The Gotland Deception

Chapter Twenty-Five: Brotherhood Before the Storm

Torres smirked at Novak. The scent of charred meat and cheap vodka drifted through the chill, growing stronger the closer they got to the noise. The pub door creaked open, spilling a wave of heat and sound. Torres stayed close behind Major Kowalski, squinting into the steamy air as Polish rock music thundered from hidden speakers overhead. His eyes adjusted to the amber glow and the crush of bodies — talking, shouting, singing all at once.

“Welcome to the real Poland!” Major Kowalski boomed over the noise, steering them through the crowd. “Not NATO Poland. Not fake Hollywood Poland… but real Poland!”

The place was everything a proper soldiers’ dive should be — scarred wooden tables, faded military patches covering the walls, and a bartender who looked like he’d killed men with his bare hands. Polish and American voices mixed with the clinks of glasses and bursts of laughter.

“This is our tradition,” Kowalski said as they neared a corner table. A handful of Polish soldiers spotted him, nodded, then stood and disappeared into the crowd without a word. Torres, Novak, and the Major slid into the newly vacated seats. “Before every deployment, we drink. We eat. And we become brothers. Tomorrow we could die — but tonight, we regret nothing but the hangover.”

Torres caught Novak’s uncertain look. The lieutenant was still learning that when in Rome, do as the Romans do.

“Relax, LT,” Torres murmured. “We’re building trust with allies. It’s part of the mission.”

Sergeant Burke, PFC Munoz, and Specialist Boone squeezed into the pub behind them, eyes wide. Even Staff Sergeant Granger and his crew had come, leaving Delaney back to watch the platoon.

“Sergeant Torres!” A familiar Polish sergeant appeared — the HET loadmaster from Gdańsk, whose gold tooth was gleaming. “You made it! Janusz Kowalczyk, but everyone calls me Kowals.”

They shook hands; the Pole’s grip was practically crushing.

“First round is mine,” Kowals declared. “For successfully moving American steel across Polish roads without destroying single bridge!”

A cheer went up from the Polish NCOs at nearby tables. Someone slapped Torres on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth.

“What are we drinking?” Munoz asked nervously.

“Żubrówka!” Kowalski produced a bottle like a magician. “Bison grass vodka. Polish tradition since 1600s.”

“Major, I should probably—” Novak started.

“Lieutenant, in Poland, refusing first drink is grave insult.” Kowalski’s eyes twinkled. “You wouldn’t insult your allies, would you?”

Shot glasses appeared. The vodka was pale green, almost glowing.

“Za wolnosc nasza i wasza!” Kowalski raised his glass. “For our freedom and yours!”

“Heard that before,” Burke muttered. “Usually right before things go sideways.”

They drank. The vodka burned sweet and herbal. Munoz coughed. Boone’s eyes watered. But they all kept it down.

“Good!” Kowals pounded the table. “Now we eat. Then we drink properly.”

Platters materialized — pierogi, kielbasa, dark bread, pickles. The Polish NCOs insisted on explaining each dish, arguing over whose grandmother made better bigos.

“Try this.” A Polish tank gunner, Corporal Nowicki, pushed a plate at Torres. “Tatar. Raw beef. Makes you strong like Polish cavalry.”

Torres took a bite. Not bad, actually, he thought. Like upscale bar food back in El Paso.

“So, Sergeant,” Nowicki continued in accented English. “Your Abrams. Seventy tons, yes? Our K2s, only fifty-five. How you not destroy every road?”

“Carefully,” Torres admitted. “Your HET crews did good work.”

“Polish logistics, best in NATO.” Kowals refilled glasses without asking. “We move anything. Tanks, missiles, broken American dreams…”

The table laughed. Even Novak was loosening up, discussing tactics with a Polish lieutenant.

“Your robot tank,” said another Pole to Burke. “It really thinks?”

“That’s what they tell us.” Burke accepted another shot reluctantly. “Haven’t seen it do much but follow us around yet.”

“Like my wife’s cousin,” Kowals declared. “Follows everywhere, says nothing useful, costs fortune to maintain.”

More laughter filled the room. Torres felt the tension of the past few weeks beginning to ease. He understood these men and they understood him.

Different flag, same life.

“Sergeant Torres.” Kowalski leaned in close, his voice dropping. “May I speak frankly?”

“Of course, Major.”

“My men — they are good soldiers. But they remember history. Russians to the east have invaded many times. Each time, we fight. Each time, we lose. Then we fight again.” He paused. “This time, with Americans beside us, maybe different ending.”

Torres met his eyes. “I agree, Major. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. If it does, we’ll be here, and we’ll make ‘em pay for every inch of Polish land they try to take.”

“I like you, Sergeant. Plain spoken. I believe you. But belief and history…” Kowalski shrugged. “We shall see.”

A commotion near the bar drew their attention. Polish soldiers were clearing a space, pushing tables aside.

“What’s happening?” PFC Munoz asked, alarmed.

