On July 9 the French opened fire again, with ninety guns trained at shorter range on the neck of Gaeta. Heath watched it with mixed feelings. He hoped that this time the barrage would be successful, but also that Dillon would not feel the need to get up and participate. The man was recovering, but he needed more rest before the malaria was fully beaten back.
Most of the shells were directed at the Queen's Battery, whose return fire was soon reduced. But the four heavy ship's guns continued to fire throughout that day and the next, and the French ammunition was rapidly becoming exhausted.
On July 10 there was furious fighting. The French trenches were close to the walls, and they attempted to establish a breaching battery close to the shore. And of course Dillon had to be there. Heath tried to restrain him, but Dillon was determined to be in for the kill.
Actually, the man seemed fit, for the day. Malaria was like that; one day it was incapacitating, and the next it was gone. But it always returned. A victim who did too much when feeling better was begging for worse trouble. But Dillon led his men in toward the wall.
The defenders concentrated their fire, raining shot and shell down on the French position. A French shell made a lucky score, bursting inside the Breach Battery. But the defense held out, and finally the advance was repulsed.
And Dillon had been wounded. He had concealed its severity from his men, lending them his courage, but when he returned Heath found him bleeding from the gut. He rushed to attend to the awful wound, but Dillon waved him away. "Go tend my men! They are in a bad way."
"There are other medics," Heath said. "I must tend to the officer first."
"Forget it! See to my men."
"And," Heath said carefully, "if others see you, they will realize that you were sick before you went to fight, and will soon fathom how, and you will be shipped directly to Naples for recovery."
That got him. Dillon ceased protesting, and Heath escorted him from the field. Back in their quarters, he addressed the gut wound. "This is bad," he said.
"I know it. Fix it."
"It's a shrapnel hit, and the fragment is still in you. I must take it out and sew up your intestine. This will be painful. Dillon, it really would be better to have this done quickly, in Naples. Your life is in danger."
"I must see the siege through."
"I can do it," Heath said grimly. "But here your danger of infection is much greater. You will survive the wound, but not necessarily the infection. Not on top of malaria. I judge your chances here to be less than fifty per cent."
"Do it."
Heath tried once more. "At Naples, Melee can come and hold your hand and encourage you."
Dillon was clenching his teeth to fight back the pain, but this made him pause. Then he dismissed it. "She can do that after the siege is won. Do what you have to do. Now."
Heath wasted no more time on argument. "Here is strong wine. Drink it, to dull the pain."
"No. I'll get by. Just give me the bullet."
"Drink it, damn you!" Heath snapped. "Or I'll have to bring in men to hold you down while I operate, so that your involuntary struggles don't exacerbate the injury."
Dillon finally relented. He gulped the wine while Heath used cloths to clean the wound, and prepared his instruments. Then Dillon took the bullet, and bit down on it, determined not to scream.
Heath dug into the wound. The shrapnel was small, and seemed to have stopped before doing more than penetrating the skin and lodging in the intestine. He peeled back the flesh and used forceps to take hold of the metal and work it out. Dillon tensed, and his breath whistled around the bullet, but he did not scream. Oh, the man had self control—but that was not enough.
The ragged piece came out. Heath waved it before Dillon's face, so that his glazing eyes could see this success. Then he drew out the injured segment of intestine, and used stout needle and thread to sew it together. He squeezed it back into the abdominal cavity, closed the wound, and made additional stitches. He wrapped a bandage around the lower torso. It was over, for now.
"Done," he said.
Dillon heard, spat out the bullet, and lapsed into unconsciousness.
Heath summoned a man, one not of Dillon's complement. "Stand by this officer," he said. "When he wakes, give him water or wine, as he prefers. If he hallucinates and says wild things, repeat them nowhere else. If he asks for me, fetch me immediately."
"Yes, sir."
Now Heath went out to see to others. He hoped he had been able to do enough for Dillon. He had seen such injuries before; they were terrible, but could be survived. Except for the infection that so often followed.
One of his medics spied him. "Sir! Did you hear? Prince Hesse was mortally wounded by that explosion in the Breach Battery!"
That was news indeed. Without the iron nerve of the prince, the resistance would soon collapse. Yet Heath was sad, in a way, for Prince Hesse had proved to be a worthy opponent.
