder River. Pursued not only by the Russians but also by a man and a woman who made their prey the Einsatzgruppen of the SS. Like wolves they hunted the straggling units of the Totenkopf or SD.

From Langer, Deborah learned more than she would have dreamed of about the fine art of killing. How to place a mine or strangle a man larger than yourself with a fine piece of wire. Time and again they had eliminated parties of SS herding their helpless prisoners back to the loading pens for shipment to the concentration camps.

Langer grew wolflike in appearance, face lean and hard with no trace of pity for the butchers he relentlessly hunted and killed.

In this battle, mercy was a commodity they had not earned. Though many asked for it, no one received it. The bayonet and garrote snuffed out the life of the hunted silently, or the single crack of a well-placed shot, taking out the leader of a party escorting prisoners. Langer and Deborah lived off the land, taking whatever they could scavenge or steel. This was their crusade, their 'Jihad,' Holy War, and with the dedication of a religious zealot they spared none, not even themselves. They pushed on.

The SS in charge of the final-solution program began to get nervous about venturing too far from the safety of their headquarters. Several high-ranking officers had gone on inspection trips to make sure the Fuhrer's orders were being obeyed, never to return, or if they were found, to be silent testimony that someone was carefully and selectively eliminating them as they did the Jews. The feeling was definitely unpleasant.

The memory of how many times they had struck vanished from their minds. There was no limit, no thought of doing just so much and no more. They continued to live in burned-out buildings or holes in the ground, trying to keep up with the retreating Germans and ahead of the Russians, who would suffer the same fate as the SS if they happened to get too close. As for Deborah and Langer, there was little difference in them, but their chosen prey were those in the black uniforms and swastika armbands. At night they would hold each other for warmth, and what comfort they had came from each other. They loved in a special kind of way that made them twins or extensions of each other. There was tenderness for Deborah in the arms of the scar-faced man, a gentleness she would not have believed when she first saw him. She knew that he had suffered great pain in his life that made him different in a thousand small ways from the men she had known. He was timeless in his patience with her, taking hours to explain a small detail that could mean her survival. About his own survival, he really didn't seem to be very interested, as long as he could accomplish what he set out to do. Each mission, each ambush, was a thing unto itself, which might end everything for them. Every act itself was a complete statement.

The greatest difficulty they had was choosing a good target area in order to kill the SS before they could kill the prisoners with them. He taught Deborah the use of selective terror tactics and to use lies, false hope and illusion. A single truck with eight Jews and four guards; one beside the driver and two in the back with their cargo. A shot to blow a tire, another to kill the driver; a burst of machine-gun fire from Deborah on the opposite side to convince them that they were surrounded, and promise the SS their lives, if they freed the prisoners. If they did, once the prisoners were well away, they'd kill the guards. Honor meant nothing to the SS, and a man or woman would be a fool to trust their word. Also, to let them live would condemn still more innocents to the slaughter. This was total war as Hitler wanted it. Death, the final solution.

Langer rested under the shelter of a giant pine; the branches heavy with snow made a natural tent to shelter them. He slept with his head on Deborah's lap. It was the hour before dawn, and she too slept the deep sleep of exhaustion.

Alsatians put their noses to the light breeze and tugged their masters forward silently. The Hundmeisters knew they were near.

Their dogs had their vocal chords cauterized to make certain there would be no giveaway barking to let their quarry know of their presence. The squad of counter-guerrilla experts was spread out in skirmishing formation, weapons ready; only the crunching of booted feet in the snow broke the silence. A distant cough brought Langer to full awakening; his eyes snapped open, alert, ready. He rolled off Deborah's lap, his movement waking her.

'Shhhh!' He looked out between the branches of their shelter. First one then another, then five and another five spread out, moving in good order, very professional. He looked to the left, then the right; on both sides the flankers had already passed their tree and were slightly behind them. The hunters were damned good.

Langer nodded his head in mental agreement with what he knew would come some day. He pulled Deborah to him, wiped a smudge from her face and kissed her with the gentleness of a brother and lover. Whispering, he told her what to do; with a finger, he touched her lips and silenced her protests. 'This I must do, you can't help me now.' He reached into his pack and took out a vial of powder and gave it to her. 'Climb into the tree; when they go after me, come down and sprinkle this around the base where we were sleeping. I've been saving this for some time; it's cocaine mixed with dried blood. When the dogs smell it the cocaine will make them high and knock out their sense of smell for hours. Use that time to get away. Find a place and hole up; we've done all we can. As for me, don't worry. Save yourself, the war will be over soon, it's only a matter of a few months at most. Save yourself, Deborah Sapir, and remember me as one who loved you well.'

He burst out of the trees, his Schmeisser cutting down three men on the right flanking squad. He hit the snow and rolled over, taking out the other two; one side was open. He turned and faced the oncoming Hundmeisters. Roaring he charged, wild-eyed, gun firing. He emptied one magazine and reloaded.

Two Hundmeisters were dead, their animals whimpering beside the bodies, their leashes around their dead masters' hands, keeping them from attacking, but Langer still kept on racing from tree to tree. A burst of fire from the SS men ripped up the bark and sent splinters stinging into the side of his face. He twisted and dodged, turning and leaping; anything to draw them away from Deborah. He made a hundred meters, then another, stopping to reload and fire. They closed in on him.

A hurtling object caught the corner of his eye and he knew it was too late to get away. The thrower had a damned good arm; it would burst in the air. The concussion grenade exploded four feet from him in the air, peppering his face and driving the darkness into him, blocking out his consciousness. His last thought before the explosion was, 'Did I get them far enough away?' He had.

As soon as they took off after him, Deborah had climbed down from her perch and followed his instructions and sprinkled the ground with the cocaine and blood. The dogs that came after they handcuffed Langer were