"I…see," the subaltern said slowly. Maybe he did have some notion of Walsh's station after all. Or maybe not: "I am here to deliver these orders, not to adjust them. The attack will go in. Is that clear?"
"Sir, it's bleeding madness," Walsh said. The lieutenant only waited. Walsh sighed and swore. God's anointed or not, those pips meant the youngster could break him like a rotten stick…after which the attack would go in anyway. Sure as hell, sometimes the real enemy wore the same uniform as you. A precise salute. "Yes, sir. I'll tell the men": an equally precise reproach.
The subaltern's cheeks reddened, as if he'd been slapped. He felt that, all right. "I should be honored to go forward with you," he said.
"Never mind, sir," Walsh said wearily. "It's not your fault. It's just war."
When Bill got the word, he grimaced and shrugged. "Well, we're fucked now." In his broad northern accent, it came out fooked, which only added to the point.
"It's bloody murder, is what it is," Nigel said. "I thought Field Marshal Haig did his worst in the last war." He had an education, all right-he hadn't been born when Haig was doing his worst.
Walsh, who'd lost a slightly older cousin in the mud at Passchendaele, was inclined to agree. What could he do, though? Not a damned thing except go forward as long as the German guns let him. "No help for it," he said. "Maybe the Germans really are on the ropes."
"Maybe babies really do come from under cabbage leaves, too," Nigel said. "Not likely, though."
"We wouldn't have so much fun makin' 'em if they did," Bill said.
Walsh laughed at that. "Barrage should start at 1500. It's"-he paused to look at his watch-"1310 now. As soon as the guns let up, we go forward-and may God go with us."
On the Western Front in the last war, barrages sometimes lasted a week. They were supposed to kill all the enemy soldiers and flatten all the wire between the side doing the bombarding and a breakthrough. Well, theory was wonderful. Long barrages warned an attack was coming. They didn't kill enough defenders, and the ones who lived always got to their machine guns before the attackers reached their line. One reason was that bombardments didn't flatten enough wire, but did tear up the ground so attacking troops couldn't move fast even when they most needed to.
Short and sweet worked better. Even in 1918, they'd figured that out. Enough to shock, enough to wound, not enough to throw away surprise. And then the infantry-and the tanks, when there were tanks-would go in and clean up the mess. They had driven the Germans back…in 1918.
Bill had a flask of applejack. He passed it around. Walsh took a nip with the other waiting British soldiers. A little Dutch courage never hurt anybody.
At 1500 on the dot, guns back in Paris opened up on the Germans in the suburbs. German counterbattery fire started right away. Walsh didn't mind. As long as those 105s were shooting at the Allied guns, they weren't pounding the front lines.
After not quite half an hour, the bombardment stopped. Up and down the front, officers' whistles screeched. Walsh's heart thuttered in his chest. He was probably pale as paste. He told himself it wouldn't be so bad as going over the top. But he'd been a kid then. Now he knew all the nasty things that could happen to you. He didn't want to get shot again. But he didn't want to seem a coward in front of his men, either.
"Let's go," he said hoarsely, and they went.
He'd barely crossed the street before a Mauser round cracked past him. No, the bombardment hadn't got everybody. How many Fritzes waited in foxholes and shattered buildings? Too damned many-he was sure of that.
He almost stumbled over a German crouching behind some rubble. The man was trying to bandage one hand with the other. He threw up both of them and bleated, "Kamerad!" when he saw Walsh.
Who would take care of prisoners? Anybody? Or would people behind the lines shoot them to save themselves the bother? Walsh knew such things happened. He bent down and threw the wounded German's rifle into some bushes. Gesturing with his own weapon, he said, "Go on, go on." What happened later wasn't his worry.
"Danke!" the Fritz said. Off he went, both hands still above his head.
Walsh forgot about him as soon as he was gone. Plenty of other Germans ahead, and not all the bastards would be bleeding. He was glad to hear Bren guns banging away. They brought real firepower right up to the front. You could carry one and fire from the hip, or even from the shoulder.
You couldn't move forward fast, not in this smashed suburb. Wreckage slowed you down too much. Stubborn Germans lurking in the wreckage were liable to slow you down for good. But the enemy seemed less stubborn than usual. Maybe the counterattack had surprised and dismayed them as much as it had Walsh. Stranger things must have happened, though he couldn't come up with one offhand.
Something warned him to throw himself down behind a burnt-out Citroen. Only a few seconds after he did, two Germans with Schmeissers came out of what was left of a house. Walsh pulled the pin on a grenade and rose up onto his knees to send it flying. A soft thump, a guttural cry of alarm, and a bang, all packed close together. Shrieks followed. Both Fritzes were down. Walsh shot them one after the other to make sure they didn't get up again. He scurried forward and grabbed a submachine gun and as many clips as the Germans carried. He slung his rifle so he could go forward carrying the Schmeisser. At close quarters, he wanted to be able to spray a lot of lead around.
Nigel came up and took the other German weapon. Walsh shared ammunition with him. "This is going better than I expected," the youngster remarked.
"I was thinking the same thing." In lieu of knocking wood, Walsh rapped his knuckles on his own tin hat. Nigel managed a haggard grin. Walsh gave him a Gitane-what he had-lit one of his own, and tramped ahead again.
He found one German fast asleep on what had been some French merchant's bed. The artillery hadn't wakened him; neither had the Allied infantry assault. Walsh knew just how the poor bugger felt: he'd felt that way himself. He carried away the German's Mauser and dropped it in the mud. He left the man alone. Without a weapon, the fellow was no threat to anybody. And this would be Allied ground by the time he woke up.
"Damned if it won't," Walsh said in tones of wonder. Maybe the generals and even that snot-nosed subaltern knew what they were up to after all. And if they did, wasn't that the strangest thing of all? Schmeisser at the ready, Walsh pressed on. GERHARD ELSNER STRODE OVER TO Ludwig Rothe, who was adding oil to his panzer's crankcase. "Still running all right?" the company CO asked anxiously-there'd been a lot of wear and tear in the drive across the Low Countries and France.
But Rothe answered, "You bet, Captain."
"Good. That's what I want to hear," Elsner said. "Tomorrow morning we smash them. We go through south of Beauvais-between there and a village called Alonne. Three or four kilometers of open ground. We won't have to fight in built-up places. That's what they tell me, anyhow."
"Here's hoping they're right-whoever they are. That gets expensive fast," Rothe said. He turned to his driver and radioman. "But we'll be ready, right?"
Fritz Bittenfeld and Theo Hossbach both nodded. Then Theo yawned. Everybody was beat. Ludwig was running on looted French coffee and on pills he'd got from a medic. The pills were supposed to keep a dead man going for a day and a half. Ludwig still wanted to hole up somewhere and go to sleep, so he figured he was about two steps worse off than dead.