West and East

Chapter 9

Sometimes you got the best view of things from the air. Sergei Yaroslavsky had always thought the Soviet General Staff would have done better to get up in a plane every once in a while to look at the battlefield as if it were a chessboard. Russian chess players amazed the world. So, sometimes, did the Red Army, but not in such a happy way.

Sergei had been pleased with what he saw before. In spite of help from the Luftwaffe, the forces belonging to Marshal Smigly-Ridz's reactionary clique weren't going to be able to hang on to Wilno, or to the terrain that led towards it from the USSR. That would have brought the Soviet border right up to the edge of Lithuanian territory, and would have set another pack of semifascists to quivering in their polished boots.

The mere idea of an independent Lithuania offended Sergei. The locals had taken advantage of the Soviet Union's weakness right after the Revolution to break away. If you thought you could get away with something like that for long, you needed to think again. Or you had needed to think again, till yesterday morning. Now, with the Wehrmacht marching side by side with the damned Poles, everything was as much up in the air as he was himself.

Up in the air, Sergei looked down on… what? The neat analogy of a chessboard didn't really suggest itself. What he saw lay somewhere between chaos and hell on earth. Pieces that had been taken-no, tanks and infantry units that had been smashed-weren't neatly lifted from the board. They lay as they had died, some sideways, some upside down, some still sending up black, stinking smoke, ant-small human bodies motionless among the murdered machines.

Anastas Mouradian was seeing the same thing as Sergei, and liking it every bit as well. "Doesn't look so good, does it?" the Armenian said with what struck Sergei as commendable restraint.

"Well… no." Sergei admitted what he couldn't very well deny. Most of the tanks wrecked or burning down there were Soviet T-26s and BT-7s. Most of the ant-small corpses lying near the tanks wore Red Army khaki.

By contrast, most of the tanks still on the move were painted dark gray. Most of the men moving forward with them-moving forward like army ants, ferocious, seemingly unstoppable-wore German Feldgrau. On the Nazis' flanks, Polish troops in dark khaki also advanced: jackals fattening themselves as lions tore chunks out of beasts too big for the yapping scavengers.

Paying too much attention to the fight on the ground wouldn't do. Sergei had feared German Bf-109s before. He'd had good reason to fear them, too. Now he had better reason: far more of them sharked through the air. They weren't just helping the Poles any more. They were supporting their own countrymen, a job they took much more seriously. Yaroslavsky tried to look every which way at once. He wished some kindly quartermaster would have issued him eyes in the back of his head, and maybe one on top as well.

Mouradian pointed ahead, towards a clump of camouflaged tents whose long morning shadows revealed them for what they were. "That looks like a headquarters, don't you think?" he said. "Regimental, maybe divisional."

"Da." Sergei nodded. "Shall we make the Germans jump and shout?" He smiled at the idea of Nazis in monocles and caps with upswept crowns running for cover like ordinary mortals-and maybe finding out just how mortal they were.

When he shouted an alert through the speaking tube to Ivan Kuchkov, he found that the Chimp also liked the idea. "We'll bomb the living shit out of the fuckers," Kuchkov shouted back. He approved of any mayhem that didn't come down on his own head. Come to that, so did Sergei.

He flew straight toward the tent. Anastas Mouradian peered through the bombsight, giving minute course corrections with gestures. Then Mouradian also shouted to Kuchkov: "Now, Ivan!"

Down whistled the bombs. Without waiting to see what they'd done, Sergei wrestled the SB-2 around and got out of there at full throttle. The Germans wouldn't appreciate the visit he'd just paid them, and they had ways of making their displeasure known.

The wing's new airstrip lay well within what had been Polish territory, the better to keep pounding Wilno. Flying south against the Germans instead of west hadn't been what his superiors planned for, but the wing could do it when the situation required.

Getting back… Sergei hadn't worried about getting back. By all the signs, neither had anyone else on the Soviet side. That only went to show that the higher-ups didn't know what all they should have worried about. He watched two 109s hack an SB-2 out of the sky. No chutes came from the stricken bomber as it plunged to the ground. Three dead Soviet airmen, then. He ground his teeth. If they came after him next, there were liable to be three more.

