Harry Turtledove: Two Fronts

“I bet you’re right,” the loader answered. His own smile slipped. “I bet we find the fuckers, too.”

No one said anything after that for a little while. Poske was much too likely to be right. Even though it was spring, the Red Army still held the initiative in these parts. Too many German soldiers and panzers and planes had headed west to keep England and France from breaking into the Reich to let the Wehrmacht mount any major strikes against the Russians. Rolling with the punches seemed to be the order of the day.

If we can roll with them , Theo thought. Of all the Landsers on the Eastern Front, he might have been the least likely to come out with that thought where a National Socialist Loyalty Officer could hear him. Of course, he might have been the Landser on the Eastern Front least likely to come out with any thought where anyone else could hear him.

His position in the right front corner of the Panzer IV’s hull was very much like the one he’d had in the older panzer, though the mounting brackets for his Schmeisser were in a different place. He’d have to practice reaching for it till he didn’t need to think about that. The leather on the radioman’s seat still smelled like leather, not like old sweat. Russian panzer crews sat on cast-iron seats. When the Ivans plundered wrecked German panzers, they cut off the leather and fashioned it into boots and belts. They were chronically short of everything-except soldiers and munitions and hate.

The Panzer IV’s engine sounded as if it was working harder than the Panzer III’s had. It wasn’t much bigger, and it had more weight to haul around. The Panzer IV with the big cannon had been uparmored as well as upgunned. Unlike a Tiger’s, even a new Panzer IV’s armor probably wouldn’t keep out a hit from a T-34. But the panzer’s long-barreled 75 could also pierce a T-34’s steel shell.

Adi Stoss thought along with Theo, as he did so often. “We can kill them, and they can kill us,” the driver observed. “Maybe both sides ought to be careful for a change.”

German panzer crews had been careful ever since they first met the T-34. If you weren’t careful around the Russian monsters, your folks got to decide whether your death notice should read Died for Fuhrer and Vaterland or just Died for the Vaterland. Neither choice struck Theo as inspired.

Witt rode head and shoulders out of the cupola, the way he had in the Panzer III (and, for that matter, in the Panzer II before it). You could see so much more than you could through the periscopes in the cupola. Of course, you were also more likely to end up a casualty. Good panzer commanders from every army took the chance.

“Steer a little farther to the left, Adi,” Witt ordered. “Might be something behind that little swell of ground.”

“I’m doing it, Sergeant.” Stoss used his steering levers to slow one track and speed up the other. He was still learning how much force he needed with this new machine to get the amount of turn he wanted.

Then Witt barked, “Panzer halt!”

“Halting, Sergeant.” Adi stood on the brake.

The turret traversed with the smooth near-silence of hydraulics. Through his vision slit, Theo watched the long gun barrel stop at around ten o’clock. The barrel rose slightly. Theo couldn’t make out what it was aiming at, but he had only the slit, not the magnifying scope that was fitted into the precise new sights.

A shell clanged into the breech. The gun moved again, microscopically. Then it roared. God knew it sounded more authoritative than the old 37mm. Impressive flame belched from the muzzle-and out to either side through the openings in the muzzle brake. Theo wouldn’t have wanted to be standing to either side of the Panzer IV when the main armament went off. With all that fire and hot gas spat sideways by the muzzle brake, getting too close might prove a fatal blunder.

“Hit!” Witt and Eckhardt yelled the same jubilant word at the same time. They were the ones who could see it best. A moment later, a cloud of black smoke in the distance and a fireworks show of ammo cooking off left Theo sure they were right.

“We’re out more than a kilometer,” Adi said. “Can you imagine killing a T-34 at that range with the old beast?”

“No,” Theo answered, startled into using a word.

“Me, neither,” Adi said. “A good gun, good shooting-a kill. I wish we’d had these a year ago, or two. We would’ve done better, that’s for sure. The Ivans had T-34s two years ago, damn them.”

“ Ja ,” Theo agreed. That was one of the nastiest surprises the Wehrmacht had got during its Russian adventure. Too many good people had died of surprise then.

“Wonder what’ll happen to our old III,” Adi mused. “What do you want to bet we sell it to the Hungarians or Romanians so some of their guys can get killed in it instead of us?”

“No bet,” Theo answered. He wouldn’t touch that one. It struck him as much too likely, and as just the sort of thing the Reich would do. The really scary thing was, even that beat-up old Panzer III would be better than what Germany’s allies were using now.

When the sentry brought the two officers into the encampment, he looked scared. When Ivan Kuchkov saw the blue arm-of-service color on the officers’ caps and collar tabs, he felt scared, too. He was damned if he’d show it, though. That wouldn’t do him any good, and might screw him.

One of the NKVD men was a major, the other a captain. “Ivan Ivanovich Kuchkov!” the captain said. “Vitaly Alexandrovich Ryakhovsky!”

“I serve the Soviet Union, Comrade Captain!” Vitya Ryakhovsky gulped.

“I serve the Soviet Union!” Ivan echoed. You couldn’t mess around with the Chekists. They got paid to give people grief. They commonly enjoyed it, too.

He was tempted to pick up his PPD and empty it into them. But if he did that he would have to run to the Nazis or to the Ukrainian nationalists. The nationalists were losers; he could see that. He thought the Nazis were also losers, at least in the Soviet Union. Besides, even if they weren’t, what was the Gestapo but the NKVD in a different uniform?

“We are here to investigate the death of Lieutenant Maxim Svyatoslavovich Zabelin, the company political officer,” the captain declared.

No shit , Kuchkov thought. And all the time I figured you’d come to the front to see if we had enough fucking belt buckles .

“You killed the company political officer, Ryakhovsky?” the major asked ominously.

Gulping again, Vitya said, “I did, Comrade Major, after he would not give me the password. I had no way to know he was not a Ukrainian bandit trying to infiltrate our position.”

“So you say.” The major’s sneer announced he didn’t believe such nonsense for a minute. He rounded on Ivan. “You, Kuchkov, you were with him when he shot the political officer?” He used the full phrase every time. He might never even have heard the word politruk .

“Not me.” Ivan shook his head. “I was back by the campfire when the fucking shot went off.” He talked the way he talked. Even when he made a stab at standard Russian, mat crept in.

“What did you do then?” the major asked.

“I went to see what the fuck Vitya was shooting at,” Ivan answered. “When I got to where the political officer was at, he was one dead whore.” He did remember not to give forth with politruk himself.

“What did you do then?” the major asked. Hadn’t the dumb prick looked at Lieutenant Obolensky’s report? What was being able to read for, if not for seeing shit like that?

“I thought, This poor cunt’s in trouble, and I bet I’m in trouble, too ,” Ivan answered.