The War That Came Early: West and East

by Harry Turtledove

  People pounded Lemp on the back. “Two, skipper!” Matti bawled. “Way to go!”

  Damned if he hadn’t hit the second heavy cruiser. She was still moving, but down by the bow and slowing fast. Had he got the light cruiser, too? He waited for one more blast … waited and waited. It didn’t come. He swore under his breath. When you did well, you wanted to do better.

  With the light cruiser still among those present, he couldn’t surface. She’d slaughter him if he did. Those 155mm guns weren’t much for a surface ship to carry, but they made his lone 88mm deck gun look like a cap pistol by comparison.

  Water spouts suddenly sprang up around the less damaged English heavy cruiser. The Admiral Scheer must have seen what the U-30 had done. Now the pocket battleship was coming back to finish off her crippled foes. Hits brought gouts of smoke and fire from the damaged warship.

  The English light cruiser charged the Panzerschiff, guns blazing, doing her best to protect her wounded sisters. That was brave—even heroic. She scored hits, too. Then two rounds from the Admiral Scheer’s big guns slammed into her. She might have run headlong into a brick wall. Fire burst from her. She might almost have been broken in half.

  “Skipper, we’ve got two eels in the tubes,” the chief torpedoman reported.

  “Good job, Bruno.” Lemp hadn’t expected them for another five minutes. “We are going to approach the enemy cruiser that has stopped, and we are going to sink her.”

  “Right,” Bruno said. “They’ll put a Ritterkreuz around your neck when we get home, too.”

  They would do no such thing, and Lemp knew it. Nobody who was in the brass’ doghouse would win a Knight’s Cross. No point wishing for one or thinking he’d earned it, because he wouldn’t get it any which way. But he might get—partway—out of that damned doghouse.

  Stubborn as any Englishmen, the sailors on the halted cruiser kept firing at the Admiral Scheer even as the pocket battleship teed off on a stationary target. Then the second torpedo from the U-30 slammed into her. This one broke her back. She had listed to starboard. Now she turned turtle and sank in a couple of minutes.

  That left one Royal Navy ship still able to fight—but not for long. Even as Lemp turned toward her, a shell from the Admiral Scheer must have touched off her magazine. She went up with a roar that dwarfed the explosions from the torpedo hits.

  “Der Herr Gott im Himmel!” Lemp said, shaken in spite of himself. How many men had gone up in that blast? How many more would struggle in the Atlantic—for a little while? The U-30 couldn’t hope to pick up survivors; the boat was packed to the gills as things were. Would the Admiral Scheer?

  A question from the bosun broke into Lemp’s thoughts: “Uh, skipper, what just happened there?”

  “Oh.” Lemp remembered he was the only man in the U-boat who could see out. “That was the last British cruiser, not our ship.” More cheers rang through the pressure hull.

  He only half-heard them. If he commanded the pocket battleship, he wouldn’t stick around. The Royal Navy would know exactly where this fight took place. Every warship within a couple of thousand kilometers would be hustling this way at flank speed. If the Admiral Scheer wanted to see home again, she’d have to get out without wasting time.

  And that was just what she was doing. When Lemp turned his periscope on her, she was speeding northeast as fast as she could go. He nodded to himself. That was only sensible. The U-30 would have to run the Royal Navy’s gauntlet to get back to the Vaterland, too, but it was easier for a sub.

  Still, lingering here seemed the very worst of bad ideas. “Back to the surface,” he ordered, “and then we’ll shape course for Germany. Nobody can say we haven’t done our job this cruise.” The sailors cheered once more.

  ONE OF THE PRIVATES in Alistair Walsh’s section was reading the International Herald-Tribune with a long face. The Herald-Trib struck Walsh as annoyingly American, which didn’t keep him from reading it, too. In France, it was one of the easiest ways to get your hands on news in English. If you didn’t have a working wireless so you could hear the BBC, it was damn near the only way to get news in English.

  “What’s got you buggered up now, Jock?” Walsh said. “Something has, by the look on your mug.”

  “Damn Fritzes sank three of our ships, Sergeant,” Jock answered in his broad North Country accent. Like several other men who’d joined the company at about the same time, he was from Yorkshire.