But they didn't. They zoomed back to the south instead. The 109's only weakness he'd been able to find was its short range. If these fighters needed to gas up again… Sergei wouldn't complain. He knew a moment's pity for his countrymen who hadn't been so lucky.

When he got down, the airstrip was boiling like a pot of shchi forgotten over a roaring fire. Sergei hadn't even climbed down from the bomber's wing before a groundcrew man waved for him to get back into the cockpit. "What?" he said. "Why?"

"Because we're getting the fuck out of here, Comrade, that's why," the groundcrew man said.

"Why?" Sergei asked again, still not moving.

Before the groundcrew man could answer, the outside world did it for him: shells burst only a few hundred meters from the edge of the airstrip. "That's why, Comrade Pilot," the noncom said. "The German sons of bitches'll have the range on us any minute now. D'you want to get blown up?"

"They were nowhere near us when we took off," Sergei protested. He looked at his watch, pushing back fur-lined gloves and sleeves to see the face. No, it really hadn't been much more than an hour earlier.

"Yeah, well"-the groundcrew man shrugged-"the cocksuckers are fucking well near us now." He sounded almost as foul as the Chimp. "And if we don't haul ass right this minute, we'll get to meet 'em in person, like. So quit dicking around and head for the motherland, right?"

"Right," Sergei said dully, not knowing what else to do. He turned around-and almost bumped into Anastas Mouradian, who was right behind him. "Back in the plane, Stas. Back to Byelorussia."

"I heard," Mouradian said. "It's not so good, is it?" More shells screamed in. These burst closer than the ones in the last volley had. If the SB-2 didn't take off soon, it wouldn't get the chance.

Sergei thought about fighting the Nazis as an untrained infantryman. He thought about trying to get back to Byelorussia on foot-or, if he was very lucky, in the back of a truck. Much too easy to think about a German tank, or maybe a Stuka swooping down from above, pumping machine-gun bullets into the back of a truck.

Off to Byelorussia it was, then, and now, too. "Not so good, no," Sergei said. They returned to the cockpit and snapped their belts closed. Sergei had to tell Ivan Kuchkov what was going on.

"Happy motherfucking day," Kuchkov answered. "The stupid pricks who're supposed to be running things screwed it up royally this time, didn't they?"

"It could be better." Sergei left it right there. The engines, which had barely stopped, fired up again right away. That was something, anyhow-not much, but something. The SB-2 bounced down the runway and took off. It felt uncommonly agile; he couldn't remember the last time he'd gone up without a full bomb load.

He had to swing back to the east and come over the airstrip again to head for Soviet territory. Shells were dropping on the dirt runway by then. Any of the planes still hiding in revetments would have a devil of a time getting away. Sergei wondered if groundcrew men would have to set them on fire to keep the Germans from grabbing them. He also wondered whether any groundcrew men were hanging around to take care of such things. Trucks kicked up tall plumes of dust as they hightailed it toward the old border.

"Well, we're in it now," he said to Mouradian as he checked six to make sure he had no Bf-109s on his tail.

"No. The damned Germans are in it now, and they aren't screwing around the way they were before. That isn't good, either, especially with Japan jumping on us too," the Armenian replied.

"Not even slightly," Sergei agreed. "But what can we do except fight as hard as we know how?" Anastas Mouradian had no answers for him. Sergei wished Mouradian would have, because he had no answers of his own, either. THE HORIZON WASN'T ENTIRELY EMPTY when Julius Lemp swung his binoculars around the horizon. But that smoke didn't come from a freighter bound for Britain. Nor did it rise from an enemy warship. There to the north sailed the Admiral Scheer. The pocket battleship was cruising the North Atlantic at fourteen knots, a pace the U-30 had no trouble matching.

A swell raised the U-boat, giving Lemp a glimpse of the Admiral Scheer's angular profile. She could do a lot of damage if she got the chance. If… Lemp couldn't help wondering how many U-boats the Kriegsmarine could have built with all the steel and labor that went into the big armored cruiser, and how much more trouble they could have caused the British.

Well, too late for such questions now. There was the Admiral Scheer-and there, at the edge of visibility, was her signal lamp flashing urgent Morse. Lemp peered through the binoculars, but shook his head in frustration. "Can't make it out," he said, and then, to the bosun, who was up on the conning tower with him, "Tell them we need to approach, Matti. Let's see if they can read us."

