Harry Turtledove: The Big Switch

“Suits,” Halevy said at once. He told off half a squad of Czechs to serve as lures. They looked as miserable as Jezek would have in their boots. The rest of the men looked relieved. A well-sited MG-34 could have slaughtered half of them, maybe more.

Flopping down into the snow again, Vaclav steadied the monster on its bipod. He aimed where he would have put the gun if he were on the other side. Even with a telescopic sight, he couldn’t see anything funny. But nothing could hide a machine-gun muzzle when it started spitting fire. And maybe-he hoped-he’d spot motion when the crew served the gun.

Like sacrificial pawns, the handful of Czechs started crossing the field. They hadn’t gone far before the machine gun opened up on them. That was German arrogance. Letting them come farther might have drawn more after them. But the Nazis were saying, Thus far and no farther. This is our ground.

They could think so. Vaclav shifted the rifle a few millimeters-he’d guessed well. Blam! He winced even as he chambered a fresh round. Muzzle brake or not, padded stock or not, shooting that mother hurt every goddamn time. His right ear would never be the same again, either.

Blam! This time, the scope let him see a German reel away with his head nothing but a red ruin. Another one stepped up. They wouldn’t have caused so much trouble if they weren’t brave. Blam! He killed that one, too, and then another one a few seconds later. “Forward!” Halevy shouted. “Everybody forward!”

Forward the Czechs went. More Germans ran over to keep the machine gun firing. Vaclav methodically shot them. Before long, his side had a lodgement in the woods. The MG-34 fell silent. Maybe they’d captured it, or maybe the guys on the other side had pulled it back.

Either way, he could go forward himself now. Another few hundred meters reclaimed. Sooner or later, the rest of France. Later-how much later?-Czechoslovakia. It would take a while. Oh, yes. The antitank rifle seemed to weigh a tonne.

Theo Hossbach stood in front of the goal of what had to be the worst football pitch he’d ever seen. The Polish field was frozen and lumpy. The ball could have used more air, but nobody could find a valve that fit its air inlet. Nobody much cared, either. The German soldiers were back of the line for a while. The Ivans weren’t shooting at them, so they were letting off some steam.

The match was panzer black against infantry Feldgrau. Theo was the radio operator in a Panzer II. His black coverall wasn’t warm enough. His teammates heated themselves up running and falling and bumping into one another-and into the Landsers on the other side. A goalkeeper just stood there, waiting for something horrible to happen… and freezing while he waited. Theo didn’t complain. He never did. Come to that, he rarely said anything at all. He lived as much of his life as he could inside his own head.

If he had been moved to complain, he would have bitched about the quality of the match in front of him. Both sides would have been booed off the pitch if they’d had the gall to try to charge admission to an exhibition like this. He wasn’t the best ’keeper himself, but he liked to watch well-played football. This was more like a mob of little kids running and yelling and booting the ball any which way.

One of the guys in black missed a pass he should have been able to field blindfolded. A fellow in field-gray seized control of the ball. The mob thundered toward Theo. He tensed. A good defense would have stopped the attack before it got anywhere near him. Unfortunately, a good defense was nowhere to be found, not here.

He also tensed because there was liable to be an argument if one got past him. He hated arguments. And the makeshift goals were made for them. A couple of sticks pounded into the ground marked each one’s edges; a string ran from the top of one stick to the top of the other at more or less the right height. No net to stop the ball. Did somebody score or not? There’d already been two or three shouting matches.

But he didn’t have to worry, not this time. A tall man in black headed the ball away from danger before the incoming infantry could launch it at Theo. “Way to go, Adi!” one of the other panzer crewmen yelled. Theo couldn’t have put it better himself.

Adalbert Stoss took the praise in stride-literally. He ran the ball down, took it on the side of his foot, and expertly steered it up the field. Theo watched his back with proprietary admiration. Adi drove the panzer on which he himself ran the radio.

Smooth and precise as an English pro, Adi sent a pass to the right wing, then dashed into position in front of the other side’s goal. For a wonder, the guy to whom he sent the pass didn’t let it roll past the touchline. For a bigger wonder, he sent back a halfway decent centering pass. And Adi booted it past two defenders and the infantry’s ’keeper.

“Goal!” the panzer men yelled, pumping their fists in the air. The soldiers in Feldgrau couldn’t argue, not about that one.

Glumly, the infantrymen started from the halfway line. Before they’d done much, Adi Stoss swooped in and commandeered the ball. He charged up the pitch with it, sliding past Landsers as if they were nailed to the dirt. Only a wild, desperate lunge from the enemy ’keeper kept him from scoring again.

“No fair,” a panting foot soldier-right now a footsore foot soldier-complained. “You fuckers snuck a ringer in on us.”

“Like hell we did.” The closest panzer man pointed back toward Theo. “He’s in the same crew as our goalkeeper.”

“Scheisse,” the Landser said. “You ought to take him out anyway. He’s too damn good.”

“I didn’t know, that wasn’t in the rules,” the panzer man replied.

“Well, it ought to be,” the foot soldier said, bending over and setting his hands on his knees so he could catch his breath. “Playing against him is like going up against a machine gun with water pistols.” He looked up. “Christ, here he comes again.” Shaking his head, he clumped off.

Theo had known Adi Stoss was uncommonly fast and strong, even among the extraordinarily fit men of the Wehrmacht. He’d never seen him play football before. He was even more impressed than he’d thought he might be. If Adi wasn’t good enough to make his living in short pants, Theo couldn’t imagine anybody who would be.

Thanks largely to his efforts, the panzer side beat the infantrymen, 7-4. Soldiers in black passed bottles of the distilled lightning the Poles brewed from potatoes to soldiers in field-gray. Theo was glad to get outside some of the vodka. He wasn’t normally much of a drinking man, but in weather like this he figured he needed antifreeze as much as his panzer did.

Sergeant Hermann Witt, the commander of Adi and Theo’s machine, had run up and down the rutted field. He put an arm around Adi’s shoulder. “Man, I didn’t know you could play like that,” he said expansively-his other hand clutched a bottle.

“Fat lot of good it does me.” Adi sounded surprisingly bitter.

“You just made those ground pounders look like a bunch of jerks,” Witt said. “Nothing wrong with that. They think we’re out of shape because we don’t tramp like horses all day long. I guess you showed ’em different.”

“I like to play. That’s all there is to it.” Adi shook himself free of the sergeant.

Witt turned to Theo. “What’s eating him?”

“Beats me.” Theo had an opinion, which he kept to himself. As far as he was concerned, opinions were like assholes: necessary, but not meant for display.

The panzer commander frowned, lit a cigarette, and coughed. “I didn’t mean to piss him off-he was great. But the way he acts, I could have told him he stinks.”

Theo only shrugged. The less he said, the less he’d have to be sorry for later. At least Witt was interested in keeping Adi happy. That was more than Heinz Naumann, the previous panzer commander, had been. There would have been trouble between the two of them if Naumann hadn’t stopped a bullet. Theo didn’t like trouble, which meant he could have picked a better time to be born.