The War That Came Early: West and East (47 page)

After a few days, Puttkamer said, “Well, kid, let’s find out how you do.” After dark, he led Willi out to a shell hole that had a shattered door splayed half across it. “Get under there. Whatever you do, don’t move where they can see you till tomorrow night—and they won’t see you then, either. Wait. When you get a target, service it. Need to know anything else?”

“Don’t think so,” Willi answered. Puttkamer set a hand on his shoulder, then silently crawled away.

Willi slithered under the scarred door and went to sleep. When he woke up, the sun had risen behind him. Hidden by shadows, he ate black bread with liver paste on it. He looked through his binoculars. It was getting on toward noon when he spotted a Frenchman in a kepi striding along importantly half a kilometer behind the enemy line.

Slowly, slowly, he moved the Mauser into position and picked up the Frenchman in the telescopic sight. He made sure nothing was out in the sunlight to give him away. Pierre or Gaston or whoever he was seemed
not to have a care in the world. Willi took a deep breath. He let it out. He pulled the trigger—gently, as if with a lover’s caress.

The Mauser kicked: not too hard, since it was pressed tight against his shoulder. The magnified Frenchman in the sight took another step. Then he fell over. Willi didn’t move. He didn’t shout or whoop or even light a cigarette. All the same, he knew he’d just joined the club.

That night, two men brought what was left of Marcus Puttkamer back in a shelter half. From the neck up, he pretty much wasn’t there. The bullet that killed him must have caught him right under the chin and blown off most of his head. He looked worse than Sergeant Fegelein had, which wasn’t easy. Willi realized his new club had higher dues than he wanted to pay.

A STUKA SCREAMED DOWN
out of the hazy, gray-blue sky. Staff Sergeant Alistair Walsh fired a couple of shots at it. He knew that was long odds, but he did it anyhow. What did he have to lose?

Bombs fell from the dive-bomber. It leveled off only a couple of hundred yards above the machine-gun nest it was attacking, then roared away. Sandbags, the gun and tripod, and bodies and pieces of bodies arced through the air.

“Hell,” Walsh muttered. “Bloody fucking hell. This is where I came in.”

When the German blow fell in the west the winter before, the
Luftwaffe
had had things all its own way for a while. In France, it didn’t any more; the RAF and the French were making the Fritzes pay for everything they got there. But that was France. Here in Norway, the deck still seemed stacked in the Nazis’ favor.

Before the Germans jumped them, the Norwegians hadn’t had much of an air force of their own. They flew Italian Caproni bombers, Dutch Fokker monoplane fighters, and English Gloster Gladiators: biplanes outdated by both Hurricanes and Spitfires. They didn’t fly very many of any of them. The
Luftwaffe
could reach this part of Norway from newly occupied Denmark, and from airfields captured farther south in the country: Oslo was firmly in German hands.

More Stukas dove, their sirens wailing like damned souls. More British strongpoints in front of Trondheim went up in smoke and fire. The
Stukas flew away. They’d bomb up again, maybe refuel, and pretty soon they’d come back to blow up more of the defenses around the town.

Somewhere out to sea, there was supposed to be a Royal Navy carrier. The planes that took off from its flight deck might help till England and France could bring in land-based fighters. Then again, they might not. Walsh had seen a Stuka outrun an English Skua. The lumbering German dive bombers couldn’t get out of their own way. What did that say about the poor miserable Skua? Nothing good, surely.

Jock pointed south. “Are those bloody fucking German tanks?” the Yorkshireman asked.

Walsh looked, too. Safe enough: no German foot soldiers close yet. How long would that last, though? Not long enough, plainly. “Afraid they are, chum,” the NCO said.

“Well, what do we do about them?” Jock pressed.