The prince did not die, but he was incapacitated, and command of Gaeta devolved to his second, Colonel Hotz. The word was that the colonel had moderate ability, but little prestige or leadership. This was certainly the time to push ahead with full force.
Masséna ordered his batteries to double their fire, regardless of the state of their supplies of ammunition. All could be won with a single all-out push. He issued another demand for surrender.
On July 12, Hotz responded: he refused to surrender. That meant that the prince was still alert enough to make the decision.
Four more days of shelling followed. The supply of ammunition dwindled dangerously, but still the fortress did not capitulate.
Dillon was not doing any better. The infection did come, and added to the malaria it had him burning up. He couldn't eat, and was becoming gaunt. Still he held on, refusing to be shipped out until he saw the victory.
Heath had severely mixed emotions. The man's loyalty to his cause and courage when in awful pain were amazing, but he was dying. Never had Heath so much regretted giving his word; he had to protect Dillon from discovery, knowing that he was helping the man to kill himself through neglect. He was tempted to break his word and get the man to better care, but could not do it. For one thing, he was afraid that it was already too late: Dillon well might die on the road to Naples, knowing that he had been betrayed. That would be worse than nothing.
On the night of the fifteenth, a French engineer reported that a passage could be waded from one of the trenches to the lowest of the two breaches the shells had made in the walls. It was now possible to set up a storming party.
Heath brought the news to Dillon. All he had now was information; there was nothing more he could do for his friend medically. Dillon would win or lose the battle within his own body on his own—and encouraging news about the external siege was perhaps his best medicine. Heath had been tempted to lie to him, to tell him that the victory was being had, but he couldn't make himself do that either. Dillon trusted him to bring the truth, and he had to do it. The truth was that an opening was in the making, but it had not yet been completed.
This avenue was just in time. On the morning of the sixteenth the French had only two days' worth of ammunition for sustained fire. Then the guns would fall silent, win or lose. Worse, news had come of a disastrous setback that Reynier had suffered in Calabria. The British had landed a force and defeated him and sent him into an extended retreat with heavy losses. The natives had snatched the opportunity to rebel, and were crowding in, committing atrocities. So there would be no reinforcements for the siege of Gaeta; all the available reserves were being rushed to help Reynier in the south. Worse yet, Napoleon was pulling troops out of the Kingdom of Italy to support the French forces in Germany.
So the issue here had to be decided quickly. They were so close; they just had to wedge through that last inch and finish it, so that some of the troops here could be sent down to join Reynier.
Masséna decided to risk everything on victory. The French guns would expend all their ammunition, and then the infantry would storm the fort with bayonets, if necessary.
"I must be in that charge!" Dillon gasped.
"It's not for two days," Heath said. "You must eat, drink, get your strength back."
Dillon tried, but the food would not stay down. The only nourishment he could get was from the wine, in tiny sips. It did not go to his head; apparently the terrible fever burned out the spirits. But he was not improving; his eyes glowed in gaunt sockets.
For two days the guns blasted the wall, targeting and enlarging the breaches. Then, as the last of the ammunition loomed, the French made their preparations for storming both of those breaches.
"I must be there!" Dillon rasped.
What was there to do? Heath got him dressed, and with the help of an aide walked him to the front. His men cheered when they saw him; they had known he would not let them down.
But the charge was not yet. Normally a besieging general would attempt to hide his preparations from the defenders, so as to gain the maximum advantage of surprise. But Masséna had given orders that the preparations be ostentatious, so that the defenders could not possibly miss them. He knew that Prince Hesse was down, if not dead, so that the defense would lack the courage of that leadership. They were being given full opportunity to lose their nerve. With luck, this demonstration would break their will.
The French forces made ready. Dillon wanted to join his men, but Heath held him back. "The order has not yet been given. We may win without charging."
"Maybe just as well," Dillon murmured. He knew that he would be lucky just to keep his feet, let alone charge. But if there was no charge, his mere presence lent support.
Then at three in the afternoon, as the columns were forming, a white flag appeared over the wall. "They are capitulating!" Heath cried. "You have seen the victory."
"It could be a ruse," Dillon said.
"If it is, we'll soon know. Meanwhile, back to bed with you." He hauled the man off the field.
