“Do I look that fucking stupid?” Demange said. Luc wanted to tell him yes, but didn’t have the nerve. Sure as the devil, a sergeant who scared you more than the Boches did wasn’t the worst thing to have around. Then the veteran didn’t just surprise Luc: he flabbergasted him. He scrambled from his foxhole and scurried toward a crater a bursting 105 had dug. As soon as he got there, he called, “Somebody’s got to do it, right?”
No doubt somebody did. Luc wondered whether one of the somebodies had to be him. Regretfully, he decided he couldn’t hang back when even a cold-blooded pragmatist like Demange was advancing.
Coming up out of a hole felt like a snail shedding its shell and turning into a slug. Luc grimaced and shook his head as he ran for a crater of his own. No, he didn’t want to think about slugs, not when the lead variety were snarling all over the place.
His dive into the shell hole would have won no worse than a bronze at the last Olympics. Luc shook his head again. Those were Hitler’s games, and to hell with him.
Time for another look around. German and French tanks burned nearby. The thick black smoke that rose from them hid the field as well as any barrage of smoke shells German artillery laid down.
Luc fired at another Boche. Again, he had no idea whether he hit him. In a way, that wasn’t so bad. One less fellow on his conscience. He wished that particular organ had a switch he could flick or a plug he could pull. He didn’t like to think about all the things he’d done, but sometimes they bubbled up whether he wanted them to or not.
“Come on!” Sergeant Demange rasped. “What did that American Marine say in the last war? ‘Do you want to live forever?’”
Airplanes swooped low over the battlefield, machine guns yammering. Luc had started to move, but froze again, not that that would do him any good if those probing bullets found him.
They didn’t. The fighters weren’t Messerschmitts. They were English Hurricanes, the roundels on their broad wings looking inside out to Luc because the red was in the center instead of the blue. And they were shooting up the Germans.
“See how you like it, cochons, salauds!” he whooped joyously. He’d been on the other end of strafing too many times. Here as so many other places in war, it was better to give than to receive. Now…Did the English have anything like the Stuka, so they could really give the Germans what-for?
They didn’t seem to, but maybe what they did have was enough. The Boches enjoyed air attack no more than anybody else. Only a few of them ran—they were good troops. But it took the starch out of them just the same. And, a moment after the Hurricanes roared away, a French tank knocked out what had to be the enemy’s command vehicle. From then on, the few German tanks still moving didn’t work together so smoothly any more.
“Come on!” Sergeant Demange said again, more urgently this time. “It was like this in the summer of ‘18, too. If we hit ‘em a good lick, we’ll get ‘em.” We’ll get ‘em—on les aura. The slogan from the last war should have seemed as dated as ground-scraping skirts. Somehow, it didn’t.
Luc scrambled out of the shell hole and trotted forward. Sure as hell, the Germans were pulling back. Yes, they were pros. They had rear guards with machine guns to make sure nobody chased them hard. But they were pulling back. They weren’t breaking through. They wouldn’t break through. And if they wouldn’t, they wouldn’t win the war in a hurry. What would happen once they saw that, too? Luc lit a Gauloise. That was their worry, not his. He kept on advancing.
About the Author
HARRY TURTLEDOVE is the award-winning author of the alternate-history works The Man with the Iron Heart; The Guns of the South; How Few Remain (winner of the Sidewise Award for Best Novel); the Worldwar saga: In the Balance, Tilting the Balance, Upsetting the Balance, and Striking the Balance; the Colonization books: Second Contact, Down to Earth, and Aftershocks; the Great War epics: American Front, Walk in Hell, and Breakthroughs; the American Empire novels: Blood & Iron, The Center Cannot Hold, and Victorious Opposition; and the Settling Accounts series: Return Engagement, Drive to the East, The Grapple, and In at the Death. Turtledove is married to fellow novelist Laura Frankos. They have three daughters: Alison, Rachel, and Rebecca.
Hitler’s War is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Harry Turtledove
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Del Rey Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
DEL REY is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Turtledove, Harry.
Hitler’s war / Harry Turtledove.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-345-51565-0
1. World War, 1939-1945—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3570.U76H58 2009
813’.54—dc22 2009021287
www.delreybooks.com
v3.0
Table of Contents
Cover
Other Books By This Author
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
About the Author
Copyright
Hitler's War Page 49