sleep in one of those houses, we’ll wake upwith our throats cut.”
“We’ll freeze here in the middle of nowhere,” one of the
poilus
retorted. “Is that so much better?”
“We won’t freeze. We’ll just be cold. There’s a difference,” Luc said. He knew what the men would be saying about him—that he wouldn’t feel it because his heart was already cold. He’d said the same kind of thing about his sergeant back in the days before he wore any hashmarks on his sleeve.
Sergeant Demange was Second Lieutenant Demange now. A veteran noncom from the last war, Demange didn’t want to be an officer. But the know-it-alls above him kept getting shot, and he finally won a promotion whether he liked it or not. The way he chain-smoked Gitanes said he didn’t. Or maybe not—he’d smoked like a chimney as a sergeant, too.
Luc told him about the French-speakingRussian back in the village. “You
should
have scragged the asshole,” said Demange, who had very little use for his fellow man. “It would’ve given the rest of the shitheads back there something to stew on.”
“The
Gestapo
would be proud of you, sir.” More than two years of serving Demange had earned Luc the right to speak his mind.
Up to a point. “Fuck you,” Demange answered evenly. “Fuck the Ivans,too. You want to make sure they don’t cause trouble, you’ve got toboot ’em in the balls. Oh, yeah—and fuck the
Gestapo
. Fuck ’em up the ass, except the ones who like it that way.”
“Merde alors!”
Admiration filled Luc’s voice. “You hate everybody, don’t you?”
“Close enough,” Demange said. “With most of the bastards you run into, it just saves time.” He was looking at—looking through—Luc rightthen.
If that wasn’t a hint, Luc had never run into one. “Don’t worry, sir. Everybody loves you, too,” he said. Sketching a salute, he went back to his squad. Behind him, the reluctant officer chuckled.
In the middle of the night, the Russians dropped a swarm of mortar bombs on the village … and on the
poilus
who’d paused there for the night. Several soldiers got hurt. Luc’s squad was far enoughfrom the buildings that nothing came down on them.
He didn’t point that out to the men he led. If he had, they would have figured he was blowing his own horn. If they figured it out for themselves, though, they’d see what a clever fellow he really was. Back in his days as a sergeant, Demange would have played it the same way. Luc had learned more from him than he would ever admit, even—maybeespecially—to himself.
THE HACKED-UP BOARDS the
Landsers
fed into the fire came from a house a Russian shell had knocked flat. The gobbets of meat they toasted over the flames came from a horse that had hauled a 105mm howitzer till another shell broke its leg. Willi Dernen had shot it to put it out of its misery. He’d long since lost track of how many enemy soldiers he’d killed or wounded, buthe couldn’t stand to see or listen to an animal suffer.
He took a bite. The meat was half charred, half raw. It was also gluey and gamy. It was horsemeat, in other words. It wasn’t the first time he’d had it, and he was sure it wouldn’t be the last. He turned to his fellow
Gefreiter
—senior private—and said, “I’ve probably eaten enough horse to let them enter me in next year’s Berlin steeplechase.”
Adam Pfaff shook his head. “Not fucking likely, Willi. I’ve eatenplenty of pussy, but nobody’s gonna put me in a goddamn cat show.” While Willi was still digesting that, so to speak, his buddy added, “Besides, have you taken a look at yourself lately? You’re no three-year-old, believe me, and no thoroughbred, either.”
“Oh, yeah? And you are?” Willi said. They grinned at each other. Like therest of the men in their section—like the rest of the German
Frontschweine
in Russia—they were scrawny and filthy and badly shaven. A crawly itch under Willi’s whitewashed
Stahlhelm
said he was lousy
“We’ll freeze here in the middle of nowhere,” one of the
poilus
retorted. “Is that so much better?”
“We won’t freeze. We’ll just be cold. There’s a difference,” Luc said. He knew what the men would be saying about him—that he wouldn’t feel it because his heart was already cold. He’d said the same kind of thing about his sergeant back in the days before he wore any hashmarks on his sleeve.
Sergeant Demange was Second Lieutenant Demange now. A veteran noncom from the last war, Demange didn’t want to be an officer. But the know-it-alls above him kept getting shot, and he finally won a promotion whether he liked it or not. The way he chain-smoked Gitanes said he didn’t. Or maybe not—he’d smoked like a chimney as a sergeant, too.
Luc told him about the French-speakingRussian back in the village. “You
should
have scragged the asshole,” said Demange, who had very little use for his fellow man. “It would’ve given the rest of the shitheads back there something to stew on.”
“The
Gestapo
would be proud of you, sir.” More than two years of serving Demange had earned Luc the right to speak his mind.
Up to a point. “Fuck you,” Demange answered evenly. “Fuck the Ivans,too. You want to make sure they don’t cause trouble, you’ve got toboot ’em in the balls. Oh, yeah—and fuck the
Gestapo
. Fuck ’em up the ass, except the ones who like it that way.”
“Merde alors!”
Admiration filled Luc’s voice. “You hate everybody, don’t you?”
“Close enough,” Demange said. “With most of the bastards you run into, it just saves time.” He was looking at—looking through—Luc rightthen.
If that wasn’t a hint, Luc had never run into one. “Don’t worry, sir. Everybody loves you, too,” he said. Sketching a salute, he went back to his squad. Behind him, the reluctant officer chuckled.
In the middle of the night, the Russians dropped a swarm of mortar bombs on the village … and on the
poilus
who’d paused there for the night. Several soldiers got hurt. Luc’s squad was far enoughfrom the buildings that nothing came down on them.
He didn’t point that out to the men he led. If he had, they would have figured he was blowing his own horn. If they figured it out for themselves, though, they’d see what a clever fellow he really was. Back in his days as a sergeant, Demange would have played it the same way. Luc had learned more from him than he would ever admit, even—maybeespecially—to himself.
THE HACKED-UP BOARDS the
Landsers
fed into the fire came from a house a Russian shell had knocked flat. The gobbets of meat they toasted over the flames came from a horse that had hauled a 105mm howitzer till another shell broke its leg. Willi Dernen had shot it to put it out of its misery. He’d long since lost track of how many enemy soldiers he’d killed or wounded, buthe couldn’t stand to see or listen to an animal suffer.
He took a bite. The meat was half charred, half raw. It was also gluey and gamy. It was horsemeat, in other words. It wasn’t the first time he’d had it, and he was sure it wouldn’t be the last. He turned to his fellow
Gefreiter
—senior private—and said, “I’ve probably eaten enough horse to let them enter me in next year’s Berlin steeplechase.”
Adam Pfaff shook his head. “Not fucking likely, Willi. I’ve eatenplenty of pussy, but nobody’s gonna put me in a goddamn cat show.” While Willi was still digesting that, so to speak, his buddy added, “Besides, have you taken a look at yourself lately? You’re no three-year-old, believe me, and no thoroughbred, either.”
“Oh, yeah? And you are?” Willi said. They grinned at each other. Like therest of the men in their section—like the rest of the German
Frontschweine
in Russia—they were scrawny and filthy and badly shaven. A crawly itch under Willi’s whitewashed
Stahlhelm
said he was lousy
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