Counting Up, Counting Down

by Harry Turtledove

  He expected the first brush with the Wehrmacht to take place outside of Zaporozhye, and so it did. The Germans patrolled east of the city: no denying they were technically competent soldiers. Tolbukhin wished they were less able; that would have spared the USSR endless grief.

  A voice came out of the night: “Wer geht hier?” A hail of rifle and submachine-gun bullets answered that German hail. Tolbukhin hoped his men wiped out the patrol before the Nazis could use their wireless set. When the Germans stopped shooting back, which took only moments, the Eighth Guards Army rolled on.

  Less than ten minutes later, planes rolled out of the west. Along with the soldiers in the first ranks, Tolbukhin threw himself flat. He ground his teeth and cursed under his breath. Had that patrol got a signal out after all? He hoped it was not so. Had prayer been part of his ideology, he would have prayed it was not so. If the Germans learned of the assault too soon, they could blunt it with artillery and rockets at minimal cost to themselves.

  The planes—Tolbukhin recognized the silhouettes of Focke-Wulf 190s—zoomed away. They dropped neither bombs nor flares, and did not strafe the men of the Fourth Ukrainian Front. Tolbukhin scrambled to his feet. “Onward!” he called.

  Onward the men went. Tolbukhin felt a glow of pride. After so much war, after so much heartbreak, they still retained their revolutionary spirit. “Truly, these are the New Soviet Men,” he called to Khrushchev.

  A middle-aged Soviet man, the political commissar nodded. “We shall never rest until we drive the last of the German invaders from our soil. As Comrade Stalin said, ‘Not one step back!’ Once the fascists are gone, we shall rebuild this land to our hearts’ desire.”

  Tolbukhin’s heart’s desire was piles of dead Germans in field-gray uniforms, clouds of flies swarming over their stinking bodies. And he had achieved his heart’s desire many times. But however many Nazis the men under his command killed, more kept coming out of the west. It hardly seemed fair.

  Ahead loomed the apartment blocks and factories of Zaporozhye, black against the dark night sky. German patrols enforced their blackout by shooting into lighted windows. If they hit a Russian mother or a sleeping child . . . it bothered them not in the least. Maybe they won promotion for it.

  “Kuznetsov,” Tolbukhin called through the night.

  “Yes, Comrade General?” the commander of the Eighth Guards Army asked.

  “Lead the First and Second Divisions by way of Tregubenko Boulevard,” Tolbukhin said. “I will take the Fifth and Ninth Divisions farther south, by way of Metallurgov Street. Thus we will converge upon the objective.”

  “I serve the Soviet Union!” Kuznetsov said.

  Zaporozhye had already been fought over a good many times. As Tolbukhin got into the outskirts of the Ukrainian city, he saw the gaps bombs and shellfire had torn in the buildings. People still lived in those battered blocks of flats and still labored in those factories under German guns.

  In the doorway to one of those apartment blocks, a tall, thin man in the field-gray tunic and trousers of the Wehrmacht was kissing and feeling up a blond woman whose overalls said she was a factory worker. A factory worker supplementing her income as a Nazi whore, Tolbukhin thought coldly.

  At the sound of booted feet running on Metallurgov Street, the German soldier broke away from the Ukrainian woman. He shouted something. Submachine-gun fire from the advancing Soviet troops cut him down. The woman fell, too, fell and fell screaming. Khrushchev stopped beside her and shot her in the back of the neck. The screams cut off.

  “Well done, Nikita Sergeyevich,” Tolbukhin said.

  “I’ve given plenty of traitors what they deserve,” Khrushchev answered. “I know how. And it’s always a pleasure.”

  “Yes,” Tolbukhin said: of course a commissar would see a traitor where he saw a whore. “We’ll have to move faster now, though; the racket will draw the fascists. Nichevo. We’d have bumped into another Nazi patrol in a minute or two, anyway.”

  One thing the racket did not do was bring people out of their flats to join the Eighth Guards Army in the fight against the fascist occupiers. As the soldiers ran, they shouted, “Citizens of Zaporozhye, the hour of liberation is at hand!” But the city had seen a lot of war. Civilians left here were no doubt cowering under their beds, hoping no stray bullets from either Soviet or German guns would find them.

