"Show us the girls!" That was Szulc, who also didn't believe in dicking around when it came to dicking around.
"Yes, yes, yes!" The madam was all smiles. Pete McGill heard the ching of a cash register in her agreement. Well, what the hell did you expect when you went to a whorehouse? This gal had blond sisters back in the States. He'd dealt with his share of them. All the same, it did take a little of the edge off.
He got the edge back when he picked his girl. She reminded him of a Siamese cat, except her eyes weren't blue. He paid the madam and took the girl upstairs.
His being large and hairy didn't faze her. She wasn't just in from the countryside, then; she'd seen round-eyes before. She didn't know any English, though. Oh, well, McGill thought. He could show her what he wanted. He could-and he did.
The way she gasped and squeezed him inside at the end made him think he brought her off, too. Of course, whores were part actresses. If they made the john think he was a prize stud, he'd shell out more. And Pete did give her an extra dollar, saying, "Don't tell the old bitch downstairs."
She hugged him and kissed him and made the fat silver coin disappear even though she was naked. Pete didn't see exactly where it went. Into her lacquered hair? Or…? He shrugged. It wasn't his worry.
Szulc was sitting in the waiting room when he got down there. Puccinelli took longer coming back. "Twice!" he said proudly.
"You went off in your pants the first time?" McGill gibed.
"Not likely!" Pooch said. "You shoulda heard that broad squeal!"
"Thank you! Thank you! Drink?" the madam said. Herman Szulc looked ready, but Pete shook his head and steered his buddies out.
"You don't wanna have any fun," Szulc complained.
"I don't wanna get drugged and rolled," McGill answered. "I may be dumb, but I ain't that dumb. If I was a regular there, I might chance it, but not when it's my first time in the joint."
"Let's go some place where they do know us and drink there," Pooch said.
"Now you're talking!" Szulc said. It sounded good to Pete, too.
When they got back to the barracks, they were drunk as lords. The next morning, McGill repented of his sins. Coffee and aspirins blunted down the whimwhams without stopping them.
Pete felt so rotten, he almost forgot about the long column of Japanese troops he'd seen the night before. Almost, but not quite. He reported to Captain Horner, his company commander.
Horner heard him out, then nodded. "Uh-huh," the officer said thoughtfully. "You think they were going to head north?"
"Well, I don't know for sure, sir," McGill replied. "If I was a betting man, though, that's how I'd lay my money."
"If you were a betting man…" Horner snorted. "You'd bet on how many raindrops landed in a pail in twenty minutes." He had a Tidewater accent thick enough to slice. A hell of a lot of Marines, and especially Marine officers, had a drawl. And Captain Horner knew him damn well.
"One good thing, sir," McGill said. The captain raised a blond eyebrow. Pete went on, "If the Japs are heading north like that, they ain't gonna jump on us right away."
"You hope," Horner said. Pete nodded. The company CO was right. He sure as hell did hope. INTERNED. OFFICIALLY, VACLAV JEZEK WAS classed as a displaced person. It wasn't quite the same as being a POW. The Poles were treating all the Czechs who'd got over the border-soldiers and civilians, men, women, and children-the same way.
Yeah, they were treating them all the same way, all right. They were treating them all like dogs.
Barbed wire fenced off the Czechs' encampment from the rest of Poland. Poles with rifles and sandbagged machine-gun nests made sure the Czechs didn't come through the wire. The DPs lived under canvas despite rain and cold. They ate Polish army rations. That was what the Poles claimed, anyhow. If it was true, Vaclav pitied Polish soldiers.
Most of the Polish guards treated the Czech men-and especially the soldiers-like animals in the zoo. (Quite a few of them were friendly to the Czech women-what a surprise! And some of the women gave their all, too, for better food or more food or whatever else they happened to need.)
A few of the guards turned out to be human beings in spite of being Poles-that was how Jezek saw it, anyhow, though he wasn't an unbiased observer. He could talk to them in bits of Czech and Polish and in (dammit!) German. "We don't want you people here," one of the decent guards said. "You embarrass us."
"Why?" Vaclav said. "All we did was get out alive after the fucking Nazis went and jumped us."
"But Poland and Germany are friends," the Polish soldier said. "That's why we don't want you here."
"Friends with Germany? God help you!" Jezek said. "Is the pig friends with the farmer? Till he's a ham, he is."
The Pole-his name was Leszek-pointed east. "Germany keeps the Russians away. Better Hitler than Stalin any day."
"Better anybody than Hitler," Vaclav said stubbornly. "Anybody. Better the Devil than Hitler."
Leszek crossed himself. "Stalin is the Devil. He turns churches into stables and brothels. And half the Reds who run Russia are kikes. Hitler knows what to do about them, by God. We ought to give ours what-for, too. If we don't, they'll steal the country out from under us."
Vaclav didn't care about Jews one way or the other. He just said, "If you end up in bed with the Nazis, you'll get it as bad as the Jews do."
"You're only mad because the Germans beat you," Leszek said.
"Sure. And Poland never lost a war," the Czech retorted. Even if Leszek wasn't a bad guy, that reminder was more than he could stomach. He stomped off. Vaclav wondered if he'd come back with his buddies to do some real stomping. But Leszek didn't, which only proved he had an even temper.
A few days later, a Czech-speaking Polish officer addressed the displaced persons. He used Czech words, all right, but he pronounced them like a Pole: with the accent always on the next-to-last syllable, not at the beginning of a word, where to Czech ears it belonged. "A Czechoslovak government-in-exile has been formed in Paris," he said. "Its leaders say they will care for anyone who comes to them. I am looking for volunteers at the moment."
Never volunteer. Any soldier knew that ancient basic rule. Vaclav's hand shot up all the same. Anything had to be better than this. And what would the Poles do to Czech soldiers who didn't volunteer? Ship them back over the border into German hands? Then it would be a POW cage for the rest of the war-if it wasn't a bullet in the back of the neck.
Several other men also raised their hands, and a few women as well. The rest stood where they were without doing anything. The Polish officer's lips thinned. He must have expected a bigger response. When he saw he wouldn't get one, he said, "All right. Take whatever you have and meet me by the east gate in fifteen minutes." He strode away, his polished boots gleaming.
Vaclav didn't need fifteen minutes to gather his belongings. The Poles had relieved him of his rifle and ammunition and helmet and entrenching tool. He'd eaten the iron rations he'd carried. About all that was left in his pack were a blanket, a spare pair of socks, a housewife for quick repairs-he'd never make a tailor-some bandages, and his bayonet, which the Poles hadn't wanted. It made a perfectly good eating knife.
A couple of Czechs who hadn't raised a hand joined the men and women who had. They must have decided, as Vaclav had, that anything beat this.
The Polish officer led a squad of riflemen. "Come with me," he told the Czechs. "Make sure you come with me. If you try to run off, I promise you will never do another foolish thing again."
Off they went, at a brisk military march. Some of the Czechs weren't young, and couldn't keep up. Grudgingly, the Polish officer slowed down for them. He might have laid on a truck or two. He might have, but he hadn't.