The Man with the Iron Heart

AFTER I Lichtenau was a little townnot much more than a villagea few miles south and west of Nuremberg. Charlie Pytlak walked down what was left of the main street, a BAR cradled in his arms. He had the safety off and a round chambered. He knew the Nazis had surrendered the day before, but some damnfool diehards might not have got the wordor might not care. The only thing worse than getting it during the war was getting it afterwards. He admired the shattered shops and houses and what had probably been a church. The bright spring sun cast his shadow ahead of him. "Wow," he said with profound unoriginality, "we liberated the living shit out of this place, didn't we?" "Bet your ass, Sarge," said Dom Lombardo. He'd liberated a German submachine guna machine pistol, the krauts called it. He kicked a broken brick out of the way. "Got any butts on you?" "Sure thing." Pytlak gave him a Chesterfield, then stuck another one in his own mouth. He flicked a flame from his Zippo to light both cigarettes; his unshaven cheeks hollowed as he sucked in smoke. He blew it out in a long stream. "Dunno why they make me feel good, but they do." "Yeah, me, too," Lombardo agreed. "Couldn't hardly fight a war without cigarettes and coffee." "I sure wouldn't want to try," Pytlak said. "I" He broke off. Half a dozen German soldiers came around a corner. A couple of them wore helmets instead of Jerry field capsa sign they'd likely fought to the end. One of the bastards in ragged, tattered field-gray still carried a rifle. Maybe he just hadn't thought to drop it. Or maybe . . . "Hold it right there, assholes!" Pytlak barked. His automatic rifle and Dom's Schmeisser swung to cover the enemy soldiers. The Germans froze. Most of them raised their hands. The guy with the Mauser slowly and carefully set it down in the rubble-strewn street. He straightened and reached for the sky, too. May 1945 was way too late to die. One of the krauts jerked his chin toward the Chesterfields Charlie and Dom were smoking. He wasn't dumb enough to lower a hand to point. "Zigarette, bitte?" he asked plaintively. His buddies nodded, their eyes lighting up. The past couple of years, they must have been smoking hay and horseshit, except for what they could take from POWs. "I can't give 'em any, Sarge," Lombardo said. "I had to bum this one offa you." "Fuck. I don't wanna waste my smokes on these shitheads. A week ago, they'd've tried to waste me." Pytlak looked the Germans over. They were pretty pathetic. A couple of them couldn't have been more than seventeen; a couple of the others were nearer fifty than forty. The last two . . . The last two had been through the mill and then some. One of them wore an Iron Cross First Class on his left breast pocket. But they were whipped, too. You could see it in their eyes. Charlie flicked the BAR's safety on. He leaned the weapon against a wall and dug in his pocket for more cigarettes. As he started toward the Germans, Dom said, "I'll cover you." "You goddamn well better, Ace." But there was no trouble. The German soldiers seemed pathetically grateful as Pytlak passed around the Zippo. And well they might have. The way things were in the ruins of the Reich these days, he could have got blown for half a dozen Chesterfields. He really was wasting them on these guys. He scTurtledove, Harry is the author of 'The Man with the Iron Heart' with ISBN 9780345504340 and ISBN 0345504348.