  Walsh understood why he sounded so affronted. Everyone knew the Germans made good infantry. They’d proved that time and again. But when they took on the Royal Navy in what had been England’s element for lifetime after lifetime … That was a bit much, or more than a bit.

  Jock was still reading. “Says a fuckin’ U-boat helped their bloody pocket battleship.” For a moment, he seemed a little less irate. The Germans were good with U-boats not least because they couldn’t match up on the surface. They hadn’t in the last war, and their surface fleet was smaller this time: they’d had to start over from scratch once Hitler took over. Then Jock got mad again, mad enough to turn pink. Like a lot of Yorkshiremen, he was big and fair, which made his flush all the easier to see. “You ask me, it ain’t cricket.”

  “We use planes and tanks to help infantry,” Walsh said. “We do when we’ve got ’em, any road.”

  “That’s different,” Jock insisted. “It’s not sneaky-like, the way a submarine is.” Soobmahreen—the broad Yorkshire vowels turned the word into something that might have been found in a barn. (People who talked as if they were doing their best to sound like BBC newsreaders thought Walsh’s Welsh vowels sounded pretty funny, too. Over the years, he’d had to punch a couple of them in the nose. If they didn’t twit him too hard, though, he just ignored them.)

  “I expect we’ll sink the surface raider sooner or later, and we dealt with the U-boats in the last war. We can do it again,” Walsh said.

  “Aye—but the cost! All them drowned sailors!” Jock said. “Hundreds of men on a cruiser, and not many left alive after three went down.”

  “It’s a bastard,” Walsh agreed. It wasn’t as big a bastard as Jock thought it was, though. England had taken 50,000 casualties on the first day of the Battle of the Somme, 20,000 dead … for a few square miles of cratered, poisoned mud that weren’t worth having to begin with. Walsh hadn’t been in the army yet in 1916. If he had, he probably would have been there. And if he’d been there, he probably wouldn’t be here now.

  “We’ve got to do something about them buggers, we do,” Jock said, as if Walsh would know exactly what that something was. Maybe Jock thought he did. Common soldiers often seemed to think staff sergeants knew everything.

  Staff sergeants sometimes thought they knew everything, too. When it came to dealing with common soldiers, they did, or near enough. When it came to setting Hitler’s mustache on fire … “I’m open to suggestions,” Walsh said dryly.

  Before Jock could give him any, a German machine gun stuttered to hateful life. Things had been quiet lately. That made the short, professional bursts even scarier than they would have been otherwise. Three French machine guns started spraying the German lines a few seconds later. One of the froggies was also a professional: three rounds, pause, three rounds, pause, four rounds, pause. The other Frenchmen plainly didn’t care how many gun barrels they burned through.

  Walsh didn’t get excited about the machine guns. He and Jock weren’t out in the open. Machine guns could have kept banging away till doomsday without endangering them in the least. Then somebody threw a French grenade. Maybe a poilu saw Germans coming. Maybe he just imagined he did.

  Any which way, the bursting grenade seemed to give the Landsers a kick in the arse the French machine guns hadn’t. Something came down out of the sky with a whispering whistle and blew up with a bang much bigger than a hand grenade.

  “Oh, bugger!” Walsh said. “Down, Jock!” He dove for the dirt himself. When the damned Boches started throwing mortars around, things stopped being fun. You coul
d hide from machine guns. Not a thing you could do about mortars except pray one didn’t land in your hole.

  “I am down,” Jock answered. So he was—he was flat as a swatted fly. The smell and taste of mud filled Walsh’s mouth and nose. Mud was one of the characteristic smells of war, along with cordite, shit, and rotting meat.

  French and English mortars answered the stubby little German guns. The French 75s behind the lines started tearing up the German trenches. Naturally, the Fritzes responded in kind. Both sides pounded away with everything they had.

  “Fucking idiots!” Jock said. Fooking idjits, it came out, which made it sound all the more idiotic.

  Walsh nodded without raising his head. Some bored German lieutenant had probably told the Feldwebel heading a machine-gun crew to squeeze off a couple of belts and make the fellows in the far trenches keep their heads down. And the Feldwebel, no doubt as bored as the officer, would have answered, “Zu befehl, mein Herr!” and told the Gefreiter who actually did the work to start shooting. And the Gefreiter would have said, “Jawohl!” and done as he was told, too.

  And then, till somebody got tired of it, both sides would try their best to create hell on earth.

