Joaquin giggled, deliciously scandalized. "He's got cojones," he said in what might or might not have been reproof.
"Sure he does," the sergeant agreed. "And he'd like 'em to be slapping the backside of some pretty little boy-or he'd like some big manly fellow's cojones slapping his backside. Or maybe both?"
"Both?" The straitlaced private hadn't thought of that. Could you both do and be done by? He supposed you could, but… "?Madre de Dios!"
"She hasn't got any cojones. I'm sure of that. Hell, she didn't even get Joseph's," Carrasquel said.
This time, Delgadillo didn't answer right away. He was scandalized all over again, and not so deliciously this time. At last, stiffly, he said, "If you're going to make filthy jokes about the Virgin, you really should fight for the Republic." Everybody knew the people on the other side hated God-and He hated them, too.
"God understands me," Carrasquel said. "If a snot-nosed private doesn't, I won't lose sleep over it."
Major Uribe had said that God forgave his love life. Everybody seemed to think God would be soft on him in particular, even if all the other sinners running around loose would roast on Satan's grill forever, with demons sticking pitchforks into them every so often to turn them and make sure they cooked evenly on all sides. Joaquin didn't think God worked that way. It wasn't as if God had told him He didn't-God didn't waste time talking to a snot-nosed private. But that was how it looked to him.
"Go liberate some firewood." Sergeant Carrasquel talked to him, all right. "If you've got the time to jaw with me, you've got the time to do some real work." With a martyred sigh, Joaquin started scrounging. He'd tried to keep Carrasquel sweet-tempered, and look what he got for it! Nobody else would sympathize, either. The rest of the guys would just be glad he was busting his butt and they weren't.
To add injury to insult, Major Uribe chose him to join a raiding party that night. "We need some prisoners, sweethearts," Uribe lisped. "We always need prisoners. Have to keep track of what the dirty Reds are up to. They're going straight to hell, and you can count on it." He crossed himself.
So did Delgadillo. He also started working the beads on his rosary. How many prayers would he need to stay safe in a trench raid? The probable number struck him as unpleasantly large. He worked the beads harder. Hail, Mary, full of grace. Don't listen to the foul-mouthed sergeant. That wasn't your standard Ave Maria, but it came from the bottom of his heart.
After he got done with the rosary, Joaquin fixed the bayonet on his rifle-something he hardly ever did-and sharpened one edge of the blade on his entrenching tool. Trench raiding was close-quarters fighting at its nastiest. A couple of the men in the raiding party carried machine pistols, to fill the air around them with lead. Major Uribe had a sword-not an officer's ceremonial sword, but a shorter, fatter blade, almost a pirate's cutlass. Christ only knew where he'd found it. By the way he made it wheep! through the air as he limbered up in the Nationalist trenches, he knew what to do with it. And it went without saying that he would lead the party himself. No matter how queer he was, he never sent men where he wouldn't go himself.
No moon tonight. That was good. Light wouldn't betray the raiders as they crawled toward the Republican lines. A few hundred meters away, some of the other soldiers in the Nationalist trenches started shooting at the enemy. As Major Uribe had hoped, the Republicans fired back. With luck, the racket would cover any little noises the raiding party made.
With luck! What beautiful words those were! Joaquin had thought about that before, usually when artillery dropped too close. It crossed his mind again as he scrambled out of the trench and slithered forward.
Somewhere not far away, a cricket chirped. It fell silent as the Nationalist soldiers went by. "Mierda," Joaquin muttered under his breath. An alert Republican sentry might wonder why the bug suddenly shut up.
He couldn't do anything about that. All he could do was go on. The Republicans had barbed wire in front of their positions, damn them. Most wiring in Spain was halfhearted: a few strands, easy to cut through and to get through. Not here. The Internationals took war seriously. Damn them, too, in spades.
"No worries," Major Uribe said. He had wire cutters. The lengths twanged as they parted one by one. The noise seemed very loud to Joaquin, but the enemy didn't start shooting. Maybe the Mother of God was watching over him. The major hissed in the darkness. "Come along, lambs. All clear now."
On they went, mostly on their bellies. There was the parapet. In. Grab. Out. It would be easy. It could be easy.
"At my count of three, we rush," Uribe whispered. "Uno… Dos…"
He never got to tres. All hell broke loose. Internationals popped up along the parapet and started blasting away with everything they had. The Nationalists shrieked in despair. Major Uribe ran forward, sword drawn. Starlight glittered on the blade-for a moment. Then a bullet caught him. He groaned and fell. The sword flew from his hand.
Another bullet grazed Joaquin's shoulder. "Aii!" he howled, and then clapped both hands to his mouth. The more noise he made, the easier the target he gave the enemy. Well, a slug had found him anyhow. Blood dripped warm down his arm.
The firing eased for a moment. From the trench, someone called out in accented Spanish: "Surrender! Come in now! We'll take prisoners if you do. If you don't, you're dead. First chance, last chance, only chance. Now!"
How many meters back to his own lines? Too many. Joaquin was sure of that. Maybe they would take prisoners. His side had wanted some, after all. "I'm coming!" he said. Two or three other men also gave up. The others, he decided, would never move again, not in this life.
He slid down into the trench. An International frisked him in the dark. The fellow took everything that would have done him any good in a fight, and his wallet, too. That was a joke-he had all of seven pesetas in there. He didn't say anything. The foreigner would find out this wasn't even chicken feed.
"Get moving," the guy said in bad Spanish. "Not to do anything stupid, or I shoot you in the back.?Comprende?"
"Si," Joaquin said miserably, and then, "Where are you from?"
"Estados Unidos. Nueva Iorque," the International answered as they started toward Madrid.
"Why did you come here?" If Joaquin kept the guy talking, maybe he wouldn't shoot him for the fun of it. Maybe.
"For freedom," the American said. "Why do you want to fight for a puto like Marshal Sanjurjo?"
"For my country," Joaquin replied. The American-was he a Jew? wasn't everybody from New York a Jew? Joaquin had never talked with a Jew before-laughed at him. He would have laughed at the other fellow's so-called freedom, if only he were the one holding the rifle. But he wasn't. Head down, he shambled off into captivity. NIGHT IN THE SIBERIAN WOODS. Hideki Fujita sat in a foxhole, slapping at mosquitoes. Daytime, nighttime… The mosquitoes didn't care. They bit whenever they found bare skin. Fujita had itchy welts all over. The damn mosquitoes had bitten him right through his puttees. He wouldn't have believed they could do that till he got here, but he did now.
"Hayashi!" he called.
"What is it, Sergeant-san?" the superior private asked.
"What's the name of that bloodsucking demon in the American movie?"
"Ah! He's called Dracula, Sergeant-san," Shinjiro Hayashi answered. Fujita could hear the relief in his voice. He'd figured Fujita wanted something harder, something more dangerous. Whatever a sergeant wanted, a private had to give it to him.
"Hai! Dracula!" Fujita said, and slapped again. "The night tonight is full of Draculas. You hear them buzzing, neh?"
"That's right," Hayashi said. Not even a private with an education would ever tell a sergeant he was wrong. If he did, he'd get an education of a brand-new kind, but not one he'd want.
Fujita wanted a cigarette. He didn't light up. Who could guess where a Russian sniper might be lurking? Like any other hairy animals, the Russians were at home among the trees. A bullet might fly out of nowhere if he struck a match. Or even the smell of burning tobacco might guide a sniper toward him. Who could say how Russians knew what they knew?