The Big Switch

Chapter 23

“This is the BBC news.” Those plummy tones coming from the radio seemed out of place in a military hospital in Manila. Pete McGill was disgusted with the limeys for coming to terms with Hitler. He would have bet most of the British Marines he’d known and drunk with and sometimes brawled with in Peking and Shanghai were just as disgusted. But he was glad to listen to the BBC any which way. It gave more news and less bullshit than any American station.

He was also glad he wasn’t the only one in the war who wanted to know what the Beeb had to say. Even Army files could figure out that what happened in the wider world had a lot to do with the way they did business. You didn’t have to be a leatherneck to see that-but it probably helped.

“Sir Horace Wilson’s government easily defeated a motion of no confidence in the House of Commons yesterday,” the newsreader said. “Only a handful of Tories joined Labour and Liberal MPs in opposing the Prime Minister. Even abstentions were fewer than many had anticipated.”

That meant England would go on doing what she had been doing: kissing Germany’s ass. Pete muttered something foul. He couldn’t do anything about England’s foreign policy, but he didn’t have to like it. He also didn’t like it when the newsreader went on about the triumphs the British Expeditionary Force in the East was winning. Less bullshit or not, the BBC man said nothing about the fact that the Tommies were fighting side by side with the Wehrmacht and the Waffen-SS. Maybe the radio network had a guilty conscience. If it didn’t, it should have.

“In other news”-the broadcaster said nyews, where it would have been nooz in Pete’s New York mouth-“the Empire of Japan has recalled its ambassador from Washington in protest over President Roosevelt’s decision to stop sales of petroleum and scrap metal to the Japanese. No talks regarding this delicate issue have yet been scheduled.” That came out sheduled instead of the American skeduled, but again Pete followed with no trouble.

“Aw, shit,” said an Army corporal with a leg broken in a car crash. “Them Japs is gonna come after us next.”

By us, Pete didn’t know whether the Army guy meant the United States in general or the men in this military hospital in particular. Either way, the other two-striper was probably right. The Japs had signaled their intentions by making peace with Stalin. If they wanted to pick a fight with the US of A, they wouldn’t have to worry about getting jumped from behind.

That much had been obvious ever since Japan and Russia started talking about peace. It gave the Russkis their free hand in the west, too. But if the Japanese ambassador was on his way home, things in these parts might start boiling over any day now.

And that wouldn’t be good for American interests in the Far East. For one thing, the Philippines lay within easy range of the Japanese home islands and of Formosa, which had belonged to the Japs for most of the past fifty years. For another… “Just about all of my buddies are stationed in Peking or Shanghai, one,” Pete said.

“Tough luck for them,” the Army corporal replied. “But chances are they ain’t a nickel’s worth worse off’n we are right here, know what I mean?”

“Don’t I wish I didn’t?” Pete said glumly. “They’re talking about letting me out of my cast pretty soon. Maybe they’ll give me shipboard duty. At least then I’ll be able to shoot back at the little slant-eyed pricks.”

“That’d be good,” the Army guy agreed. “You can make it to the bomb shelter, too, if they do. Me, I gotta lay here and hope the assholes miss me.”

“Yeah, that’s not a whole lot of fun,” Pete said. “I’ve been thinking the same thing every time they hold an air-raid drill.” He clicked his tongue between his teeth, considering. “If they’re even halfway on the ball, they’ll run a lot more of ’em from here on out.”

That only drew a derisive snort from the other corporal. “If they’re even halfway on the ball, they don’t get assigned to the Philippines to begin with. Well, except maybe MacArthur, and everybody knows he’s a fuckin’ blowhard.”

Pete didn’t keep track of Army generals. It sure wasn’t the first time he’d heard people bitch about Douglas MacArthur, though. A lot of guys still hated him for what he’d done breaking up the Bonus Army at the deepest part of the Depression; he’d heard that from other injured men here.

He did get the cast off his ankle the very next day. He was shocked to see how skinny his leg had got under it. “I want to go back to duty right away,” he blurted.

“Yeah, and people in hell want mint juleps to drink,” answered the medical technician who’d cut the cast off him. “Just ’cause you want it doesn’t mean you can have it. Get yourself in shape again and see what the brass tells you then.”

