Red Sniper

But there was no lunchtime. At mid-day the prisoners were given water, but no food. They were allowed to sit quietly for a few minutes while the Russian guards ate. The only food that the prisoners could expect would be a piece of bread at the end of the day, or a bowl of thin soup.

The big Russian gang boss sat apart from the others, alone except for a small fellow who seemed to follow him around like a loyal dog. The two men were as different in size as Mutt and Jeff—or maybe David and Goliath. He looks like a rabbit, Whitlock thought, studying the smaller man. But no—that wasn’t quite right. The man moved with a fluid grace that was vaguely menacing. Not a rabbit, then. Maybe a mink or a fisher cat like they had in the New England woods—some predatory furbearer with small, sharp teeth.

The guards ate a peasant meal of chunks of black bread, raw onions, and some cold sausages, but the spicy, smoky smell of the meat made Whitlock’s stomach rumble. The guards passed around a bottle of vodka. And then all too soon, it was time to get back to work.

Because of the raw skin from the burst blisters, Whitlock’s hands felt like they were on fire when he touched the pick handle again. His hands soon began to leave faint red stains on the worn wood.

Beside him, Ramsey continued to swing the pick, but each of his swings grew weaker. One or two of the guards glanced in Ramsey’s direction. If Whitlock had learned anything so far in his short career as a POW, it was that you were better off not attracting any attention to yourself.

“You’ve got to keep going,” Whitlock urged him. “Just a little longer.”

“I’m all played out,” Ramsey said.

“None of that now,” Whitlock said. “We’ve only got an hour or two yet.”

That was a lie, of course, for Ramsey’s benefit. It was just past mid-day and they would be working on the railroad bed for hours to come.

But Ramsey had had enough. He tried to raise the pick. The iron head weighed perhaps ten pounds, but it was too much for Ramsey. He gave up and slumped over the handle, panting with the effort. Two guards started toward them, their heavy faces expressionless as those of a couple of bulldogs.

It was the big Russian, the work gang boss, who got their first. He moved fast for a big man. He grabbed Ramsey by the shoulder and flung him to the ground. The Russian was shouting. Whitlock didn’t know the language, but the man’s words needed no translation. He was clearly cursing Ramsey, or maybe insulting him.

Up close, the man was big as a bear, heavy through the shoulders, and his angry Russian words sounded like mortar fire. He smelled like onions and alcohol. He kicked Ramsey with a muddy boot, nearly sending him airborne. Ramsey cried out in pain. He drew back his foot to kick Ramsey again.

“Stop that!” Whitlock shouted.

The big Russian turned to regard him. Like Whitlock, he didn’t need to know the language to understand the meaning. He tugged the Cossack whip from his belt and started toward Whitlock. The whip was no more than a yard long, so the Russian had to come in close. He struck Whitlock almost casually across the shoulder, but the stinging force of the blow drove Whitlock to his knees. The Russian’s arm went up again and Whitlock put up his hands to protect his face.

The whip never fell.

A guard shouted urgently, and the Russian’s arm sagged. To Whitlock, the man’s bicep looked big around as a tree trunk.

The guards were pointing and shouting, unslinging their rifles. Whitlock was as curious as they were and looked in the direction that they were pointing, though he kept one eye on the whip. Was it a wolf? When he looked, he saw the figure of a man running away across the empty plain.

One of the prisoners had taken advantage of the commotion to make a run for it.

There was nowhere to go. The empty landscape stretched in all directions. The escapee’s only hope was to run for the forest, nearly a mile away. If he got into those trees, he might have a chance.

Some of the guards raised rifles to shoot, but the big Russian barked something at them and they lowered their guns. Whitlock felt a faint sliver of hope for the man. Were the Russians allowing him to escape?

Then the big Russian unslung his rifle.

The escapee was getting farther and farther away. He was really covering ground. Running for his life. The guards didn’t seem all that concerned. Some were even grinning and laughing, shouting as if urging the runner on.

The big Russian wrapped an arm through the sling of his rifle to steady it, and then put his eye to the telescopic sight. Whitlock thought the man was too far now for the Russian to hit him, even with the telescopic sight.

Even the Russian seemed to have his doubts. He called over the small man, who stood stock still as the Russian rested his rifle across his shoulder. The way that they worked together made it seem as if they had done something like this before.