Sniper's Honor

CHAPTER 30

It’s not war per se,” said Wili Bober. “Nor is it the prospect of death or maiming. Or a life spent in a Russian prisoner-of-war camp on the far side of the Arctic Circle. No, none of that bothers me. It’s the latrines.”

“War would definitely be more fun without latrines,” said Von Drehle.

The two sat over rude holes in a rude bench over a rude ditch not a hundred meters from their new empire, itself quite rude. It consisted of six tents in a muddy field, each with room for four men. In the squalid heat of July in Ukraine, the tents were unendurable, even with the flaps pinned up. Many of the jägers preferred to sleep outside during the hot nights.

They ate at the mess of the 14th Panzergrenadier, whose vast tank maintenance facility they abutted. Such was the reward for the heroes of the Bridge at Chortkiv. At every minute of every day, the roar of Panzers and Panthers could be heard while Division Workshop struggled to keep as many of the machines in play as possible, which meant the beasts turned over their engines once every few hours to keep the hot-weather-thinned oil in circulation. All well and good for the war effort, but the practical consequence was the constant torrent of exhaust fumes at the 21 Para village.

“I thought we were heroes,” said Wili. “You have at least, what, fifteen or twenty Iron Crosses? You may even be a major.”

“Have to look into the major issue,” said Karl. “I do miss the glorious bathrooms of the Andrewski Palace. I miss the sheets, the decor, the sense of order. This is like a Hitler Youth camp in 1936. Next they’ll have us singing ‘Horst Wessel.’ ”

“You should have shot that little Arabian bugger,” said Wili.

“Think of the paperwork,” said Karl.

“Speaking of paperwork, I think I’m done with today’s operation. I mention it because I seem to lack paperwork.”

Without looking, Karl handed over the latest Signal. Wili paged through it quickly and came up with an article called “National Socialism: Its Spiritual Essence.”

“This will do the trick,” he said, and ripped the pages out. He got through the engagement quite nicely, then enjoyed applying a heroic photo of The Leader to his posterior. He reassembled kit and stepped down from his throne and pushed beyond a sheet hung for privacy. Ouch, bad news. A Kübelwagen had just entered the compound bearing an earnest 14th Panzergrenadier lieutenant. The young man had stopped for directions, and a couple of lounging Green Devils pointed him to Karl, who was emerging from the latrines.

“Major,” said the young man, stepping from the vehicle that had just delivered him. He threw up a completely unenthusiastic “Heil Hitler” salute that looked like a broken-winged sparrow fluttering its bad feathers at a predator, and Karl responded with his normal impression of a drunken clown waving at a lady in the stands whom he wanted to boff. So much for Nazi ceremony in the regular military.

“So you are a major,” said Wili.

“Apparently,” said Karl. “Yes, Lieutenant, what can I do for you?”

“Sir, the general requires your presence. Tomorrow at 1400.”

“Say,” said Wili to the youngster, “you don’t happen to have any copies of Signal lying about? We need it for the inspiration.”