Gustav didn’t think much about that one way or the other. To him, a prisoner who could understand what he said was easier to handle than one who couldn’t, and that was about it.
Rolf had other notions. Whenever a Russian who spoke fair German gave himself up, the Waffen-SS veteran would ask, “And what did you do in the last war, you fucking Arschloch?”
One Ivan still had his pride. “Walloped the snot out of you Fritzes, that’s what,” he answered.
Two seconds later, he lay twitching on the grass, a bullet hole in his forehead, the back of his head blown out. “Any sack of shit who thinks he can give me sauce, it’s the last stupid thing he’ll ever do,” Rolf said, chambering a fresh round in his rifle.
“No,” Gustav told him. “Don’t do that. It isn’t 1945 any more. You can’t get away with killing prisoners this time around.”
“Says who?” Rolf’s gray stare measured him for a coffin.
Gustav didn’t care. If he hadn’t long since quit worrying about his own neck, he wouldn’t have picked up a gun when the new fighting started. “Says me, dickface. You don’t like it, we can settle things right now.”
“It won’t be a fair fight, either,” Max Bachman added.
Rolf glared at him, too. But the ex-LAH man tried to defuse things with a joke: “Who’s been feeding you two raw meat?”
“Not funny, Rolf,” Gustav said. “They take war crimes a lot more seriously than they ever did in your old unit. And if you think the guys here won’t squeal on you, you’re the one who’s Scheissevoll.”
“Kiss the Amis’ asshole,” Rolf jeered. “Go ahead.”
“Crap,” Max said. “War’s bad enough any which way. But we fought cleaner against the Amis than we did against the Ivans last go-round. The Russians haven’t murdered POWs for the fun of it this time around. We won’t give them the excuse to start, either.”
“Christ, I never figured I joined the motherfucking Salvation Army,” Rolf said. “I supposed you clowns never found one of your buddies with his dick cut off and stuffed in his mouth.”
“Who didn’t?” Gustav said stonily. “But Max is right. They aren’t doing that shit this time. We’re not going to, either.”
The finger Rolf gave him was borrowed from the Yanks he despised. Gustav ignored it. But he didn’t like having friends who might be more dangerous than the enemy.
–
Cold rain drummed down on the tent where Daisy Baxter lay in a cot. She felt like hell. She had about as much hair left as a ninety-year-old granny, and more came out every time she dragged a comb across her scalp. She didn’t do that as often as she should have; she didn’t have the energy.
Seven other women from Fakenham lay in the tent with her. It was one from the British Army, made to hold eight cots. Some of the other ladies had burns, others had had things fall down on them when the A-bomb hit Sculthorpe. All of them had radiation sickness, some cases worse than Daisy’s, one or two from the east end of town not quite so bad.
Most of the survivors were here, in this tent city that had sprouted on the sheep meadows like toadstools coming up after a rain. Toadstools would be coming up after this rain. Daisy languidly wondered if she’d ever get the chance to see them.
One of the women held up her hand. A harried-looking sister got up off the folding chair where she’d been reading an Agatha Christie and came over to her. “Yes, Mrs. Simpkins? What is it?” What is it now? was what her tone said.
“I’m sorry, dear, but I need to use the bedpan,” the middle-aged woman answered. None of the patients was strong enough to walk to the latrine trenches. Mrs. Simpkins couldn’t have anyway; her left leg was splinted.
“Well, all right.” The sister’s brisk nod admitted that was an acceptable reason for summoning her. She slid it into place and used a sheet to give Mrs. Simpkins what privacy she could.
Like the other women in the tent, Daisy looked away. They all pretended nothing was happening. English politeness came as close to being reflexive as made no difference.
The sister, by contrast, peered into the bedpan as she took it away. “Oh, jolly good!” she said, sounding genuinely pleased. “Hardly any blood in your urine at all.”
Daisy was pleased for Mrs. Simpkins, too. She hadn’t had much bleeding of that sort herself, but the older woman had. If it was easing off, she might pull through after all.
An orderly in a rain slicker came by on the hour to take the bedpan away. Then another one fetched lunch for the patients and the sister: U.S. military rations, one more product of America’s endless abundance. However abundant the rations were, they weren’t very good. Daisy didn’t eat much. But she wouldn’t have eaten much if a fancy French chef from the Ritz were doing the cooking here. Her appetite was gone. She had to fight to keep food down.
It went on raining. The grass under the cots turned to mud. The sister squelched when she walked. There was nothing at all to do but lie there. Daisy wished for a wireless set or, that failing, a wind-up gramophone. Wish was all she could do.
After a while the raindrops drumming on canvas lulled her into a doze. That was good: she wasn’t bored while she slept. But it was also bad: if she napped in the afternoon, she might lie awake at night.
Toward evening, a doctor who looked even more worn than the sister came to check on the tentful of women. “How are you feeling?” he asked Daisy.
“If this is a rest cure, I’d sooner be working,” she said.
“It’s no holiday, I know. We’re at full stretch, dealing with a disaster like this. The little personal touches are right out, I’m afraid.” But the man used a little personal touch a moment later. Instead of taking her temperature, he laid a hand on her forehead, nodded to himself, and started toward the next bed.
“It’s all right?” she asked him.
“Oh, yes. Normal, or near enough.” He nodded. So did she. A mother could gauge temperatures like that, and he was bound to have more practice than any mother in captivity. He added, “No sign of infections, is what that means. You people are vulnerable to them for a while.”
By you people, he meant you people who had an atom bomb smash your town to pieces. But Daisy was glad she had no infections. One of the first things a doctor had done for her was pick bits of glass out of the cuts on her feet with tongs and then paint the wounds with merthiolate. It hurt like anything.
She did have trouble sleeping during the night. Lying there in the dark trying to stay quiet so as not to bother the other women snoring around her wasn’t easy. She’d gone to bed alone ever since Tom took ship overseas for the last time. Having company gave her trouble any time. When she’d napped and didn’t particularly need sleep…She passed a bad night.
Morning cuppas for everybody in the tent came in a big vacuum flask, with milk and sugar on the side. The tea was strong and bitter enough to open her eyes a bit. She wouldn’t have minded American instant coffee that morning. It was foul, but she needed all the caffeine she could get.
At least the rain had stopped. That was good. The tents were leftovers from the last war, and they’d seen hard use. Daisy thanked heaven the one she was stuck in hadn’t started leaking. She didn’t know what anyone could have done if it had. Stuck a bowl under the drip and forgotten about it, probably.
Breakfast was more American food. Canned scrambled eggs, even with ham, made her think that, if you had to eat them all the time, you’d let the enemy capture you just to get a change of diet.
She kept feeling she ought to be dusting or sweeping or putting another cask of best bitter under the tap. The Owl and Unicorn was gone, though. Gone. She had no idea whether the insurance covered atom bombs. One more thing she’d worry about later.