  “Scouts forward!” Tolbukhin shouted as his men turned south from Metallurgov onto Pravdy Street. They were getting close to their objective. The fascists surely had guards in the area—but where? Finding them before they set eyes on the men of the Eighth Guards Army could make the difference between triumph and disaster.

  Then the hammering of gunfire broke out to the south. Khrushchev laughed out loud. “The Nazis will think they are engaging the whole of our force, Fedor Ivanovich,” he said joyfully. “For who would think even the Phantom dared divide his men so?”

  Tolbukhin ran on behind the scouts. The Nazis were indeed pulling soldiers to the south to fight the fire there, and didn’t discover they were between two fires till the Eighth Guards Army and, moments later, the men of the Fifth Shock Army and the 51st Army opened up on them as well. How the Hitlerites howled!

  Ahead of him, a German machine gun snarled death—till grenades put the men handling it out of action. Then, a moment later, it started up again, this time with Red Army soldiers feeding it and handling the trigger. Tolbukhin whooped with glee. An MG-42 was a powerful weapon. Turning it on its makers carried the sweetness of poetic justice.

  One of his soldiers pointed and shouted: “The objective! The armory! And look, Comrade General! Some of our men are already inside. We have succeeded.”

  “We have not succeeded yet,” Tolbukhin answered. “We will have succeeded only when we have done what we came here to do.” He raised his voice to a great shout: “Form a perimeter around the building. Exploitation teams, forward! You know your assignments.”

  “Remember, soldiers of the Soviet Union, the motherland depends on your courage and discipline,” Khrushchev added.

  As Tolbukhin had planned, the perimeter force around the Nazi armory was as small as possible; the exploitation force, made up of teams from each army of the Fourth Ukrainian Front, as large. Tolbukhin went into the armory with the exploitation force. Its mission here was by far the most important for the strike against Zaporozhye.

  Inside the armory, German efficiency came to the aid of the Soviet Union. The Nazis had arranged weapons and ammunition so their own troops could lay hold of whatever they needed as quickly as possible. The men of the Red Army happily seized rifles and submachine guns and the ammunition that went with each. They also laid hands on a couple of more MG-42s. If they could get those out of the city, the fascists would regret it whenever they tried driving down a road for a hundred kilometers around.

  “When you’re loaded up, get out!” Tolbukhin shouted. “Pretty soon, the Nazis will hit us with everything they’ve got.” He did not disdain slinging a German rifle on his back and loading his pockets with clips of ammunition.

  “We have routed them, Fedor Ivanovich,” Khrushchev said. When Tolbukhin did not reply, the political commissar added, “A million rubles for your thoughts, Comrade General.”

  Before the war, the equivalent sum would have been a kopeck. Of course, before the war Tolbukhin would not have called the understrength regiment he led a front. Companies would not have been styled armies, nor sections divisions. “Inflation is everywhere,” he murmured, and then spoke to Khrushchev: “As long as you came in, Nikita Sergeyevich, load up, and then we’ll break away if we can, if the Germans let us.”

  Khrushchev affected an injured look. “Am I then only a beast of burden, Fedor Ivanovich?”

  “We are all only beasts of burden in the building of true Communism,” Tolbukhin replied, relishing the chance to get off one of those sententious bromides at the political commissar’s expense. He went on, “I am not too proud to load myself like a beast of burden. Why should
you be?”

  Khrushchev flushed and glared furiously. In earlier days—in happier days, though Tolbukhin would not have thought so at the time—upbraiding a political commissar would surely have caused a denunciation to go winging its way up through the Party hierarchy, perhaps all the way up to Stalin himself. So many good men had disappeared in the purges that turned the USSR upside down and inside out between 1936 and 1938: Tukhashevsky and Koniev, Yegorov and Blyukher, Zhukov and Uborevich, Gamarnik and Fedko. Was it any wonder the Red Army had fallen to pieces when the Nazis attacked in May 1941?

  And now, in 1947, Khrushchev was as high-ranking a political commissar as remained among the living. To whom could he denounce Tolbukhin? No one, and he knew it. However furious he was, he started filling his pockets with magazines of Mauser and Schmeisser rounds.

