Unfortunately, that also held true on the battlefield. Burnt-out carcasses of Panzer Is and IIs and IIIs testified to the truth there. The Ivans didn’t play the game very well, but they played goddamn hard. They played so hard, in fact, that infantrymen and panzer soldiers on the pitch were as nothing beside it. Germans with a football played rough, but it was only a game. The Russians were playing for keeps. When you played like that, all the rules flew out the window.
Back in the West, when something went wrong you had a chance of surrendering. When you did surrender, you had a chance of living till you got to a POW camp-not a guarantee, but a chance, often a decent one. The Russians usually got rid of prisoners instead of bothering to send them back.
The panzers clattered forward again the next morning. There inside his armored cave, Theo listened to what was going on. Every so often, Witt would order Adi to stop the panzer. He would fire a few rounds from the 20mm or a burst from the machine gun, and they would go on. Now and then, a rifle round or a few bullets from a Russian machine gun would make everyone inside the panzer jump, but that was all. Anything more than small-arms fire… No, Theo didn’t want to remind himself of that.
“We will slow down for the village ahead. We’ll go around it and shell it from the outside.” Not the voice of God, but the company commander’s: close enough. It was the first Theo had heard that a village lay anywhere close by.
He relayed the order to Witt, who was standing up in the turret as usual. The sergeant said, “ Ja. Makes sense,” and passed instructions on to Adi. The Panzer II slowed and swung to the left, presumably to go around the village. Theo also thought skirting built-up areas made sense. You didn’t want to give some Russian the chance to pop out of nowhere and chuck a bottle full of burning gasoline through your hatch. Molotov cocktails, the Germans called them: a name the Legion Kondor had brought back from Spain.
But slowing down carried risks of its own. A rifle cracked outside the panzer, much closer than usual. Witt dove-fell, really-back into the fighting compartment, blood streaming down his face. “Jesus Christ!” he yelled, dogging the hatch behind him. “There’s a motherfucking Ivan on the panzer!”
“What happened?” Theo asked, the words jerked from him.
“He should’ve blown my head off,” Witt answered. “I’m just creased-I think.” He raised his voice: “Adi! Shake him off if you can!”
Stoss didn’t answer, but the panzer sped up and jerked wildly, first to one side, then to the other. It didn’t work-Theo could hear the Russian scrabbling around on the machine’s armored carapace. Wounded or not, Witt had the presence of mind to slam the observation ports in the turret shut. The bastard out there wouldn’t be able to drop a grenade inside… Theo hoped.
He grabbed the Schmeisser that hung on a couple of iron brackets. He’d never needed it before, not inside the panzer. He wished to God he didn’t need it now.
The Russian stood up on the engine decking and worried at something on the turret. It wasn’t the radioman’s escape hatch. Maybe the Ivan didn’t even realize that was there. If he didn’t, he was about to find out. Theo yanked it open and fired off the whole magazine the instant he caught a glimpse of khaki. There was a wild scream and a thump, as of a heavy weight falling back onto the engine louvers. A moment later, the panzer shifted again, as if that same heavy weight had fallen off.
Theo sucked in a deep breath, which reminded him he hadn’t been breathing before. He took a wound dressing out of its belt pouch and turned back to Witt. “I’ll bandage you up.”
Witt had already started trying that with his own wound dressing. He was making a hash of it, since he couldn’t see what he was doing. Theo wrapped cotton gauze around his head-he had a ten-centimeter gash in his scalp. But it seemed to be only a crease, as the panzer commander had said.
“Thanks,” Witt said when Theo was done. “Way to get the son of a bitch, too. You want to take my seat for a bit? Sorry, but I can’t see straight right now. And it hurts a little bit.”
If he admitted it hurt a little, it doubtless hurt a lot. Theo didn’t want to command the panzer, even for a little while. He saw he’d have to, though. He made himself nod. “All right.” The first thing he did after that-even before he scrambled into the turret to trade places with Witt-was to stick a fresh thirty-two-round box on his machine pistol.
