The War That Came Early: West and East

by Harry Turtledove

  “Screw the weather,” Hermann Witt said. The panzer commander didn’t get far from the fire, either, no matter what he said. He wasn’t one of the people who could light a cigarette in any weather. Finally giving it up as a bad job, he went on, “What ought to be against the fucking Geneva Convention are the Russians.”

  A puff of fog escaped from Adi’s mouth as he grunted. Theo made some kind of small noise, too, but the wind grabbed it and blew it away. Neither of his crewmates paid any attention. Chances were they wouldn’t have even if they’d heard him. He didn’t worry about that. It wasn’t as if he wanted people paying attention to him, for God’s sake.

  Adi looked east. He pounded his mittened hands together to try to get some blood flowing in them. “You suppose it’s true? What the damn foot soldiers were going on about, I mean?”

  “That the Ivans cut the cocks off our guys in that patrol they caught? That they stuffed ’em in their mouths afterwards?” Gloomily, Witt nodded. “Yeah, I believe it. I went through basic with one of the guys who found ’em. I’m not saying Benno wouldn’t tell a lie, but he wouldn’t tell that kind of lie—know what I mean?”

  “I only wish I didn’t,” the driver answered. He pounded his hands some more, staring down at the ground between his feet. When he looked up again, his face seemed ravaged and old. “Here’s hoping our guys were dead before the Russkis went to work on ’em.”

  “Yeah. Here’s hoping.” Witt scowled. “If I thought they were going to do that to me, I’d shoot myself first.”

  “Christ, who wouldn’t?” Stoss cupped his hands in front of his crotch. “Fun old war, ain’t it?”

  “Fun … Aber natürlich.” The corners of the sergeant’s mouth turned down even farther. “How the hell are you supposed to fight against people who do that kind of shit? They aren’t people, not really. Nothing but savages.”

  “How do you fight ’em? You kill ’em, that’s how. And you make goddamn sure they don’t take you alive.” Adi slapped his hip. “I never let loose of my pistol these days.”

  “Makes sense to me.” Witt turned to—turned on—Theo. “How about you, Hossbach?”

  “Huh?” Theo said in surprise. A blush heated his face. He couldn’t leave it there. A few more words came out: “Adi usually makes sense.”

  “Fat lot of good it does him, too,” Witt said. “Sorry son of a bitch is stuck in Poland just like the rest of us.”

  “Oh, there are worse places,” Adi said lightly.

  “Yeah?” Witt challenged. “Name two.”

  “Dachau. Belsen.” All at once, Stoss’ tone wasn’t light any more. The names came off his tongue flat and hard as paving stones.

  He didn’t just kill the conversation; he shot it right behind the ear. Witt got very busy—almost theatrically busy—heating meat-and-barley stew in his mess tin. The cooks coyly declined to tell their customers what kind of meat it was. That made Theo suspect it would whinny if you poked it with a fork. He’d eaten horsemeat in the field before. This had the same strong flavor and gluey texture. He didn’t worry about it. A full belly beat an empty one any day of the week.

  Like Adalbert Stoss, he preferred Poland to a concentration camp inside the Reich. That didn’t mean bad things couldn’t happen to you here. The Russians announced that they weren’t shutting down for the Christmas season by shelling the hell out of the position the Wehrmacht and the Poles were holding. Shouts of “Urra!” and the rumble of enemy panzers coming forward said they weren’t kidding around, either.

  As soon as the first shells burst, all the German panzer crewmen raced for their machine. Theo slammed his hatch shut behind him. A moment later, fragments clanged off the Panzer II’s hull. Theo gave the interior wall a happy pat. He pitied ground-pounders.

  “Why aren’t you starting this lousy cocksucker?” Witt shouted at Adi.

  “What the fuck do you think I’m trying to do?” the driver shouted back. Behind Theo, the starter motor clicked and whined. The main engine didn’t want to catch. “It’s cold outside,” Stoss added.