“Arm wrestling,” Corporal Nowicki grinned. “Polish tradition. Visitors must compete.”

“Oh, hell no,” Boone started to protest, but Kowals was already dragging him forward.

The impromptu tournament drew the whole pub’s attention. Boone, wiry and quick, lost immediately to a Polish sergeant built like a concrete bunker. Munoz lasted longer through technique but eventually succumbed.

“Americans getting soft,” someone called out in accented English.

That’s when Burke’s Nebraska farm boy pride kicked in. “All right, that’s it.” He rolled up his sleeves, revealing tatted forearms and muscles like bridge cables.

His opponent was Corporal Wojtek Górski, who Torres recognized as a tank loader from one of the Polish tank companies. He had a similar build, and a similar quiet confidence.

They locked hands. The pub fell silent.

“Na trzy,” Kowals said. “One… two… three!”

The table creaked. Both men’s faces reddened with effort. Neither arm moved.

“Come on, Burke!” Munoz shouted.

“Dawaj, Wojtek!” the Poles countered.

Thirty seconds passed. Then a minute. Sweat beaded on both faces. Then, incrementally, Burke’s arm began to bend until he couldn’t hold it anymore.

The Poles erupted. Money changed hands. Górski slapped Burke on the shoulder, then both men grinned and shook hands.

“Good match,” Górski said simply.

“Rematch when we get back,” Burke promised.

“Sure, I’ll gladly take more of your American dollars from you,” Górski muttered with a grin, then quickly raised his glass. “But tonight, we are here!”

More vodka appeared. Torres tried to pace himself, but the Poles were insistent. Every toast meant something — to fallen comrades who had volunteered to fight in Ukraine or Afghanistan, to NATO, to someone’s grandmother who’d killed three Nazis with a pitchfork during the Second World War.

“You have family?” Nowicki asked Torres during a lull.

“Wife. Four kids.” Torres pulled out his phone, showing a photo.

“Beautiful family. I have two daughters.” Nowicki shared his own photos. “They think I drive tank to work like normal job. Don’t understand why Daddy sometimes gone for months.”

“Mine are starting to understand,” Torres admitted. “I’m not sure if that’s better or worse.”

“Worse,” Kowals interjected. “When they understand, they worry. When they worry, you worry. Better they think we play with big toys.”

Staff Sergeant Granger appeared at Torres’s elbow. “Sergeant, you might want to check on your loader. He’s not looking so good.”

Torres glanced over and shook his head. Munoz was doing shots with three Polish privates, and appeared increasingly green.

“Munoz! Time to switch to water.”

“I’m good, Sarge!” Munoz protested, then hiccupped.

“That’s not a suggestion, Private.”

The Poles good-naturedly switched to beer, saving Munoz’s dignity as they passed him a bottle of water. Torres made a mental note to have Gatorade ready in the morning.

“Your lieutenant,” Major Kowalski observed, “he reminds me of myself when young. All theory, no practice.”

Torres watched Novak deep in conversation with a pair of Polish officers, hands moving as they discussed maneuver warfare.

“He’ll learn. They all do eventually.”

“In Belarus, perhaps.” Kowalski’s expression darkened. “You’ve seen the intelligence?”

“Some of it,” Torres replied. “I’m just a Sergeant First Class — not an officer like yourself.”

“It’s OK. I share with you. Across the border, we face the Russian First Guard’s Tank Army and Chinese 81st Group Army — easily six hundred main battle tanks and enough artillery to level Warsaw.” He knocked back another shot. “They call it exercise. We call it preparation.”

“Wow, that’s a lot of tanks. I guess that’s why we’re here, Major. We can’t let you Pols have all the fun if things kick off,” joked Torres.

“Yes. The famous American deterrence.” Kowalski smiled sadly, brushing off his joke. “You know what we call American military strategy? ‘Fight to last European.’”

Torres winced. He didn’t have a good answer for that. He changed the subject and started talking sports. It gave him a chance to brag about his son, a future baseball star.

As the night wore on, someone produced an accordion — because of course there was an accordion. Polish folk songs mixed with American cadences. Burke tried to teach them “Blood on the Risers,” which the Poles loved once they understood the words.

“Gory, gory, what a helluva way to die!” they sang, mangling the pronunciation but nailing the sentiment.

Torres found himself at a table with Kowals and a few other Polish NCOs, the universal brotherhood of sergeants transcending language barriers.

“Tell me,” Kowals said, vodka making his English looser. “Why you do this? Could make more money in civilian world, yes? No one shooting at you.”

Torres thought about the question before responding. “I was dirt poor when I joined. The Army gave me a chance to do something with myself, and besides, I come from a long line of soldiers in my family. In fact, a Torres has served in uniform since the days of the Republic of Texas. My great grandfather served in World War II, my grandfather in Vietnam, my big brother in Iraq, and now me. After sixteen years of this, it’s who I am. I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

“Hmm, same.” Kowals nodded. “My son says I’m crazy. Says I should drive truck for Amazon. Better pay, he says. But Amazon doesn’t stop Russians.”