Leave in Madrid. Chaim Weinberg couldn’t have been happier. Sure, he’d left New York City, come to Spain, and joined the Abe Lincolns to fight Fascism. When he first got off the boat, he’d been raring to shoot the enemies of the working class every hour of every day of every week.
But that was three years ago now. One of the big differences between a rookie and a veteran was that the vet developed a sense of proportion. Chaim still wanted to kill Fascists. Every hour of every day? Well, no. For one thing, that increased the chances that the Fascists would kill him instead. And, for another, there was more to life than killing people, no matter how much they deserved it.
A hot bath. Delousing. Clean clothes. A shave with hot lather from a barber. Hell, with any lather. In the field, Chaim just scraped his face with a straight razor when he bothered to shave at all.
And then… Madrid! Wine-usually not good wine, but he wasn’t fussy. The lousy Spanish beer would also do. Women-usually not good women, either, but who needed an excessively good woman when you were just back from the front? Song-either in a cantina or coming out of the speakers at a movie house. Sitting in a comfortable chair in the dark for a couple of hours, watching beautiful people do things that had nothing to do with war, was not the least of pleasures… at least, if the air-raid sirens didn’t start to scream right when the flick was getting to the good part.
The food was better in Madrid, too. It also cost more. This particular leave, Chaim wasn’t inclined to complain. He’d come away from the trenches with money in his pocket. A dice game with an optimist had redistributed some wealth. From him, according to his abilities. To me, according to my needs, Chaim thought happily.
So, clean and smooth-cheeked and even fragrant to the extent of a splash of bay rum, his belly full, enough vino in him to help him ignore what a jackass he was being, he sat in some late-afternoon shade outside Communist Party headquarters and waited for the revolutionary vanguard to knock off for the day. If he’d drunk a little more, he might have sauntered right on in. And the Reds in there likely would have thrown him out on his ass. Sometimes waiting was better.
He didn’t want to do anything strenuous, not in the ferocious summer heat. Even the pigeons that begged for crumbs begged in slow motion. They retreated in a hurry, though, if he moved in a way that looked dangerous. During harder times, Madrilenos had eaten a lot of their cousins. The survivors were the wary ones. Darwin had known which end was up, all right.
Because of the afternoon siesta, Spanish offices let out late. Chaim didn’t mind; he was used to the rhythm of life here, and liked it better than the way things worked in the States. Except for pissing off the pigeons because he had no crumbs, he was happy enough to wait.
People started to come out about when the blast-furnace heat began easing off. Spaniards either worked or dozed while it was hot outside. Once it got nicer, they did what they wanted to do instead. A damned civilized arrangement, when you got right down to it.
There she was! The adrenaline stab Chaim felt reminded him too much of a near miss from a machine-gun bullet. You can still chicken out, he reminded himself. But himself was already getting up and walking toward her. Had he ever stormed into a Nationalist trench so happily? He didn’t think so. Then again, he hadn’t had such incentives storming trenches.
“?Hola!?Que tal?” he said. His accent grated in his own ears.
No doubt it sounded even harsher to La Martellita. She was so pretty, Chaim didn’t care. That hair! That mouth! It made him imagine things thoroughly illegal back in good old New York-which didn’t mean people there didn’t do them, and enjoy doing them, as much as they did anywhere else.
She was tiny, but that didn’t bother Chaim, either; he wasn’t very tall himself. Her shape was everything it should have been, and a little more besides. Her eyes… looked at him as if he’d come out of the wrong end of one of those wary pigeons.
“Oh. You,” she said. Her nom de guerre meant The Little Hammer, the way Molotov’s meant Son of a Hammer. And if she’d had a sickle to go with it, she would have cut Chaim down at the ankles. “What do you want?”
“I have some leave. I was hoping”-Chaim heard himself butcher the participle-“you would teach me more