"Aye aye, Skipper," Matti said, and the louvers on the sub's signal lamp clacked as they went up and down.

Lemp called down into the U-boat for a change of course. The boat swung north. He peered toward the Admiral Scheer through his field glasses again. With a wry snort, he said, "They say they can't make out what we're sending. They want us to come closer. Tell 'em we're doing it, for Christ's sake."

"Right you are," Matti answered. The louvers clacked some more. Lemp could read Morse by ear as well as by eye. The bosun said what needed saying as quickly and economically as anyone could want. He'd spent years in freighters before joining the German navy. He knew his onions, all right.

The pocket battleship's lamp flashed again. Word by word, Lemp read off the message: "Smoke… to… northwest. Several… ships"

"A convoy!" Matti exclaimed.

"That would be good," Lemp said. The other possibility would be several warships. The Admiral Scheer might fight off or escape from several British warships, especially with a sub on her side. All the same, freighters counted for more. Freighters fed England. Warships were nothing but nuisances: the dogs that kept sea wolves from feeding off the big, fat, slow sheep.

All the ratings up on the tower swung their glasses to the northwest. Closer to enemy shores, Lemp would have reproved them. An airplane could come out of nowhere and start shooting you up or bombing you before you even knew it was there. Not out in the middle of the Atlantic, though. Nothing that flew had the range to come out here and get back to land.

Back to land… What if one of those unknown ships out there was a carrier? Lemp spoke to the ratings after all. They resumed their usual scan. He peered intently toward the northwest, first with the binoculars on a strap around his neck, then with the more powerful pillar-mounted glasses each U-boat had.

He soon spied the smoke trails himself. He muttered to himself. If they were thick and black, he would have been sure they came from coal-fired steamers. Maybe they came from oil-burning freighters. Or maybe they poured from stacks that belonged to destroyers, cruisers, battlewagons-or a carrier.

No, probably not that last. The British would have seen the pocket battleship's smoke by now, too. If they had a carrier out here in the middle of the ocean, its planes would already be buzzing around the Admiral Scheer like so many stinging wasps. One or two of them might have found time for the U-30 as well.

More signals from the Admiral Scheer. "Commencing… firing," Lemp read. "Jesus Christ!" he added on his own. That answered all his questions. The Panzerschiff wouldn't have opened up on freighters at long range-she would have closed to make her kills sure. Those were warships out there.

Smoke and flame belched from the pocket battleship's six 280mm guns. Their thunder reached the U-30 several seconds later. It was still loud despite the kilometers between the pocket battleship and the submarine.

"They really mean it, don't they?" Matti said.

"You don't play skat with guns that size," Lemp agreed. The bosun chuckled.

But it was no joke, and the British weren't playing skat out there, either. Incoming shells splashed into the Atlantic several hundred meters short of the Admiral Scheer. They kicked up great columns of water: water dyed red, so the enemy officers would know which ship of theirs had fired them. A moment later, another salvo made green splashes. Lemp thought by the size of them that they came from cruisers rather than battleships. He thought so, yes, but he wasn't sure.

The Admiral Scheer fired again. She was fighting, not running. That also made Lemp believe she wasn't facing battleships. She wouldn't have lasted long slugging toe-to-toe against seagoing dinosaurs more heavily armed and far better armored than she was.

Off to the northwest, Lemp spied sudden heavy black smoke. "She's hit something!" he said, and the ratings up on the conning tower with him cheered and pumped their fists in the salt-smelling air.

But the Royal Navy hadn't quit. More shells came down around the pocket battleship. Around… Lemp ground his teeth. They'd straddled her. That meant they had the range. Sure as hell, one round from the next English salvo slammed into the German ship. More smoke spurted. The Panzerschiff kept on sailing and firing, though. Even if she wasn't armored like a battlewagon, one hit-that one hit, anyhow-wouldn't knock her out of action.

Distant across a much longer stretch of seawater, reports from the enemy's guns also reached Lemp's ears. And the Admiral Scheer sent another signal his way. "Turning… toward… you." The words came out one by one, maddeningly slow. "Surprise… unsuspecting… targets."

