The War That Came Early: Coup d'Etat (11 page)

The Germans, by contrast, made sure almost every squad included a light machine gun. That was another way to get firepower in carload lots. German MG-34s were far more portable than their Soviet equivalents. Ivan hadn’t been a foot soldier long, but he already hated
them.

Snatching up his own PPD, he ran for the edge of the woods. Shells kept falling, but you did what you had to do. The artillery might get him. If the Nazis made it in among the trees, he was a dead man for sure.

As soon as he saw figures in whitewashed coal-scuttle helmets running toward him, he threw himself down behind a tree and started shooting. The Nazis were pros. They flattened out.
Most of them had snow smocks or bedsheets for camouflage, though a few wore only their field-gray greatcoats and stood out like lumps of coal.

Two Germans served an MG-34. Ivan burned through most of his big drum magazine before he took them out, but he made damn sure he did. Without that monster supporting them, the Fritzes lost enthusiasm for the attack across open ground. Sullenly, in good
order, they drew back. Ivan’s sigh of relief filled the air in front of him with fog. His number wasn’t up … this time.

Chapter 5

B
enjamin Halévy had all the answers. He was a Frenchman and a Jew, so he sure thought he did, anyhow. “Marshal Sanjurjo inspects the Madrid front every so often,” he said. “The Nationalists still don’t realize everything your elephant gun can do. Put a round through his giblets at a kilometer and a half
and watch the assholes on the other side thrash like a chicken after it gets one in the neck from the farmer’s wife.”

“You make it sound so easy.” Vaclav Jezek eyed his cigarette with distaste. Spanish tobacco was even harsher than French. Every drag sandpapered his throat. The only thing worse would be no tobacco at all. This was a misfortune. That would be a catastrophe.

“You’ve done it before,”
Halévy said. “You just have to be in the right place at the right time, that’s all.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Jezek repeated, even more dryly than before. Like so many things, sniping had to look simple to people who didn’t do it. The positioning, the concealment, the waiting, the shot … Everything had to go perfectly, or you wasted a bullet. More likely, you never got your shot off. Or else
some canny bastard on the other side,
somebody who was better or luckier than you were at that particular moment, blew out the side of your head.

“Well, think about it,” the Jew told him. “I’m starting to get connections, and sometimes they hear things from the other side. If you punch Sanjurjo’s ticket, the Republic will pin so many medals on you, you’ll look like a Fascist general.”

“I think
I’d rather get laid,” Vaclav said. Halévy laughed. Vaclav sent him a sour stare. “And how are you getting connections? You don’t speak Spanish.”

“No, but if people here speak any foreign language, they speak French.” Halévy made it sound natural and easy.

It probably was, for him. Vaclav grunted, pinched out the cigarette’s coal, and stowed the little butt in a tobacco pouch. Waste not, want
not. A Jew would land on his feet anywhere—even in Spain, evidently.

Somebody on the other side fired a rifle. The bullet whined high over the Republican line. It would come down somewhere, but long odds it would hurt anybody when it did. A lot of shots fired in war were like that. You wanted to get the other guys, but you didn’t want them to get you. So you fired without sticking your head up
to see what you were doing. You made them keep their heads down, anyway.

More often than not, the Czechs and Internationals holding this stretch of the line would have ignored such a wild round. But guys here must have been jumpy, because two rifles in quick succession answered the Fascist shot.

That spooked Sanjurjo’s men. Vaclav couldn’t imagine what they were thinking. That the veterans on
the other side would swarm out of the trenches and charge them? They had to be nuts to believe anything like that.

Nuts or not, more of them fired back. Bullets started snapping past, much closer to the trenches. You didn’t want to stick your head up over the parapet, or you’d stop one with your nose. Halévy chambered a round in his rifle. “I didn’t much want a firefight, but …” He shrugged.
War wasn’t about what you wanted. It was about what you got stuck with.