  “Well, the Ivans sure as shit have theirs going,” Witt said. That wasn’t good news, which was putting it mildly. Sitting in a panzer that didn’t want to move made Theo stop envying the infantry.

  “Fine, Sarge,” Adi said with what sounded like patience stretched very thin. “You can go jump in a Russian panzer, if that makes you happy.” He didn’t say You can go jump in a lake, but if Theo could hear the words hanging in the air the panzer commander was bound to be able to hear them, too.

  “If you don’t get us started, we’d better bail out, because one of those assholes is heading our way.” Witt’s patience was also pretty frayed. “We don’t want to be here when he starts shooting.”

  “Right,” Adi said tightly, and then, to the Panzer II, “Come on, you—!” He hadn’t been in the army very long, but he cussed like a twenty-year veteran. The starter motor ground once more—and then, with a coughing roar, the main engine caught.

  “There you go!” Witt yelled. “Get us moving! Make for those bushes. And for God’s sake step on it!”

  Adi must have stepped on it, because the Panzer II jumped forward. Theo couldn’t see what was going on outside. How far away was the Russian panzer the commander’d been having a fit about? How soon before it opened up? The Ivans weren’t great gunners, but a hit from anything bigger than a machine-gun round would hole this thin armor.

  The Panzer II’s little turret traversed. The 20mm gun fired three rounds in quick succession. These Russian panzers weren’t so tough, either. Unlike this one, their cannon could fire useful high-explosive shells and give foot soldiers something new to worry about, but the 20mm could get through their armor as easily as they could penetrate a German machine’s.

  “Ha!” Witt said. “Nailed that fucker, anyhow. Now go forward. We’ll see what kind of friends were keeping him company.”

  “Forward,” Adi agreed.

  Forward they went. Theo’s inner ears and the seat of his coveralls would have told him so much, even absent the order. So would the radio traffic dinning in his earphones. Through the voice tube, he told Witt, “Scads of Ivans. This looks like a big push.”

  “Happy day,” the panzer commander said, and then, “Thanks, Theo.” He sounded grateful that Theo was talking at all, even to relay the tactical situation. That he did announced that he was getting to know his radioman pretty well. A moment later, he told Adi, “Put us behind that stone fence. We can give them plenty of grief from there.”

  “Will do,” Stoss said. The panzer stopped a few seconds later, so he’d presumably done it. The turret traversed. The main armament fired several rounds. Witt’s exultant whoop said one or two of them had done what he wanted. Then the coaxial machine gun chattered. Witt knew how to handle the MG-34: he squeezed off one short burst after another, giving the barrel time to cool between them.

  More urgent shouts in Theo’s earphones. He said, “Sergeant, we’re ordered to pull back. They’re breaking through.”

  “My ass they are!” Witt said indignantly. “I’ve wrecked two of their panzers and scared off the foot soldiers. And we’ve got enough infantry of our own—well, Poles, too—to keep them from flanking us out.”

  “We’re ordered,” Theo repeated. “They’ve already torn a hole in our position south of here. We’ve got to retreat so we can organize the counterattack.”

  “All right. I’ll do it. I’m only a fucking sergeant—I have to follow orders.” Witt couldn’t have sounded more disgusted. He added, “I sure wouldn’t want to be the dipshit officer who gave those orders, though. When the Führer finds out about it, that sorry sucker’ll be lucky if he’s still a corporal. Put it in reverse, Adi—somebody with embroidered shoulder straps has the vapors.”

  “I’m doing it,” the panzer driver replied, and matched action to word. Theo knew what he thought of the Führer’s military judgment (among other things). He would have been very surprised if Adi Stoss didn’t share his views:
Adi probably had stronger reasons for such opinions than he did himself.

  None of which would matter if the Ivans set this perambulating coffin on fire. As it did so often, the local got in the way of the general. Once they freed themselves from this mess, Theo could worry about other things. Once they did … If they did … He wished the damned panzer would go faster.

