"Hey, I'll drink to that, but you'll be bluer'n your dress uniform if you hold your breath and wait for it to happen," Koenig said.
"Yeah, I know. It'd be nice, though, wouldn't it?" Pete said. "They sure are moving a lot of guys through here-moving a lot of guys out of here."
"They'll keep Peking garrisoned, though, you bet. Hell, I would in their shoes." Koenig looked at his mug in mild surprise, as if wondering how it had emptied without his noticing. He waved to Danny for a refill. As he waited, he went on, "They hang on here, what are the Chinese gonna do about it? Not much, not so I can see."
"Yeah, man, yeah. Looks the same way to me," Pete said. With Peking in their hands, the Japanese could spill south and west all over the place. They'd done that for a while after overrunning the place. Now the flow was going in the other direction. "What do they need so many troops up in Manchukuo for?"
"Beats me." Koenig paused while Danny set the beer on the table in front of him. A lot of Marines didn't like to talk with Chinamen hovering around them. Pete didn't know whether Danny was a spy or not. He didn't much care, either. He didn't know enough himself to make what he said worth anything to anybody. But if the sergeant wanted to be tight-assed about it, he could. After Danny hustled back behind the bar to build somebody a highball, Koenig resumed: "Gotta be the Russians. I've figured it every different way I could, and that's what it comes out to every goddamn time."
"You really think so?" Pete said. "That'd be one hell of a scrap."
"Damn Russians have shit closer to home than Siberia to worry about," Koenig said. "If it was me, I wouldn't have started fucking with the Polacks when they knew that was liable to bring Hitler down on their necks."
"Yeah, old Adolf's bad news, all right," Pete agreed. "Me, I wonder how much the Russians really do know these days. They've been killing off generals like it's going out of style."
"Maybe we ought to try that. I don't know about the Corps, but it'd sure as hell work wonders for the Army and the Navy," Koenig said.
Pete snorted. Then he giggled. Then he guffawed. He wasn't sure it was a good idea, but he was damn sure it was funny. "I can see the FBI guys coming up to their desks. 'You-come with us!' And out they'd go, and-bang!"
"Plenty of 'em nobody'd miss," Koenig said.
"Ain't it the truth!" Pete nodded. "And you know what else? I bet there hasn't been an army since Julius Caesar's day where the noncoms didn't think it'd go better if some officers got it in the neck."
"Most of the time we'd be right, too." Like any sergeant worth his salt, Koenig was sure he knew better than the guys set over him. Since Pete McGill felt the same way, he didn't argue. Koenig waved for a fresh beer before continuing, "So if the Japs and the Reds bang heads, which way do you bet? My money's on the white men."
"Yeah, everybody said the same thing about the time you were born, too, and look how that turned out," McGill said. Anybody who came to Peking got his nose rubbed in that lesson. You couldn't come here without paying attention to what had happened in the Russo-Japanese War.
Sergeant Koenig turned red. He waited till Danny gave him his new seidel, then said, "You think the little yellow bastards can take 'em?" He paid no more attention to the barman than Pete would have.
"I dunno. They've sure got more combat experience than the Russians do. Hell, they've got more combat experience than just about anybody," McGill answered. "And it's way past the back of beyond for the Russians, and they're fighting somewhere else, and their army's fucked up. So yeah, I guess maybe I figure the Japs'll win."
"I got a sawbuck says you're full of it," Koenig declared.
As far as Pete was concerned, the problems with the Marine Corps started with sergeants, not officers. That attitude would probably change the day he got his own third stripe, but he had it now. Taking a sergeant down a peg would be a pleasure-and so would winning ten bucks. "You're on," he said.
Koenig stuck out his hand. Pete took it. The clasp turned into a trial of strength that ended up a push. They both opened and closed their hands several times after they let go.
Pete started to laugh. "What's so funny?" Sergeant Koenig asked.
"We just made a bet on who's gonna win a war that hasn't started yet," McGill answered. "How dumb will we look if it turns out the Japs're up to something else instead?"
"Dumb enough, I guess," Koenig said. "What? You never looked dumb before?"
"Not the past ten minutes, anyway," Pete said, which drew a laugh from the other noncom. He went on, "I tell you, I wish the Japs would get the hell out of Peking and stay out. Town was a lot more fun when the Chinamen were still hanging on to it."
"You got that right." Koenig nodded in what might have been approval. "See? You ain't as dumb as you look."
"Heh! I'm not as dumb as you look, either," Pete retorted. They were off duty. He could sass a sergeant if he felt like it. And he did-it wasn't a pleasure he got often enough.
"Wise guy," Koenig said, and then something in Chinese that sounded like a cat with its tail caught under a rocking chair. Behind the bar, Danny jumped a foot.
"Wow! What's that mean?" Pete asked, impressed in spite of himself.
"Can't tell you," Koenig answered. "If I said it in English, you'd have to try and murder me."
"Give it to me again," Pete urged. "Sounds like it's worth knowing."
Koenig repeated it. Pete tried to echo him. He got the tones wrong the first couple of times. He could hear that, but he had trouble fixing it. Danny held his head in his hands. Pete finally said it the right way, which made the bartender even more unhappy.
"What's it mean, Danny?" Pete called. Danny wouldn't tell him, either. That made him like his new toy even better.
When Alistair Walsh saw a road sign saying how many kilometers it was to Paris, he knew things weren't in good shape. The whole point to the war was keeping the Nazis away from Paris, the same as it had been with the Kaiser's army the last time around.
They'd done it the last time-done it twice, in fact, in 1914 and then again in 1918. He wasn't so sure they could now. The BEF stumbled back and stumbled back. People were starting to talk about the Miracle on the Marne in 1914. Well, they were getting too damn close to the Marne again, and they sure could use another miracle.
He yawned. What he could use was sleep. One of the things nobody talked about was how wearing modern war was. You were fighting or you were marching or they were shelling you or bombing you or you were trying to promote something to eat. What you weren't doing was resting.
He wasn't the only one frazzled almost to death. Even though February remained chilly, exhausted soldiers curled up like animals by the side of the road. Some slept in greatcoats, some wrapped in blankets, some as they were regardless of the cold. You had to look closely to see their chests rising and falling to make sure they weren't corpses.
Exhausted civilians also slept by the roadside, singly and in family groups. They hadn't done any shooting; other than that, they had as much right to be weary as the soldiers. One poor woman must have been a restless sleeper. She'd kicked off her blanket and thrashed around so her legs and backside were out in the biting breeze. Walsh got an eyeful as he trudged along.
One of the Tommies with him chuckled. "What we're fighting for, right?" the fellow said.
"I've seen plenty worse," Walsh allowed. "If I lay down beside her, though, I bet I'd cork off before I could try getting her knickers down."
"Blimey! Me, too." The other soldier's face split in an enormous yawn. "Don't know how I put one foot in front of the other any more."
Behind them, German artillery thundered to life. Walsh jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "That's how."
"Too right it is. Got a fag on you, Sarge?"
Walsh listened for screams in the air that would warn of incoming shells aimed their way. Hearing none, he reached into a tunic pocket and pulled out a packet of Gitanes. "Here. Got these off a dead Frenchman. Nasty things, but better than nothing."