"Donnerwetter!" Lemp muttered. No doubt the order seemed easy to Captain Patzig-which only showed he didn't know much about how U-boats operated. Could the Admiral Scheer bring the enemy warships by on courses that would let the U-30 get a decent shot at them? Or would the U-boat turn into a harmless spectator the moment it submerged? Only one way to find out-and an order was an order. Lemp nodded to the bosun. "Send 'I shall conform to your movements,' Matti."

"'I shall conform to your movements.' Aye aye, sir." Matti sounded much more serious than usual. And well he might, Lemp thought. The signal lamp's louvers clacked yet again.

Lemp wanted to stay on the surface as long as he could, to get the best notion of what course the Royal Navy ships were sailing. That would tell him what he could do-and whether he could do anything. The English skippers wouldn't notice him right away-he hoped. They'd focus all their attention on the Admiral Scheer-wouldn't they?

If he turned out to be wrong about either of those, he'd have a thin time of it. He wondered if that bothered spit-and-polish Captain Patzig, with all the gold braid on his sleeves. Lemp doubted it. To a surface officer, a U-boat was as much a service vessel as an oiler.

No help for it. Here came the pocket battleship, firing as she fell back from the enemy. What was going through the English captains' minds when they watched a stronger ship run from them? Contempt, probably. German U-boat commanders had an arrogant certainty that they were the best in the world. On the surface, that kind of pride had filled the Royal Navy since the eighteenth century.

Maybe it would come back to haunt them now. Their guns blazed as they pursued the Admiral Scheer. Like the Panzerschiff, they zigzagged over the sea to make themselves more difficult targets. They were firing faster than the German ship. Their guns were lighter, which made ammunition easier to handle. And they were English, damn them. Their ships undoubtedly had plenty of officers and sailors who'd fought in the last war. They had reason to be sure they were good.

Enough reason? Maybe not. Captain Patzig was doing a better job than Lemp had thought he would of leading the John Bulls onto the U-boat matador's hidden sword. We might have good shots at them after all. I wouldn't have believed it, but we might. All Lemp said out loud was, "Let's go below, men." He was last off the conning tower. As he dogged the hatch shut behind him, he called fresh orders: "Schnorkel depth! Up periscope! Ready forward torpedoes! Ready reloads!"

His men sprang into action without any fuss. Yes, they knew how good they were. He told the officers and chiefs what was up, and they passed the word to the ratings. The more you knew about what you were doing and why, the better you'd perform. That was U-boat gospel, anyhow. In the surface navy, the ideal still seemed to be turning men into blind, unthinking machines. It looked that way to Lemp, anyhow. He was willing to admit he was anything but unbiased.

He twisted dials on the gadget that helped him plan his shots. The targets would be at long range, and they were steaming ungodly fast. He didn't have time to wait and plan perfect shots, the way he might have with a lumbering freighter. He had to find something that would serve, then do it and hope for the best.

"What have we got up there, sir?" Gerhart Beilharz asked. The storklike engineering officer wore a Stahlhelm to keep overhead fittings from knocking him for a loop.

As long as he kept the Schnorkel behaving, Lemp didn't care what he wore. The gadget would give the U-30 twice the underwater speed it could get from battery power-if it worked. And the boat might need every bit of that and then some in the next few minutes. "Looks like two heavy cruisers, one light," Lemp answered absently. "Now shut up and get out of my hair."

"Aye aye, sir," Beilharz said.

Lemp hardly heard him. He felt the diesels surge through the soles of his feet as the U-30 went into her attack run. He steered her himself, his eyes on the the periscope. The first ship was coming into range… "Torpedo one-los! Torpedo two-los!" he shouted.

Twin whooshes as the eels leaped free. Lemp forgot about them as soon as they were gone. He swung the U-boat to port, lining her up on the other heavy cruiser-or where the cruiser would be when the torpedo got there. If he had her range and speed right, if she didn't suddenly swerve, if, if, if…

"Torpedo three-los!" he said. Away the eel went. Lemp steered to port again. The light cruiser was trailing the other two warships and making more smoke than she should have. Battle damage from the Admiral Scheer? Lemp could hope so. "Torpedo four-los!" One more whoosh. "Reload forward torpedo tubes!"