It was good, sensible advice, which didn’t mean Pete liked it. How often does anybody ever like good, sensible advice? The world would be a different, and probably a better, place if more people took it.

But telling a Marine he needed to get fit was giving advice he was prepared to heed. Pete was already in the habit of exercising till everything screamed. He was used by now to screams from one part of him or another. He’d done the same kind of thing after his arm came out of its sling and cast. “You do heal well,” a physical therapist told him. “Some people might have ended up in a wheelchair from what happened to you.”

“Some people might have got killed,” Pete growled.

The therapist blinked. “Well, yes.” He didn’t know about Vera.

She was another reason Pete pushed himself so hard. While he was working and sweating and hurting, he didn’t think about her so much. He retreated into the gym the way another man might have retreated into the bottle. Sooner or later, though, a drunk sobered up. And, sooner or later, Pete had to quit working out and start listening again to the demons that lived inside his head.

There were lots of them. Some hated the Japs, not only as enemies of the United States but also as the people who made Chinese terrorists want to blow up places like movie houses. Some of his demons hated the Chinamen who’d blown up the theater and murdered the love of his life. (That they’d ruined him, too, was no more than an afterthought.)

And some of his demons hated his own superiors and the policies and regulations they had to uphold. If Vera hadn’t been a stateless person, everything could have worked out. Pete thought so, anyhow. He and his lady love could have got married and gone back to the States together and done… something or other. Whatever happened afterwards (even if it was only Reno and a quickie divorce-not that Pete imagined any such thing), they wouldn’t have been within thousands of miles of some sticks of dynamite attached to a ticking clock.

If he could kill lots of Japs, that would make him feel better. Because he understood as much, he pushed his ankle far past the point where a less determined man would have started gulping aspirins and cold beer. That fight wouldn’t wait, and he was bound and determined to be ready for it when it came.

He couldn’t get at the Chinamen, not any more. Even if he’d gone back to Shanghai, he wouldn’t have known which of the goddamn Chinks to go after. They kept themselves secret from the Japs, which meant they also kept themselves secret from everybody else. So those demons would just have to stay unsated, their blood lust unslaked.

Consciously, Pete didn’t want to go after Marine Corps higher-ups. But he didn’t see the look on his own face when he eyed officers-especially officious, by-the-book officers, of whom the Corps had no fewer than any other outfit its size.

Those officers saw the black looks. Officious they might have been, but they weren’t all stupid. Some of them recognized the scowls for… well, for some of what they were, anyhow. One man said to another, “We better get that guy out of here before he goes Asiatic and does something everybody’d be sorry about afterwards. Him, too, not that that would do anybody any good.”

His friend nodded, but replied, “He’s liable to do it wherever we send him.”

“Yeah, sure. But it’s not our lookout after that.” The first officer was indeed an officious type.

He was also an officer with good personnel connections. And so, even though Pete McGill wasn’t quite a hundred percent yet, he found himself released from the military hospital and assigned to the USS Boise, a light cruiser that was one of the heavier vessels of the Far East Fleet. He didn’t complain. On the contrary. He thought somebody had done him a favor.

Willi Dernen thought he’d learned all about the Wehrmacht greatcoat’s limits the winter before in France. He hadn’t been in Russia long before he discovered his education in such matters was incomplete.

The biggest difference was, in France you could almost always find somewhere cozy to hole up. Villages clustered thickly. Even if you were stuck in a trench, the line didn’t move much. You could fix up your hole till it was fit to live in. Yeah, it was cold outside. But if you had a fire and a wall to keep off the wind, you could put up with things pretty well.

It wasn’t like that here. For one thing, the Germans and their allies were still advancing. You couldn’t put down roots, the way Landsers had in France after the big push to sweep around behind Paris fell short. For another, there were far fewer places in which to put down roots. Russian villages were few and far between, and often seemed all but lost amidst the vastness of fields and forests. Willi had never imagined such a wide, wild country. The howls that came from the woods were wolves, not dogs. His skin had prickled up in gooseflesh when he realized that.

