When Soviet tanks clattered up under cover of darkness, Ihor realized which of those was about to happen. The chemical-factory stink of diesel exhaust made him cough.
And the armored vehicles made him stare. They were a motley mix of T-54s, modern as day after tomorrow; SU-100s, hard-hitting assault guns that still packed a punch; and T-34/85s, which, as far as he was concerned, might just as well have stayed in the tank parks where they’d gathered cobwebs since the Nazis surrendered.
Pointing to one of those familiar silhouettes-more angular than the turtle-topped T-54-Ihor said, “They’re sweeping out the antiques shop pretty hard, aren’t they?”
“We both know too damn well they are,” Pyotr Boky replied. “Why else d’you think they made you corporal?”
“Yob tvoyu mat’,” Ihor replied, more amiably than not. He knew full well that Boky had at least part of a point. It wasn’t just in throwing the T-34/85s into the fight that the Soviet Union was sweeping out the antiques shop. He wouldn’t have been hauled back into the Red Army, much less promoted corporal, unless the commissars were desperate for whatever they could lay their hands on. Like the obsolescent tanks, he and most of the men in his regiment were at least better than nothing.
Lieutenant Kosior summoned his noncoms to discuss what the company would do in the upcoming attack. This was Ihor’s first such gathering. If he’d expected strategy that would make Marshal Zhukov jealous, he would have been doomed to disappointment. Since he had enough experience of the Red Army to expect very little, he wasn’t.
“We go in before dawn tomorrow,” Kosior sad, “as soon as our shelling lets up. Keep the men moving. Keep them close to the armor. They’ll stay safer that way, and they’ll take out the Yankees with bazookas and keep the tanks safer, too. Any questions?” He waited. None of the corporals and sergeants said anything. He nodded. “All right. Good luck to all of you. We serve the Soviet Union!”
“We serve the Soviet Union!” the noncoms echoed, Ihor loud among them.
As soon as the guns left off pounding the enemy positions ahead, the tanks and assault guns rolled forward through mud and chilly rain. Along with everybody else, Ihor gulped his hundred-gram vodka ration. It was enough to make you not care so much about what might happen to you, not enough to leave you too stupid or clumsy to fight.
Stanislav Kosior blew a loud blast on his brass officer’s whistle. “Forward! Forward for the Soviet Union and the great Stalin!”
He believed it, or he’d acted well enough to convince Ihor he did. “For the great Stalin!” Ihor roared at the top of his lungs. If you were going to be a liar, best to be a loud liar.
He didn’t need long to decide it wouldn’t be the Red Army’s day. The artillerymen hadn’t done enough to stun the Americans or knock out their machine-gun positions. Red tracers spat through the predawn gloom, red foretelling blood and pain.
And the shelling hadn’t taken out the enemy’s rockets, either. A lance of fire slammed into a T-34/85. The tank twisted sideways and stopped. Flames burst from every hatch. A T-54’s armor might have deflected the bazooka round. No way to know for sure. The only thing Ihor knew for sure was that the bazooka killed the older tank. More to the point, it killed the tank’s five-man crew. All he could hope was that they died before they suffered.
The tanks and self-propelled guns tried to do what the artillery hadn’t. They poured HE rounds into what they could see of the Yanks’ defenses. They couldn’t see enough. More bazookas struck at them. The machine guns went on chewing up the infantry. And U.S. artillery shells started screaming down on the Red Army soldiers.
“Dig in!” Ihor yelled-the first order he’d given as a noncom that might actually mean something. He followed it himself. One of the things he’d learned in the Great Patriotic War was how to dig in while lying flat as a crushed serpent. Like riding a bicycle, it was a skill that never went away. Unlike riding a bicycle, it could save his neck.
–
One of the big wheels at the Shasta Lumber Company emerged from Mahogany Row-no plebeian pine for him-and set three checks on Marian Staley’s desk. “Make out a deposit slip for these and bring them back to me with it,” he said. “I’ll endorse them and sign the slip, and you can take them to the bank.”
“Sure, Mr. Cummings,” she said. What else was she going to say? She was a flunky and he was a boss, so Sure was the only sensible thing. But why didn’t he endorse them beforehand? Why didn’t he sign the deposit slip beforehand? God forbid he should try to add the three numbers himself, but the other steps would have saved time and weren’t beyond even a boss’ abilities.
She supposed Carl Cummings had no idea where the peons who worked for him kept the Bank of America deposit slips. Asking someone would have been beneath his dignity. Let her take care of it.
Take care of it she did. She walked down the hallway and knocked on the closed door before entering his wood-paneled sanctum. The door was so thick and solid, she barely heard him bid her come in. He affixed his John Hancock to the checks and the slip. He didn’t tell her not to goof off on the way to and from the bank. He assumed she’d never dare do anything so wicked on company time.
The biggest thing he had going for him was that Weed, California, didn’t offer even the most dedicated goof-off many chances to waste time. The shops weren’t interesting enough to attract her.
She did light a cigarette as soon as she stepped outside. She’d largely lost the habit while she was stuck in Camp Nowhere. Now she had it back. A cigarette was one of the best excuses for wasting a little time God ever invented. She even had to stop and fiddle to get this one going. It was chilly and breezy and drizzly: wonderful weather for a boss to send a flunky out in. Let her walk the four blocks to the bank. He’d stay right where he was, where it was warm and dry.
It was Tuesday, not Friday, so the bank wasn’t full of loggers cashing their checks. She went in, did what she had to do, and walked out again. “To hell with you, Mr. Cummings, sir,” she muttered, pausing to light another Pall Mall. If he didn’t like it, too damn bad.
After blowing out smoke, she started back to the office as slowly and reluctantly as Linda headed for school. Her eyes traveled up the street. They traveled down the street. If she saw anything even the least little bit interesting in one of the shop windows, she intended to walk in and have a look around. And if his High and Mightiness Mr. Carl Cummings didn’t like it, too goddamn bad.
There was something interesting. A storefront that had been dark and empty behind a plate-glass window since before she came to Weed now had a light on inside. The new place, whatever it was, must have opened in the past few days. Otherwise, she would have noticed it earlier. She was sure she would have noticed, too; any changes in downtown Weed stood out.
She walked half a block to the new business. She hoped it would be a place that sold children’s clothes and not, say, another gun shop. Weed already had two of those. The business they did was so brisk, the town might have room for a third. If Russian invaders ever came as far as Weed, local hunters and plinkers might be able to drive them back without waiting for help from the U.S. Army.
It turned out to be neither. Large Old English gold letters on the plate glass proclaimed Shoes Repaired. Smaller ones said Half Soles, Heels, Steel Toes, Ripped Uppers. Another line added Custom shoes made to order.
Marian nodded to herself. Weed hadn’t had a cobbler’s shop. With all the loggers who lived in and around the little town, she could see that one might well make good money. Someone else must have seen the same thing. That thought had just crossed her mind when she reached the last, smallest, and most modest line of gold lettering. It said Fayvl Tabakman, proprietor.