It was no ruse. Within three hours the conditions of surrender were agreed. The French would take over the fortress, together with its guns and munitions, but the entire defensive garrison would be allowed to retire to Sicily. The defenders had been adamant and honorable, worthy of respect, so were to be treated with honor. The only condition was that they not raise arms against the French Empire or its allies for a period of one year.
"And so they are moving into the fortress now," Heath told Dillon. "The defenders know that General Masséna can be trusted. Tomorrow morning a portion of these forces will be sent south to assist Reynier. The tide is turning. And you can go to Naples. You have seen the victory."
Dillon nodded, smiling. "Give me your word, again," he said.
"What?" But he saw that the man was about to lose consciousness, or worse. He had another request, and very little time. "Given."
"See to Melee." Then, before Heath could answer, Dillon fell back on the bed.
Heath leaped to help him, but there was nothing he could do. Dillon's labored breathing had stopped. He was dead.
He pushed the man's eyes closed. "I will see to Melee," he promised. Then he turned away and let his tears flow.
It was the ninth month, but Avalanche knew that all was not well. She had never been this far with child before, but there was pain that should not be. The baby within her seemed well, but she herself was not. She wouldn't tell the others; there was nothing they could do anyway. She had sent Od away, on the pretext she wanted to sleep; it was actually so that she could wince and writhe without attracting attention. She had been able to mask it well enough so far, but she felt the incipient birth pangs, and knew that it was about to get much worse.
As she lay alone in the bedroom, she reflected on recent events. The French were winning Italy; the tide had turned with the capture of Gaeta, and the enemy forces and brigand bands were in general retreat. But at what price? Her old friend Pul had died in Calabria, shot down by the British. Od had returned to report that Pul had died with honor, leading the charge. But he was nevertheless dead. She had slept with Pul many times, in the early days before she oriented on Od, and sometimes more recently. She had never charged him, but she had asked him not to tell Od, and apparently he had died without telling. That was indeed honor, for Pul normally liked to brag. She had never loved him, or ever really liked him, but now a piece of her seemed to be gone.
Then, almost two months ago, Dillon had also been killed. He had taken a gut wound, and it got infected, and he had died on the day Gaeta fell. Heath had returned with the grim news. Heath had had to tell Melee, and she had screamed and torn her hair, reacting with flair, but her emotion was real. Avalanche and Talena had known better than to try to console her; there was no consolation to be had.
Worse, was what else Heath said: Dillon had made him promise to "see to Melee." Dillon's last thought had been for his lovely wife. He hadn't known how Heath felt about Melee. None of the men had known. And of course he hadn't meant for Heath to do anything with her personally, and Heath would not. He simply had to see that she was well taken care of. But how? Their group was short a man.
But now Avalanche had the answer. If she could just convince the others. It made perfect sense, but she feared they would not be willing to see it.
This was the time, and not just because both Heath and Od were here with the three women today, on separate leaves from their units.
"We must talk," she said, as Talena entered the bedroom. "All of us."
Talena glanced at her. "Is this serious?"
"Yes."
"Then we will join you here in the bedroom while we eat. I hope we can work it out." She had the grace not to inquire what. Talena was always good at not prying.
In due course they assembled, with their food on wooden plates. Avalanche had very little to eat, because she knew she couldn't keep it down. That was all right; it was talking, not eating, she had to do.
"We have had a problem," she said as they listened. "Melee is a widow, and Heath promised to see to her welfare, but the only thing he or anyone could do was to keep her here with us, as before. But we all know that she will need a man, long term."
"Dillon was all I wanted," Melee said darkly. She had lost weight during her grief, but remained lovely in a haunting way.
"I am not speaking romantically, but practically," Avalanche said. "I have Od, Talena has Heath, and if their units get sent far from each other, our group will disintegrate, but they will still take care of us. But with whom will you go?"
Melee was silent, appreciating the point. She could stay with the two women, because they formed a compatible group, but she would be a disruptive influence if she stayed with a single couple. She couldn't help it.
"Fortunately, I have a solution," Avalanche continued. "But I think the rest of you will not like it."
"The solution is for me to leave," Melee said. "I came here because of Dillon's friendship for the two other men. Now he is gone, and there is no obligation."
"But I promised Dillon," Heath said, anguished.
"Be quiet, both of you," Avalanche said. The other women knew why she could not speak of the reason for his anguish. He had a double commitment to Melee, only part of which could he confess. "There will be a man for Melee. Maybe not a love match, but a reliable, good-hearted, good provider. If we can agree."