And finally, not to put too fine a point on it, the Wehrmacht -issue greatcoat wasn’t up to the challenge a Russian winter gave it. If you wore one out in the open, with no fire to keep you warm, eventually you’d freeze to death. Or not so eventually, depending on how hard the wind howled down out of the north.

Willi stole a sheepskin vest from a Russian peasant’s hut that-except for not running around on giant chicken legs-might have come straight out of fairy tales about Baba Yaga. The inside of the hut was filthy. The vest probably carried lice and fleas. Willi didn’t care. He was already lousy and flea-bitten. A little more crawly company? So what? The damn thing was warm. And it fit snugly, and he could wear his greatcoat over it.

The find made his buddies jealous. “Only thing better would have been a jug of vodka,” Adam Pfaff said. “That’d heat you up from the inside out-and you might even share it.”

“In your dreams,” Willi said sweetly. They both grinned. Pfaff might not have been with the unit very long, but he was a good guy. He was no combat virgin, either. He knew what needed doing, and he did it without fuss-and without freezing up in a tight spot. Willi was glad to have him at his back, and it worked both ways.

That vest also made Arno Baatz jealous, though Arno was no buddy of Willi’s and never would be. The corporal kept hinting someone of higher rank-say, someone of corporal’s rank-deserved the sheepskins better than a lowly Gefreiter did. As far as Willi was concerned, Awful Arno could hint till everything turned blue. He still wouldn’t get his grubby mitts on the vest.

“Find your own,” Willi told him. “If I can do it, anybody can. That’s what you always say, right?”

Baatz came back with something else he said often, if not all the time. If taken literally, it would have swept Willi to a place too warm for him to need a sheepskin vest any more. Willi grinned at him, too, but more in mockery than in the comradeship he shared with Pfaff.

“He’s got some nerve,” the other Gefreiter said when Willi told the tale of the corporal’s ponderous hints. “Who does he think he is?”

“God,” Willi answered. “Or he thinks God would do a better job if only He listened more to Arno Baatz.”

Pfaff laughed nervously. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

“Don’t I wish!” Willi exclaimed. “That so-and-so’s never been wrong once since the fucking war started. If you don’t believe me, just ask him. Shit, we’d be in Paris if only the Fuhrer listened to old Arno.”

“I’d take him more seriously if you said we wouldn’t be in Russia if only the Fuhrer had listened to him,” Pfaff said.

Willi glanced around. No, nobody else could hear them-and a good thing, too. “Nice to know you trust me,” he said dryly.

“Hey, you’ve already had your fun and games with those blackshirt cocksuckers,” Adam Pfaff answered. He threaded a bit of cloth through his gray rifle’s barrel with a cleaning rod. “You’re not gonna turn me in if I open my mouth and say what everybody can see.”

“You’re all right, you know that?” Willi lit a papiros looted from the same shack where he’d got the sheepskin vest. The tobacco wasn’t the greatest, and there wasn’t a whole lot of it at the end of the long paper holder. Why the hell did the Ivans make their smokes that way? Any cigarettes, though, were better than none.

Pfaff examined the cloth after finishing with the pull-through. He nodded to himself. “Yeah, that needed doing, all right,” he muttered. Then he sounded more hopeful: “Let me have one of those, will you?”

“I’ll let you have it, all right,” Willi said in mock anger. A friend wasn’t just somebody with whom you could speak your mind. A friend was somebody who could bum smokes off you, and who’d let you do the same when you were out. Willi handed Pfaff a papiros.

“Obliged,” Pfaff said. And so he was. One of these days-probably one of these days soon-he’d pay Willi back.

Artillery rumbled, not too far behind them. Those were German 105s hitting the Russians up ahead. Before long, the Russians started shooting back. To Willi’s relief, it was counterbattery fire. As long as the gunners went after one another, the infantry could breathe easy-well, easier. When the big guns started tearing up the front line, Landsers didn’t enjoy it so much.

The Red Army had plenty of cannon, and used them as if they were going out of style. The Ivans also had an abundance of 81mm mortars. Willi particularly hated those. Every platoon of Russian infantry seemed to lug one along. They didn’t have the range of ordinary cannon, but the Reds could drop a couple of bombs into your foxhole and shred you before you even knew they were around.