  Their best, these days, was much too good. Nobody’d used gas yet, not so far as Walsh knew. That was the only thing from the last war’s menu still missing in this one. Walsh peered out from behind the rubble of what had been some middle-class French family’s house till a few months—perhaps a few weeks—before. He must have looked like a helmeted, submachine-gun-carrying khaki marmot popping out of its hole to make sure no helmeted, rifle-carrying field-gray wildcats were trying to sneak up on it. He didn’t see any Germans scrambling forward. That only further convinced him the Fritzes hadn’t had anything special in mind when they opened up with the MG-34. Just because you weren’t looking for trouble didn’t mean you wouldn’t find any, of course.

  While he spotted no enemy soldiers, he did see a skinny gray-and-white cat daintily picking its way through the wreckage where it must have lived till war turned everything inside out. It paused, staring at him with eyes green as verdigris. It still wore a bell on a collar, which couldn’t have made hunting any easier. “Mrrow?” it said, and yawned, showing off needle teeth.

  How did you call a cat in French? Walsh had no idea. He did what he would have done back in Blighty: he snapped his fingers, showed the cat his open hand palm-up, and went “Puss, puss, puss!” as persuasively as he could.

  “Mrrow?” the cat said again. It might have been more suspicious if it were less hungry. It trotted toward him, stopping just out of reach. Walsh left his hand where it was. The cat stepped forward, sniffed, considered, and then rubbed against him. It started to purr. He’d passed whatever test it set him.

  “Puss, puss, puss!” Walsh said again. He ducked down—he didn’t want to give some sniper in a coal-scuttle helmet time enough to punch his ticket for him. The cat jumped into the hole with him and Jock.

  Walsh scratched it behind the ears and under the chin. Purring louder, it stropped itself against his boot. “What’ll you do with the sorry bugger?” asked Jock, he might have suddenly discovered Walsh was addicted to opium, or perhaps to unnatural vice.

  “I’ll give it something to eat. It looks like it could use a bite,” the sergeant answered. “After that? Well, who knows? If it wants to stick around for a while, I don’t mind. Why? Have you got something against cats?”

  “Don’t much fancy ’em,” Jock said. Then he shrugged. A superior’s vagaries weren’t for the likes of him to question. “However you please, though.”

  “Let’s see what it thinks of bully beef.” Walsh opened a tin with his bayonet and put it on the ground in front of the cat.

  Jock made a face. “Bugger has to be fuckin’ starving if it’ll stuff itself on that damned monkey meat.”

  Walsh smiled. Monkey meat was a straight translation of singe: what the Frenchies called tinned beef. Walsh wondered whether Jock knew that. He would have bet against it; even English often seemed a foreign language to the Yorkshireman.

  As for the cat, it didn’t care what you called the meat. It advanced, sniffed, and fell to without the slightest trace of feline fussiness. As it ate, it purred much louder than it had while Walsh scratched it. The tin held four ounces. By the way the cat emptied it, the beast might have disposed of four pounds of monkey meat just as eagerly.

  “It must be hungry,” said Walsh, whose opinion of bully beef was no higher than Jock’s—or anyone else’s.

  After it had emptied the tin and got the inside shiny clean, the cat licked its chops. It licked its left front paw and meticulously washed its face. Then it cocked a hind leg in the air and started licking its privates. That deep, contented purr rose once more.

  Jock gasped, half scandalized, half giggling. “Bugger me blind!” he said. “If I could do summat like that, damned if I’d go wasting my money on pussy half so often.”

  “You don’t think you’re wasting it while you spend it,” Walsh said—it wasn’t as if the same thing hadn’t occurred to him.

  “Too right I don’t,” Jock agreed ruefully.

  “And I think you just named the creature, too,” the staff sergeant added.

  “I did?” Jock blinked. Then he got it, and started to laugh. He squatted and stroked the cat, which accepted the courtesy with regal condescension. “Nice Pussy,” Jock said. Pussy purred.

  Chapter 10

  Hans-Ulrich Rudel and Albert Dieselhorst both eyed their Stuka, then turned to each other with identical bemused smiles. No, not quite identical, because Dieselhorst could say something Hans-Ulrich couldn’t. The sergeant not only could, he did: “Well, sir, this was your idea.”

