The Ranger and her shepherds steamed south and west. Nobody’d said where they were going: not to the likes of Pete McGill, anyhow. He didn’t care. As long as it was toward the enemy, that suited him fine.
Wildcats from the carrier flew a combat air patrol over the task force. Floatplanes from the heavy cruiser buzzed ahead of the American ships to make sure they weren’t running into trouble facefirst. Little by little, the USA was learning to fight a mid-twentieth-century war. No matter what kind of super-Jutland the admirals had imagined, it probably wasn’t going to happen. Admirals’ imaginations hadn’t encompassed airplanes and submarines. Battleships turned out to be dinosaurs: huge and ferocious and armored, with mouths full of big, sharp teeth, but doomed to extinction all the same.
Klaxons hooted almost every day. Swabbies and leathernecks dashed to battle stations. It always turned out to be a drill. Men swore when the all-clear sounded. But they didn’t swear too loud or too hard. Most of them had been aboard the Boise when the big American fleet tried to run the Japanese gantlet. Only now was Pete coming to realize how dumb the admirals had really been.
Joe Orsatti laughed at him when he said so. “I bet you still believe in the tooth fairy and the fuckin’ Easter Bunny and Santa Claus, too,” Orsatti said. “But don’t sweat it. Sure, our big guys are dumb. But you bet your ass the Japs are, too.”
Pete was betting his ass. Everybody in this flotilla was. If he’d had any doubts, they were erased when one alert was followed by an iron-throated shout of “This is no drill!” from the intercom speakers. The officer at the mike went on, “Japanese planes incoming from bearing 240. I say again, this is no drill!”
Grunting, Pete grabbed a shell and handed it to the loader, who slammed it into the five-inch gun’s breech. Joe Orsatti trained the gun to bear on the enemy planes’ expected track toward the Ranger. Pete stood ready to pass as many fifty-pound shells as might be needed. His shoulder complained every time he did it, but he’d long since quit listening.
Overhead, the Wildcats tangled with a swarm of Japanese Zeroes. Wildcats had a chance against Zeroes, but not usually a great chance. One of the American planes splashed into the ocean as Pete watched. “Shit!” he said.
And the Zeroes kept the Wildcats too busy to do what they should have been doing: going after the dive-bombers that followed the fighters in. Japanese naval dive bombers—Vals was the U.S. code name for them—were ugly and old-fashioned. Like German Stukas, they had fixed landing gear. Also like Stukas, they could put a bomb down on a silver dollar if you gave them the chance.
Four of them pulled away from the main bunch and buzzed toward the Boise. A Wildcat that broke off from the big mêlée shot one of them down. A moment later, a Zero shot down the Wildcat. The rest of the Vals droned on.
All the light cruiser’s antiaircraft guns, large and small, started going off at once. Pete jerked shells like a man possessed. Bursts blackened the air all around the enemy planes. One took a direct hit and turned into a fireball. The other two dove.
Joe Orsatti frantically swiveled the five-inch gun. “Aw, fuck!” he said, again and again. “Aw, fuck!”
Bombs fell free. One of them hit fifty feet to starboard of the Boise. The other caught the cruiser just abaft the bridge.
Pete flew through the air with the greatest of ease. Next thing he knew, he was in the blood-warm Pacific. He was amazed how far from the ship he’d been thrown. A good thing, too, because the Boise was already starting to settle in the water. Pete looked around for a life ring. He could dog-paddle for a while, but.… Off to his left, a dark gray dorsal fin sliced the sea. It was the oldest shipwreck cliché in the world—except when it happened to you. And it was happening to Pete.
THEO HOSSBACH HUDDLED with the rest of the panzer crew around a little fire in a peasant’s hut in a tiny village whose name, if it had a name, was written in an alphabet he couldn’t read. He wished for hot coffee thick with sweet cream. Yes, he was from Breslau, but Viennese-style would have suited him fine.
They’d found some tea in the hut. Water was boiling in a dented pot over the fire. No sugar. No milk. An Englishman probably would have killed himself before he drank such Scheisse. Theo looked forward to getting outside of anything warm. He would have drunk plain old hot water just then, and been glad to have it.
