The War That Came Early: West and East by Harry Turtledove Page B
Authors: Harry Turtledove
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hand on his forehead. “Are you feverish? No real, proper old soldier
ever
wants to move up. The bastards in
Feldgrau
have guns, you know.” The way he pronounced the German word said he could
sprechen Deutsch
, as Vaclav could.
“Best way I can see to throw the Germans out of Czechoslovakia is to start by throwing ’em out of France,” Vaclav said.
“Well, when you put it like that …” Sergeant Halévy rubbed the side of his jaw. “Tell you what. Talk to your Czechs—see what they think. I’ll go chin with a couple of French captains I know, find out if they’ll go with it.”
Jezek found his countrymen had as many opinions as soldiers. That didn’t faze him; as far as he was concerned, Germans were the ones who marched and thought in lockstep. But most of the Czechs were ready to give the enemy one in the slats as long as the odds seemed decent. “I don’t want to stick my arm in the meat grinder, that’s all,” one of them said.
“Ano, ano
. Sure,” Vaclav said. “If there’s a chance, though … Let’s see what the Jew tells me.”
Halévy came over to the Czechs’ tents a couple of hours later. “The French officers say they want to wait two days,” he reported.
“How come?” Vaclav asked. “We’re ready now, dammit.”
“They say they really are bringing stuff up to Laon,” the sergeant replied.
“Yeah. And then you wake up,” Vaclav said.
Halévy spread his hands. “Do you want to attack without any French support?”
“Well … no,” Vaclav admitted. No artillery, no flank cover—sure as hell, that was sticking your arm in the grinder.
“There you are, then,” Halévy said.
“Uh-huh. Here I am. Here we are: stuck,” Vaclav said. “I’ll believe your captains when I see the stuff.”
“Between you, me, and the wall, that’s what I told ’em, too,” the Jew said.
But trains rolled into Laon after the sun went down. Rattles and rumbles and clanks declared that tanks were coming off of them. When morning rolled round again, some of the metal monsters sat under trees, while camouflage nets hid—Vaclav hoped—the rest from prying German eyes.
He asked, “Now that they’re here, why don’t we attack today instead of waiting till tomorrow?”
Benjamin Halévy shrugged a very French shrug. “If I knew, I would tell you. Even going tomorrow is better than retreating.”
“I suppose so,” Vaclav said darkly. “But if we attack today, maybe we’ll still be advancing tomorrow. If we don’t go till tomorrow, we’ve got a better chance of retreating the day after.”
“I’m a sergeant,” Halévy said. “What do you want me to do about it?”
Vaclav had no answer for that. A corporal himself, he knew how much depended on officers’ caprices. “Tomorrow, then.” If he didn’t sound enthusiastic, it was only because he wasn’t.
The French dignitaries with the power to bind and loose set the attack for 0430: sunup, more or less. The Germans would be silhouetted against a bright sky for a while. That would help—not much, but a little.
At 0400, big guns in back of Laon started bellowing: more big guns than Vaclav had thought the French had in the neighborhood. Maybe they’d moved those up the day before, too. If they had, maybe they’d had good reason to delay the attack till now. Maybe, maybe, maybe … Big, clumsy antitank rifle slung on his back, Vaclav marched north and east, into the rising sun.
* * *
WILLI DERNEN WAS SLEEPING the sleep of the just—or at least the sleep of the bloody tired—when the French barrage started. He’d dug a little cave (a bombproof, a veteran of the last war would have called it) into the forward wall of his foxhole. Now he scrambled into the shelter like a pair of ragged claws.
Shells kept raining down: 75s, 105s, 155s. He hadn’t known the damned Frenchmen had moved so much heavy stuff into Laon. Life was full of surprises. The big blond private from Breslau could have done without this
ever
wants to move up. The bastards in
Feldgrau
have guns, you know.” The way he pronounced the German word said he could
sprechen Deutsch
, as Vaclav could.
“Best way I can see to throw the Germans out of Czechoslovakia is to start by throwing ’em out of France,” Vaclav said.
“Well, when you put it like that …” Sergeant Halévy rubbed the side of his jaw. “Tell you what. Talk to your Czechs—see what they think. I’ll go chin with a couple of French captains I know, find out if they’ll go with it.”
Jezek found his countrymen had as many opinions as soldiers. That didn’t faze him; as far as he was concerned, Germans were the ones who marched and thought in lockstep. But most of the Czechs were ready to give the enemy one in the slats as long as the odds seemed decent. “I don’t want to stick my arm in the meat grinder, that’s all,” one of them said.
“Ano, ano
. Sure,” Vaclav said. “If there’s a chance, though … Let’s see what the Jew tells me.”
Halévy came over to the Czechs’ tents a couple of hours later. “The French officers say they want to wait two days,” he reported.
“How come?” Vaclav asked. “We’re ready now, dammit.”
“They say they really are bringing stuff up to Laon,” the sergeant replied.
“Yeah. And then you wake up,” Vaclav said.
Halévy spread his hands. “Do you want to attack without any French support?”
“Well … no,” Vaclav admitted. No artillery, no flank cover—sure as hell, that was sticking your arm in the grinder.
“There you are, then,” Halévy said.
“Uh-huh. Here I am. Here we are: stuck,” Vaclav said. “I’ll believe your captains when I see the stuff.”
“Between you, me, and the wall, that’s what I told ’em, too,” the Jew said.
But trains rolled into Laon after the sun went down. Rattles and rumbles and clanks declared that tanks were coming off of them. When morning rolled round again, some of the metal monsters sat under trees, while camouflage nets hid—Vaclav hoped—the rest from prying German eyes.
He asked, “Now that they’re here, why don’t we attack today instead of waiting till tomorrow?”
Benjamin Halévy shrugged a very French shrug. “If I knew, I would tell you. Even going tomorrow is better than retreating.”
“I suppose so,” Vaclav said darkly. “But if we attack today, maybe we’ll still be advancing tomorrow. If we don’t go till tomorrow, we’ve got a better chance of retreating the day after.”
“I’m a sergeant,” Halévy said. “What do you want me to do about it?”
Vaclav had no answer for that. A corporal himself, he knew how much depended on officers’ caprices. “Tomorrow, then.” If he didn’t sound enthusiastic, it was only because he wasn’t.
The French dignitaries with the power to bind and loose set the attack for 0430: sunup, more or less. The Germans would be silhouetted against a bright sky for a while. That would help—not much, but a little.
At 0400, big guns in back of Laon started bellowing: more big guns than Vaclav had thought the French had in the neighborhood. Maybe they’d moved those up the day before, too. If they had, maybe they’d had good reason to delay the attack till now. Maybe, maybe, maybe … Big, clumsy antitank rifle slung on his back, Vaclav marched north and east, into the rising sun.
* * *
WILLI DERNEN WAS SLEEPING the sleep of the just—or at least the sleep of the bloody tired—when the French barrage started. He’d dug a little cave (a bombproof, a veteran of the last war would have called it) into the forward wall of his foxhole. Now he scrambled into the shelter like a pair of ragged claws.
Shells kept raining down: 75s, 105s, 155s. He hadn’t known the damned Frenchmen had moved so much heavy stuff into Laon. Life was full of surprises. The big blond private from Breslau could have done without this
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