Along with the antitank rifle, Vaclav carried a pistol to defend himself at close range. The big piece was no good for work like that. Neither
weapon was much use in a fight like this. Machine guns on both sides started yammering. Vaclav realized what a long way from home he was. But he didn’t want to be back in Prague, not
with the Nazis’ swastika flying over it.

Mortar bombs whispered when they came down. The first couple burst a few bays over from the sniper and the Jewish sergeant. Vaclav had dug a bombproof into the forward edge of the trench, with some help from Halévy. They’d reinforced it with bits and pieces of wood scavenged here, there, and everywhere. Both men dove into it now.

If a mortar round burst
right behind them, even the bombproof wouldn’t help. Vaclav wished such thoughts wouldn’t cross his mind. They just made this business even more horrible than it would be otherwise.

“What if they try to rush us?” Halévy yelled through the din.

“What if they do?” Vaclav returned. “The machine guns will slaughter them, that’s what.” The machine guns had heavily protected nests. Even a direct hit
from a mortar bomb might not take one out. An ordinary soldier who got up on the firing step, though, was asking to get murdered.

Before the war started, Jezek had figured Jews for cowards. He’d got over that. The ones in the Czechoslovakian army hated Hitler even more than Czechs did, which was saying something. They made up a disproportionate number of the men who served under the government-in-exile.
And Benjamin Halévy held up his end of the bargain as well as anyone could want.

Vaclav still didn’t like Jews. He saw no reason why he should. But he wasn’t dumb enough to disbelieve what he saw with his own eyes. Jews weren’t yellow, or no more yellow than anybody else.

Little by little, the firefight ebbed. There was no particular reason for that, any more than there had been for its start.
Combat wasn’t always rational. Not even a goddamn German General Staff officer with a volume of Clausewitz under his arm could deny that.

Wounded men moaned or shrieked, depending on how badly they were hurt. Off in the distance, the same sounds rose from the Nationalists’ positions. Suffering had a universal language.

Stretcher-bearers hustled wounded Republican fighters to aid stations
behind
the lines. If the men got there alive, they had a pretty good chance to stay that way. To his surprise, Vaclav had discovered that they knew far more about giving blood transfusions in the field here than they had in either Czechoslovakia or France.

He crawled out of the bombproof and dusted himself off. The stink of shit hung in the air. Maybe it came from men killed on the spot, maybe from
men scared past endurance. He’d fouled himself a time or two. He wasn’t proud of it—who would be? But he wasn’t anywhere near so ashamed as he had been when it happened. He wasn’t the only one it had happened to—nowhere near, in fact. It was just one of those things.

Sergeant Halévy came out, too. “Such fun,” he said.

“Fun,” Vaclav echoed in a hollow voice. “Right.”

“If Sanjurjo were watching
the football game right now—” Halévy said.

“Then what?” Vaclav broke in. “I’d have to spot him. I’d have to know he was there to spot in the first place. He’d have to be somewhere the rifle could reach. I’d have to be somewhere I could shoot from. And I’d have to hit him when I did. Snipers never talk about all the times they miss, you know. So why don’t you give it a rest, huh?”

“All right,”
Halévy said. “But Sanjurjo does come right up to the front line to see what’s going on. Whatever else you can say about the miserable fat turd, he’s no coward.”

“Oh, joy,” Jezek answered. Men who hadn’t seen action always figured the miserable turds on the other side wouldn’t show courage. But he’d seen that the Nazis were as brave as Czechs or Frenchmen or Tommies. No one here in Spain had ever
accused the Nationalists of lacking balls. Brains, yes, but brains weren’t the same thing. Not even close.

“I’m just telling you it’s not impossible you’ll get a shot at him, that’s all.” Halévy wouldn’t leave it alone.

“And I’m just telling you it’s not impossible monkeys’ll fly out my ass next time I fart, but I’m not gonna wait around till they do,” Jezek retorted irritably.