  “I know,” Hans-Ulrich answered. When he’d taken it to the armorers and then to the engineers, he’d been convinced it was a good one. So had they. They’d been so convinced, they’d gone ahead and given him exactly what he said he wanted. Now that he saw their handiwork in the flesh, so to speak, he wasn’t so sure he wanted it any more. That said something about life; he also wasn’t sure he wanted to know just what.

  “You know what it looks like?” Dieselhorst said.

  “Tell me,” Rudel urged. “I didn’t think it looked like anything.”

  “Oh, it does.” Sergeant Dieselhorst looked at him the way a hard-bitten sergeant naturally tended to look at a minister’s son. “It looks like our plane’s got a hard-on, that’s what. Two hard-ons, in fact.”

  “It—” Rudel started to tell him it looked like no such thing. The words clogged in his throat, because the Stuka did look as if it had seen a lady airplane it fancied. Mounted under the wings, the gun pods they’d fitted had barrels that stuck out almost as far as the prop. Each pod came equipped with a sheet-metal chute for ejecting spent 37mm cartridge cases. Sighing, Hans-Ulrich said, “You’ve got a filthy mind, Albert.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Dieselhorst replied, which wasn’t at all what Rudel had wanted to hear.

  Since he hadn’t wanted to hear it, he pretended he hadn’t. “Now we get to find out how it flies with all that extra weight. It’ll be a pig in the air—you wait and see.”

  Sergeant Dieselhorst nodded, but Rudel’s forebodings didn’t faze him. Again, he wasn’t shy about explaining why: “Not to worry, sir. A Stuka’s already an airpig.” Luftschwein wasn’t really a German word, which didn’t mean Hans-Ulrich had any trouble understanding it.

  Again, Rudel wanted to tell him he was wrong. Again, he couldn’t, because Dieselhorst wasn’t. Even the biplane Czech Avias had been dangerous to Ju-87s. Over England, the Stuka was nothing but a disaster. Hans-Ulrich knew he’d been lucky to make it back to the Continent from his handful of flights against the United Kingdom. The Luftwaffe had to pick targets carefully here in France, or too many dive-bombers wouldn’t come back. For putting bombs right where you needed them, the Stuka couldn’t be beat. For reaching the target and for getting away afterwards … Hans-Ulrich had managed so far—except once
. And he and Dieselhorst were over German-held territory when they bailed out. So that didn’t count—not to him, anyhow.

  “We won’t be pigs. We’ll be wild boars,” he said. “If this works the way it’s supposed to, no panzer will be safe from us.” He paused as a new thought struck him. “Do you suppose we could use the cannon to shoot down enemy planes, too?”

  Dieselhorst gave him a crooked grin. “Don’t know, sir. I’ll tell you one thing, though—we’d only have to hit ’em once, that’s for goddamn sure.”

  He was right yet again. The weapons the engineers had chosen for panzerbusting were antiaircraft guns. Their shells were supposed to knock out planes from the ground. No doubt they could knock them out from the air as well … if they hit. As the sergeant suggested, hitting would be the tough part.

  Now that Rudel had his guns, he was wild to find out what they could do. No one tried to hold him back. Had his fellow flyers liked him better, they might have tried to restrain him from rushing out with untried weaponry. Nobody said a word. He didn’t even think anyone might have. He didn’t know how unpopular he was, and wouldn’t have cared if he had known. He had his convictions, and the courage thereof.

  As soon as he got the redone Stuka airborne, he realized he would need all the courage and conviction he could find. Sergeant Dieselhorst’s prediction that the plane would be an airpig was, if anything, optimistic. The twin cannon and their pods weighed down the Ju-87 and loused up its aerodynamics.

  “Keep your eyes peeled, Albert,” Rudel said through the speaking tube.

  “Why?” asked the veteran in the rear-facing seat. “We aren’t fast enough to run away, and we can’t maneuver for beans, either. Best chance we’ve got is if the bastards on the other side don’t spot us.”

  Yet again, Hans-Ulrich couldn’t argue even if he wished he could. He flew toward Paris. If the froggies and Englanders had massed panzers anywhere, they’d done it in front of the French capital. Rudel’s right hand tightened on the stick. Had Paris fallen the way it was supposed to, the fighting might be over by now. Wouldn’t that have knocked France out of the war? And how could England go on without a continental ally?