Lemp took a bottle of schnapps out of his desk and swallowed a good slug. He didn’t think Beilharz was trying to trap him into saying anything disloyal about the Reich ’s current leader. He didn’t think so, no, but he couldn’t be sure. After a moment, he tilted the bottle back again.
“LOOK OUT, YOU LUG. Here comes the Chimp.” Several soldiers made dice and rubles disappear as if they’d never existed.
Ivan Kuchkov wasn’t sure which one of them had used the nickname he hated so much. The sergeant hated it not least because it fit so well. He was short and squat and dark and hairy. Nobody would ever call him handsome. But he could break most men in half, and he wasn’t shy about brawling. They must have figured he couldn’t hear them.
He didn’t want to tear into all of them at once. Well, part of him did, but he knew it wasn’t a good idea. He wasn’t worried about losing; that never crossed his mind. But he might get into trouble for leaving a fair part of his section unfit to fight the Fascists.
“Come on, you needle dicks,” he growled. “We’re supposed to go out and check what those Nazi cocksuckers are up to.”
“All of us?” one of them yipped in dismay.
“Every fucking one,” Kuchkov said. He raised his voice: “Sasha! Where are you hiding your clapped-out cunt?”
“I’m here, Comrade Sergeant.” Sasha Davidov seemed to appear out of thin air. The skinny little Jew had a knack for that, as he did for most forms of self-preservation.
“Good. You take point. I’m leading these bitches out on patrol.” His wave encompassed the dejected gamblers. He didn’t have anything in particular against Davidov for being a Christ-killing kike. No—he really wanted him along, because Sasha was far and away the best point man in the company, probably in the regiment. With him out front, they all had a better chance to come back in one piece.
It was cold. The Ukraine didn’t get as cold as Russia did (Kuchkov thought with a sort of masochistic patriotism), but it got plenty cold enough. Snow crunched under Kuchkov’s valenki . He wore a snow smock over his greatcoat, and a whitewashed helmet. His mittens had slits through which he could fire his PPD-34 submachine gun at need. He held the slits closed when he didn’t need them.
The Germans, of course, would be similarly swaddled. If his patrol ran into one of theirs, things could get interesting fast, depending on who first figured out the other bunch of sad, sorry, shivering assholes belonged to the wrong side. And, of course, there were the Ukrainians, who had trouble deciding whether they hated Stalin worse than Hitler or the other way round.
Artillery rumbled off to the west. Kuchkov cocked his head to one side, listening. Yes, those were Hitlerite 105s. The shells thudded down somewhere not close enough to worry about. A few minutes later, Red Army cannon answered. “Ha!” Kuchkov said. “Let the butchers blow the balls off each other.” He hated big guns. What infantryman didn’t? You hardly ever got the chance to shoot artillerymen, but they had all kinds of chances at you.
Kuchkov had started the war as a bombardier. He’d dropped plenty on the damned gunners’ heads. The bastards had their revenge on him, though: they shot him down. He’d literally parachuted into the Red Army.
He tried to look every which way at once. You never could tell where the goddamn Germans would pop up. They weren’t as good as Russians, or even Ukrainians, when it came to coping with winters in these parts, but they were getting better. The ones who couldn’t learn got shallow graves marked by helmets hung on bayoneted rifles. Red Army men desecrated those graves whenever they ran the Fascists back a few kilometers.
“ Gruk! Gruk! Gruk! ” It was only a raven, flying along looking for dead soldiers who hadn’t got buried yet. All the Soviet soldiers aimed their weapons at it, then sheepishly lowered them once more.
Sasha shook his
“LOOK OUT, YOU LUG. Here comes the Chimp.” Several soldiers made dice and rubles disappear as if they’d never existed.
Ivan Kuchkov wasn’t sure which one of them had used the nickname he hated so much. The sergeant hated it not least because it fit so well. He was short and squat and dark and hairy. Nobody would ever call him handsome. But he could break most men in half, and he wasn’t shy about brawling. They must have figured he couldn’t hear them.
He didn’t want to tear into all of them at once. Well, part of him did, but he knew it wasn’t a good idea. He wasn’t worried about losing; that never crossed his mind. But he might get into trouble for leaving a fair part of his section unfit to fight the Fascists.
“Come on, you needle dicks,” he growled. “We’re supposed to go out and check what those Nazi cocksuckers are up to.”
“All of us?” one of them yipped in dismay.
“Every fucking one,” Kuchkov said. He raised his voice: “Sasha! Where are you hiding your clapped-out cunt?”
“I’m here, Comrade Sergeant.” Sasha Davidov seemed to appear out of thin air. The skinny little Jew had a knack for that, as he did for most forms of self-preservation.
“Good. You take point. I’m leading these bitches out on patrol.” His wave encompassed the dejected gamblers. He didn’t have anything in particular against Davidov for being a Christ-killing kike. No—he really wanted him along, because Sasha was far and away the best point man in the company, probably in the regiment. With him out front, they all had a better chance to come back in one piece.
It was cold. The Ukraine didn’t get as cold as Russia did (Kuchkov thought with a sort of masochistic patriotism), but it got plenty cold enough. Snow crunched under Kuchkov’s valenki . He wore a snow smock over his greatcoat, and a whitewashed helmet. His mittens had slits through which he could fire his PPD-34 submachine gun at need. He held the slits closed when he didn’t need them.
The Germans, of course, would be similarly swaddled. If his patrol ran into one of theirs, things could get interesting fast, depending on who first figured out the other bunch of sad, sorry, shivering assholes belonged to the wrong side. And, of course, there were the Ukrainians, who had trouble deciding whether they hated Stalin worse than Hitler or the other way round.
Artillery rumbled off to the west. Kuchkov cocked his head to one side, listening. Yes, those were Hitlerite 105s. The shells thudded down somewhere not close enough to worry about. A few minutes later, Red Army cannon answered. “Ha!” Kuchkov said. “Let the butchers blow the balls off each other.” He hated big guns. What infantryman didn’t? You hardly ever got the chance to shoot artillerymen, but they had all kinds of chances at you.
Kuchkov had started the war as a bombardier. He’d dropped plenty on the damned gunners’ heads. The bastards had their revenge on him, though: they shot him down. He’d literally parachuted into the Red Army.
He tried to look every which way at once. You never could tell where the goddamn Germans would pop up. They weren’t as good as Russians, or even Ukrainians, when it came to coping with winters in these parts, but they were getting better. The ones who couldn’t learn got shallow graves marked by helmets hung on bayoneted rifles. Red Army men desecrated those graves whenever they ran the Fascists back a few kilometers.
“ Gruk! Gruk! Gruk! ” It was only a raven, flying along looking for dead soldiers who hadn’t got buried yet. All the Soviet soldiers aimed their weapons at it, then sheepishly lowered them once more.
Sasha shook his
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