Rage of Battle

between the American and Englishman which annoyed the guard. It was as he had been told: the British and Americans had no respect for authority. From Waite’s response, he appeared to think the two prisoners hadn’t understood his order and so switched to English and gesticulations, his English broken and not at all like that of the sleek, fluent jumpsuits, the first of whom were now returning after their quick foray into the crater zone, where Polish contingents were taking up positions, digging in.

“There is to be no talking already,” said the guard.

David saw the guard was about his age, maybe a few years older, midtwenties, his eyes tired but awake with suspicion. Waite, sitting on his haunches, leaned forward, arms protruding from the poncho that, apart from their regulation khaki underwear, was all the half-naked prisoners had to keep them warm. He held up his hand, like a schoolboy asking permission.

“Ja?” said the guard.

“Listen, Fritz. What’s going on?”

“My name is not this Fritz.”

“What is it, then? Your name?”

“Asshole!” called out someone from the twenty or so POWs in a clump that was being guarded near one of the eleven-man Russian armored personnel carriers.

“Who said this?” demanded the Stasi, swinging about. “What is this name?”

“It’s an expression of endearment,” said one of the British Army of the Rhine, shivering in the cold under his poncho.

“Yeah,” put in one of the Americans next to him. “Especially in San Francisco.”

There was a round of laughter, some of the British in another group opposite David and the cockney clapping their appreciation.

The young guard, red-faced, unslung his AKM, right hand snapping back the sideways-folding metal butt, and stepped to within a foot of the twenty or so prisoners. “It is strictly forbidden to — to be abusing socialist soldiers already.”

“Stop fucking around!” It was one of the black jumpsuits, a bunch of dog tags in his hands. In German he curtly told the guard to check if any of the prisoners still had their ID tags. No one said anything; the jumpsuit officer, a man of at least six feet, lean and wiry-looking, was one of the toughest men David had ever seen. As the guard snapped to attention and immediately began checking everyone’s neck for dog tags, the officer unzipped and removed his boiler suit, folding it with such dexterity, it was clear to the NATO prisoners of war that it wasn’t the first time he’d done it. Someone murmured something about a strip tease, but the weak ripple of laughter quickly died. He was standing in a well-worn uniform of an American airborne lieutenant, complete with dog tags.

“They get caught doing that,” murmured Waite, “they’ll be shot as spies.”

“Maybe,” agreed David, “but I’ll tell you something, Ted.”

“Fred.”

“Well, Fred, would you think of pulling up a lieutenant for his ID?”

The cockney, finishing his cigarette, pulled out another and lit it from the first. “Suppose not, old cock — Jesus, they’re gonna cause one hell of a lot of confusion if they get inside the pocket.”

“Nothing to getting inside it,” said David. “Everything’s screwed up inside there anyway — units split up, some of our guys inside, most of us dropped outside. They won’t be checking ID. These bastards’ll get through, all right.”

Waite nodded. “Afraid you’re right, mate.” He paused, cigarette held meditatively down in front of his knees. “They’re after bloody Munster.” He turned to Brentwood, his tone infused with the urgency of delayed revelation. “That’s it, Yank!”

“David.”

“They’re after bloody Munster. Our prepo site! Christ, mate!” Waite was feeling beneath his poncho for his cigarettes, forgetting he had one on the go. “They blow that depot — it’ll be a fucking slaughter.”

“Unless our guys can get out first,” said David. “Evacuate.”

“Where to?” asked Waite, fidgeting with his lighter. “No fucking Dunkirk this time, matey — boats waiting. Last I heard was they got fucking armored all round us. Getting ready for a big push, they are — west of Hannover. Right down to the fucking Rhine and on to Bumsum.” He meant Brunssun, south in Belgium, where the German operating out of headquarters dug deep in the coal mines. “And once we start crossing the Rhine,” Waite added, “it’ll be absolute tucking chaos. Sitting ducks. That’s what our lot will be.”

“Maybe not if the evacuation’s orderly,” said David.

Waite turned to Brentwood, his movement revealing white, bony legs like those of some overgrown chicken. “Orderly? No such fucking thing, Davey boy. It’ll be a balls-up.” They could hear artillery rumbling like thunder southwest of them from about twenty miles inside the pocket.

“Doesn’t have to be a mess,” said David, adding, “I’ve been in a pull-out.”

“Where?” asked Waite, his tone that of an incredulous senior talking to a freshman.

“Pyongyang.”

Waite raised an eyebrow. “You were with Freeman?”

“Yeah.”

“Freeman! Well, me old son, hats off! You should know. What was it like getting out then?”

David didn’t answer — the remembrance of the bloody retreat so vivid in his memory that for the last twenty-four hours, from the moment he’d hit the Hercules’ slipstream, it had overwhelmed him, the reason he hadn’t moved from beyond the crater, curled up against the protective carcass of the dead man. Waite was probably right. When they had got out of Pyongyang, there had been only fifteen hundred men to think of. And while it had gone much better than expected, they’d lost a lot going in. Trying to get out a quarter million men trapped in the pocket by a ring of steel would be a different proposition altogether. What had his father always told the three of them, Lana, too? “When the going gets tough—” It was old hat, but it made him feel ashamed of his recent loss of nerve. “Least it won’t be an air withdrawal,” he told Waite. “We’ll have the bridges.”

“What?” asked Waite, and David Brentwood knew instantly from the cockney’s tone that some of the bridges must be blown.

“How many?” he asked Waite, who was now watching the Stasi guard shouting at a man in another group of prisoners for his dog tags.

“What — how many bridges blown?” It was another man’s voice, also a cockney, sitting behind them, an eye partially covered with a blood-congealed bandage, the compress having slipped down on the man’s cheek, revealing a pus-filled gash beneath the black-red swelling. “All of ‘em, mate. Right, Waite? The whole fucking lot.”

“Marvelous, in’t?” said Waite as they watched the other Russians coming in, taking off their jumpsuits and looping the appropriate — British or American — dog tags about their necks. The Stasi guard was handing one of the Russians who was wearing a U.S. Army corporal’s uniform — with a machine gunner’s flash patch — a St. Christopher medal, which the guard apparently thought was part of the American’s ID. There were guffaws from the prisoners and barely suppressed laughter from some of the Russians. Then the tall Russian, wearing the American airborne lieutenant’s uniform, quietly walked over to the young guard, took the St. Christopher medal, and put it on.

“Then,” concluded David, “we’re going to have to swim across if all the damn bridges are blown.” They could hear the artillery, Soviet or American, they couldn’t tell, increasing.

Wake indicated the Stasi guards stationed around the edges of the pine wood. “Don’t know whether you’ve noticed, me old dallin’, but those Kraut goons ‘ave got a nasty habit of shooting people. My advice, old cock, is to sit tight for the duration. You’ve done your bit. ‘Sides, this lot’s only going to last a couple more months, then someone’s gonna threaten to push the big one and that’s going to get ‘em to the table.” Waite glanced back at his wounded comrade. “That right, Bill?”

“ ‘Ope so,” said Bill, his pallor like chalk, his arm, which he could hardly lift, making an unsuccessful attempt to keep the bloated flies away from his eye.

“I don’t think so,” said David, slowly, his gaze held captive by the curling twist of cigarette smoke disappearing into the mist that now shrouded the pines about the Russians’ mobile headquarters. “No one wants to use nuclear weapons — they’ll use up everything else first.” He flicked the cigarette away, the tiny red ember dying in the mud. “Anyway, no war’s finished when it was supposed to. Experts always get it wrong. After the second