Torres caught Novak’s uncertain look. The lieutenant was still learning that when in Rome, do as the Romans do.
“Relax, LT,” Torres murmured. “We’re building trust with allies. It’s part of the mission.”
Sergeant Burke, PFC Munoz, and Specialist Boone squeezed into the pub behind them, eyes wide. Even Staff Sergeant Granger and his crew had come, leaving Delaney back to watch the platoon.
“Sergeant Torres!” A familiar Polish sergeant appeared — the HET loadmaster from Gdańsk, whose gold tooth was gleaming. “You made it! Janusz Kowalczyk, but everyone calls me Kowals.”
They shook hands; the Pole’s grip was practically crushing.
“First round is mine,” Kowals declared. “For successfully moving American steel across Polish roads without destroying single bridge!”
A cheer went up from the Polish NCOs at nearby tables. Someone slapped Torres on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth.
“What are we drinking?” Munoz asked nervously.
“Żubrówka!” Kowalski produced a bottle like a magician. “Bison grass vodka. Polish tradition since 1600s.”
“Major, I should probably—” Novak started.
“Lieutenant, in Poland, refusing first drink is grave insult.” Kowalski’s eyes twinkled. “You wouldn’t insult your allies, would you?”
Shot glasses appeared. The vodka was pale green, almost glowing.
“Za wolnosc nasza i wasza!” Kowalski raised his glass. “For our freedom and yours!”
“Heard that before,” Burke muttered. “Usually right before things go sideways.”
They drank. The vodka burned sweet and herbal. Munoz coughed. Boone’s eyes watered. But they all kept it down.
“Good!” Kowals pounded the table. “Now we eat. Then we drink properly.”
Platters materialized — pierogi, kielbasa, dark bread, pickles. The Polish NCOs insisted on explaining each dish, arguing over whose grandmother made better bigos.
“Try this.” A Polish tank gunner, Corporal Nowicki, pushed a plate at Torres. “Tatar. Raw beef. Makes you strong like Polish cavalry.”
Torres took a bite. Not bad, actually, he thought. Like upscale bar food back in El Paso.
“So, Sergeant,” Nowicki continued in accented English. “Your Abrams. Seventy tons, yes? Our K2s, only fifty-five. How you not destroy every road?”
“Carefully,” Torres admitted. “Your HET crews did good work.”
“Polish logistics, best in NATO.” Kowals refilled glasses without asking. “We move anything. Tanks, missiles, broken American dreams…”
The table laughed. Even Novak was loosening up, discussing tactics with a Polish lieutenant.
“Your robot tank,” said another Pole to Burke. “It really thinks?”
“That’s what they tell us.” Burke accepted another shot reluctantly. “Haven’t seen it do much but follow us around yet.”
“Like my wife’s cousin,” Kowals declared. “Follows everywhere, says nothing useful, costs fortune to maintain.”
More laughter filled the room. Torres felt the tension of the past few weeks beginning to ease. He understood these men and they understood him.
Different flag, same life.
“Sergeant Torres.” Kowalski leaned in close, his voice dropping. “May I speak frankly?”
“Of course, Major.”
“My men — they are good soldiers. But they remember history. Russians to the east have invaded many times. Each time, we fight. Each time, we lose. Then we fight again.” He paused. “This time, with Americans beside us, maybe different ending.”
Torres met his eyes. “I agree, Major. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. If it does, we’ll be here, and we’ll make ‘em pay for every inch of Polish land they try to take.”
“I like you, Sergeant. Plain spoken. I believe you. But belief and history…” Kowalski shrugged. “We shall see.”
A commotion near the bar drew their attention. Polish soldiers were clearing a space, pushing tables aside.
“What’s happening?” PFC Munoz asked, alarmed.
“Arm wrestling,” Corporal Nowicki grinned. “Polish tradition. Visitors must compete.”
“Oh, hell no,” Boone started to protest, but Kowals was already dragging him forward.
The impromptu tournament drew the whole pub’s attention. Boone, wiry and quick, lost immediately to a Polish sergeant built like a concrete bunker. Munoz lasted longer through technique but eventually succumbed.
“Americans getting soft,” someone called out in accented English.
That’s when Burke’s Nebraska farm boy pride kicked in. “All right, that’s it.” He rolled up his sleeves, revealing tatted forearms and muscles like bridge cables.
His opponent was Corporal Wojtek Górski, who Torres recognized as a tank loader from one of the Polish tank companies. He had a similar build, and a similar quiet confidence.
They locked hands. The pub fell silent.
“Na trzy,” Kowals said. “One… two… three!”
The table creaked. Both men’s faces reddened with effort. Neither arm moved.
“Come on, Burke!” Munoz shouted.
“Dawaj, Wojtek!” the Poles countered.
Thirty seconds passed. Then a minute. Sweat beaded on both faces. Then, incrementally, Burke’s arm began to bend until he couldn’t hold it anymore.
The Poles erupted. Money changed hands. Górski slapped Burke on the shoulder, then both men grinned and shook hands.
“Good match,” Górski said simply.
“Rematch when we get back,” Burke promised.
“Sure, I’ll gladly take more of your American dollars from you,” Górski muttered with a grin, then quickly raised his glass. “But tonight, we are here!”
More vodka appeared. Torres tried to pace himself, but the Poles were insistent. Every toast meant something — to fallen comrades who had volunteered to fight in Ukraine or Afghanistan, to NATO, to someone’s grandmother who’d killed three Nazis with a pitchfork during the Second World War.
“You have family?” Nowicki asked Torres during a lull.
“Wife. Four kids.” Torres pulled out his phone, showing a photo.
“Beautiful family. I have two daughters.” Nowicki shared his own photos. “They think I drive tank to work like normal job. Don’t understand why Daddy sometimes gone for months.”
“Mine are starting to understand,” Torres admitted. “I’m not sure if that’s better or worse.”
“Worse,” Kowals interjected. “When they understand, they worry. When they worry, you worry. Better they think we play with big toys.”
Staff Sergeant Granger appeared at Torres’s elbow. “Sergeant, you might want to check on your loader. He’s not looking so good.”
Torres glanced over and shook his head. Munoz was doing shots with three Polish privates, and appeared increasingly green.
“Munoz! Time to switch to water.”
“I’m good, Sarge!” Munoz protested, then hiccupped.
“That’s not a suggestion, Private.”
The Poles good-naturedly switched to beer, saving Munoz’s dignity as they passed him a bottle of water. Torres made a mental note to have Gatorade ready in the morning.
“Your lieutenant,” Major Kowalski observed, “he reminds me of myself when young. All theory, no practice.”
Torres watched Novak deep in conversation with a pair of Polish officers, hands moving as they discussed maneuver warfare.