He couldn’t
faze the Jew. “With all the
singe
we’ve both eaten, it wouldn’t surprise me one damn bit,” Halévy said.
Singe
was what the French called the tinned beef they got from Argentina. It meant monkey
meat. Vaclav had never eaten real monkey, so he couldn’t say how much
singe
tasted like it. He was sure nobody in his right mind would eat the stuff if he didn’t have to.

He did say, “That Spam the Americans
ship over is a hell of a lot better.”

“You’re right.” Halévy grinned and made as if to lick his chops. “It sure is.”

“It’s pork,” Vaclav reminded him, not without malice.

“You’re right,” Halévy agreed once more. “It sure is.” Vaclav thought that over, then shrugged. He wasn’t a perfect Christian. Why should he expect the French sergeant to make a perfect Jew?

SURABAYA
,
on the north coast of
Java, was even hotter and muggier than Manila. Pete McGill hadn’t dreamt any place could be, hell included, but there you were. And here he was, with the
Boise
, thanking the Lord the Japs hadn’t sunk the light cruiser before she got here.

Joe Orsatti had an answer for the weather. Joe Orsatti, Pete was discovering, had an answer for everything. Sometimes he had a good one; sometimes he was full
of crap. But the other Marine always liked to hear himself talk.

“We’re on the other side of the Equator now,” he said. “So it’s summer here, not winter. No wonder it’s so fucking sticky.”

“We aren’t more than a long piss on the other side of the Equator,” Pete pointed out. “Looks to me like it’d be this way all the fuckin’ time here.”

“Maybe that’s what makes the local wogs so jumpy,” Orsatti
said. “Shit, if I had to live in a steam bath the goddamn year around, you can bet your sorry ass I’d be mean, too.”

“Who says you aren’t?” Pete thought that was one of Joe’s crappy answers.

The Javanese didn’t look a whole lot different from Filipinos, at least to American eyes. They were small and slight and brown. When they talked among themselves, their jibber-jabber sounded pretty much
the same as the Filipinos’, too.

But a lot of Filipinos knew English, and some of the ones who didn’t
knew Spanish instead. If a Javanese spoke any European language, he spoke Dutch. And, to Pete’s way of thinking, that was a big part of the problem right there.

When the United States took the Philippines from Spain, it was with the notion that eventually the islands would turn into a country
of their own. (That was how Pete had heard it, anyway. Americans tended to forget they’d fought a nasty little war against Filipinos who wanted a country of their own right away.)

Holland, by contrast, didn’t want to turn the Dutch East Indies loose. As long as Dutch forces in the Indies were strong enough to squash revolts, the locals put up with being ruled by a little country halfway around
the world. They might not like it, but they put up with it.

Now, suddenly, all that was tottering. The Japs were on the way. They weren’t white men. They were little and kind of brown themselves. They’d made the
Boise
bail out of Manila Bay like a cat running from a big, mean dog. They had troops on the ground in the Philippines now. And they were heading this way, because they were desperately
hungry for the oil and tin and rubber the Dutch East Indies and British Malaya had in such abundance.

And it didn’t look as if the Dutch—or the Americans, or the British, or the Australians—would be able to stop them. Against what Japan could throw into the fight, the white powers didn’t have enough troops or ships or planes, and what they did have wasn’t good enough.

Pete could see that. He
wouldn’t have been in Surabaya if the Americans could have hung on in Manila. If he could see it, didn’t it stand to reason the Javanese could, too? If they figured the Japs were going to set them free or take them over, why did they have to kowtow to white men any more?

How many of them listened to Japanese propaganda on the radio every chance they got? How many were quietly helping the invaders?
Pete had no way to know stuff like that. He did know the
Boise
’s skipper had put even the harborside dives off limits for the ship’s crew. They were officially judged unsafe, and not just because the local joy girls would give you the clap. The Dutch, who were supposed to run this town, wouldn’t go through the streets in groups smaller than squadsized.
If they did, they were much too likely to
get their heads smashed with a brick or their throats slit.