Republic Of Whores

by Josef Skvorecky

  A great and allegedly just silence settled over the lower reaches of Old Roundtop. In that silence the moon, filtered through night mist, looked down upon the metal tanks. Inside them slept the crack soldiers of the Seventh Battalion of the Eighth Tank Division, dreaming of the free and sunny realms that would be their world in a couple of months.

  * * *

  Thus, when the jeep bearing the number of the division’s staff emerged from the pre-dawn fog, the eyes of Major Borovička — called the Pygmy Devil — encountered a tranquil and realistic picture: a landscape with tanks. There they lay like squat, overfed boars in their shallow trenches, a light early-morning breeze flirting with the tufts of grass and sparse branches stuck into them here and there. The heart of the tiny major fluttered with joy at this opportunity to assert his rank. He ordered his driver to stop. Nimbly he jumped out of the jeep and hurried up to the battalion’s highly visible staff vehicle, his legs in their brightly polished boots scissoring briskly back and forth in military fashion.

  The foot of Old Roundtop lay wrapped in a pleasant silence uninterrupted even by birdsong, since most birds lacked the discipline to wait for the Seventh Tank Battalion’s term of service to end and had irresponsibly flown south. Major Borovička walked through the dew-covered grass to the staff vehicle and, with some effort, climbed up onto the running-board of the driver’s cab. When he peered inside, a satisfied smile spread across his face. In the driver’s seat he saw Lieutenant Hospodin wrapped in an army blanket, with only his nose and a stubble-covered chin showing. The tiny major balanced on the high running-board a moment, then snorted contentedly and looked around. He wanted to jump down, but when he saw the drop — almost a metre — yawning beneath him, he lost his nerve. Gripping the door-handle firmly with his small hand, he bent his right knee until his trousers strained ominously, and felt around with his left foot for the ground. But his right foot slipped and he fell, striking his crotch on the step. He groaned weakly. For a long, painful moment he remained motionless, and then, with great effort, he pulled himself back up on the step, carefully edging around to stand with his back to the door. After considering his position, he slid his back slowly down the door until his behind met his feet. He perched there for a while, staring into the abyss, and then jumped and landed on all fours, with his hat down over his eyes. He bounded to his feet at once, regained his bearing, and, with a victorious, bloodthirsty grin, walked towards the staff door at the rear of the vehicle.

  The air inside was warm and fetid, rank with the odour of wet sheepskin, cigarette smoke, and stale beer. Captain Matka lay on a field cot, breathing the funk in deeply. He had obviously made himself at home; at one end of the bed two filthy socks peered out from under the sheepskin, and at the other end the captain’s face, weathered to a ruddy brown by the wind and sun, glowed faintly in the dark. One boot lay on the floor, the other on a map on the table under the blacked-out window.

  For a few moments the little major just stood there, savouring this heaven-sent scene. Then he drew himself up to his full height, his chest thrust forward and his buttocks sharply outlined in his tight breeches, and opened his mouth. The smiling general who was about to pin the Order of Kutuzov on Colonel Matka’s chest opened his mouth too, but instead of a eulogy, out poured a piercing voice: “Attention!” Ignoring the smoke billowing out of the shattered American tanks, Captain Matka swung his legs out of the bed and came to attention as quickly as he could manage, gaping at the general. The general’s face dissolved itself into the familiar countenance of the Pygmy Devil.

  “Comrade Captain,” said the tiny major, with diabolical menace in his voice. “The time is now oh four hundred and forty hours. Your orders are?”

  The captain swallowed. He was barely awake, and bits of his dream were still mixed with raw reality. He almost reported a stunning victory over the American armoured units, but then he remembered the written orders. Automatically he reached into the side pocket of his trousers, then realized that he should know them all by heart. Abruptly his mind cleared. It was always the same; every set of orders to come into his hands seemed like a strange, primordial variation on a basic theme: “The tank battalion will attack the hastily constructed enemy defence system.” So he replied briskly, “A state of battle readiness. I am to inspect.…” He stopped, realizing that he hadn’t inspected anything whatever. Before he could resume, the major spoke up.

