“He’ll learn. They all do eventually.”
“In Belarus, perhaps.” Kowalski’s expression darkened. “You’ve seen the intelligence?”
“Some of it,” Torres replied. “I’m just a Sergeant First Class — not an officer like yourself.”
“It’s OK. I share with you. Across the border, we face the Russian First Guard’s Tank Army and Chinese 81st Group Army — easily six hundred main battle tanks and enough artillery to level Warsaw.” He knocked back another shot. “They call it exercise. We call it preparation.”
“Wow, that’s a lot of tanks. I guess that’s why we’re here, Major. We can’t let you Pols have all the fun if things kick off,” joked Torres.
“Yes. The famous American deterrence.” Kowalski smiled sadly, brushing off his joke. “You know what we call American military strategy? ‘Fight to last European.’”
Torres winced. He didn’t have a good answer for that. He changed the subject and started talking sports. It gave him a chance to brag about his son, a future baseball star.
As the night wore on, someone produced an accordion — because of course there was an accordion. Polish folk songs mixed with American cadences. Burke tried to teach them “Blood on the Risers,” which the Poles loved once they understood the words.
“Gory, gory, what a helluva way to die!” they sang, mangling the pronunciation but nailing the sentiment.
Torres found himself at a table with Kowals and a few other Polish NCOs, the universal brotherhood of sergeants transcending language barriers.
“Tell me,” Kowals said, vodka making his English looser. “Why you do this? Could make more money in civilian world, yes? No one shooting at you.”
Torres thought about the question before responding. “I was dirt poor when I joined. The Army gave me a chance to do something with myself, and besides, I come from a long line of soldiers in my family. In fact, a Torres has served in uniform since the days of the Republic of Texas. My great grandfather served in World War II, my grandfather in Vietnam, my big brother in Iraq, and now me. After sixteen years of this, it’s who I am. I can’t imagine doing anything else.”
“Hmm, same.” Kowals nodded. “My son says I’m crazy. Says I should drive truck for Amazon. Better pay, he says. But Amazon doesn’t stop Russians.”
“To crazy men who stop Russians.” Torres raised his glass.
“And Chinese,” another sergeant added. “Don’t forget Chinese.”
“How could we?” Górski gestured broadly. “They own half of Africa, building bases everywhere. Soon they’ll want Poland too.”
“Have to go through us first,” Burke interjected, swaying slightly.
“Through all of us,” Nowicki agreed. “NATO Article 5. Attack on one…”
“Is attack on all,” the table finished in unison.
There were more drinks, and more stories. Kowals told about his father, who’d driven tanks for the Communists but secretly helped the Solidarity movement during the 1980s. Nowicki’s grandfather had fought at Monte Cassino with Anders’s Army. Every Pole had a story of resistance, of fighting against impossible odds.
“This is why,” Kowalski said quietly to Torres, “we must be brothers. Not just allies on paper. Brothers. When the storm comes — and it will come — we must trust absolutely.”
Torres understood completely. You couldn’t build that kind of trust in briefing rooms or training areas. You built it here, over vodka and war stories, creating friendships and bonds that transcended cultures and language.
“Sergeant Torres!” PFC Munoz appeared, definitely drunk now. “They’re doing toasts. Said I should make one for America.”
“That’s… actually that’s the lieutenant’s job, Munoz,” Torres replied.
“LT’s in the bathroom. Come on, Sarge. For ’Merica!” Munoz slurred his words.
The pub suddenly quieted. Torres found himself standing, glass in hand, facing fifty Polish and American soldiers.
“I’m not good at speeches,” he began. “But I do know this. Sixteen years ago, I took an oath, to defend the Constitution against all enemies. It didn’t say anything about where those enemies might be.”
He saw nods of agreement around the room.
“Now I’m five thousand miles from home. My daughter asked me the other day why. ‘Why Poland? Why now?’” He paused. “I told her because a free Poland means a free Europe. A free Europe means her and siblings sleep safe in Texas. It’s not complicated. It’s not some grand conspiracy or somehow about American imperialism. It’s about honoring your word and standing shoulder to shoulder with our allies. That’s it. It’s that simple.”
He raised his glass higher.
“Major Kowalski quoted a saying to me earlier. ‘For our freedom and yours.’ He’s right. And it works both ways. So here’s to the Polish tankers who’ll be on our right flank. To the Polish infantry who’ll hold the line. To the Polish people who know the price of freedom better than most. And here’s to us, the 4th Battalion, 70th Armor, the most decorated tank unit in the Army.”
He switched to the bit of Polish he’d memorized on the flight over.
“Niech żyje Polska!”
The pub exploded. Poles pounded tables, shouting approval. Someone started singing the Polish anthem. Then the Americans countered with “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Then both groups tried to sing both anthems simultaneously, creating a patriotic cacophony.
“LT, it’s time to go,” Torres told Novak, who’d returned looking pale. “We need to get out of here before someone decides we need to do another round.”
Novak gave him a weak smile and nodded in agreement. They gathered their soldiers, said their goodbyes. Handshakes became embraces. Phone numbers were exchanged. Promises were made to continue meeting up after each exercise.
Outside, the March air bit sharp and clean. Stars wheeled overhead, unpolluted by city lights.
“That was…” Novak paused, searching for words. “Not what I expected, but a lot of fun.”
“Real diplomacy happens at the ground level, LT.” Torres steadied PFC Munoz, who was drifting to the right as they walked toward the parking lot. “The State Department signs treaties. The Army makes them work.”
They piled into the duty van, Sergeant Burke taking the wheel as their lone designated driver.
“Sarge,” Specialist Boone asked from the back, “you really think it’s going to kick off? Like, for real?”
Torres looked back at his crew — they had young faces, flushed with alcohol and camaraderie.
“Hard to say, Boone. I think we train like it will. The rest is above our pay grade.”
But as the van started, he thought about Major Kowalski’s words. The storm was coming. They all felt it.
The van rumbled through empty streets back to the base. Behind them, the pub still glowed with light and life. Polish and American voices still mixed in song.
Tomorrow, they’d be back to being professional soldiers. Checking equipment, running drills, preparing for an exercise everyone pretended was routine.
But tonight, they’d been brothers. And when the storm came — if it came — those kinds of bonds might make all the difference.
Torres’s phone buzzed. He had another text from Maria. “Kids asleep. House feels empty without you.”
He started to type a response, then stopped. What could he say? That he’d spent the evening drinking with Polish tankers? That everyone here expected war but pretended otherwise? That he missed her like a physical ache but couldn’t come home?
Instead, he typed, “I love you. I miss you. Hug them for me.”
“Always do. Stay safe soldier and return to me.”
He pocketed the phone and closed his eyes. Żubrówka swirled in his stomach. Tomorrow would bring headaches and PT and the endless preparation for a war they hoped wouldn’t come.