again, too. One of these days, he’d get deloused. And he’d stay clean till the next time he went through a Russian village. Say, half an hour after he left the delousing station. Then he’d have companyonce more.
“Who’s got some tobacco he can spare?” Corporal Arno Baatz asked.
Willi had a nice little sack of
makhorka
—Russian tobacco, cheap and nasty but strong—in a trouser pocket. He would have bet Adam Pfaff had a similar stash. Adam knew what was what about keeping himself supplied. Neither
Gefreiter
said a word. Willi had had to put up with Awful Arno since the war started. Adam was muchnewer to the regiment, but he’d rapidly learned the
Unteroffizier
made a piss-poor substitute for a human being.
“Here you go, Corporal.” A private named Sigi Herzog gave Baatz a cigarette. Willi had already pegged him for a suckup. One more suspicion confirmed.
“Good.” Awful Arno didn’t bother thanking Sigi. He took such tribute as no less than his due. Another reason to despise him, as faras Willi was concerned: one more to add to a long list. Were Baatz a gutless wonder, everything would have been perfect—and the company would have had a perfectly good excuse for shipping him back behind the lines where he could annoy people without risking lives. But he actually made a decent combat soldier. It was everything else about him that Willi—and anyone else who got stuck serving underhim—couldn’t stand.
He lit the cigarette and sucked in smoke. His plump cheeks hollowed. How any German on the Eastern Front stayed plump was beyond Willi, but Awful Arno managed. He shaved more often than most
Landsers
bothered to, but he was still plenty whiskery right this minute.
After blowing out a stream of smoke and fog, he let loose with a blast of hot air, straight from the PropagandaMinistry: “As soon as the weather gets even a little better, we’ll roll up the Ivans like a pair of socks.”
That he believed—and, worse, parroted—such bullshit was also on the list of reasons why he’d got his nickname. Willi rolled his eyes. Adam Pfaff rounded on Sigi. “What did you put in that smoke you gave him, man? Has to be better than tobacco, that’s for sure. If you’ve got more, give mesome, too.”
Baatz sent him an unfriendly look: about the only kind the corporal kept in stock. “So what are you saying, Pfaff? Are you saying we
won’t
roll up the Reds?” he asked. “That sounds like defeatism to me.”
Defeatism could get you tangled up with the SS, the last thing anybody in his right mind wanted. Pfaff shook his head. “Don’t talk more like a jackass than you can help, Corporal.Anybody who’s seen me in action knows I’m no defeatist. Is that so or isn’t it?”
“If you make other soldiers not want to fight their hardest, that’s defeatism, too,” Baatz said stubbornly. “And you’d better remember I’m not too big a jackass to know it.”
Pfaff didn’t back down. “Nobody here’s gonna run home to
Mutti
on account of anything I come out with. And we all know we’d better fight hard,or else the Russians’ll cut off our cocks and shove ’em in our mouths.”
“Do they really do that shit?” asked a kid who’d come up to the front only a few days earlier. His uniform wasn’t so patched and faded as the ones the other
Landsers
wore. But for that, there wasn’t much to choose between him and the rest.
“They sure do,” Pfaff replied. Awful Arno nodded—they agreed on that much, anyhow.
Willi nodded, too. He’d seen it for himself, however much he wished he hadn’t. “You don’t want to let the Ivans take you prisoner,” he said. “Save a last round for yourself. Maybe the guys they do that to are already dead, but you don’t want to find out for yourself, do you?”
“So what do we do with the Russians we capture?” the new fish asked.
The veterans squatting by the fire eyed one another.Nobody saidanything for a little while. At last, Willi answered, “Well,
“Who’s got some tobacco he can spare?” Corporal Arno Baatz asked.
Willi had a nice little sack of
makhorka
—Russian tobacco, cheap and nasty but strong—in a trouser pocket. He would have bet Adam Pfaff had a similar stash. Adam knew what was what about keeping himself supplied. Neither
Gefreiter
said a word. Willi had had to put up with Awful Arno since the war started. Adam was muchnewer to the regiment, but he’d rapidly learned the
Unteroffizier
made a piss-poor substitute for a human being.
“Here you go, Corporal.” A private named Sigi Herzog gave Baatz a cigarette. Willi had already pegged him for a suckup. One more suspicion confirmed.
“Good.” Awful Arno didn’t bother thanking Sigi. He took such tribute as no less than his due. Another reason to despise him, as faras Willi was concerned: one more to add to a long list. Were Baatz a gutless wonder, everything would have been perfect—and the company would have had a perfectly good excuse for shipping him back behind the lines where he could annoy people without risking lives. But he actually made a decent combat soldier. It was everything else about him that Willi—and anyone else who got stuck serving underhim—couldn’t stand.
He lit the cigarette and sucked in smoke. His plump cheeks hollowed. How any German on the Eastern Front stayed plump was beyond Willi, but Awful Arno managed. He shaved more often than most
Landsers
bothered to, but he was still plenty whiskery right this minute.
After blowing out a stream of smoke and fog, he let loose with a blast of hot air, straight from the PropagandaMinistry: “As soon as the weather gets even a little better, we’ll roll up the Ivans like a pair of socks.”
That he believed—and, worse, parroted—such bullshit was also on the list of reasons why he’d got his nickname. Willi rolled his eyes. Adam Pfaff rounded on Sigi. “What did you put in that smoke you gave him, man? Has to be better than tobacco, that’s for sure. If you’ve got more, give mesome, too.”
Baatz sent him an unfriendly look: about the only kind the corporal kept in stock. “So what are you saying, Pfaff? Are you saying we
won’t
roll up the Reds?” he asked. “That sounds like defeatism to me.”
Defeatism could get you tangled up with the SS, the last thing anybody in his right mind wanted. Pfaff shook his head. “Don’t talk more like a jackass than you can help, Corporal.Anybody who’s seen me in action knows I’m no defeatist. Is that so or isn’t it?”
“If you make other soldiers not want to fight their hardest, that’s defeatism, too,” Baatz said stubbornly. “And you’d better remember I’m not too big a jackass to know it.”
Pfaff didn’t back down. “Nobody here’s gonna run home to
Mutti
on account of anything I come out with. And we all know we’d better fight hard,or else the Russians’ll cut off our cocks and shove ’em in our mouths.”
“Do they really do that shit?” asked a kid who’d come up to the front only a few days earlier. His uniform wasn’t so patched and faded as the ones the other
Landsers
wore. But for that, there wasn’t much to choose between him and the rest.
“They sure do,” Pfaff replied. Awful Arno nodded—they agreed on that much, anyhow.
Willi nodded, too. He’d seen it for himself, however much he wished he hadn’t. “You don’t want to let the Ivans take you prisoner,” he said. “Save a last round for yourself. Maybe the guys they do that to are already dead, but you don’t want to find out for yourself, do you?”
“So what do we do with the Russians we capture?” the new fish asked.
The veterans squatting by the fire eyed one another.Nobody saidanything for a little while. At last, Willi answered, “Well,
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