  SARAH GOLDMAN HAD GOT USED to the Gestapo and the rest of the SS in Münster. Even when the blackshirts weren’t harassing her or her family, she had a feel for how often she’d see them. They’d become a familiar if unwelcome part of the local fauna, like rats or cockroaches. The comparison wasn’t hers: it came from her father in a low voice when they were both out on the street and away from any likely microphones. Once she heard it, she couldn’t get it out of her mind; it fit too well.

  When she started noticing far more SS uniforms than usual, alarm filled her. One possible—even probable—reason for a swarm of SS men was a pogrom.

  To her surprise, Father didn’t seem especially worried. “You may be right, of course,” Samuel Goldman said, “but they already had more people than they needed if that’s what they’ve got in mind. Importing more would be like running over a kitten with a panzer.”

  Checkpoints sprang up on every other street corner. “Your papers!” a blackshirt barked at Sarah, holding out his hand.

  Gulping, she gave them to him. “Here—here you are.”

  He looked them over, then returned them. His lip curled; that seemed a job requirement when Sarah dealt with blackshirts. But she’d heard plenty of his colleagues who sounded nastier than he did when he asked, “You are a native of Münster? You have lived here your whole life?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” she answered.

  “All right, then. We don’t expect trouble tonight from your kind. Pass on,” the SS man said. He glowered at the gray-haired man behind her. “Your papers!”

  Pass on Sarah did. She wanted to scratch her head. Only the fear that the SS men at the checkpoint would find the gesture suspicious made her hold back. She hurried home to help her mother peel potatoes and turnips … and to pass on the curious news.

  “They could have given you a worse time, but they didn’t?” Hanna Goldman sounded as if she had trouble believing her ears. Sarah understood that. If her mother had told her the same thing, she too would have had trouble believing it. After a long pause for thought, Mother went on, “I wonder what they’re up to.”

  “Beats me,” Sarah said. Noise from the usually quiet street in front of the house made them both stop peeling and hurry out to the living room to see what was going on. Teams of horses drew two enormous antiaircraft guns down the street. The men who served the guns followed in a horse-drawn wagon (but one with modern rubber tires, or it would have been much noisier). Like the fellows in charge of the gun teams, they wore SS black.

  “Well, I don’t know what’s going on, either,” Hanna Goldman said. “I wonder whether anyone does these days.” That made more sense to Sarah than anything she’d heard outside the house lately.

  When Father got home, he had no doubts. He seldom did. He wasn’t always right, but he was almost always sure. “Somebody important must be making a speech tonight,” he declared. “Göring? Goebbels? Hess? Any one of them is possible, but my money’s on Hitler.”

  “Ah,” Sarah said. She didn’t know if he had things straight, but her money was that he did. His explanation cleared up why Münster was full of blackshirts: they were here to protect Somebody Important from the Wehrmacht … and, perhaps incidentally, from the British and French. She told her father about the antiaircraft guns and their SS crews.

  He nodded. “Yes, that makes sense. If Somebody Important starts talking in Berlin or Dresden or Breslau, the Western democracies can’t do anything about it—even if the Russians might. But here? Once they know a big Bonz is talking, they can put planes in the air and drop their bombs before he’s finished.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “That’s what you get for letting your speeches run long. An abrupt way to edit, but no doubt sincere.”

  Sarah kissed him on his stubbly cheek. “You’re quite mad,” she said affectionately.

  “Well, I do try.” Father looked pleased with himself.

  He turned on the radio. The music that poured out of it would have needed to be more interesting to sound boring. Sarah thought the orchestra must have been dripped in treacle. When the tune ended, an announcer spoke in awed tones: “Tonight, the Führer addresses the German Volk and the German Reich from Münster!”

  Father looked even more pleased with himself, almost indecently so. He’d not only figured out what was going on, he’d had the timing down to a T. Even a clever man, which Samuel Goldman was, didn’t get to seem so clever very often. Sarah imagined airmen in flight suits jumping into airplanes with roundels of blue-white-red or red-white-blue and roaring off into the night toward her home town.