Talena was looking at her quizzically. So was Heath.
"But first I must make you understand something else," Avalanche said after a moment. "I am very soon to birth my baby. But I think I will not survive the birthing."
Suddenly all of them focused sharply on her. "What?" Od demanded.
"I have been hiding it, but can do so no longer. There is something wrong. That baby is not going to come out peacefully. I think my evil prior life has given me illness, or scar tissue, or something. Heath, you are going to have to cut the baby from me. I think you can save it, but you can't save me."
"But I wouldn't—" Heath started.
"It's not the cutting that will kill me. It's the ailment. I don't know what it is, but I know its nature. I have been hanging on, to see the baby through, but then it will be over for me. You will cut me open to save the baby; otherwise it, too, will perish. You don't want that."
Heath got up and came over to her. He put his hand on her forehead, then on her belly. Then she spread her legs so that he could reach in past her underclothing and probe her pained cleft. He was after all a doctor, and he needed to know. His fingers nudged inside her, while the others watched. Grimly, he nodded. "Why didn't you say something before? You can't birth this baby."
"Could you have fixed it before?"
"No. You are right; I will have to cut you open. We must take you to the hospital immediately." He withdrew his hand.
"No. That will only prolong the agony. I want to die quickly. It is kinder to bleed to death." She stared directly at him. "Isn't that so?"
He spread his hands. "It is so."
"It can't be so!" Talena protested. "This isn't a battlefield. There is no need to die without attention."
But Heath shook his head. "She has a condition that makes pregnancy lethal. If I had known early, I could have arranged to abort it—"
"No! I have longed for this baby all my life. It is my fulfillment as a woman. It must survive. Nothing else in my life has been worthwhile, except this. Save the baby; let me go."
"So it must be," Heath agreed. "You cling to your mission as adamantly as Dillon did, though your life be forfeit."
"And that is the rest of it," Avalanche said. "My life has never been worth much, but I can give this baby life—and I can help my friends. Od, you will need a woman, because what you know about babies is little. Take Melee."
Od looked astonished. So did Melee.
"You both know that you represent one very good man and one very lovely woman. The man needs a woman to care for his baby; the woman needs a man to support her. You don't need to speak of love, though perhaps it will come. You need each other, and you are both good people. You can work it out."
Heath looked at them. "Can you?" he asked Od.
Od, nonplused, looked at Melee. "I never dreamed of—but if she were willing—"
Talena looked at Melee. "Can you?"
"Yes."
"Just like that?" Od asked her, surprised again.
Melee nodded. "It is, as Avalanche suggests, a practical decision. I'll never have Dillon back, but I still need economic and social support. You are an unexciting but good man who can provide both. I believe I can give you what you desire. But I would do it regardless, because Avalanche asked. As she says, we are not speaking of love, merely of need."
"But a baby who is not yours—"
"It is Avalanche's—and yours. That's enough."
"But still—"
Avalanche smiled, though her pain was strengthening. "He does protest too much. Melee, I think you should kiss him."
"By your leave," Melee agreed. Then she got up, kneeled beside Od, took his head in her hands, and kissed him firmly on the mouth. After a moment she disengaged and returned to her own place.
Od did not move or speak. Melee had done what Avalanche had once been able to do to man or boy, stunning them.
"I wish I could do that," Talena said, laughing a bit self-consciously.
"You can do something more important," Avalanche told her. "Wet-nurse my baby, until it can eat."
"Yes, of course. I haven't yet weaned my last." Talena touched her bosom, as if hefting a breast for content.
"And so my man and my baby will be secure," Avalanche said. "And, you, Heath, will have seen to Melee. You know she could not be better situated than this."
"I know," Heath agreed. He looked relieved, and she suspected why: he retained his illicit passion for Melee, but knew he could never fulfill it. This way, there would be no temptation, and he honored Dillon's stricture. He had seen Melee given what she needed, and had no further obligation.
"Yes," Talena said. The danger to her own marriage had been abated. "But to sacrifice your life—"
"I made the choice when I first felt the quickening," Avalanche said. "My only regret was inflicting my death on Od. But now I think it won't be so bad, for I leave him to one more beautiful than I ever was."
"I am not sure about that," Melee murmured.
