problems.”
He was old enough to remember the last war, when fighting on two fronts had proved more than Germany could manage. Hans-Ulrich wasn’t, so he could say, “We were stabbed in the back at the end,” and mean it.
“That’s what they say,” Steinbrenner—agreed? By they , he couldn’t mean anyone but the officials of the current government. Was he criticizing National Socialism and the Führer? After the first attempted coup against Hitler, the SS had taken away the previous squadron commander, Colonel Greim. Greim hadn’t been loyal enough to suit the powers that be. Colonel Steinbrenner, by contrast, didn’t land in trouble with the authorities. He hadn’t up till now, anyhow.
Not wanting to get into deeper political waters—not even wanting to get his political toes wet—Hans-Ulrich changed the subject in a hurry: “So we’re still flying against the Russians, then?”
Steinbrenner nodded. “Till they tell us to do something else, that’s what we’re doing, all right.” Some of the leer came back to his face. “Breaks your heart, doesn’t it, staying someplace where you don’t have any trouble getting back to dear old Bialystok?”
“I’ve heard ideas I liked less—I will say that.” Rudel cocked his head to one side. Those were aircraft engines, off in the distance. A moment later, he realized they didn’t belong to Luftwaffe planes. “The Russians are still flying against us, too!” he exclaimed, and ran for the closest zigzagging slit trench.
Steinbrenner and the rest of the men who’d greeted him on his return ran along with him. The flak guns around the airstrip started banging away even before he leaped down into the trench. He wished he wore a Stahlhelm instead of his officer’s soft cap. Shrapnel falling from several thousand meters could smash in your skull as readily as a rifle bullet.
Russian bombs could punch your ticket for you, too. Down they whistled, and exploded with flat, harsh crumps. The Ivans’ Pe-2s were good bombers. They carried as big a load as any German plane, and were faster even than Ju-88s, the newest and speediest medium bombers the Luftwaffe boasted. They could fly rings around Stukas, but all kinds of planes could do that. Speed wasn’t what kept the Ju-87 in business. Being able to put bombs on top of a fifty-pfennig piece was.
The Pe-2s couldn’t do that. They dropped theirs pretty much at random, then flew off to the east at full throttle before Bf-109s could tear into them. The raid couldn’t have lasted more than fifteen minutes. Rudel stuck his head up over the lip of the trench. A Ju-87 burned inside its revetment, smoke rising high into the gray sky. A couple of big bombs, probably 500kg jobs, had cratered the runway. The flak didn’t seem to have shot down any enemy planes.
Colonel Steinbrenner also surveyed the damage. He delivered his verdict: “Well, we fly against the Russians as soon as we fix things up around here.”
“Yes, sir,” Hans-Ulrich said. That was exactly how it looked to him, too.
PETE MCGILL HADN’T known what they’d do with him once the Ranger got back to Hawaii. If they wanted him to stay aboard the carrier, he’d do that. Carriers took the fight to Japan. Or if they wanted him to splash up out of the Pacific and take some island away from Hirohito’s slanty-eyed bastards, he wouldn’t complain. The only thing that would have pissed him off was a training billet on the U.S. mainland. He wanted to go after the Japs himself, not teach other guys how to do it the right way.
He turned out not to need to worry about that. He stayed with the Ranger . Maybe Rob Cullum put in a good word for him. Maybe they just figured, okay, he was there, he had plenty of shipboard experience, and he knew how to jerk five-inch shells. Why complicate things?
Because it’s the Navy? a sly voice in the back of his head suggested. To the peacetime Navy, Marines were an unmitigated nuisance. Once the guns started going
He was old enough to remember the last war, when fighting on two fronts had proved more than Germany could manage. Hans-Ulrich wasn’t, so he could say, “We were stabbed in the back at the end,” and mean it.
“That’s what they say,” Steinbrenner—agreed? By they , he couldn’t mean anyone but the officials of the current government. Was he criticizing National Socialism and the Führer? After the first attempted coup against Hitler, the SS had taken away the previous squadron commander, Colonel Greim. Greim hadn’t been loyal enough to suit the powers that be. Colonel Steinbrenner, by contrast, didn’t land in trouble with the authorities. He hadn’t up till now, anyhow.
Not wanting to get into deeper political waters—not even wanting to get his political toes wet—Hans-Ulrich changed the subject in a hurry: “So we’re still flying against the Russians, then?”
Steinbrenner nodded. “Till they tell us to do something else, that’s what we’re doing, all right.” Some of the leer came back to his face. “Breaks your heart, doesn’t it, staying someplace where you don’t have any trouble getting back to dear old Bialystok?”
“I’ve heard ideas I liked less—I will say that.” Rudel cocked his head to one side. Those were aircraft engines, off in the distance. A moment later, he realized they didn’t belong to Luftwaffe planes. “The Russians are still flying against us, too!” he exclaimed, and ran for the closest zigzagging slit trench.
Steinbrenner and the rest of the men who’d greeted him on his return ran along with him. The flak guns around the airstrip started banging away even before he leaped down into the trench. He wished he wore a Stahlhelm instead of his officer’s soft cap. Shrapnel falling from several thousand meters could smash in your skull as readily as a rifle bullet.
Russian bombs could punch your ticket for you, too. Down they whistled, and exploded with flat, harsh crumps. The Ivans’ Pe-2s were good bombers. They carried as big a load as any German plane, and were faster even than Ju-88s, the newest and speediest medium bombers the Luftwaffe boasted. They could fly rings around Stukas, but all kinds of planes could do that. Speed wasn’t what kept the Ju-87 in business. Being able to put bombs on top of a fifty-pfennig piece was.
The Pe-2s couldn’t do that. They dropped theirs pretty much at random, then flew off to the east at full throttle before Bf-109s could tear into them. The raid couldn’t have lasted more than fifteen minutes. Rudel stuck his head up over the lip of the trench. A Ju-87 burned inside its revetment, smoke rising high into the gray sky. A couple of big bombs, probably 500kg jobs, had cratered the runway. The flak didn’t seem to have shot down any enemy planes.
Colonel Steinbrenner also surveyed the damage. He delivered his verdict: “Well, we fly against the Russians as soon as we fix things up around here.”
“Yes, sir,” Hans-Ulrich said. That was exactly how it looked to him, too.
PETE MCGILL HADN’T known what they’d do with him once the Ranger got back to Hawaii. If they wanted him to stay aboard the carrier, he’d do that. Carriers took the fight to Japan. Or if they wanted him to splash up out of the Pacific and take some island away from Hirohito’s slanty-eyed bastards, he wouldn’t complain. The only thing that would have pissed him off was a training billet on the U.S. mainland. He wanted to go after the Japs himself, not teach other guys how to do it the right way.
He turned out not to need to worry about that. He stayed with the Ranger . Maybe Rob Cullum put in a good word for him. Maybe they just figured, okay, he was there, he had plenty of shipboard experience, and he knew how to jerk five-inch shells. Why complicate things?
Because it’s the Navy? a sly voice in the back of his head suggested. To the peacetime Navy, Marines were an unmitigated nuisance. Once the guns started going
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