Two Fronts

Chapter 11

Hideki Fujita rolled off the comfort woman, stood by the side of the bed, and pulled up his trousers. The rules at military brothels didn’t let him take them off, or even his boots. All that dressing and undressing wasted time. The comfort women wouldn’t have been able to service so many horny soldiers.

As he fastened his belt, he said, “Arigato.”

The comfort woman just stared at him. She stared through him, really: her eyes were a million kilometers away. She was Burmese-a couple of shades darker than a Japanese would have been, with less angular features. She looked as different to him as an Italian would have to an Englishman. That he looked as different to her as an Englishman would have to an Italian never crossed his mind.

Somebody banged on the door to the humid little room. “Hurry up in there!” the man outside yelled in Japanese.

Out went Fujita. As he’d hoped, the man standing in the hallway was only a corporal. “What was that?” he growled.

“Please excuse my bad manners, Sergeant-san.” The lower-ranking noncom quailed, as he had to. Fujita could have mashed him like a yam without getting into trouble. Superiors could always do what they wanted to inferiors-that was how the Japanese system worked.

Sated, though, Fujita didn’t feel like fighting now. He walked down the hall to the stairs. Behind him, the Burmese girl’s door slammed shut. The corporal would get his sloppy seconds, just as he’d got someone else’s a few minutes before. When you thought of things like that, wasn’t it something close to a miracle that the whole Japanese Army hadn’t come down with one venereal disease or another-or with one venereal disease and another?

Locals and Japanese soldiers led oxen up and down Myitkyina’s streets. Some of the oxen had sacks of grain strapped to their backs. Some pulled two-wheeled carts or four-wheeled wagons. None of them moved very fast. Trucks were few and far between in Burma. Nothing seemed urgent here, the way it had on the border between Manchukuo and Mongolia, in Siberia, and in Unit 731 south of Harbin.

One of the fighting fronts was off in the west, by the border between Burma and India. The other was up north, in southern China. Myitkyina was a long way from either of them. If not for the bacteriological-warfare unit outside of town, this would have been a complete backwater.

Once upon a time, when he was younger and more eager, the way things went here would have bothered Fujita. No, it would have done worse than that-it would have driven him crazy. Not any more. Rushing toward an attack-what did that really mean? It meant rushing toward a chance to get killed: nothing else. Living was better, if they gave you even half a chance. You could do better than laying these resigned Burmese women, but you could also do an awful lot worse.

Not far from the brothel was the hotel the English Army had used for a headquarters till the Japanese chased out the white men and took over the place for themselves. It was the best Myitkyina boasted, which wasn’t saying much. A third-rate colonial copy of a third-rate English provincial hotel … Fujita didn’t know the details. All he knew was, the place was a dump.

But it was a dump with a bar, so he walked in anyhow. Ceiling fans spun lazily in the battered lobby. They stirred the air without doing much to cool it. The bar was all dark wood and brass. The kind of place it was modeled on might have felt cozy and inviting back in England. Here in Burma, the bar seemed out of place, to say nothing of bewildered.

They had beer. Fujita had never been in a bar anywhere that didn’t have beer. They had sake-a bad local imitation of what the Japanese made. And, no doubt because they’d started life as a bad copy of an English hotel, they had what they called whiskey. That was a worse local imitation of what the English made. It smelled and tasted like kerosene, and felt like burning kerosene on the way down. Once, Fujita had asked the native behind the bar what it was distilled from. The man had seemed fluent enough in Japanese, but he suddenly lost his ability to understand the language.

This was a different bartender now. “Beer,” Fujita said, and set some occupation money on the bar. The native scooped up the bill and made it disappear. He filled a mug and handed it to the sergeant.

It wasn’t good beer, either. It was thin and sour. But beer was harder to screw up than sake or whiskey, even if the bar did serve it at room temperature. The barmen swore up and down that the English wanted it that way and complained if it was cold. Fujita had never known a barman who wouldn’t lie, but he couldn’t see why the Burmese would come up with such unlikely nonsense. Maybe they meant it-you never could tell. He hadn’t figured Englishmen were so stupid, though.