“Orders from the regiment!” Arno Baatz yelled, as if he were the one who’d issued them. “We advance under cover of the artillery barrage!”

“Oh, boy,” Adam Pfaff said in hollow tones. “Into the meat grinder one more time.” He managed a raspy chuckle. “Well, we aren’t hamburger yet.”

“Me, I’m from Breslau,” Willi said, deadpan.

Pfaff sent him a reproachful look. “When you get your sorry ass shot off, chances are it’ll be somebody from your own side.”

“Nah, that’s Awful Arno.” Willi chambered a round and scrambled out of his shallow hole. “C’mon-let’s go.”

German soldiers loped across snow-streaked fields. Willi spotted Corporal Baatz trotting along with everybody else. And Baatz’s eye was also on him, as it was all too often. Willi resisted the impulse to send an obscene gesture Awful Arno’s way. It wasn’t easy, but he did it. Military discipline, he told himself.

Occasional rifle shots came from the Ivans’ lines a kilometer or so up ahead, but no more, not at first. Then the guys in those scrapes woke up and realized the Germans were serious about this business. A machine gun started spitting out death rattles: industrialized murder at its finest. Willi hit the snowy dirt. He wished he had a white camouflage cape and hood, so he’d be harder to spot.

He wasn’t the only Landser going down. Shrieks said not everybody was taking cover. Some of the men had been hit. Medics and stretcher-bearers with Red Cross armbands and smocks rushed up to tend the wounded. The Russians shot at them the same way they shot at everybody else. Ivan didn’t play by any of the rules. And if the Reds caught you, it was your hard luck. On the other side of the coin, captured Russians often got short shrift from the Germans who took them prisoner.

German MG-34s came forward with the assault troops. They spat their own curtain of death at the men ahead. Officers’ whistles screeched. The soldiers got up and advanced once more. The Russians didn’t have much barbed wire in front of their position: only a few halfhearted strands. Getting in among them was easier than it should have been. Some died. Some threw up their hands-most of those were actually allowed to surrender. And some fled to fight again somewhere else later on.

“Hot damn,” Pfaff said, going through a dead Ivan’s pockets. “We do this another couple thousand times, we win the fucking war.”

Willi set a hand on his shoulder. “Anybody ever tell you you’re beautiful?” Pfaff knocked the hand away. They both laughed. But it wasn’t as if Willi didn’t mean it. His friend understood how things worked altogether too well.

A Sunday-morning knock on the door made Sarah Goldman flinch. Any knock on the door could make a Jew in the Third Reich flinch. This didn’t sound fierce enough to be the Gestapo, but you never could tell.

“I’ll get it.” Father limped toward the door. He opened it. Whoever was outside spoke in a low voice. No, that wasn’t any Nazi official. As soon as the people in uniform saw a Jew, they all started shouting at the top of their lungs. And Samuel Goldman turned around with an odd smile on his face. “We’ve got company,” he announced. His voice sounded funny, too. Amused? Pleased? More knowing than it should have? All of those, and a couple of more besides-ones Sarah couldn’t place so easily.

“Who is it?” she asked. Then her own voice rose to a surprised squeak: “Oh! Isidor!”

“Hello, Sarah.” Isidor Bruck sounded nervous. She had no trouble figuring that out. He was wearing his best suit-possibly his only suit. The yellow Star of David on the left breast didn’t disfigure the dark wool too much. Or maybe, by now, Sarah had just got used to the mark of shame. He gulped and had to try twice before he managed to go on: “I need to talk to you, and to your mother and father, too.”

Somehow Sarah wasn’t surprised to discover her mother standing right behind her at the back of the living room. Hanna Goldman said, “Well, come all the way in, Isidor. Whatever you’ve got to say, you don’t need to say it standing in the front hall.”

“Oh. Right. Sure.” Isidor did take a couple of steps forward. That let Father close the door behind him. Now the neighbors wouldn’t be able to see what was going on. Chances were they’d be disappointed. Well, too bad.

“Can I get you something to eat, Isidor? Something to drink?” Mother was automatically courteous. They had next to nothing in the house, but she would come up with whatever Isidor said he wanted. It would be tasty, too, whatever it was.