The ideal answer would have been
Turn our own tanks loose on them
. Walsh saw no English, French, or Norwegian tanks. He wasn’t sure there were any Norwegian tanks to see. There were a few Bren-gun carriers: tankettes, some people called them. They carried two men and a machine gun, and were well enough armored to keep out rifle bullets. If the other side had no tanks at all, tankettes were world-beaters. If, on the other hand, they ran up against real armor, they were doomed. And those were real tanks coming. Not first-rate real tanks, maybe: Panzer IIs, or perhaps captured Czech models. Anything that mounted a cannon was plenty to put paid to a Bren-gun carrier.

Thrushes chirped among the tussocks. Fieldfares, wheatears: birds of the far north. One of them plucked a worm from the newly turned dirt in a bomb crater and swallowed it. Walsh laughed in spite of himself. Sure as hell, it was an ill wind that blew no one any good.

An officer had some field glasses. After staring through them, he said, “Those are Czech T-35s.”

Wonderful
, Walsh thought.
Always good to know what’s about to do you in
. Before long, he saw that the young lieutenant was right. The Czech machines were bigger than Panzer IIs. Their road wheels were much bigger. And they carried bigger cannon: 37mm against the German tanks’ 20mm guns.

The men in the Bren-gun carriers had guts. They rattled out ahead of the position the Tommies,
poilus
, and squareheads were manning. They would stop the German tanks if they could. Trouble was, Walsh knew too damn well they couldn’t. He also knew they knew they couldn’t.

Somewhere along the line, there were said to be a couple of antitank cannon. Walsh had no idea where they were. They weren’t anywhere close by, so they were unlikely to make any difference in the upcoming fight. His hand shook when he lit a Navy Cut. Nothing was likely to make any difference in the upcoming fight.

Jock’s thoughts were running on a similarly gloomy track. “We need the bloody fucking cavalry riding in to chase off the bloody fucking Indians, is what we need,” he said.

“Too right we do,” Walsh agreed. “This isn’t what they call a Hollywood ending. Wrong bloody side is winning.”

For some little while, he paid no attention to the rising buzz in the air. If he noticed it at all, he assumed it came from more
Luftwaffe
aircraft. But it didn’t. Damned if those weren’t Skuas, winging in from off the ocean. They could carry bombs as well as chasing planes faster than they were. Whatever bad things you could say about the Blackburn Skua—and you could say plenty—it was, by God, faster than a tank.

Walsh pointed into the sky. “It’s the bloody fucking cavalry!”

Jock stared. A grin as big as all outdoors slowly plastered itself across his face. “Well, up me arse if it ain’t, Sarge!”

Doing their best impression of Stukas, the English fighter-bombers dove on the advancing tanks. They dropped their bombs. Then they climbed and dove again; their machine guns chattered as they shot up the Fritzes moving forward with the tanks.

“That’ll scramble ’em!” Jock said exultantly.

“It will!” Walsh said. That kind of treatment had scrambled English and French troops often enough—no, too bloody often.

But the Germans, unlike their Allied counterparts, didn’t stay scrambled long. With what might have passed for majestic deliberation, the Skuas climbed and dove yet again, and then one more time still. That last pass proved one too many. Majestic deliberation turned out to be only a synonym for too goddamn slow.

Messerschmitts roaring up from the south tore into the Skuas. The English planes streaked back toward the carrier that had launched them. It was, unfortunately, a slow streak, at least by the standards the 109s were used to. Wolves killing sheep could have had no easier time than the German fighters. One Skua after another tumbled out of the sky in smoking, flaming ruin. A couple of parachutes opened, but only a couple. Walsh reminded himself that each English plane carried not one but two highly trained young men.

Quietly, Jock said, “That’s murder, is what that is.”

Walsh nodded. “Nothing else but. Whoever expected them to be able to fight in those sorry machines ought to come up on charges. They haven’t got a chance.”

“Like Bren-gun carriers against proper tanks, ain’t it?” Jock said.

“It’s
just
like that, by God,” Walsh answered. “How the bleeding hell are we supposed to fight a war if the equipment they give us is ten years behind what the Nazis have?”

“Isn’t that what they call muddling through?”

