We Install by Harry Turtledove Read Free Book Online Page A

without a stitch on them.”
    â€œAs if the quartermasters didn’t have enough problems,” Horst snorted. Sack wanted to pump him full of bullets—here he was in his dog collar, with a safe post back of the line, making the lives of fighting men miserable. But Horst went on, “You’re right, Willi, we have worse things to worry about. You two—there’s a road, of sorts, about a hundred meters west of here. A kilometer and a half, maybe two, down that road are more panzergrenadiers . Attach yourself to their Kampfgruppe for the time being.”
    â€œYes sir,” Sack and Pfeil said, again together. They got out of the farmhouse in a hurry; the military police had almost certainly taken possession of it knowing it would attract tired soldiers.
    The road, like too many Russian roads, was nothing more than a muddy track. Pfeil swore at the military police as he tramped along. Sack echoed him for a while—like any real soldier, he had only scorn for the dog-collar boys—but then fell silent. He didn’t like what he’d heard back at the farmhouse. A Kampfgruppe was like papier-mâché: bits and pieces of defunct units squashed together in the hope they’d hold. Also like papier-mâché, battle groups fell apart when handled roughly.
    Somebody in a foxhole shouted, “Halt!”
    Sack and Pfeil obediently halted. “We’re friends,” Sack called. He stood still to let the sentry see his uniform.
    â€œStay,” the sentry said. They stayed—he had the drop on them.
    He didn’t get out of the hole to check them himself, but called to someone else. The other soldier approached from the side, careful not to get between the foxhole and the two Germans. He too kept his assault rifle at the ready as he carefully examined Sack and Pfeil. But when he spoke to them, what came out of his mouth was gibberish, not German.
    Now the two noncoms exchanged glances. “Should he worry about us being the enemy, or should we worry about him?” Pfeil muttered.
    Then sack saw the rampant lion on the fellow’s collar patch. “Norway?” he asked, pointing to it.
    â€œJa!” the other soldier exclaimed, and then more in his own language. Sack eyed him with increasing respect. Several western European nations had sent contingents to hold back the Red Asiatic flood, and those outfits had solid fighting reputations. Sack just wished their soldiers had picked up more German.
    The Norwegian was a big blond fellow who might have posed for a recruiting poster if he’d been cleaner. He and Sack soon discovered they’d both taken English in school. Neither of them was fluent, but they managed to understand each other. The Norwegian said, “There is a—how do you say it?—a canteen? a kitchen?—down the road not far.” He pointed to show the direction.
    That cut conversation off at the knees, or rather at the belly. The German supply system had worked well for a while, with everyone having plenty of food and field kitchens keeping pace with the advancing armies. The armies were no longer advancing. Enemy aircraft had taken their toll on truck columns and supply trains. The long and short of it was that Sack hadn’t eaten for more than a day.
    The big bubbling pot smelled wonderful. Most of the soldiers gathered around it were Scandinavians of one sort or another: Norwegians, Danes who wore a white cross on a red shield, or Swedes with blue and gold emblems that were almost the same shades as those of the Ukraine’s national colors. Some spoke German; more knew English. They all had the worn look of men who’d been through a good deal.
    But the stew in the pot was thick and rich, full of cabbage, potatoes, and meat. Sack wolfed down a big bowl. “It’s horsemeat,” a Dane said apologetically in English. The corporal didn’t quite take that in, so someone else translated: “ Pferdfleisch .”