  Sometimes, Tolbukhin wondered why he persisted in the fight against the fascists when the system he served, even in its tattered remnants, was so onerous. The answer was not hard to find. For one thing, he understood the difference between bad and worse. And, for another, he’d been of general’s rank when the Hitlerites invaded the motherland. If they caught him, they would liquidate him—their methods in the Soviet Union made even Stalin’s seem mild by comparison. If he kept fighting, he might possibly—just possibly—succeed.

  Khrushchev clanked when turning back to him. The tubby little political commissar was still glaring. “I am ready, Fedor Ivanovich,” he said. “I hope you are satisfied.”

  “Da,” Tolbukhin said. He hadn’t been satisfied since Moscow and Leningrad fell, but Khrushchev couldn’t do anything about that. Tolbukhin pulled from his pocket an officer’s whistle and blew a long, furious blast. “Soldiers of the Red Army, we have achieved our objective!” he shouted in a great voice. “Now we complete the mission by making our departure!”

  He was none too soon. Outside, the fascists were striking heavy blows against his perimeter teams. But the fresh men coming out of the armory gave the Soviets new strength and let them blast open a corridor to the east and escape.

  Now it was every section—every division, in the grandiose language of what passed for the Red Army in the southern Ukraine these days—for itself. Inevitably, men fell as the units made their way out of Zaporozhye and onto the steppe. Tolbukhin’s heart sobbed within him each time he saw a Soviet soldier go down. Recruits were so hard to come by these days. The booty he’d gained from this raid would help there, and would also help bring some of the bandit bands prowling the steppe under the operational control of the Red Army. With more men, with more guns, he’d be able to hurt the Nazis more the next time.

  But if, before he got out of Zaporozhye, he lost all the men he had now . . . What then, Comrade General? he jeered at himself.

  Bullets cracked around him, spattering off concrete and striking blue sparks when they ricocheted from metal. He lacked the time to be afraid. He had to keep moving, keep shouting orders, keep turning back and sending another burst of submachine-gun fire at the pursuing Hitlerites.

  Then his booted feet thudded on dirt, not on asphalt or concrete any more. “Out of the city!” he cried exultantly.

  And there, not far away, Khrushchev doggedly pounded along. He had grit, did the political commissar. “Scatter!” he called to the men within the sound of his voice. “Scatter and hide your booty in the secure places. Resume the maskirovka that keeps us all alive.”

  Without camouflage, the Red Army would long since have become extinct in this part of the USSR. As things were, Tolbukhin’s raiders swam like fish through the water of the Soviet peasantry, as Mao’s Red Chinese did in their long guerrilla struggle against the imperialists of Japan.

  But Tolbukhin had little time to think about Mao, either, for the Germans were going fishing. Nazis on foot, Nazis in armored cars and personnel carriers, and even a couple of panzers came forth from Zaporozhye. At night, Tolbukhin feared the German foot soldiers more than the men in machines. Machines were easy to elude in the darkness. The infantry would be the ones who knew what they were doing.

  Still, this was not the first raid Tolbukhin had led against the Germans, nor the tenth, nor the fiftieth, either. What he did not know about rear guards and ambushes wasn’t worth knowing. His men stung the Germans again and again, stung them and then crept away. They understood the art of making many men seem few, few seem many. Little by little, they shook off pursuit.

  Tolbukhin scrambled down into a balka with Khrushchev and half a dozen men from the Eighth Guards Army, then struggled up the other side of the dry wash. They started back toward Collective Farm 122, where, when they were not raiding, they labored for their Nazi masters as they had formerly labored for their Soviet masters.

  “Wait,” Tolbukhin called to them, his voice low but urgent. “I think we still have Germans on our tail. This is the best place I can think of to make them regret it.”

  “We serve the Soviet Union!” one of the soldiers said. They returned and took cover behind bushes and stones. So did Tolbukhin. He could not have told anyone how or why he believed the fascists remained in pursuit of this little band, but he did. Instinct of the hunted, he thought.