He carried the mug over to an empty table (he didn’t lack for choices) and sat down in one of the massive wooden chairs that were another holdover from England. In Japan, a chair like that would have marked a daimyo, a great lord. Ordinary people sat on mats or made do with stools. The English had different ideas about what was comfortable. Maybe they had more wood, too. They must have, if this paneled barroom gave any clues.

After he drank the first beer, he had another, and then a couple of more to weight down the earlier ones. By then, his head was buzzing nicely. It might not have been the best beer in the history of brewing, but it packed a punch, all right. He shambled over to the barman again. “Where do I piss?” he asked.

The Burmese jerked a thumb at a door he hadn’t noticed amidst all the fancy woodwork. As soon as he opened the door, the smell told him the water didn’t run any more. He got rid of his beer and escaped as fast as he could.

“Another, Sergeant-san?” the bartender asked.

“No, thanks.” Fujita walked out. He thought about going back to the brothel, but he wasn’t sure he could manage another round. Having a girl look through him was one thing. Having a girl sneer if he couldn’t keep it up was something else again, something much worse. Even if she had too much sense to show she was sneering, she would anyhow. He knew that.

Which left … what? He didn’t want to go back to his unit so soon. What was leave for but getting away from the people whose ugly faces you saw every day? Well, down the block stood the movie house. He could sit in the dark there and not think about anything. If the film turned out to be a stinker, he could fall asleep. Nobody’d care.

The movie house took only Japanese money. He paid his fifty sen and went inside. As in the hotel lobby, ceiling fans spun without accomplishing much. A newsreel showed Japanese tanks roaring forward in China, Japanese bombers dropping their loads on Hawaii, and a POW camp in the Philippines full of skinny, dirty Americans bearded like animals. He wondered whether they’d get shipped to Unit 731, or whether the Japanese Army would set up a germ-warfare center near the camp.

Then the feature came on. It was set in China, and featured espionage, intrigue, and a gorgeous heroine. The people playing Chinese probably were: they spoke very bad Japanese. The hero foiled their plot to bomb a general’s residence and got the girl. It was as good a way to kill a couple of hours as any Fujita could have found.

He paused at a newsstand next to the movie house. A Japanese magazine showed a greenish-skinned Roosevelt on the cover. The American President’s teeth were sharp and pointed like a vampire’s. He looked like something that would sleep in a coffin and come out at night to suck blood, all right. Creatures like that weren’t native to Japanese legend, but Fujita was one of the many, many people who’d shivered through Dracula when it came to the Home Islands.

He bought a girlie magazine instead. You could always think about pretty girls and what you wanted to do with them. Vampires were a sometime thing.

And then he did head out into the countryside again. His unit, no matter how much he might want to get away from it, was as close to home as he had. Too bad, he thought. It’s true, but too bad all the same.

Air-raid sirens howled, both on the Ranger and ashore. Pete McGill tumbled out of his bunk and dashed for his antiaircraft gun. “Battle stations!” the PA system howled unnecessarily. “All men to battle stations!”

Searchlights were already stabbing up into the warm tropical night. Here and there, they picked out the silver sausages of barrage balloons that had sprouted above Pearl Harbor and Honolulu to make life difficult for Japanese bombers. They didn’t stab any of the bombers themselves. The Japs flew high above the barrage balloons and sensibly painted their planes’ bellies matte black.

Guns ashore and aboard the ships at Pearl were already going off. Tracers added to the Fourth of July atmosphere the powerful searchlights created. Pete had no idea whether the guns were radar-guided or just putting lots of shells in the air in hopes of hitting something.

Something was up there, all right. Through the guns’ thunder, Pete caught the drone of the bombers’ unsynchronized engines. To him, Bettys sounded like flying washing machines. Their motors didn’t have the rich, masculine growl that American planes’ did.