  “When do we say that a tank battalion is in a state of readiness?”

  The captain gasped for air, realizing the full implications of his position: the man-eating Major Borovička had come upon him in the act of sleeping. He felt like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a hyena. Mechanically he began to recite the standing orders, as though they were the Lord’s Prayer.

  “The tank battalion is in a state of complete battle-readiness when all the vehicles and their crews are in a state of battle-readiness, that is, when all the crews are complete, and in good health, when each vehicle is supplied with the prescribed amount of ammunition, fuel, lubricants, and rations, when the gunsights are properly rectified, and.…”

  “What about boots?” shrieked the major.

  “Boots?”

  “Boots,” the little man insisted.

  “What do you mean, Comrade Major?”

  “Boots. Ordinary military boots,” said the Pygmy Devil sarcastically. Matka looked down, saw his feet shod only in socks, and felt hot shame wash over him.

  “Comrade Major,” he began, but the major interrupted him with a tirade, firing bolts of malice from his eyes.

  “What could you possibly have been thinking?” he shrieked in his castrato voice. “What is this supposed to mean? Is this how you carry out military manoeuvres? Don’t you realize that such manoeuvres are a peacetime task for the defence of your homeland? And here you are, sleeping! You will report to the division commander, is that understood?”

  “Comrade Major —” Matka began, plucking up his courage.

  “Silence! You will speak when spoken to. You’re to set an example to your men in carrying out your duties. Can you be surprised when they fail to carry out theirs? You ought to be ashamed!”

  Captain Matka was standing at rigid attention, with rage in his heart.

  In an abrupt, energetic motion, the major raised his left arm into the air and pulled off his long-shanked leather glove, revealing a large Swiss wristwatch. “It is now oh four hundred forty-eight hours. I will advance start time by ten minutes. At precisely oh five hundred and ten hours, your battalion will move out on the attack. That will be all.”

  “Yes, sir!” Matka attempted an about-turn, then realized that, since he was incompletely dressed, the move would look ridiculous. He glanced around, guiltily removed one boot from the map and the other from the floor, and began tugging them on. The Pygmy Devil couldn’t resist a final, vindictive remark:

  “If this happened in wartime, Comrade Captain, you’d be court-martialled.”

  “Yes, Comrade Major,” Matka said firmly. He thumped out of the vehicle and roared, “Private Holený, on the double!” But his bull-roar voice was swallowed up in the idyllic silence of an early Indian-summer morning.

  Major Borovička stood in the door of the staff vehicle, speaking with an icy calm.

  “Your driver isn’t here, Comrade Captain,” he cackled. It sounded like a knife scraping the bottom of a tin pot. “Obviously he’s deserted to the enemy.”

  Matka blushed, then headed in a clumsy trot towards the staff vehicle parked about fifty metres away. On the way, he thought quick, practical thoughts mixed with bursts of helpless rage aimed at the Pygmy Devil, at his own staff, and, as always, at himself — for being such an ass and giving up his soft job in the state insurance agency.

  He entered the staff vehicle like a cannonball. First Lieutenant Pinkas and First Lieutenant Růžička were bundled together under a fur coat like an odd couple. “Atten — SHUN!” shouted the captain, and before the two lieutenants could properly respond, he bega
n to carry out Major Borovička’s orders. “Do you call this a state of battle-readiness? Where are the squadron commanders? Where’s the artillery preparation? It’s now oh four hundred and fifty hours. It’s time to begin.”

  Both officers peered at him in dismay through sleep-filled eyes.

  “You haven’t heard the last of this. You will report to me after exercises. I’m advancing start time to oh five hundred and ten hours. I want to see our forces move out on the attack on the dot. Comrade First Lieutenant, summon the squadron commanders at once. And you, find me Private Holený. That will be all.”

  The officers jumped out of the staff car. The captain followed them with a rocking gait, and as he glanced towards his own vehicle he saw Lieutenant Hospodin standing at attention, being dressed down by the Pygmy Devil, who was still fuming. But he had no time to indulge his sense of mild satisfaction. He flung open the cab door, shook the driver completely awake, and dispatched him at a loping (and cursing) run towards the nearest pit, with a secret order to wake up all the tank crews at once.