  Stormy applause greeted the Führer. She wondered where exactly he was. Did Nazi bigwigs fill the concert hall? Or was he speaking at the stadium? Sudden tears stung her eyes. Saul had played there. He’d won cheers for his skill, if not cheers like these. What good did it do him? She only hoped he was still alive.

  “People of Germany!” That hot, familiar, hatefully exciting voice roared out of the radio. “People of Germany, I came here to tell you that the Reich can never be defeated!” More applause: waves of sound climbing up and falling back. Hitler went on, “Foreign foes cannot beat us! And neither can our own traitors! They tried their best to stab us in the back again, the way the Jews stabbed us at the end of the last war, but their best was not good enough.”

  Samuel Goldman made a rude noise. If the Gestapo did have a microphone hidden in the house, their technicians might take it for a burst of static. What they’d make of Sarah’s giggle right afterwards …

  Hitler, of course, wasn’t finished. “We will hang the traitors!” he thundered. “We will hang them all, small and great together. For we have no right to hang the small ones while leaving the great ones fat and safe at home!” Oh, the listening Nazis cheered! Sarah wondered how they, or anyone, could take him seriously. Those savage sentiments mixed with that sticky-sweet Austrian accent!

  “Year ago, the Socialists told me, ‘Turn back, Adolf Hitler!’ I was only a newly discharged veteran, a nobody, but I never turned back once,” the Führer declared. “I never have. I never will. The Reich goes forward—forward to victory!”

  “Sieg heil!” the Party faithful cried.

  “Sieg heil!” Hitler echoed. “And we must go on to victory, for one year of Bolshevism would ruin Germany. The richest, most beautiful civilization in the history of the world would fall into madness and destruction. The Reds would spare nothing, not even our morals and our faith. And I tell you this, Volk of the Reich: I shall not spare their backers inside Germany, and I shall not spare the godless Jewish masters in Moscow!”

  “Sieg heil!” the audience shouted again. “Heil Hitler!”

  “There will be no peace in our country until we smash Bolshevism and treason of every kind,” Hitler said. “I put my whole life into this struggle every day, and so must everyone who has joined me in it. I have attacked the traitors and murderers here. With my own hand I have shot them dead. And now the Wehrmacht, at last purified from the stupid struggles of internal politics, will show its thanks through devotion and loyalty and victory. For Germany is pledged to victory: to victory over our foolish Western foes, and to a final solution for the Bolshevik-Jewish Russian monster! We shall not falter. We shall not fail. Like St. George, we will slay the dragon, and he will never rise again!”

  “Sieg heil! Heil Hitler!” the listening Nazis roared. Hitler thumped a fist down on the lectern to show he’d finished. They cheered and cheered.

  Two and a half hours later, Münster’s air-raid sirens wailed a warning. Flak guns bellowed. Bombs whistled down out of the heartless sky. Banned from any proper shelter, Sarah and her parents huddled under the di
ning-room table and hoped the house wouldn’t come down on top of it.

  “I knew they’d show up late.” Her father might have been talking about a student who hadn’t turned his paper in on time. “They might have nailed him if only they’d hustled, but he’s bound to be gone by now.”

  “He’s bound to be gone,” Sarah agreed, “and the war’s bound to go on.” Right that minute, she could think of nothing worse to say.

  About the Author

  HARRY TURTLEDOVE is the award-winning author of the alternate-history works Hitler’s War, The Man with the Iron Heart, The Guns of the South, and How Few Remain (winner of the Sidewise Award for Best Novel); the Worldwar saga: In the Balance, Tilting the Balance, Upsetting the Balance, and Striking the Balance; the Colonization books: Second Contact, Down to Earth, and Aftershocks; the Great War epics: American Front, Walk in Hell, and Breakthroughs; the American Empire novels: Blood & Iron, The Center Cannot Hold, and Victorious Opposition; and the Settling Accounts series: Return Engagement, Drive to the East, The Grapple, and In at the Death. Turtledove is married to fellow novelist Laura Frankos. They have three daughters: Alison, Rachel, and Rebecca.

  West and East is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2010 by Harry Turtledove

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.