But he shook his head. “No, thank you, Frau Goldman.” Asking was good form. So was declining. Everybody in the Reich knew how little everybody else had these days. And that little was bound to be even less if you were a Jew. Again, Isidor needed to gather himself before adding, “That’s not what I came for.”

“Well, what did you come for, then?” Father still sounded suspiciously genial, as if he already knew the answer.

“I came because-” Isidor paused to cough. To say he was nervous as a cat would have been unfair to every cat Sarah had ever met. He had to gather himself one more time before he could go on at all. Then he blurted, “Well, Herr Goldman, I came because I’m in love with your daughter and I want to marry her and I hope she wants to marry me. That’s what I came for!”

“Oh,” Father said, and not another word. Isidor looked as if he wanted to sink through the floor.

“What do you say, Sarah?” Mother asked.

Sarah knew what she would say, and she said it with as little hesitation as she could-she didn’t want poor Isidor going any greener than he was already. “Of course I’ll marry you, Isidor.” The words came out as smoothly as if she’d rehearsed them. And so she had, to herself, many times. No, he wasn’t taking her by surprise. She didn’t think he surprised her folks, either.

Her answer at least half-surprised Isidor. “You will?” he exclaimed. “Wonderful!” He rushed up to squeeze her hands in his.

She squeezed back. But was it wonderful? She wasn’t nearly so sure. Wasn’t love, the kind of love you got married for, supposed to be a grand, consuming passion that swept away everything in its path like red-hot lava pouring down from Mount Vesuvius? (She might have accepted a baker’s son, but she was a classical scholar’s daughter.)

She didn’t feel anything like that for Isidor. But she liked him well enough, and she couldn’t very well say she felt nothing for him. His gently insistent hands were more clever than anything she’d ever imagined. And he certainly seemed happy when she returned the favor.

So what if it wasn’t perfect? When it came to Jewish life in the Third Reich, the mere notion of perfection was a cruel joke. It was good enough. These days, good enough was more than good enough. Father would laugh at her if she said it like that, but he’d know exactly what she meant.

What he said now was “Mazel tov!”

“Mazel tov!” Mother echoed. Isidor awkwardly kissed Sarah on the cheek. She kissed him the same way. She had to dodge a little at the last second, because he’d nicked himself shaving.

“Well, well,” Father said, and stumped back into the kitchen. A chair scraped across the floor. Creaking noises warned that he was climbing up onto it. Sarah shot Mother a look. What was he doing? Mother’s microscopic shrug said she didn’t know, either.

More creaking noises: Father descending. Then he pulled glasses out of a cabinet. He came out carrying a squat brown bottle Sarah didn’t remember seeing before. “Where did you get that?” Mother said, so she didn’t, either.

“I stashed it at the back of a high shelf seven years ago, for celebrations and other emergencies,” Father answered, not without pride. Seven years ago: that would have been when the Nazis took over. Father had known what he was doing, all right. He carefully set the glasses on the table in front of the sofa. Then he poured fine French brandy into them, one by one. He raised his. “L’chaim!”

“L’chaim!” Sarah and Isidor and Mother echoed. They all drank together. The brandy was smooth as a kiss-smoother than some of Isidor’s. It slid down Sarah’s throat with hardly a snarl. Warmth spread from her middle.

“To life,” Father said again, this time in German. He went on, “I don’t know how hard or how complicated it is for two Jews to get married these days. It was a little simpler when Hanna and I did it-just a little. But where there’s a will there’s a lawyer, or maybe a raft of lawyers.”

Isidor blinked. He wasn’t used to Father putting a cynical spin on cliches. Not yet, he wasn’t. But he was part of the family now, or becoming part of the family. He’d have to get used to it, and quick.

“Have you looked into it?” Sarah asked him.

“No. Sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t sure I’d be lucky enough to have you say yes, and I didn’t want to talk to the Nazis when it might be for nothing, if you know what I mean.”

Sarah nodded. Her knight in shining armor would have gone ahead, confident she would be his and confident he could overcome bureaucrats and Party flunkies. Well, she’d already figured out that Isidor wasn’t a knight in shining armor. This wasn’t a fairy tale, either. This was life. More often than not, keeping your head down was smart. If you stuck it up, something-something, say, wearing a black shirt and SS runes-was much too likely to knock it off.