  * * *

  Tank Commander Smiřický’s crew received the courier’s tidings with mistrust.

  “What about chow?” was Sergeant Žloudek’s salutation to the day of battle. He looked at his watch and added, “Jesus Christ, it’s five already. We were supposed to be on the fucking move by now!”

  From the driver’s seat where he had slept, Smiřický wormed his way past Žloudek. He sat down by the radio and pulled on his helmet. Žloudek followed him with the air of faint contempt worthy of a third-year man.

  “I’ll never get this piece of crap tuned in properly,” sighed the tank commander, desperately twirling the dial of the radio.

  “Fuck it,” said Žloudek. “You won’t get a connection worth dogshit anyway.”

  But Danny went on twirling the dial. We got some sleep and we got away with it, he thought. Even though Juraj had orders to wake me up and he didn’t. But now I’ve got to establish radio contact or there’ll be hell to pay.

  “What did I tell you, my friends?” Andělín Střevlíček said. He got to his feet on the motor casing and peered curiously through the dark towards the staff vehicles. “I’ll bet old Matka was sawing wood, and Růžička too.”

  Smiřický gave up trying to get the radio to work and pulled himself into the commander’s turret. The area around the staff vehicle was swarming with officers, and runners were rushing about in confusion. The little major was just approaching this whirlwind.

  “Lord above, Borovička’s here!”

  “Old Pygmy Devil himself?” asked Střevlíček in genuine delight. “Jesus, he’ll have the brass’s ass in a fuckin’ sling.”

  “Andělín, get inside,” said the tank commander. “I don’t want some asshole saying — you know what.”

  “Don’t worry, Danny,” said Andělín. “They can all kiss old Střevlíček’s butt.” Still, he walked slowly around the tank, then prudently crawled into the driver’s hatch. The tank commander noticed Juraj Bamza still asleep on the cool motor.

  “Juraj, damn it, get up and get inside!”

  “Fucking lay off, will you?”

  “Jesus, this is no time to screw around. Borovička’s here.”

  “Who gives a shit?” said Bamza, but he stood up, stretched, and yawned. Below Smiřický, inside the tank, Žloudek had again made himself comfortable on the ammunition boxes. The tank commander looked outside. In the commander’s turret of the neighbouring tank, about fifteen metres to his left, he could see, from the waist up, the figure of Sergeant Soudek.

  “Josef!” Danny called. “Did you manage to get radio contact?”

  “Are you kidding?” replied Sergeant-Major Soudek defiantly, in a strong Hana accent. “My radio’s buggered. To hell with it, I say.”

  Just then a runner came up. “If you haven’t got radio contact, watch the battalion commander and do what he does. The gunners are supposed to really work the guns. The Pygmy Devil’s big on artillery. We attack on red, the enemy attacks on yellow, and a green flare means the exercise is over. And fix up the camouflage, the Pygmy Devil’s coming to inspect it personally.”

  “Ours is okay,” said Bamza, and he sat down in the loader’s hatch. But he had to move aside for Žloudek’s head, which appeared underneath him.

  “What are they doing?”

  “Consulting,” said Danny.

  “The hell they are. Old Pygmy’s making them eat shit,” said the sergeant.

  * * *

  And so he was. To all the officers of the battalion, Borovička was reeling off a list of the blunders they had made during this final round of training. It was a long list. As he improvised this lecture, the Pygmy Devil was privately astonished at himself, at how systematic he was and how much he had actually learned about the art of tank warfare. Talking to the officers made him feel like a hardened front-line soldier. He was having the time of his life. He knew they all hated him, but he also saw how helpless they were to do anything about it; he was secure inside the armour of discipline and rank. There had never been anything in the world more perfect than this.