That was backbreaking work-each torpedo weighed close to a tonne. Till it was done, though, the U-30 had only the single eel in her stern tube with which to fight. The "lords"-the junior ratings who bunked forward-would be happy when it was done, though. Now they'd have more room in which to sling their hammocks. Nobody'd have to sleep on top of a torpedo any more.

An explosion shook the U-30's hull. Sailors whooped. Lemp swung the periscope to starboard. The first English heavy cruiser lay dead in the water, though her guns kept firing. A few seconds later, another deep rumble rattled the submarine's crew like peas in a shaken pod.

People pounded Lemp on the back. "Two, skipper!" Matti bawled. "Way to go!"

Damned if he hadn't hit the second heavy cruiser. She was still moving, but down by the bow and slowing fast. Had he got the light cruiser, too? He waited for one more blast… waited and waited. It didn't come. He swore under his breath. When you did well, you wanted to do better.

With the light cruiser still among those present, he couldn't surface. She'd slaughter him if he did. Those 155mm guns weren't much for a surface ship to carry, but they made his lone 88mm deck gun look like a cap pistol by comparison.

Water spouts suddenly sprang up around the less damaged English heavy cruiser. The Admiral Scheer must have seen what the U-30 had done. Now the pocket battleship was coming back to finish off her crippled foes. Hits brought gouts of smoke and fire from the damaged warship.

The English light cruiser charged the Panzerschiff, guns blazing, doing her best to protect her wounded sisters. That was brave-even heroic. She scored hits, too. Then two rounds from the Admiral Scheer's big guns slammed into her. She might have run headlong into a brick wall. Fire burst from her. She might almost have been broken in half.

"Skipper, we've got two eels in the tubes," the chief torpedoman reported.

"Good job, Bruno." Lemp hadn't expected them for another five minutes. "We are going to approach the enemy cruiser that has stopped, and we are going to sink her."

"Right," Bruno said. "They'll put a Ritterkreuz around your neck when we get home, too."

They would do no such thing, and Lemp knew it. Nobody who was in the brass' doghouse would win a Knight's Cross. No point wishing for one or thinking he'd earned it, because he wouldn't get it any which way. But he might get-partway-out of that damned doghouse.

Stubborn as any Englishmen, the sailors on the halted cruiser kept firing at the Admiral Scheer even as the pocket battleship teed off on a stationary target. Then the second torpedo from the U-30 slammed into her. This one broke her back. She had listed to starboard. Now she turned turtle and sank in a couple of minutes.

That left one Royal Navy ship still able to fight-but not for long. Even as Lemp turned toward her, a shell from the Admiral Scheer must have touched off her magazine. She went up with a roar that dwarfed the explosions from the torpedo hits.

"Der Herr Gott im Himmel!" Lemp said, shaken in spite of himself. How many men had gone up in that blast? How many more would struggle in the Atlantic-for a little while? The U-30 couldn't hope to pick up survivors; the boat was packed to the gills as things were. Would the Admiral Scheer?

A question from the bosun broke into Lemp's thoughts: "Uh, skipper, what just happened there?"

"Oh." Lemp remembered he was the only man in the U-boat who could see out. "That was the last British cruiser, not our ship." More cheers rang through the pressure hull.

He only half-heard them. If he commanded the pocket battleship, he wouldn't stick around. The Royal Navy would know exactly where this fight took place. Every warship within a couple of thousand kilometers would be hustling this way at flank speed. If the Admiral Scheer wanted to see home again, she'd have to get out without wasting time.

And that was just what she was doing. When Lemp turned his periscope on her, she was speeding northeast as fast as she could go. He nodded to himself. That was only sensible. The U-30 would have to run the Royal Navy's gauntlet to get back to the Vaterland, too, but it was easier for a sub.

Still, lingering here seemed the very worst of bad ideas. "Back to the surface," he ordered, "and then we'll shape course for Germany. Nobody can say we haven't done our job this cruise." The sailors cheered once more. ONE OF THE PRIVATES in Alistair Walsh's section was reading the International Herald-Tribune with a long face. The Herald-Trib struck Walsh as annoyingly American, which didn't keep him from reading it, too. In France, it was one of the easiest ways to get your hands on news in English. If you didn't have a working wireless so you could hear the BBC, it was damn near the only way to get news in English.

