Several men nodded. Sergei was one of them. Then Anastas Mouradian said, "Sure we will-just like we did in the last war."
Silence slammed down around the table. Germany had been busy against France and England and Belgium in 1914-everybody knew that. And everybody also knew the Kaiser's armies had smashed the Tsar's again and again. If not for one disaster after another on the front, the Revolution might never have started, much less succeeded.
The Siberian looked at Anastas. "One of these days, you'll open your mouth so wide, you'll fall right in."
"No doubt, Comrade," Mouradian replied. "If it can happen to the whole country, why can't it happen to me?"
That only brought more silence. People stared at the Armenian, then quickly looked away. They might have been gaping at a car wreck. "How much have you drunk?" Sergei asked. Sometimes you could get out of trouble by blaming it all on the vodka. He'd done that himself a time or three.
His copilot gave the question his usual serious-if not sober-consideration. "Either too much or not enough," Mouradian said at last. "And it's not too much, so…" He grabbed the vodka bottle, raised it, and tilted his head back.
Sergei reached out and grabbed it away from him. "To each according to his needs," he said, and got rid of what was left. With the air of a man performing a conjuring trick, the Siberian produced another bottle. Loud applause greeted it. The drinking went on. With any luck at all, by this time tomorrow nobody would remember what one mouthy Armenian was going on about. • • • SOME OF THE MEN IN Hideki Fujita's squad were from Hokkaido. The northern island was notorious for winter weather that blew straight down from Siberia. Fujita had been through some rotten winters himself before they shipped him off to the border between Manchukuo and Mongolia.
Or he thought he had, anyhow.
Now he had to admit that what he'd known about winter was about the same as what an eleven-year-old knew about love. The kid could imagine he understood what was what. And a jackass could suppose it was a nightingale, too. That didn't make it sound like one when it opened its mouth, though.
Fujita wore a fur cap-the earflaps, at the moment, down. He wore a thick, heavily lined, fur-collared greatcoat. It was double-breasted, to make it harder for drafts to sneak in. He had stout gray felt mittens and knee-high felt boots with leather uppers. He had on two pairs of wool socks and two pairs of long woolen underwear.
He was freezing his ass off just the same. You had to go out on patrol, freezing or not. If you didn't, the Russians or the Mongols would make you sorry. The Russians were used to cold weather-like what Hokkaido got, this stuff blew down from Siberia. The Mongols were used to it, too. And the Mongols were as sneaky, and as dangerous, as so many poisonous snakes. They could slither through openings where you didn't think there were any.
Sergeant Fujita looked at his watch. If it hadn't frozen and quit moving, he still had more than an hour out here before his relief came. "Zakennayo!" he muttered. That felt like forever.
At last, though, a superior private named Suzuki found him out in the middle of the blowing snow. Suzuki wore as much winter gear as Fujita, and a white camouflage smock on top of it all. He looked miserably cold just the same. But, cold or not, he said the magic words: "I relieve you, Sergeant."
"Good," Fujita said. The howling wind grabbed the world and tried to swirl it away. "What's going on back at the camp?"
"Somebody from regimental headquarters is there," Suzuki said.
"Oh, yeah?" Automatic suspicion filled Fujita's voice. Like any veteran noncom, he distrusted any break with routine. He had his reasons, too. "What does the guy want? Are we going to have to try and attack the Mongols and the Russians again? They've got more tanks and better artillery than we do. And they hold the high ground."
None of that would matter a sen's worth if the powers that be in Mukden or in Tokyo decided to send the guys at the pointy end of the bayonet into action once more. Fujita knew it only too well. And Superior Private Suzuki only shrugged. "I can't tell you anything about that, Sergeant," he answered. "The guy got there just when I was starting out here."
"I'd better go find out, then," Fujita said. "Try to stay warm. If you want to build up a wall of snow to keep the wind from blowing straight through you, nobody will say boo."
"Maybe I will," Suzuki said. "It's pretty bad."
"Is it ever!" Fujita headed back toward the tents that housed his company. Halfway there, he tried to get a cigarette going. He soon gave it up as a bad job. He had plenty of practice lighting up in a strong wind, but this one defeated him.
Getting under canvas did let him light a match. He gratefully sucked in smoke. Then he said, "Suzuki was going on that somebody from regimental HQ showed up here."
"That's right, Sergeant-san," one of the privates in the tent said. "People say we're pulling out of here."
"What, the company?" Fujita asked. "I won't be sorry-I'll say that. We've been bumping noses with the Mongols and the Russians too damn long."
"Not just the company-the whole regiment. Maybe everybody on this whole front," the private answered. "That's what people are saying, anyhow." The disclaimer let him off the hook in case the rumors he dished out proved nothing but a bunch of moonshine.
"The regiment? The whole front?" That was so much more than Sergeant Fujita had expected, he needed a minute to take it all in. "If we leave, where do we go next? Back to Japan?" If you're going to wish, wish for the moon, he thought.
"I'm very sorry, Sergeant-san, but I don't know." The private-Nakayama, his name was-sounded not only sorry but apprehensive. Privates got knocked around when sergeants wanted to know things and they didn't have the answers handy.
Had Fujita been in a bad mood, he might have hit Nakayama a couple of times to make himself feel better. But the sheer scope of what was going on left him more awed than angry. And walloping a private because of rumors wasn't exactly fair-which wouldn't have stopped Fujita if he really felt like doing it.
"I'm sure the captain will tell me in the morning," he said.
"Yes, Sergeant-san. Of course he will," Nakayama said quickly. He and the other privates in the tent let out almost identical sighs of relief. Sergeant Fujita affected not to notice them. He'd been a private himself once upon a time. He remembered what looking up at a sergeant-ogre was like. Discipline would suffer if this bunch of conscripts realized that, though. In the gloom, none of them could see him smile.
Sure enough, Captain Hasegawa summoned Fujita and the company's other senior noncoms first thing in the morning. Without preamble, the company commander said, "We are leaving the Mongolian frontier region and redeploying to eastern Manchukuo."
"Where will the redeployment take us, sir?" Sergeant Fujita asked. If it was to Mukden-the capital-or Harbin or some other big city, that wasn't so bad. It was a lot better than staying stuck on the edge of Mongolia. And what isn't? Fujita thought. Unfortunately, that had an answer. If the regiment got shipped up to the Amur frontier with Russia, it just traded one miserable spot for another.
"I'm afraid I don't know the answer to that," the company commander said. "No one has told me, not yet. Even if I did know, I wouldn't tell you till we were well away from the border. The same reason applies in both cases: security. We don't want to take the chance that the Mongols or the Russians would seize you and squeeze you. No matter how honorable you wanted to be, you might not manage to kill yourself in time."
"I understand, sir. Please excuse my stupidity." Fujita bowed his head in embarrassment not far from shame.