  The delight he took in browbeating the lesser officers was of an even higher order than the thrill he had felt long ago, before the Second World War, when, as Corporal Borovička, he had castigated layabouts in the quartermaster’s store. Start time had long since come and gone, and the soundest sleepers had by now crawled into their positions and were watching inquisitively while the small circle of officers stood there, being dressed down by the strutting, sputtering little cock. Even the signholders on the upper slopes of Old Roundtop, and those who represented enemy tanks concealed in the terrain farther away, were now awake and wondering why the attack hadn’t begun yet. Had they slept too soundly and missed it?

  The major kept berating the officers until it seemed he might go on until he dropped dead. One by one they were all given what for. The zealous Lieutenant Hezký felt his world collapsing. (The things he had left undone! The things he had forgotten to do!) The timid cadet officer, Sergeant-Major Sliva, was trembling with fear. The impertinent cadet officer, Dvořák, could hardly keep from laughing out loud. The apathetic Lieutenant Grünlich thought, with some distaste, about the unsatisfactory state of his growling stomach, and the unobtrusive Lieutenant Šlajs worried about the inadequate pits his squadron had made. The boorish technical officer, Lieutenant Kamen, was thinking, You can kiss my ass, you jerk, and Lieutenant Tylš, the mess officer, prayed silently that the major wouldn’t remember that his men were supposed to have brought up breakfast at oh four-thirty. He had no idea where the breakfast was.

  At last Major Borovička was through, and he invited his audience to follow him. Start time was put off until some uncertain future, and would now probably take place in broad daylight, which meant that every error and lapse as yet to be committed by the men of the Seventh Tank Battalion would be perfectly visible. The small group of officers gathered behind the little major and set off with him into the field, and a ragged salvo of metallic clangs came through the grey morning light as the hatch covers slammed shut, isolating the tank crews from the world in which, for the moment, the Pygmy Devil was giving vent to his rage.

  * * *

  The inspection party reached the first tank. It stood in a small depression with a low embankment of rocky soil around it, like the dams children build with mud to hold water back after a rain. Here and there, tufts of grass were scattered over the armour-plating.

  “Whose machine is this?” brayed the major.

  One of the squadron commanders, the unobtrusive Lieutenant Šlajs, brought his heels smartly together, thrust his chest forward, and sang out, “Mine, sir! First squadron, Seventh Battalion. Squadron Commander Lieutenant Šlajs, sir.”

  The major fixed him with a piercing look. “Have you inspected the pit yourself?”

  “Yes, Comrade Major.”

  Not a muscle moved in the Pygmy Devil’s face. “Have you checked on the adequacy of the cam
ouflage?”

  “Yes, Comrade Major.” There was a note of sadness in the lieutenant’s voice.

  The major cast his eyes over the tank, and the whole group followed suit. Lieutenant Šlajs was obviously a man of modest standards.

  Captain Matka tried to reassert his authority. “Comrade Lieutenant,” he barked, “do you call this a —”

  But the Pygmy Devil interrupted him. “Silence, Comrade Captain. I have not given you permission to speak.” He turned to the unhappy Šlajs. “And have you ascertained whether the crews in your squadron have familiarized themselves with the situation, the battle orders, and their targets?”

  Lieutenant Šlajs tried to fudge. “I’ve done spot inspections, sir.”

  “Have you, for instance, inspected the crew of this particular tank?”

  “No, Comrade Major,” Šlajs replied, still hoping to be let off the hook.

  “But you did give the required orders to the squadron commanders?”

  “Yes, Comrade Major.”

  “And you are satisfied that the squadron commanders have passed these orders on accurately to their tank commanders?”

  There was no escaping the iron logic of the military mind. In a tone of weary resignation, Šlajs replied “Yes, Comrade Major.”

  “Then please test the commander of this tank.”

  Having played his ultimate trump, the Pygmy Devil slid his hands into his pockets and waited.

  “Yes, sir,” said Lieutenant Šlajs, and, as if trying to stall for time, he stepped up to the tank. All its hatches were closed, in battle position. That was the only thing right about it, though. Not a sound came from inside the tank. It was as if no one were there, as if the machine had been abandoned.

  “Sergeant-Major Soudek!” called Lieutenant Šlajs.