"What's got you buggered up now, Jock?" Walsh said. "Something has, by the look on your mug."

"Damn Fritzes sank three of our ships, Sergeant," Jock answered in his broad North Country accent. Like several other men who'd joined the company at about the same time, he was from Yorkshire.

Walsh understood why he sounded so affronted. Everyone knew the Germans made good infantry. They'd proved that time and again. But when they took on the Royal Navy in what had been England's element for lifetime after lifetime… That was a bit much, or more than a bit.

Jock was still reading. "Says a fuckin' U-boat helped their bloody pocket battleship." For a moment, he seemed a little less irate. The Germans were good with U-boats not least because they couldn't match up on the surface. They hadn't in the last war, and their surface fleet was smaller this time: they'd had to start over from scratch once Hitler took over. Then Jock got mad again, mad enough to turn pink. Like a lot of Yorkshiremen, he was big and fair, which made his flush all the easier to see. "You ask me, it ain't cricket."

"We use planes and tanks to help infantry," Walsh said. "We do when we've got 'em, any road."

"That's different," Jock insisted. "It's not sneaky-like, the way a submarine is." Soobmahreen-the broad Yorkshire vowels turned the word into something that might have been found in a barn. (People who talked as if they were doing their best to sound like BBC newsreaders thought Walsh's Welsh vowels sounded pretty funny, too. Over the years, he'd had to punch a couple of them in the nose. If they didn't twit him too hard, though, he just ignored them.)

"I expect we'll sink the surface raider sooner or later, and we dealt with the U-boats in the last war. We can do it again," Walsh said.

"Aye-but the cost! All them drowned sailors!" Jock said. "Hundreds of men on a cruiser, and not many left alive after three went down."

"It's a bastard," Walsh agreed. It wasn't as big a bastard as Jock thought it was, though. England had taken 50,000 casualties on the first day of the Battle of the Somme, 20,000 dead… for a few square miles of cratered, poisoned mud that weren't worth having to begin with. Walsh hadn't been in the army yet in 1916. If he had, he probably would have been there. And if he'd been there, he probably wouldn't be here now.

"We've got to do something about them buggers, we do," Jock said, as if Walsh would know exactly what that something was. Maybe Jock thought he did. Common soldiers often seemed to think staff sergeants knew everything.

Staff sergeants sometimes thought they knew everything, too. When it came to dealing with common soldiers, they did, or near enough. When it came to setting Hitler's mustache on fire… "I'm open to suggestions," Walsh said dryly.

Before Jock could give him any, a German machine gun stuttered to hateful life. Things had been quiet lately. That made the short, professional bursts even scarier than they would have been otherwise. Three French machine guns started spraying the German lines a few seconds later. One of the froggies was also a professional: three rounds, pause, three rounds, pause, four rounds, pause. The other Frenchmen plainly didn't care how many gun barrels they burned through.

Walsh didn't get excited about the machine guns. He and Jock weren't out in the open. Machine guns could have kept banging away till doomsday without endangering them in the least. Then somebody threw a French grenade. Maybe a poilu saw Germans coming. Maybe he just imagined he did.

Any which way, the bursting grenade seemed to give the Landsers a kick in the arse the French machine guns hadn't. Something came down out of the sky with a whispering whistle and blew up with a bang much bigger than a hand grenade.

"Oh, bugger!" Walsh said. "Down, Jock!" He dove for the dirt himself. When the damned Boches started throwing mortars around, things stopped being fun. You could hide from machine guns. Not a thing you could do about mortars except pray one didn't land in your hole.

"I am down," Jock answered. So he was-he was flat as a swatted fly. The smell and taste of mud filled Walsh's mouth and nose. Mud was one of the characteristic smells of war, along with cordite, shit, and rotting meat.

French and English mortars answered the stubby little German guns. The French 75s behind the lines started tearing up the German trenches. Naturally, the Fritzes responded in kind. Both sides pounded away with everything they had.

"Fucking idiots!" Jock said. Fooking idjits, it came out, which made it sound all the more idiotic.