“They’ll probably give you the runaround,” Father said. “As long as you don’t let them get you angry, you’re still ahead of the game.”

“As long as I don’t let them see they got me mad,” Isidor said.

“That’s right!” Father eyed him with more approval than he’d shown up till now. “That’s just right! People like that have their fun getting other people’s goats. Just do whatever they tell you, no matter how stupid you think it is.”

“My father says the same thing,” Isidor answered. “He has to deal with the morons who dole out the barley. He says they don’t know enough to grab their tukhus with both hands, but he can’t tell them so or they’d just come down on him even harder than they do already.”

“He sounds like a sensible man,” Father said: close to his highest praise. “Hanna and I have to meet your mother and father one of these days soon.”

“That would be good,” Isidor said. “They want to meet you, too.”

“Something to look forward to. I haven’t had anything-anything but tsuris -to look forward to for quite a while now,” Father said.

Isidor looked as if he didn’t know how to take that. Sensibly, he kept his mouth shut. Sarah also didn’t know how to take it. And she didn’t know how much to look forward to her own wedding. That also didn’t strike her as the way things should have been. She knew what she could do about it: nothing, now. She could have said no. She wondered if she should have said no. But no, the way it looked to her, would have been even worse than yes. So what could you do but go on and see what happened next? Again, nothing, not so far as she could see.

Lieutenant Colonel Ponamarenko slammed his fist down on the rickety table that did duty as his desk. Papers and a bottle of ink jumped. Sergei Yaroslavsky wondered if the table would fall down. It never had yet. It didn’t this time, either.

“We serve the Soviet Union!” Ponamarenko shouted.

“We serve the Soviet Union!” echoed the pilots and other flying officers assembled in front of him. Sergei brought out the phrase without conscious thought, as if he were responding to a priest’s celebration of the holy liturgy in church. A pretty good atheist, he didn’t think of it that way, which made the resemblance no less precise.

“We shall destroy the Fascists and imperialists!” the squadron commander yelled, as if working himself up into a frenzy.

“Destroy them!” Again, Sergei chorused along with everyone else.

Instead of falling down and rolling around on the ground and foaming at the mouth, Lieutenant Colonel Ponamarenko grew practical and cagey. “And this is how we’re going to do it,” he went on, pointing to a map. “The Nazis have gathered together a big supply dump west of Velikye Luki. Their forces are drawing on it, and so are the shameless French. If we can knock it out, we badly slow their movements in this sector. And so, Tovarishchi, that is what we shall do.” But for his shaved chin, he might have been Moses bringing the tablets of the Law down from Mr. Sinai.

Moses, however, didn’t have to worry about obsolescent, beat-up, unreliable SB-2s. Lieutenant Colonel Ponamarenko and his particular group of the children of the USSR damn well did. One of these days, the squadron would convert to Pe-2s and come back to fighting the war against the Luftwaffe on more or less even terms. In the meantime, they would do what night bombers could do.

How much that would be… Sergei had flown several night missions by now, before and after the rasputitsa, and he still wasn’t sure. The advantage of night flying was that enemy interceptors had only the Devil’s granny’s chance of finding you up there in the big, black sky. The disadvantage went right along with that. You had a rough time finding your target and an even rougher time hitting it if you did find it. (As Sergei knew too well, the same could also apply at high noon on a cloudless summer’s day.)

His breath smoked as he walked to his SB-2. Fur and leather flying togs kept him warm enough. Like most men lucky enough to have such gear, he also wore it a lot on the ground. Winter was just coming on, but in Russia you always had to treat it with respect.

Ivan Kuchkov waited for him and Vladimir Federov. “So-the motherfucking supply dump, is it?” the bombardier said.

“That’s right,” Sergei answered. The noncoms got briefings of their own, of course. But Sergei had the feeling Sergeant Kuchkov would know what was what even if nobody said a word to him. How? The same way a wolf tracked an elk through the forest. The wolf knew what supper smelled like, and Kuchkov… Kuchkov knew what trouble smelled like.

