"Good luck," Chaim said. Mike winced. He had about as much chance of getting up to France without authorization as he did of sprouting wings and flying there. Political officers behind the International Brigades' lines checked everybody's papers. If you didn't have orders to pull you out, you were in trouble.
Even if you got past the commissars, plenty of other Republican officials in towns and on trains would want to know where you were going and who said you were supposed to go there. If they didn't like your answers, they would either shoot you or chuck you into a Spanish jail. Not many things were worse than front-line combat, but a Spanish jail was one of them.
"All of a sudden, the States don't look so bad, you know?" Mike said with a grin that was supposed to mean he was half kidding, anyway.
"Maybe they'll let you repatriate," Chaim said. Sometimes the Internationals wanted nothing but willing fighters. Sometimes they figured you had to be willing or you wouldn't have volunteered. It all depended on the officer, on how the fighting was going-sometimes, people said, on the phases of the moon.
"Ah, fuck it," Mike said: the usual comment of every line soldier in every war since the beginning of time. "I'm just blowing off steam, you know what I mean?"
"Sure," Chaim said. And he did, too. It wasn't as if he'd never pissed and moaned since he got here. "All I wish is, people would remember us. We were a big deal till the rest of Europe blew up. Who gives a shit about Spain now? Stalin's forgotten all about it." That was a dangerous thing to say; the International Brigades toed Moscow's line. But a love of truth was part of what had led Chaim to Spain. He wouldn't give it up even here.
Mike Carroll had a tobacco pouch on his belt, too. He stuck the remains of the Gitane into it. "Well, so has Hitler," he answered. "That's not so bad."
"You know who remembers?" Chaim said. He waited till Carroll raised a questioning eyebrow. "Us and the Spaniards, that's who. It's not just fucking politics and games and shit for us. It really matters. Do you want that fat prick over there"-Chaim pointed toward the Fascists' lines-"running this whole goddamn country?"
He'd never talked that way in New York City. Back home, he'd always had the feeling his mother was listening and would wash his mouth out with soap. But everybody swore on the battlefield. By now, Chaim could cuss in English, Yiddish, Spanish, Catalan, German, French, and Russian. Talk without swear words seemed as bland as food without salt and pepper.
"If I wanted that, I'd be over there myself," Mike Carroll said. The Italians and Germans who fought on Sanjurjo's side had no choice. But for them, only a handful of foreigners-mostly English and Irishmen-had joined the enemy. Men from all over the world opposed the Fascists. If that didn't say something…
Before Chaim could decide what would be true if that didn't say something, a rifle bullet cracked between him and Carroll. Both of them hit the dirt. "We've been standing up and waving our arms too damn much," Mike said ruefully. "They got a sniper to take a shot at us."
"Yeah." Chaim hadn't quite pissed himself, but he'd come mighty close. Well, so had the bullet. "Good thing he's a shitty sniper." A good marksman would have hit one of them. Maybe this guy couldn't decide which one to aim at.
"Spaniards." Mike Carroll's shrug punctuated that-but didn't expose him to any more rifle fire. "They're brave as all get-out-the guys on both sides. But…" His voice trailed away.
Chaim knew what he was talking about. "Yeah. But," he said, making the word sound like a complete sentence. It might as well have been. Spaniards didn't keep proper lookout. They didn't like digging trenches. They didn't bother cleaning their weapons unless somebody screamed at them-and a lot of the time not then, either. Their logistics were a joke. Food and ammunition came to the front when they felt like it. That was how things looked, anyhow. Their hospitals were almost as bad as their jails.
But they were brave. Point them at an objective and they'd take it or die trying. Tell them they had to hold a strongpoint and it was?No pasaran! You were embarrassed to falter or fall back, because you knew they wouldn't. If only they would pull themselves together…
"Don't hold your breath," Mike said when Chaim suggested that. Then the other American asked, "Do you think we can nail that sniper?"
There was a serious suggestion. "Worth a try," Chaim said. "He'll make this whole stretch of trench dangerous unless we do get rid of him. How do you want to work it?"
"We ought to call a sharpshooter of our own," Carroll said. Chaim gave him the horse laugh. Republican snipers were few, far between, and none too good. The other American's ears turned red. "Okay, okay. Which of us do you think is a better shot?"
"I am," Chaim answered without false modesty. "Let me find a position where I can look out without getting drilled. Then you hold up a cap on a stick, and I'll see what I can see."
"I'll do it. Wave when you're ready," Mike said.
"Yeah." Chaim worked his way fifty yards down the trench. Some bushes-brown and leafless in the winter cold-offered cover there. Cautiously, he peered out through them. Nobody fired at him. He brought his rifle up over the top and rested it on the dirt. Then, carefully keeping his hand below the level of the parapet, he signaled to his buddy.
Up went the cap. A shot rang out. Mike not only jerked the cap down but also let out a scream. Chaim saw where the sniper fired from, but the Fascist ducked away before he could plug him. Now…Was the maricon dumb enough to shoot from the same position twice in a row? Everybody knew you shouldn't, but some boys did anyhow. Only one way to find out…
"Move a little and pop up again," Chaim called, as softly as he could.
Mike did. He even put the cap on the stick sideways this time, so it would look different. Chaim peered down his rifle barrel. He had the range, he had windage…
He had a target. Yeah, the guy on the other side was greedy and stupid, all right. He showed one shoulder and his head, and that was all Chaim needed. He pressed the trigger, not too hard. Red mist exploded from the enemy sniper as he slumped back into his trench.
"You get him?" Carroll asked.
"Uh-huh. Don't have to worry about that for a while, anyway." Chaim might have been talking about delousing or killing a rat. He'd got rid of a nuisance-that was all. Well, now the nuisance wouldn't get rid of him. Nothing else counted. He lit another Gitane. IT WAS A FINE, BRIGHT MORNING in western Belgium-colder than an outhouse in East Prussia in February, but sunny and clear. The sun came up a little earlier than it had a month earlier, at the end of December. Chances were spring would get here eventually: no time real soon, but eventually.
Breath smoking in the chilly sunrise air, Hans-Ulrich Rudel walked to the squadron commander's hut to see what was up. Something would be. He was sure of that. This time of year, days with decent flying weather were too few and far between to waste.
Other Stuka pilots nodded to him. He nodded back. He didn't have a lot of buddies here. Not likely a milk drinker would, not when most of the flyers preferred brandy and loose women. But he kept going out and doing his job and coming back. That won him respect, if no great liking.
Cigarette smoke blued the air inside the hut. Hans-Ulrich didn't like that, either, but complaining was hopeless. He tried not to breathe deeply.
"We're going to bomb England again," Major Bleyle announced. That got everyone's attention, as he must have known it would. He went on, "They've been hitting our cities-miserable air pirates. What can we do but pay them back? We will strike at Dover and Folkestone and Canterbury, just on the other side of the Channel. Questions?"