Heath nodded. "It is a beautiful, if necessary thing you are doing. I see you are in pain. Do you wish me to do what must be done?"
"Yes. My time has come." Indeed it had; her belly was writhing with the contractions that would destroy her. "I think you will need help. Maybe if Talena will stay—"
"I'll stay," Od said quickly.
"No! I don't want you to see me as I will be. I want you to remember me as beautiful. Get well away from me, until I am gone."
He stared at her a moment. Then he got up and approached her. He kneeled before her. "I love you—and your baby." He kissed her, and she fought back her rising agony to kiss him back.
"I love you," she echoed. "Now go. With Melee. See to the children."
He got up and left the room. Melee got up also. Her eyes were bright. "I love you too," she said, and followed Od out.
Avalanche waited until she heard them leaving the building with the children. Talena peeked out the shrouded window. "They are beyond hearing," she said after a pause.
Then Avalanche felt free to let go. She groaned, and it was half a scream.
"Take this," Heath said, giving her a cup of wine into which he had added something. "It is tincture of opium, for the pain."
"But it will harm the baby!"
"I'll have the baby out of you before it can be harmed. Take it."
Gratefully, she accepted the drink. And while the wine warmed her throat, and the opium reached for her brain, Heath and Talena stripped her and laid her out on the bed belly-up.
Heath readied the knife. "I can try to save you," he said. "I can sew you up, stanch the flow of blood. I judge you have a one-in-three chance to survive."
"No. I would not be as I would want. I would be scarred and of weak health. My body would no longer appeal to men. Let me die."
"This will hurt. The drug can't stop the pain entirely. But you can bear it, especially if you direct your mind elsewhere. You will know it's over when you hear the baby cry."
"I'll think of birthing it normally." The room was wavering; the opium had reached her eyes.
Heath leaned close, with the knife.
But she had one more thing to do. "In my drawer—my jade figurine—"
"Your one most precious possession will go with your baby," Talena said quickly. "In memory of you."
Then she was in a turmoil of pain and struggle, but she didn't fight hard because she knew it was Talena holding her down so her thrashing wouldn't harm the baby, and Heath's knife cutting it out of her. At the same time she felt as if she were floating, her body laid open like a gutted fish. An instant passed, as it were an eternity, and she saw the baby. It was a boy! Talena had always wanted to nurse a boy, and now she could. But was it all right?
Then she heard the cry. She relaxed, gladdened, and ebbed away.
The French reduced the remaining resistance, but had some difficult campaigns. The last set battle was in 1807, when Prince Hesse, now recovered from his wound, landed at the tip of the Italian toe with five thousand men. He took up a strong position at Mileto. Reynier attacked before dawn. Most of the Sicilian regiments bolted at the first sight of French bayonets, leaving only one regiment to make an honorable defense. Thereafter, the resistance was mainly a matter of brigandage and guerrilla attacks. The lawlessness continued through 1808, and grew worse in 1809. In 1810 a new military commander issued special decrees: every insurrectionist who surrendered would be pardoned and placed on the government's payroll. A price was put on the head of every guerrilla chief. Every village was to live under military guard, with herd animals kept under watch or within the walls. No food was to be taken outside the towns or villages, and no person was to have any contact with any brigand. The penalty for violation was death. These harsh measures were executed to the letter. Even innocent violations resulted in action, such as when women and boys went out to pick olives and took bread with them: they were shot. When a woman cared for a newborn baby given her by a girl who followed the brigands, she was shot. Millers who sold flour to outlaws were shot. And by the summer of 1811 every major brigand chief had been captured or killed.
So Italy was taken and held by Napoleon's forces, protecting the southern flank of his empire. Otherwise it was a distinct historical backwater of no particular significance. When Napoleon lost power in 1815, King Ferdinand recovered southern Italy, forming the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, and ruled as autocratically as ever. So this campaign serves mainly as a precursor of the guerrilla warfare that was to hurt Napoleon in Spain, and other strong kingdoms in other times. And as an indication of the costly and often pointless brutality of war, when mere survival was victory. History does run rampant over the common man.