They also caught fire at any little hit. Americans often called them Zippos-they lit the first time, every time. They’d got slaughtered when they came over Oahu by daylight. Hitting them at night was a whole different story, though. They did have their virtues. They were fast for bombers. And they had a hell of a long range: the flip side of the lack of protection that made them such lightweights. These bastards had flown all the way from Midway.

Here and there, bomb bursts outshouted the antiaircraft guns. Pete’s gun started shooting at-well, something. He passed shells one after another. Sweat soaked him.

Off in the distance, a Betty cometed down into the Pacific, trailing smoke and flame. Somebody’d got lucky, anyhow. As the English, the French, and the Germans had found out before them, the Americans were discovering that stifling nighttime air raids was anything but easy. By the engine noises up in the sky, some night fighters had got airborne. They also needed to be lucky to find the enemy, though.

They needed to be lucky not to get shot down by the flak the guns on the ground and on the ships were throwing up, too. Anybody down below who saw or imagined he saw anything up above would do his goddamnedest to knock it down. If it happened to be on the same side as he was, well, that was its hard luck.

What saved most of the night fighters was the same thing that saved most of the Bettys: when you were shooting four miles straight up into the darkness, chances were you’d miss. Even as he grabbed another heavy brass shell, Pete understood that.

Shrapnel pattered down. He put on a helmet-one of the new pots that were replacing the English-style steel derbies U.S. soldiers and Marines had used since the last war. If you got hit in the head by sharp fragments of steel and brass coming down from four miles up, you’d be sorry, but not for long.

The all-clear sounded after twenty minutes or so. Some of the gunners were so keyed up, they kept firing for a while even after they had no more targets. Not the ones on the Ranger, though-this was a ship with discipline.

“Raid’s over,” Sergeant Cullum said, and lit a Camel. After a deep drag, he went on, “Now we can all hit the sack again, right?”

Most of the answers he got were inventively profane. Leathernecks who’d been jerked out of bunks and hammocks and straight into combat were running on nerve ends. Their hearts would be pounding too hard to let them sleep as quickly as they’d wakened.

Or maybe not. Pete was ready to give it a try. He’d been in the Corps long enough to understand that you grabbed Z’s whenever you could, because you were bound to get screwed out of a lot of them.

Sure as hell, he slept till 0600. It was getting light out by then. A couple of smoke plumes rose into the air. The Japs must have hit something worthwhile, or those fires would have been out by now.

He got coffee and scrambled eggs and toast in the galley. The eggs were fresh, a shoreside luxury. He could eat the powdered ones-you’d starve if you couldn’t stomach them at all-but they weren’t the same.

A petty officer sitting across the table from him said, “We’ve got to find some kind of way to take back fuckin’ Midway. This air-raid shit gets old fast, y’know?” He punctuated his opinion with a yawn, then headed back to the Silex for more java.

When he came back, Pete said, “Sounds good. But how d’you aim to pull it off?”

“Can’t be that tough,” the Navy man said. “C’mon, man. How many carriers you figure the Japs keep in these waters?”

“Enough,” Pete answered. Since the Ranger was still the only American flattop in the Pacific, that didn’t have to be any enormous number.

He waited to see if he’d get an argument. He more than half expected one. Navy files reflexively disagreed with Marines. When that happened in a Honolulu bar, it usually led to a fight. Aboard ship, it had better not. He didn’t feel like wasting time in the brig on bread and water-piss and punk, in the pungent language swabbies and leathernecks used among themselves.

But the petty officer’s broad shoulders slumped as he sighed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said. Pete wanted to dig a finger into his ear to make sure he’d heard that right. The man in warm-weather whites went on, “We fucked this war six ways from Sunday, didn’t we?”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” Pete said. “I was in Peking. Then I was in Shanghai, on account of Peking’s way inland and they decided they couldn’t get us out if the balloon went up. Then I got blown up in Shanghai”-he scowled, remembering poor, dead Vera-“and they shipped me to a military hospital in Manila, ’cause they didn’t figure they could get us out of Shanghai, either.”