“That’s what they call fucking up,” Walsh said savagely. In the last war, the Germans had said their English counterparts were lions commanded by donkeys. Some things didn’t change from one generation to the next.

More German planes appeared overhead: broad-winged He-111s and the skinny Do-17s that Englishmen and Germans both called Flying Pencils. The level bombers ignored the troops outside of Trondheim. They started pounding the docks. Thick black clouds of smoke rose. Walsh wondered what was burning. The town? Or the ships that kept the defenders supplied? Which would be worse? The ships, Walsh judged. You couldn’t keep fighting without munitions.

Or, for that matter, without food. Maybe you could live off the land in summertime, but summer in this part of Norway was only a hiccup in the cold. The Fritzes could bring things up from the south. The defenders had to do it by sea … if they could.

A Heinkel spun toward the ground, flame licking across its left wing. It blew up with a hell of a bang: it hadn’t got rid of its bombs. Several Tommies cheered. Walsh wasn’t sorry to watch the bugger crash, either—not half!—but how much difference would it make? Any at all?

Chapter 20

W
hy this is hell, nor am I out of it
.

What the devil was that from? For the life of her, Peggy Druce couldn’t remember. She’d studied way too much literature in college, but how much good did it do her? She could remember the quote, but not the source. Her professors would have frowned severely.

Well, tough shit
, she thought. Even if she couldn’t remember who’d written the line, it fit her all too well. The Nazis had even extended their hell to keep her in it. She’d thought getting into Denmark meant escaping. Sadly, just because you thought something didn’t make it so.

No more flights from Copenhagen to London. No more ships plying the North Sea from Denmark to England, either. The Nazis were acting as mildly as anybody could after invading and overrunning the country next door. They loudly proclaimed that Denmark was still independent. If you listened to them, they were only protecting the Danes from invasion by England or France.

If.

Had any Danes invited them to protect the country? “Not fucking
likely!” Peggy said out loud when she first thought to wonder. She was having lunch in a seaside café at the moment. Her waiter did a double take worthy of Groucho. Peggy’s cheeks heated. She’d already seen that a lot of Danes spoke English. Quite a few of them spoke it better than your average American, in fact. She couldn’t just let fly without scandalizing somebody. She left the waiter a fat tip and got out of there in a hurry.

Moments later, she wished she hadn’t. A couple of dozen Danish Fascists were parading down the street behind a Danish flag—white cross on red—with the words
FRIKORPS DANMARK
in gold where the stars would be on an American flag. She wasn’t the only person staring at the collaborators. Every country had its Fascist fringe, but now the Danish loonies enjoyed Hitler’s potent backing.

Slowly and deliberately, a tall blonde woman turned her back on the homegrown Fascists. One by one, the rest of the people on the street followed her example. Peggy was slower than most. She got a good look at the Danish would-be Nazis. By their expressions, they might have bitten into big, juicy lemons.

From behind them, somebody called out something in Danish. Peggy didn’t understand it, but the local traitors did. Their faces got even more sour. She hadn’t dreamt they could. More and more people took up the call, whatever it was. As the Fascists rounded a corner and disappeared, a helpful Dane who must have noticed Peggy’s blank look spoke a few words of English: “It means ‘Shame!’—what we shouted.”

“Good for you!” she said. If she’d known the word, she would have yelled at the goons herself.

The worst of it was, she had to deal with the Germans again. Her disappointment seemed all the crueler because she’d thought she’d escaped both Nazis and
Wehrmacht
forever. No such luck. No luck at all, as a matter of fact. The Germans might say Denmark was still independent, but the “free” Danes had no control over travel between their country and neighboring Sweden. The occupiers damn well did.

Knowing Nazi arrogance, Peggy would have expected the
Wehrmacht
to take over the royal palace and to run Denmark from it. But General Kaupitsch or his aide had better sense than that. King Christian X went right on reigning. Even his Danish bodyguard remained intact. The Germans
administered their new conquest from a drab modern office building three blocks away.