Appreciation of the magnitude of the conflict that was World War Two may be fading, but there are still a fair number of us who lived through that period and were significantly affected by it. The war had more than one theater, and a number of aspects, each of which was significant enough to represent a major historical event by itself. There was the war between America and Japan in the Pacific, and the conquest of Europe by the Axis powers, mainly Germany, and the subsequent reconquest of Europe by the Allies. One aspect of the European theater was Germany's eastern front, as it advanced into the Soviet Union, stalled, and was finally turned back. This front, by itself, could be reckoned as one of the largest and most savage wars our planet has seen.
Nazi Germany made a non-aggression pact with the Soviet Union, and when the war started, the two invaded Poland from opposite sides and partitioned it. Then later, suddenly, Germany attacked the Soviet Union. The attack occurred in June 1941 and the German troops made rapid initial progress. But they were slowed subsequently by the harsh Russian winters and by increasing resistance as the Soviets got their forces together.
On June 28, 1942, the Germans launched another offensive. Its object was the oil fields and refineries of the Caucasus region of southwest Russia. But the German leader, Adolf Hitler, sought to direct things personally, and wreaked a fair amount of mischief thereby. For example, he suddenly ordered the Fourth Panzer Army to veer south and push to the Caucasus. This took it across the path of the Sixth Army, which was advancing east. The two armies became horribly entangled as their supply and support lines crossed, and both were slowed by the confusion. The Fourth Panzer wound up with most of the fuel intended for both armies, leaving the Sixth somewhat isolated and unprotected by the heavy armor. But Hitler ordered it to drive deeper into Russian territory anyway, because he was certain that the Communist forces were on the brink of collapse.
The German chief of staff managed to convince Hitler to support the Sixth Army more strongly, and the Fourth Panzer changed course again. It approached Stalingrad from the southwest, while the Sixth Army came at the city from the west. For now Hitler had decided that Stalingrad must fall. This was to lead to the art of irony, for the siege of Stalingrad was to become a turning point in more than one sense. The time is August 4, 1942; the place is Stalingrad, Russia.
"GENERAL Yeremenko is arriving today!" Melee said as she burst in the door. "I must see that his things are in order."
Talena looked up. "Doesn't he have his own staff?"
"Not here. Not yet. So I have been assigned to cater the first meal for him. In a few days his staff will catch up, and I'll be through." She hesitated. "Do you mind if—"
Talena laughed. "Of course I'll take care of Avan. We get along just fine."
"You are a better mother than I am," Melee said.
"I have had more experience. But really, I like having a little boy with my girls. The girls like it too; they think of him as a little brother." Her six girls were ages nine down to two, while Avan was one. Melee hadn't borne him, but she had adopted him, for the sake of her friend Avalanche, who had died giving him life.
She rushed around the kitchen, preparing what they had for a meal. "I don't know when I'll be back. The general may be late."
"Phone, and I will come to pick you up," Od said.
"I had in mind your taking me there," she said. "Maybe you can meet the general."
He nodded. "I'd like that."
"Heath and I can handle this," Talena said, looking up from a diaper. Heath was getting the other children organized. "You two go ahead now."
"Thanks." Melee dashed to the bedroom and flung herself out of her clothing. She laid out her prettiest dress. She unbound her hair and shook it out. She wanted to look her best for the general. She had gotten lean a year ago, when her tragedy came, but had recovered her form this year. She could thank her three truly fine and supportive friends for that.
She stuck her head out the door. "Od, wear your dress uniform, just in case. Come change now."
He came to the bedroom. "You know, the chances of me actually meeting the general are remote."
She closed the door behind him. "I know. But God knows how late I'll be finished there, and what assignment you'll be on tomorrow. I thought I'd better see to you now." She unfastened his belt and guided his trousers down.
"Melee, you know I don't require—"
"I know you don't. We are ill matched, and it's no fault of yours. You're the perfect husband. I'm the wild one. But at least I can do this for you." She drew down his shorts, then stripped away her own underwear. "Quickly." She spat into her hand, then stroked her fingers through her cleft, wetting it well. She couldn't afford to wait on nature.
"I like your wildness. But—"
She stepped into him and kissed him. That ended his objection. His hands came around her, stroking down her back and across her bare bottom. He did like her body. He should; it was an excellent one, that she had done her best to preserve and restore. She pressed it ardently against him.