“They were right, too,” the petty officer said tactlessly.

“Yeah, I know.” Pete didn’t want to think about the buddies he’d had to leave behind in Shanghai. They’d be dead now, or prisoners of the Japs. From things that leaked out of China, it wasn’t obvious which fate was worse. Scowling some more, he went on, “I got out of Manila on the Boise, one jump ahead of the invasion. I’ll tell you, man, I’m goddamn sick of going east.”

The petty officer nodded. “I hear you. Oh, boy, do I ever! But when we went west against the Japs, a lot of good guys went west for good, if you know what I mean.”

“You bet I do. I was almost one of those guys myself,” Pete said. “When the Boise went down, you guys fished me out of the drink. Otherwise I’d be nothing but sharkshit by now.”

“Sharkshit.” The Navy man considered that. A slow smile delivered his verdict. “Way to go. I didn’t think anybody could come out with a dirty word I never heard before, but you just went and did it.”

Pete had never heard it before, either. It just came out of his mouth. He hadn’t thought about it before it did. He didn’t have much time to think about it now. He got to his feet and gave his tray and dishes to a Samoan steward in what looked like a skirt-only the guy was about six feet four and almost as wide as he was tall, so ribbing him about it wasn’t the smartest thing you could do.

They’d put out one of the fires by the time he got topside. The others went on burning. The Honolulu papers were sure to have rude things to say about that. Civilians here didn’t like getting bombed any more than civilians anywhere else in the world. Come to that, Pete hadn’t met a whole lot of men in uniform who enjoyed explosives dropping on their heads.

He didn’t see how Japan could hope to conquer the USA. But Japan didn’t have to. As long as she hung on to her conquests in China and the Pacific, she won. And Pete had no more brilliant plans to keep her from doing that than the petty officer did.

Vaclav Jezek didn’t know what a wrecked and rusty Citroen was doing out between the lines the Republicans and the Nationalists held. More than the rust said it had sat here for quite a while. Scavengers had stripped it of tires and inner tubes. Rubber was precious for both sides. They’d taken the battery from under the hood, too. The poor dead son of a bitch who’d been driving the car still lolled behind the wheel. He was dried out, half mummified, and hardly stank at all any more: another proof how long the Citroen had been there.

That the dead man didn’t stink much made the wreck all the better for Jezek’s purposes. He spent one night digging a hidey-hole under the car. He made sure to keep the dirt he dug out behind the chassis. He didn’t want the Nationalists to see anything had changed.

He slithered in under the Citroen. The day dawned gray and gloomy. Pretty soon, it might rain. He did some more digging. Rain would soften the ground and might make the car settle. If it settled on him, it would also settle his hash.

Once he was satisfied he didn’t need to worry about that any more, he scanned Marshal Sanjurjo’s positions with binoculars he’d taken from a German International who’d never need them again. The field glasses were from Zeiss, which made them as good as any in the world.

Men in yellowish khaki, some with field caps, others wearing almost-German helmets, went about their business. As long as they were out of rifle range of the Republicans, they didn’t bother concealing themselves. He could have potted one of them as easily as he pleased, but he didn’t put down the binoculars and set his shoulder against the antitank rifle’s stock. When he killed somebody, he wanted it to mean something.

A skylark sang sweetly overhead. The bird knew nothing of war, save the war it made on mosquitoes and butterflies and crickets. Vaclav wished he could say the same.

He traversed the Zeiss glasses as if they were a machine gun. Suddenly, they stopped and snapped back, almost as if they had a will of their own. What the devil was that? A moment later, he had his answer. That was a German in Feldgrau, no doubt a survivor from the Legion Kondor. And damned if the son of a bitch wasn’t carrying the long asbestos hose of a flamethrower, with the fuel tanks strapped on his back.