“To crazy men who stop Russians.” Torres raised his glass.

“And Chinese,” another sergeant added. “Don’t forget Chinese.”

“How could we?” Górski gestured broadly. “They own half of Africa, building bases everywhere. Soon they’ll want Poland too.”

“Have to go through us first,” Burke interjected, swaying slightly.

“Through all of us,” Nowicki agreed. “NATO Article 5. Attack on one…”

“Is attack on all,” the table finished in unison.

There were more drinks, and more stories. Kowals told about his father, who’d driven tanks for the Communists but secretly helped the Solidarity movement during the 1980s. Nowicki’s grandfather had fought at Monte Cassino with Anders’s Army. Every Pole had a story of resistance, of fighting against impossible odds.

“This is why,” Kowalski said quietly to Torres, “we must be brothers. Not just allies on paper. Brothers. When the storm comes — and it will come — we must trust absolutely.”

Torres understood completely. You couldn’t build that kind of trust in briefing rooms or training areas. You built it here, over vodka and war stories, creating friendships and bonds that transcended cultures and language.

“Sergeant Torres!” PFC Munoz appeared, definitely drunk now. “They’re doing toasts. Said I should make one for America.”

“That’s… actually that’s the lieutenant’s job, Munoz,” Torres replied.

“LT’s in the bathroom. Come on, Sarge. For ’Merica!” Munoz slurred his words.

The pub suddenly quieted. Torres found himself standing, glass in hand, facing fifty Polish and American soldiers.

“I’m not good at speeches,” he began. “But I do know this. Sixteen years ago, I took an oath, to defend the Constitution against all enemies. It didn’t say anything about where those enemies might be.”

He saw nods of agreement around the room.

“Now I’m five thousand miles from home. My daughter asked me the other day why. ‘Why Poland? Why now?’” He paused. “I told her because a free Poland means a free Europe. A free Europe means her and siblings sleep safe in Texas. It’s not complicated. It’s not some grand conspiracy or somehow about American imperialism. It’s about honoring your word and standing shoulder to shoulder with our allies. That’s it. It’s that simple.”

He raised his glass higher.

“Major Kowalski quoted a saying to me earlier. ‘For our freedom and yours.’ He’s right. And it works both ways. So here’s to the Polish tankers who’ll be on our right flank. To the Polish infantry who’ll hold the line. To the Polish people who know the price of freedom better than most. And here’s to us, the 4th Battalion, 70th Armor, the most decorated tank unit in the Army.”

He switched to the bit of Polish he’d memorized on the flight over.

“Niech żyje Polska!”

The pub exploded. Poles pounded tables, shouting approval. Someone started singing the Polish anthem. Then the Americans countered with “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Then both groups tried to sing both anthems simultaneously, creating a patriotic cacophony.

“LT, it’s time to go,” Torres told Novak, who’d returned looking pale. “We need to get out of here before someone decides we need to do another round.”

Novak gave him a weak smile and nodded in agreement. They gathered their soldiers, said their goodbyes. Handshakes became embraces. Phone numbers were exchanged. Promises were made to continue meeting up after each exercise.

Outside, the March air bit sharp and clean. Stars wheeled overhead, unpolluted by city lights.

“That was…” Novak paused, searching for words. “Not what I expected, but a lot of fun.”

“Real diplomacy happens at the ground level, LT.” Torres steadied PFC Munoz, who was drifting to the right as they walked toward the parking lot. “The State Department signs treaties. The Army makes them work.”

They piled into the duty van, Sergeant Burke taking the wheel as their lone designated driver.

“Sarge,” Specialist Boone asked from the back, “you really think it’s going to kick off? Like, for real?”

Torres looked back at his crew — they had young faces, flushed with alcohol and camaraderie.

“Hard to say, Boone. I think we train like it will. The rest is above our pay grade.”

But as the van started, he thought about Major Kowalski’s words. The storm was coming. They all felt it.

The van rumbled through empty streets back to the base. Behind them, the pub still glowed with light and life. Polish and American voices still mixed in song.

Tomorrow, they’d be back to being professional soldiers. Checking equipment, running drills, preparing for an exercise everyone pretended was routine.

But tonight, they’d been brothers. And when the storm came — if it came — those kinds of bonds might make all the difference.

Torres’s phone buzzed. He had another text from Maria. “Kids asleep. House feels empty without you.”

He started to type a response, then stopped. What could he say? That he’d spent the evening drinking with Polish tankers? That everyone here expected war but pretended otherwise? That he missed her like a physical ache but couldn’t come home?

Instead, he typed, “I love you. I miss you. Hug them for me.”

“Always do. Stay safe soldier and return to me.”

He pocketed the phone and closed his eyes. Żubrówka swirled in his stomach. Tomorrow would bring headaches and PT and the endless preparation for a war they hoped wouldn’t come.

But tonight had been good. Tonight had been necessary. Because Kowalski was right. When the storm came, they’d need to be more than allies. They’d need to be brothers.