Groundcrew men started up the engines. The props blurred into invisibility. Sergei and Federov eyed the gauges and went through the checklist with uncommon care. The SB-2 was coming to the end of its useful life. Not to put too fine a point on it, the SB-2 had come to the end of its useful life quite a while ago. But there still weren’t enough Pe-2s to go around, so the older machines kept flying.

Pilot and copilot nodded to each other and exchanged thumbs-ups. Everything looked all right. Fuel, oil pressure, hydraulics… As long as the airplane didn’t fall apart five thousand meters off the ground, they were good for another mission.

Sergei taxied down the long runway, lit, at the moment, by a handful of electric torches. Red lanterns marked the end of the bumpy, frozen dirt strip. He yanked back hard on the stick. It felt as if he were hauling the SB-2 into the air by the scruff of its neck. He wasn’t inclined to be fussy. As long as the beast got airborne, he wouldn’t complain.

“All right, Comrade Navigator,” he said to Federov. “Tell me how to get to this miserable Nazi supply dump.”

“We fly a course of 260 degrees at 300 kilometers an hour for forty-seven minutes-and then we start groping around like blind men, the way we always do,” replied the other man in the cockpit.

And that was about the size of it. You could make your course as precise as you pleased. You could measure your airspeed well. But you couldn’t be sure how hard the wind was blowing, or from which direction at any given moment. Your dead reckoning would probably put you somewhere close to your target. Finding it on a moonless night like this was liable to be a different story.

“Shall I stick my head out the window for a better look?” Sergei asked when he thought they were about where they were supposed to be.

“If you think it will help,” Federov answered.

The Nazis, or possibly the French imperialists, knew they were around. Antiaircraft fire started coming up from the ground. The tracers and bursts-scarlet and gold-were eerily beautiful. The old SB-2 shook in the air from a couple too close for comfort. But the gunners down below were firing more or less blind. The groundcrew men had painted the bomber’s underside matte black, to make it as hard as possible to spot from below.

Ivan Kuchkov’s voice floated forward through the speaking tube: “Where’s this supply cunt at, anyway?”

“I’m still looking. They hide them, you know.” Afterwards, Sergei felt silly for apologizing to a foul-mouthed supply sergeant. But that was afterwards. It seemed natural enough at the time.

Bombs started bursting down on the ground: red blooms of fire swallowed almost at once by smoke and dust. Were they landing on the dump, or were the aircrews dropping them at random so they could get the devil out of here? Sergei didn’t know. And then, all of a sudden, he did. One of the Soviet bombs must have hit the Germans’ ammunition store. Things down below started blowing up with great enthusiasm. The fireworks show, already spectacular, got ten times better. And, best of all, these pyrotechnics weren’t trying to knock the SB-2 out of the sky.

“ That’s where we unload!” Sergei and Federov said together.

Sergei steered the bomber toward the continuing coruscations down below. Kuchkov would hardly need the order to let the bombs fall free. Sergei tried to look every which way at once, and wished for eyes in the back of his head. He wouldn’t be the only pilot drawn by those blasts, and he didn’t want to run into any of the others.

Ducking down into the plane’s glazed nose, Federov peered through the bombsight. “Now, Ivan!” he shouted through the speaking tube.

“The bitches are fucking gone!” Kuchkov yelled back. Sergei felt the plane get lighter and friskier. He hauled the nose around and started back toward Soviet-held territory.

He hadn’t got very far when an antiaircraft shell slammed into the SB-2’s wing. Flame spewed forth and licked toward the fuselage. “Oh, fuck your mother!” he exclaimed, and then, his wits starting to work again, “Out! We’ve got to get out!” He yelled through the voice tube, too, to make sure Ivan knew.

And they had to hurry. The controls went from normal to mushy to nonexistent in nothing flat. The fire started invading the cockpit. He had to fight through flames to get out of his safety belt and down to the escape hole Federov had already used. He held his gloved hands and leather-covered arms in front of his face, trying to protect eyes and mouth. Maybe the flying suit was burning-or maybe that was his hide.

Then he was down and falling free. He hoped like hell the wind would put out the flames. He yanked the ripcord-and discovered his unfolding parachute was on fire above him. Only blackness below. Oh, it was a long way down!