Vaclav hadn’t killed many Germans since he came to Spain. He would have gone after anybody who carried a flamethrower, no matter who the bastard was. He couldn’t imagine a filthier weapon. Cooking a man like a pot roast … He shook his head in disgust. He’d never yet heard of anyone who lugged one of those horrible things being able to surrender, and no surprise, either.

He shook his head again, this time to drive the hate and revulsion out of it. He needed to be steady to do his job. He needed to be, and he would be. He aimed his elephant gun at the German. The sight, of course, had crosshairs. He put them right where he wanted them. The German wasn’t going anywhere fast. He stood there talking with a Spaniard, and paused for a moment to get his pipe going.

The antitank rifle smashed against Vaclav’s shoulder. A split second later, the 13mm bullet smashed through the flamethrower’s fuel tanks. They weren’t armored; that would have added weight. The jellied gasoline caught. Then it exploded, covering the German-and, as a bonus, his Spanish friend-in unquenchable fire.

“There you go, cocksucker!” Vaclav muttered as he chambered another round. “See how you like getting it instead of giving it.”

Flame and smoke soared skyward from the enemies’ pyre. The Nationalists close by ran every which way, as if a small boy had brought his foot down hard on an anthill. But what could they do? The flamethrower man and his chum were nothing but charred meat now. Even if somebody managed to extinguish them before they died, the kindest thing to do would be to shoot them and take them out of their agony.

Some ants-the red ones-had stings. Vaclav waited to find out if anyone over there had spotted his muzzle flash. No machine guns snarled at the dead Citroen. No mortar bombs walked toward it. He decided the excitement created behind the enemy line made the Spaniards forget about everything else.

Marshal Sanjurjo’s men didn’t even start shelling the Republican trenches to avenge the fallen flamethrower specialist. They almost always did that after Vaclav killed somebody. From their quiet, he concluded that they were as uneasy about their late German friend and his little toy as soldiers from the other side would have been.

It was funny. There wasn’t likely to be much difference between any one man on Vaclav’s side and his opposite number on the other. Both guys worried about staying alive, about not getting maimed, about their rations, and about making themselves as comfortable as they could while they fought this stupid war. Taken in a mass, though, the guys on his side were his friends, while the guys who followed Marshal Sanjurjo were nothing but Fascist swine.

Of course, they’d call his buddies a bunch of Reds and swear on a stack of Bibles they had God on their side. But what the hell did they know?

The sun eventually burned through the morning clouds. It crawled across the sky. When it went down, Vaclav wriggled out from under the dead Citroen and crawled back to the Czech positions. When he scrambled down into the trench, he found his usually stolid countrymen more excited than he could remember seeing them for a long time.

“What’s going on?” he asked after he fired up a cigarette-first things first.

“We can go back to France and shoot Nazis again if we want to!” one of the men answered. “The French government asked our government-in-exile to send us up there again.”

When the Third Republic jumped into bed with the Third Reich, the soldiers who still fought under Czechoslovakia’s red, white, and blue tricolor turned into an embarrassment. Vaclav supposed they were lucky to have been allowed to go to Spain instead of getting interned or turned over to the Nazis. Now, though, Daladier had decided Hitler wasn’t the lover of his dreams after all. And so the Czechs turned useful again. When it came to cynicism, Frenchmen were hard to beat.

“What’s the government-in-exile got to say?” Vaclav asked. If it tried to give orders, he didn’t know if he’d be any happier following them than Benjamin Halevy had been with his from France.

“So far, it hasn’t said anything,” the other Czech answered. The Czechoslovakian government-in-exile had abandoned Paris the last time the French switched sides-no, the next to last time now-and was currently ensconced in Barcelona. Marshal Sanjurjo’s bombers visited Barcelona every so often. Otherwise, from what little Vaclav had seen of it, it was a nice place. It was a lot nicer than these trenches; the sniper was sure of that.