Hermann Witt took the pot and filled everybody’s tin cup. The loose tea in the bottom of Theo’s cup smelled great when the water hit it. He had to make himself wait before he drank so it would brew some in there.
“The Tommies would laugh at us.” Not for the first time, Adi Stoss’ way of thinking paralleled his.
Everybody swore at the Tommies—everybody except Theo, who as usual kept his ideas to himself. “Lousy bastards ran out on us, same as the French fuckers,” Lothar Eckhardt growled. The gunner scratched without seeming to notice he was doing it. Odds were he was lousy himself. Theo was pretty sure he was, too. You came into one of these places, you’d pick up company whether you liked it or not.
“Next time we see Englishmen, it’ll be through our sights,” Kurt Poske agreed.
Adi said, “Well, the good news there would be, we’d be seeing Tommies instead of Ivans. That’d mean we’d got out of Russia in one piece.”
Theo sipped his tea. By now, it was plenty strong. The caffeine made his heart beat faster. It sure held more than the ersatz coffee that came with German rations. He wondered if that crap had any at all. You could get benzedrine tablets. He’d used them once in a while—who didn’t, when you needed to keep going?—but he didn’t like them. They were too much like squashing a cockroach by dropping a building on it. Caffeine, now, caffeine was just right.
“Two-front war,” Witt said, and not another word. With just Theo and Adi there, he probably would have talked some more. Neither Kurt nor Lothar had ever given the slightest hint they would bring anything to the National Socialist Loyalty Officer, but the panzer commander didn’t take needless chances in combat with the enemy or with his own side.
“That’s what screwed us the last time. I just hope it doesn’t screw us again,” Adi said. Maybe he trusted the two new guys further than Witt did. Maybe he had his reasons, too. If Eckhardt or Poske ever reported him to the powers that be, odds were they wouldn’t do it for anything so trivial as a few ill-chosen words. He had bigger things than that to worry about.
“I wouldn’t mind getting the hell out of Russia. I mean, who in his right mind would?” Eckhardt said, a sentiment that certainly had its points. He went on, “I don’t want to get my sorry ass run out of Russia, though, know what I mean? We get run out of Russia, things aren’t going so good.”
Adi nodded. So did Theo; that was plainly true. But Adi said, “You know what this miserable country is? It’s a swamp with no bottom, that’s what. We throw in panzers and planes and people, and then we throw in some more and some more and some more after that, and the swamp just kind of goes glup!, and it’s like we never did anything to begin with.”
“Glup!” Theo echoed. He liked that.
“There’s got to be a bottom somewhere,” Hermann Witt said slowly. “The Ivans have to run out of land and soldiers and machines sooner or later.” He grimaced. “Only thing I wonder is whether the Reich’s pole is long enough to reach that bottom.”
Sooner or later. People had been saying the Russians were bound to run out of people and stuff ever since the Germans started fighting them in northeastern Poland. Now the Germans (and the Poles and Romanians and Magyars and Slovaks, but—dammit!—not the English or French any more) were halfway to Moscow. All the same, sooner or later was looking more and more like later.
The fire dwindled down toward extinction. Like the other guys in the crew, Theo glanced around for more wood to throw on it. He didn’t see any. There wasn’t any to see; they’d burnt the last of it. Sergeant Witt said, “Lothar, go on out to the woodpile in the square and bring back some more fuel.”
Eckhardt picked up his Schmeisser. Everybody kept
a weapon handy all the time. You never could tell when some Reds would sneak past the German pickets and raise hell. But the gunner couldn’t go out without pissing and moaning first: “I just fetched firewood like two days ago. Why don’t you send the Hebe instead?”
It hadn’t been noisy inside the hut before. Now silence seemed sudden and absolute. The wind still howled and whined, but that might have been a million kilometers away. “What did you call me?” Adi asked softly. His machine pistol lay beside him. He wasn’t holding it, the way Lothar held his. All the same, Theo would have bet on Adi if shooting started. And shooting didn’t seem very far off at all. Theo glanced down at his own Schmeisser—just in case, he told himself. In case of what, he didn’t want to think about.
