"Sir?" Lemp said, and not another word. Why does this shit always land on my head? he wondered bitterly. But he knew the answer to that, knew it all too well. He got this assignment for the same reason that the U-30 got to test a Schnorkel under combat conditions. The powers that be didn't love him, and they had their reasons. Untested? Dangerous? Foolhardy? We'll send out U-30! If anything happens to her, it's no great loss.
Captain Patzig didn't seem to realize he was talking like an idiot. When you commanded a behemoth like this, a U-boat skipper was less than the dirt beneath your feet. "Ja," he said. "Together. Your torpedoes will be useful in sinking ships we capture."
Lemp didn't explode. Holding himself in wasn't easy, but he did it. Carefully, he said, "Um, sir, is it not so that your Panzerschiff here also carries torpedoes?"
He knew damn well it was so. And he managed to embarrass Captain Patzig, at least a little. Color came into the older man's cheeks, which had been quite pale. "Well, yes," Patzig admitted, "but you submariners are the experts in their use, after all. With us, they are strictly auxiliary and emergency weapons."
And what was that supposed to mean? Had the Admiral Scheer tried to torpedo some luckless freighter and missed? It sounded that way to Lemp. He almost asked Captain Patzig. Had Patzig come aboard his boat, he would have. But surface-navy discipline stifled him here on the pocket battleship's spotless bridge.
"You can cruise at fourteen knots and keep station with us, nicht wahr?" Patzig said.
"Till we run out of fuel, yes," Lemp answered. "You've got much more range than we do."
The other skipper waved that aside. "We can refuel you," he said. And so they could-no doubt about it. The Admiral Scheer's diesels would gulp where the U-30 sipped, and the surface vessel would carry far more fuel, too. Patzig went on, "In case we encounter the Royal Navy, your presence would also be useful."
There he actually made sense. Enemy cruisers or destroyers going after the pocket battleship wouldn't expect her to have a U-boat tagging along. Lemp did say, "Once you run up to full speed, sir, you'll leave us behind. We may not be able to do you any good when you need us the most."
Patzig waved that aside. "We will do our best to lure the Englishmen straight into your path. The hunting will be good, Lieutenant. Return to your boat and prepare to conform to our movements."
No! You're out of your goddamn mind! No matter how much Lemp wanted to scream in the senior man's face, the words stuck in his throat. He saluted stiffly. "Zu befehl, mein Herr!" he said. At your command, sir! And it was at Patzig's command. Lemp wouldn't have done this on his own for every Reichsmark in Germany-no, not for every dollar in the USA. Military discipline was a strange and wondrous thing. Full of foreboding, he did a smart about-turn and walked away. IT WAS… a railroad track. Had Hideki Fujita seen it somewhere in Japan or Manchukuo, he wouldn't have given it a second glance. The sergeant shook his head. No, that wasn't quite true. The two iron rails seemed uncommonly far apart. The Russians used a wider gauge than most of the rest of the world. Fujita had heard that was to keep invaders from the west from putting their rolling stock onto Russian tracks. He didn't know-or much care-whether that was true, but it seemed reasonable to him.
But watching Japanese engineers tear these tracks out of the ground and throw them into a roaring fire to bend the lengths of rail beyond repair was something else again. Wrecking the Trans-Siberian Railroad meant victory. No more trains would get through to Vladivostok. And, once the Soviet city on the Pacific was cut off and taken, the rest of the Russian Far East would drop into Japan's hands like a sweet, ripe persimmon.
The Russians understood that as well as the Japanese did. They'd fought like demons to keep the Kwantung Army from coming this far. Two engineers picked up a Russian corpse that lay on the tracks, one by the feet, the other by the arms. They tossed the body a couple of meters off to one side. The thump it made when it hit the dirt again sounded dreadfully final.
Fujita walked over to it. Russian boots were very fine-far more supple than Japanese issue. If this luckless fellow was anywhere close to his size… But the dead man wasn't. He was twenty centimeters taller than Fujita and twenty-five kilos heavier, and had feet to match his size. Large for a Russian, he would have made an enormous Japanese.
"Shigata ga nai," Fujita muttered-nothing to be done about it. But it wasn't as if this fellow were the only dead Russian close by. Oh, no. Fujita and his countrymen had plenty of corpses to strip.
And there were plenty of Japanese corpses to dispose of, too. The dead soldiers' souls would go to Yasukuni Shrine, where Japan would honor them for all eternity. That was a great deal… but somehow it didn't seem quite enough to Fujita right this minute. Maybe that was simple relief at coming through another fight unhurt. He hoped so. He wanted to give his fallen comrades all the respect they deserved.
But he didn't want to join them in death. And the Russians, even though pushed away from their precious railroad, hadn't given up. Artillery from back in the woods to the northeast started screaming in. Fujita stopped worrying about anyone else's boots and started worrying about getting blasted out of his. He jumped into the closest foxhole. A dead Russian already lay in there, crumpled like a broken doll. He rolled himself into a ball and hoped the shelling would let up soon.
It did, but then two or three Polikarpov biplane fighters strafed the Japanese at not much more than treetop height. They looked old-fashioned alongside the Japanese planes that fought them in the air, but they got the job done. One of the engineers who'd chucked the body off the tracks reeled away, clutching at his chest. He slumped to the muddy ground. Fujita feared he wouldn't get up again.
Japanese fighters showed up ten minutes after the Russians had zoomed away. Fujita watched them buzz around like angry bees looking for someone to sting. When they didn't find anybody, they flew away. "Bastards," he said. What were they good for if they came to the party late?
Sooner or later, the Reds would run out of gas for their planes and shells for their guns. That was the whole point to cutting the railroad. Sooner or later, yes, but not yet, dammit. Not yet.
Then Japanese bombers droned past, flying much higher than the fighters had. Fujita cocked his head, listening to the distant thunder of explosions from their bombs. Yes, those came from the general direction from which the Russian guns had been firing. Japanese flyers would presently claim they'd silenced those guns… till the artillery opened up again. Fujita was willing to admit the bomber pilots did try. He wasn't willing to admit anything more than that.
He needed to get rid of the dead Russian keeping company with him. The poor devil was just starting to stink, but that problem would get worse in a hurry. Grunting with effort, Fujita wrestled the body out of the hole.
He was about to drag it downwind when he noticed the dead man's boots. Damned if they weren't about his size. He wrestled one off the corpse and tried it on. It fit better than the boots his own country's quartermasters had given him. And the leather really was glove-flexible. He stripped off the Russian's other boot and put that on, too. As he walked around in the new pair, a broad smile spread across his face. He could kiss blisters good-bye!
The dead man didn't complain. He wasn't even wearing socks-just strips of cloth wrapped around his feet like puttees. Fujita had seen other Russians who did the same thing. They were welcome to the style, as far as he was concerned. His socks-tabis-were like mittens, with a separate space for his big toe on each foot. When the weather got warm, he could wear sandals with them. He wondered if the weather in Siberia ever got that warm. He wouldn't bet on it.
It was warm enough for mosquitoes right now. Siberian mosquitoes were numerous, savage, and large. A Japanese joke said one of them had landed at an airstrip, and groundcrew men pumped a hundred liters of gasoline into it before they realized what it was. Fujita thought it was a joke.