Five Past Midnight - James Thayer [115]
"Well, I'm not really..."
"And I remember one more thing about Hitler from that day, from when he was standing there in the garden, surrounded by admirers. He is shorter than photos of him lead you to believe." She added, "So be careful not to aim too high."
"Yes?"
6
CRAY LAY on the dirt, the scent of German loess rich and close. He was at the edge of a woods, and was concealed by juniper bushes. Ahead was a clearing, then a chain-link fence. A pathway of beaten-down grass, made by patrols, paralleled the fence. The night was still dense, but the first grainy light of dawn was coloring the eastern sky. Cray could hear Red Army guns in the east. To the south the clouds were a soft orange, reflecting the fires from that night's bombing raid on Berlin. Clouds also hid the moon, and Cray could see no further than the fence. He had left the countess's apartment at midnight and had pedaled a bicycle four hours north.
He cupped an ear and closed his eyes to concentrate on the sounds of the night. Cray knew that sentries patrolling a secured area are usually noisy. He heard nothing. He opened his eyes. Gossamer strands of concertina wire topped the fence, glittering in the starlight.
With another look to the left and right, Cray rose from the brush and sprinted across the clearing. The links were too small for footholds, so he gripped the fence and pulled himself up, hand over hand, willing his arm to work and ignoring the pain. Cray had experience with razor wire, and knew if there was no time to cut it, it could only be ignored. But he had expected the wire and had not come unprepared. Using pliers to draw the needle, the countess had sewn heavy oilcloth onto the palms of a pair of black gloves. Cray was also wearing a black pea coat and black dungarees.
He reached the top of the fence and gripped the razor wire, his feet scrambling against the chain link. The wire was in loose coils, offering no support, so Cray spilled onto it, toppling forward, cartwheeling over and down, the wires' sharp edges slicing into his arms and legs. He plummeted down, the wire slashing at him. His right arm caught in the snare of two crossed wires. He was jerked back toward the top of the fence. He braced himself with his legs jackknifed horizontally against the fence. With his free hand he pried apart the wires, then fell to the ground, the wire raking him.
Cray sat there a moment, taking inventory. His dungarees were wicking blood from slashes on his thighs. The back of his right wrist was gashed, and both ankles were bleeding. He'd been hurt worse, he decided.
Cray rose and hurried on, bent low like an infantryman. When he crossed thirty yards of soft earth, he encountered a second fence, this one with no razor wire atop it.
He had bantered with the countess about dogs. But since his attempted escape from Colditz, where the guards' dogs had set upon him, Rottweilers and Doberman pinschers had become his nightly companions, and in those dreams Cray never got the best of them. He would awake, shaking and damp. Jack Cray feared dogs, as much when awake as in his dreams.
And parallel fences at a military base often meant a dog run.
The sound came at him from the north, a huffing and hissing, and a low rasp, louder in an instant. A churning, rushing rumble, closer and yet closer.
Cray leaped wildly, his fingers snaring the links. He yanked himself higher, swinging his legs to the side to get them away from the ground. He was too late.
A dog sank its fangs into his ankle and held on. Another dog leaped, its teeth slashing at Cray's calves, snagging the pant leg and his muscle, but then twisting and pulling away, falling back to the ground. Cray climbed hand over hand, the first dog attached to his foot like a bear trap. The dog bucked and arched, trying to bring down its prey.
Cray's hand found the fence's top bar. He braved a look down. Doberman pinschers, two of them, one stuck to him like some ghastly new appendage. His foot was a flare of pain. The dog's eyes were eerily red, as if lit from