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” he observed. “They’ve probably caught manana from the Spaniards.” Most of the people in Barcelona thought of themselves as Catalans. Hearing themselves called Spaniards would have pissed them off, the way Slovaks got pissed off if you mistook them for Czechs. Vaclav didn’t worry about that. Catalans had manana fever, too.

“My bet is, if they tell us to go, they don’t know whether we will or not,” the other soldier said. “They don’t know whether the Republic will let us go, either.”

Vaclav grunted. France was clogged with soldiers. The Spanish Republic starved for them. On the other hand, the Republic was only fighting the equally half-assed Spanish Fascists. France was up against the Germans. Anybody up against Germans had his hands full by the nature of things, as Vaclav had too much reason to know.

“Me, I’d go to hell to kill Nazis,” he said. “I guess I’d go to France, too.”

“Yeah, that’s the way it looks to me,” his countryman agreed. “Christ only knows what the government-in-exile will decide, though. Christ only knows what the Frenchies’ll end up doing, too. Maybe they’ll flip over one more time. How are you supposed to know?”

“Good question.” Vaclav found another good question: “What’s in the stewpot? After sausage and hard bread all day, I’ll eat damn near anything.”

Alistair Walsh remembered telling another English soldier he was lucky to have caught a Blighty wound. That was just before he’d caught one himself. You didn’t think it was such ruddy wonderful luck when something laid open your leg.

He didn’t know whether they’d taken the other wounded man back to England. He did know he hadn’t said boo when they decided to ship him home instead of letting him recover in Egypt and go back to war against General Model’s Afrika Korps.

Had someone behind the scenes quietly pulled wires for him? He hadn’t tried to get anybody to do that. He’d pulled wires to get to Egypt. He wasn’t about to do the same thing to get away.

And even if someone had, he didn’t know whether that someone was necessarily doing him a favor. For the second time in this war, England had troops on the European mainland. One Staff Sergeant Alistair Walsh, who’d done a tour in France the last time around and another much more recently, might make a prime candidate to go back yet again.

He might once he recovered, anyhow. He’d gone back to Blighty the long, slow way: through the Suez Canal and around Africa. That was what losing Gibraltar did to you. By the time his hospital ship reached London, he was limping on the deck with a stick.

He was limping through London now, still a convalescent. The leg hadn’t festered-not badly, anyhow-but it wasn’t up to the demands going into the field would put on it. The people at the hospital had made noises about turning him into a behind-the-lines type: a military bureaucrat, in other words. The look he gave them put paid to that. He had the front-line soldier’s essential quality-he wanted to go out there and do for the buggers on the other side. He just didn’t want them to have too good a chance to do for him instead. At least the doctors and such had the sense to see that.

And maybe, again, he had people pulling wires for him. How many career NCOs got visits in hospital from sitting MPs? Ronald Cartland and Bobbity Cranford both called on him. “Heard you stopped a packet in the desert,” Cartland remarked. “Hard luck, that.”

“Yes, sir. Afraid so, sir,” Walsh replied. Along with being a Tory MP, Cartland was also a decorated captain. He’d seen France, too: this time around, since he was too young to have served in the last war’s trenches.

“Well, we do muddle along here in spite of everything,” he said.

“A good thing we do,” Walsh said. Cartland and Cranford and some of the other aristos had played a bigger part than Walsh in overthrowing the reactionary government that cozied up to Hitler, but the part Walsh had played left those aristos still interested in him. Speaking carefully, he went on, “How are things here in Blighty these days?”

“Interesting times, old man. Definitely, interesting times.” One of Cartland’s elegant eyebrows rose toward his hairline.

They weren’t alone in the sitting room. A glance from Walsh didn’t show anyone else overtly snooping, but he knew perfectly well how to listen in without seeming to do anything of the kind. He had to assume other people could aspire to the same low talent. Since he did, he contented himself with saying, “Like that, is it?”

“Very much like that. Almost too much like that, in fact.” The slight smile on Captain Cartland’s face said he understood perfectly.