Walsh nodded without raising his head. Some bored German lieutenant had probably told the Feldwebel heading a machine-gun crew to squeeze off a couple of belts and make the fellows in the far trenches keep their heads down. And the Feldwebel, no doubt as bored as the officer, would have answered, "Zu befehl, mein Herr!" and told the Gefreiter who actually did the work to start shooting. And the Gefreiter would have said, "Jawohl!" and done as he was told, too.

And then, till somebody got tired of it, both sides would try their best to create hell on earth.

Their best, these days, was much too good. Nobody'd used gas yet, not so far as Walsh knew. That was the only thing from the last war's menu still missing in this one. Walsh peered out from behind the rubble of what had been some middle-class French family's house till a few months-perhaps a few weeks-before. He must have looked like a helmeted, submachine-gun-carrying khaki marmot popping out of its hole to make sure no helmeted, rifle-carrying field-gray wildcats were trying to sneak up on it. He didn't see any Germans scrambling forward. That only further convinced him the Fritzes hadn't had anything special in mind when they opened up with the MG-34. Just because you weren't looking for trouble didn't mean you wouldn't find any, of course.

While he spotted no enemy soldiers, he did see a skinny gray-and-white cat daintily picking its way through the wreckage where it must have lived till war turned everything inside out. It paused, staring at him with eyes green as verdigris. It still wore a bell on a collar, which couldn't have made hunting any easier. "Mrrow?" it said, and yawned, showing off needle teeth.

How did you call a cat in French? Walsh had no idea. He did what he would have done back in Blighty: he snapped his fingers, showed the cat his open hand palm-up, and went "Puss, puss, puss!" as persuasively as he could.

"Mrrow?" the cat said again. It might have been more suspicious if it were less hungry. It trotted toward him, stopping just out of reach. Walsh left his hand where it was. The cat stepped forward, sniffed, considered, and then rubbed against him. It started to purr. He'd passed whatever test it set him.

"Puss, puss, puss!" Walsh said again. He ducked down-he didn't want to give some sniper in a coal-scuttle helmet time enough to punch his ticket for him. The cat jumped into the hole with him and Jock.

Walsh scratched it behind the ears and under the chin. Purring louder, it stropped itself against his boot. "What'll you do with the sorry bugger?" asked Jock, he might have suddenly discovered Walsh was addicted to opium, or perhaps to unnatural vice.

"I'll give it something to eat. It looks like it could use a bite," the sergeant answered. "After that? Well, who knows? If it wants to stick around for a while, I don't mind. Why? Have you got something against cats?"

"Don't much fancy 'em," Jock said. Then he shrugged. A superior's vagaries weren't for the likes of him to question. "However you please, though."

"Let's see what it thinks of bully beef." Walsh opened a tin with his bayonet and put it on the ground in front of the cat.

Jock made a face. "Bugger has to be fuckin' starving if it'll stuff itself on that damned monkey meat."

Walsh smiled. Monkey meat was a straight translation of singe: what the Frenchies called tinned beef. Walsh wondered whether Jock knew that. He would have bet against it; even English often seemed a foreign language to the Yorkshireman.

As for the cat, it didn't care what you called the meat. It advanced, sniffed, and fell to without the slightest trace of feline fussiness. As it ate, it purred much louder than it had while Walsh scratched it. The tin held four ounces. By the way the cat emptied it, the beast might have disposed of four pounds of monkey meat just as eagerly.

"It must be hungry," said Walsh, whose opinion of bully beef was no higher than Jock's-or anyone else's.

After it had emptied the tin and got the inside shiny clean, the cat licked its chops. It licked its left front paw and meticulously washed its face. Then it cocked a hind leg in the air and started licking its privates. That deep, contented purr rose once more.

Jock gasped, half scandalized, half giggling. "Bugger me blind!" he said. "If I could do summat like that, damned if I'd go wasting my money on pussy half so often."

"You don't think you're wasting it while you spend it," Walsh said-it wasn't as if the same thing hadn't occurred to him.

"Too right I don't," Jock agreed ruefully.

"And I think you just named the creature, too," the staff sergeant added.

"I did?" Jock blinked. Then he got it, and started to laugh. He squatted and stroked the cat, which accepted the courtesy with regal condescension. "Nice Pussy," Jock said. Pussy purred.