  And the instinct did not fail him. Inside a quarter of an hour, men in coal-scuttle helmets began going down into the balka. One of them tripped, stumbled, and fell with a thud. “Those God-damned stinking Russian pigdogs,” he growled in guttural German. “They’ll pay for this. Screw me out of sack time, will they?”

  “Ja, better we should screw their women than they should screw us out of sack time,” another trooper said. “That Natasha in the soldiers’ brothel, she’s limber like she doesn’t have any bones at all.”

  “Heinrich, Klaus, shut up!” another voice hissed. “You’ve got to play the game like those Red bastards are waiting for us on the far side of this miserable gully. You don’t, your family gets a ‘Fallen for Führer and Fatherland’ telegram one fine day.” By the way the other two men fell silent, Tolbukhin concluded that fellow was a corporal or sergeant. From his hiding place, he kept an eye on the sensible Nazi. I’ll shoot you first, he thought.

  Grunting and cursing—but cursing in whispers now—the Germans started making their way up the side of the balka. Yes, there was the one who kept his mind on business. Kill enough of that kind and the rest grew less efficient. The Germans got rid of Soviet officers and commissars on the same brutal logic.

  Closer, closer . . . A submachine gun spat a great number of bullets, but was hardly a weapon of finesse or accuracy. “Fire!” Tolbukhin shouted, and blazed away. The Nazi noncom tumbled down the steep side of the wash. Some of those bullets had surely bitten him. The rest of the German squad lasted only moments longer. One of the Hitlerites lay groaning till a Red Army man went down and cut his throat. Who could guess how long he might last otherwise? Too long, maybe.

  “Now we go on home,” Tolbukhin said.

  They had practiced withdrawal from such raids many times before, and maskirovka came naturally to Soviet soldiers. They took an indirect route back to the collective farm, concealing their tracks as best they could. The Hitlerites sometimes hunted them with dogs. They knew how to deal with that, too. Whenever they came to rivulets running through the steppe, they trampled along in them for a couple of hundred meters, now going one way, now the other. A couple of them also had their canteens filled with fiery pepper-flavored vodka. They poured some on their trail every now and then; it drove the hounds frantic.

  “Waste of good vodka,” one of the soldiers grumbled.

  “If it keeps us alive, it isn’t wasted,” Tolbukhin said. “If it keeps us alive, we can always get more later.”

  “The Comrade General is right,” Khrushchev said. Where he was often too familiar with Tolbukhin, he was too formal with the men.

  This time, though, it turned out not to matter. One of the other soldiers gave the fellow who’d complained a shot in the ribs with his elbow. “Da, Volya, the Phantom is right,” he said. “The Phantom’s been right a l
ot of times, and he hasn’t hardly been wrong yet. Let’s give a cheer for the Phantom.”

  It was another soft cheer, because they weren’t quite safe yet, but a cheer nonetheless: “Urra for the Phantom Tolbukhin!”

  Maybe, Tolbukhin thought as a grin stretched itself across his face, maybe we’ll lick the Hitlerites yet, in spite of everything. He didn’t know whether he believed that or not. He knew he’d keep trying. He trotted on. Collective Farm 122 wasn’t far now.

  Deconstruction Gang

  This one was inspired by a road construction ahead freeway sign. I wondered what a road deconstruction ahead sign would mean, and how deconstruction would work if it were a real technology, not just a technique for literary analysis. Yes, it’s in second person, present tense. When writing about deconstruction, daunting narrative technique sort of comes with the territory.

  * * *

  You have your degree. You are, as the piece of thick, creamy paper they handed you attests, a doctor of philosophy in English with all the rights and privileges thereto pertaining.

  You need not have spent years studying literary theory to get to the outside of the text printed on that creamy paper, to understand what those rights and privileges thereto pertaining are: nothing.

  You have other pieces of paper, not so thick, not so creamy as your diploma, but textually similar in what they offer: nothing. You know the polite phrases so well: Thank you for your interest in the assistant professorship at the University, but . . . ; pleased to be in the position of choosing from among such a large number of highly qualified applicants; confident that with your outstanding record you will soon be able to find an appointment elsewhere; due to financial constraints, the Department will not be hiring this year.