Later, Cartland and Cranford filled in more details at a pub where the only customers were likely to be friends. “It’s on tenterhooks, really,” Bobbity Cranford said, slugging back a whiskey with the air of a man who badly needed one. “If we can make a go of knocking Hitler for a loop, I daresay we’ll be forgiven our constitutional trespasses-Lord knows the other side also has a deal that wants forgiving. But if it looks like bogging down into a long, bloody slog like the one you cut your teeth in, Sergeant, we may have ourselves a bit of a problem.”

“Yes, just a bit,” Cartland agreed, deadpan.

Walsh wasn’t used to hearing bloody as anything but an obscenity, and needed a moment to realize the MP meant it literally. A bloody slog the Western Front in the last war had indeed been. Walsh knew he’d been lucky to come out of it with only a wound himself. Well, now he had himself a matched set: one from each war. He would gladly have forgone the honor.

“Have we still got … those blokes safe and sound in prison?” he asked. Even in a safe place, he didn’t want to allude too openly to the men who’d taken the country down the path of working with the Nazis.

“Oh, no. That would be illegal and immoral. But we’ve taken a worse vengeance yet,” Ronald Cartland answered, straight-faced. “One of them is his Majesty’s ambassador to Liberia, another to Peru. Yet another heads up the consulate in … where was it, Bobbity?”

“Guatemala City, if I remember rightly,” Cranford said. “Or possibly one of the towns in Cuba. I forget which.”

“You get the idea,” Cartland said to Walsh, who nodded-he did indeed. Cartland continued, “And the former head of Scotland Yard now employs his gift for wiretapping and interrogation as chief of police in Jerusalem. If the Arabs don’t put paid to him, likely the Zionists will. And if by some mischance he survives them both, he may even do the Empire some good.”

“More than he’d ever manage here,” Walsh said savagely.

“Quite.” Cartland nodded. “But that particular lot won’t come back to that particular mischief any time soon. Their letters and cables are quite closely monitored, I assure you.”

“Well, good,” Walsh said. That was hoisting the collaborators with their own petard, all right. Even so, he found another question: “So much for the leaders, then. But what about the spear-carriers, the blokes who went and did what the big men told them to?”

Cartland and Cranford looked at each other. “That’s rather harder to deal with, you know,” Cranford said slowly. “There are a good many more of them, and their guilt is less blatant.”

“But they’re the ones who’ll make you trouble-make us trouble,” Walsh predicted. “Some of them will just have done what their bosses told them to do. That kind’s safe enough. They’ll do whatever anyone tells them to, and not a farthing’s worth more. The others, though, the others will still believe in what they were about. Those are the buggers you’ve got to watch out for.”

The two MPs eyed each other again. Slowly once more, Bobbity Cranford said, “How is it that you’re not a brigadier, Sergeant?”

Walsh snorted laughter. “The likes of me? If I weren’t in the Army, I’d be grubbing coal out of a seam back home in Wales. More likely, I’d be on the dole wishing I were grubbing coal. A brigadier?” He laughed some more.

“You have the mother wit for it. You’ve proved that time and again,” Cranford said. “Should you be denied the right to rise to the extent of your ability because you come from a coal town, and had the misfortune not to be to the manor born?”

Walsh didn’t know how to answer that. He took the class system very much for granted, as a career soldier was bound to do. At last, he managed, “I have more say with a mark on my sleeve than plenty of toffs with shoulders straps do.”

That made Captain Cartland laugh, but he quickly sobered. “You’re right, Sergeant-I’ve seen as much-but you’re also wrong. You have plenty of say about the little things, but none whatever about the big ones. Bobbity’s right, too. It shouldn’t work that way.”

“Are you sure you don’t belong with Labour?” Walsh wanted to make a joke of it. Politics gave him the willies, and all the more so since he’d found himself in them up to his eyebrows.

“Labour knows one thing,” Cartland said. “Labour knows it better than plenty who call themselves Tories, too: Labour understands who our true enemy is.” All three men nodded and solemnly drank together.