For a wonder, Lothar actually got how far he’d stuck his foot into it. “Hey, take an even strain,” he said, making no quick or herky-jerky moves. “I didn’t mean anything nasty by it. Honest to God, Adi, I didn’t. But, so you know, everybody in the company calls you that when you aren’t around to hear it.”
Theo hadn’t heard anyone call Adi that. Which proved … what? Not much, probably. If self-sufficient Adi had a best buddy, it couldn’t be anybody but Theo. People wouldn’t say anything Adi didn’t fancy where Theo was around to overhear it. If it got back to Adi … Theo wouldn’t have wanted him for an enemy. Nobody with a pfennig’s worth of sense would.
“Lothar, first things first. You’ll get the wood ’cause I told you to,” Witt said. “If I wanted Adi to fetch it, I would have sent him. Hear me?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Eckhardt said, his voice uncommonly solemn.
Witt nodded, recognizing that. “Wunderbar. Now, about the other thing … If people do call Adi that, tell ’em for Christ’s sake to cut it out. We need the SS sniffing around us like we need an asshole where our mouth ought to be. You hear me there?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” the gunner repeated, more formally yet.
“All right. Now get the hell out of here and bring back that wood before we freeze to death. Go on—scram!”
Eckhardt went. “You didn’t need to make a big deal out of it, Sergeant,” Adi said after a moment. “I shouldn’t’ve got pissed off.”
“People talk too goddamn much,” Witt said, a sentiment Theo heartily agreed with. The panzer commander went on, “That’s a dangerous nickname to have. It’d be dangerous for a fat blond Bavarian.”
He left it there. He didn’t say It’s really dangerous for somebody who kind of looks like a Jew, and who just happens to be missing his foreskin. Adi was no dummy. He could work that out for himself. After another pause, he said, “A while ago, Theo told me the guys knew. I’d kind of got used to that.”
“Knowing is one thing. Blabbing’s something else,” Witt said. “If things were different, you’d probably be a major by now, and ordering all of us around.”
“I don’t want to tell anybody what to do,” Adi said. “I just want people to leave me the fuck alone.”
Words burst from Theo: “No wonder I like you!”
The other crewmen laughed like loons. “No wonder at all,” Adi agreed.
“Enough, you lovebirds,” Witt said, and the panzer men laughed some more. “Getting through the war in one piece—like you said before, Adi, that’s the only thing that counts. The rest is just bullshit. So let’s get through, and if the other stuff needs sorting out we can always do it later.”
Lothar came back with an armload of wood to build up the fire. Theo fed in a few little skinny chunks. When they were burning well, he added some bigger ones. After a while, they caught, too. Like wall lizards basking in the sun, all five panzer men leaned toward the flames, soaking up the wonderful warmth.
BOOKS BY HARRY TURTLEDOVE
The Guns of the South
THE WORLDWAR SAGA
Worldwar: In the Balance
Worldwar: Tilting the Balance
Worldwar: Upsetting the Balance
Worldwar: Striking the Balance
Homeward Bound
THE VIDESSOS CYCLE
The Misplaced Legion
An Emperor for the Legion
The Legion of Videssos
Swords of the Legion
THE TALE OF KRISPOS
Krispos Rising
Krispos of Videssos
Krispos the Emperor
THE TIME OF TROUBLES SERIES
The Stolen Throne
Hammer and Anvil
The Thousand Cities
Videssos Besieged
A World of Difference
Departures
How Few Remain
THE GREAT WAR
The Great War: American Front
The Great War: Walk in Hell
The Great War: Breakthroughs
AMERICAN EMPIRE
American Empire: Blood and Iron
American Empire: The Center Cannot Hold
American Empire: The Victorious Opposition
SETTLING ACCOUNTS
Settling Accounts: Return Engagement
Settling Accounts: Drive to the East
Settling Accounts: The Grapple
Settling Accounts: In at the Death
Every Inch a King
The Man with the Iron Heart
THE WAR THAT CAME EARLY
The War That Came Early:
Hitler’s War
The War That Came Early:
West and East
The War That Came Early:
The Big Switch
The War That Came Early:
Coup d’Etat
About the Author
HARRY TURTLEDOVE is the award-winning author of the alternate-history works The Man With the Iron Heart; Guns of the South; 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.
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