In a moment they were on the bed, and she was moving in the way she knew, parting her legs just enough and guiding him into her. There was no pretense of foreplay or love, only sudden passion. They had married when his wife and her husband had died a year ago, to keep their small group together and make a family for Avan, but it had been a marriage of necessity rather than love. He had made sure to provide for her economically, and she had made sure to provide for him sexually, and they did respect each other. But both knew that it fell substantially short of love. They were friends, very good friends, rather than true marriage partners. But sex was a significant aspect of their relationship, and actually she liked doing it well enough. They had agreed that when they clasped each other he could pretend she was Avalanche, and she could pretend he was Dillon. Thus in their moments of passion they could forget their separate griefs, somewhat. It was something they both needed.
"Oh, Melee—" he whispered as his urgency erupted, fostered by her swift competence. And of course he didn't have to pretend. Neither did she.
"It's good," she said, squeezing him close, giving him the most sensation. She had no climax, of course, but hadn't sought one, and he knew it. He always wanted her to, and sometimes she did, but right now there wasn't time.
"I wish—"
"So do I." She disengaged as he released her, and went to the bathroom for a fast efficient cleanup with a narrow sponge. She wet it, wedged it in, drew it out, rinsed it, and wiped off her external cleft.
"But—"
"After the war, we can take time," she said. "I promise."
"It's not that. I—"
"I know it isn't. But then we can get to know each other without the horrible tension of war. It will be different."
"Oh, I hope so! It's not that you are in any way deficient; far from it."
She emerged from the bathroom, brought out the washcloth and cleaned up his groin for him, because his distraction was diverting him from the need to be efficient. "I know." She squeezed his penis gently, then kissed it. "Now go piss. You don't want to ooze on your good clothing any more than I do."
He gave up the dialogue, and went into the bathroom while she laid out his uniform.
When he emerged, she was well into her own outfit. He got to work on his own. "You are amazing," he said. "If only—"
She leaned forward and kissed him, then straightened his collar. "After the war. I promise," she repeated. Yet she wondered. Od was a good man, a perfect man, but he wasn't Dillon. Or Heath. And would never be.
They were ready. Melee opened the door and stepped out. Talena looked up. "I don't know how you manage to change so fast," she said. "And you got him changed too."
"She took care of me," Od agreed halfway ruefully.
"I'm glad it worked out so well between you," Heath said.
Was he jealous? Melee hoped so. There had never been anything between them, but in her fancy she would have preferred to have him in bed instead of Od. If it had just been Talena who died, instead of Avalanche—but that was an unkind thought she had to suppress. Talena was her friend, and she would never do anything to breach that friendship. Her private passion was all in her mind, and would remain there.
She picked up the sandwiches she had made before. "We'll eat on the way. See you this evening." She waved as they exited.
Od drove, and she gave him a sandwich. "I'm sorry about rushing you like that. But I didn't want you to be deprived, if our duties separate us for long."
"I have no complaint about that aspect," he said. "You can seduce me any time you choose. But how much better it would be if we were in love."
"You're not Dillon, and I'm not Avalanche. We know that. Our relationship still feels more like an illicit affair to me."
"And to me. I admit that lends excitement, but also guilt. If there were any way I could undo what happened—"
"If I could take up a rifle and go back in time to assassinate Adolf Hitler before he took over Germany, I would." She lifted her right hand and sighted along it, as if firing a gun. "Then we would be six or seven friends instead of four. But that's just one of the foolish dreams I have, that have no reality. Our union made sense, and still does, and I have no complaint of you. I think that in time we can make it real, and I mean to do that, when the time comes. We are two pieces of a broken pot, and while the original can never be restored, at least we can make something of what remains."
"I suppose so. And at least we are honoring promises made."
The dialogue lapsed. Melee gazed out the car window as the streets of Stalingrad passed by. There was not much traffic, and much of that was military, as this was a major staging area for the defense of southwest Russia. Military horse carts moved easily through the wide boulevards. Theirs was one of the few cars, and it was of course connected to the government. The civilians would come out in the evening as pedestrians, filling the streets, whistling tunes from Rose Marie, which had recently played here. Many of the young people would have copies of books by Jack London, who was popular among the city's youth.
Their house was in the western residential section, near the downtown shopping district and theater. It was a nice city and she wouldn't have minded living here even if the military requirements hadn't brought them. But today it was a mere shadow of its civilian self.
"How did it come to be named after our leader?" she asked. Od would know, for he knew everything. He was a very intelligent man, and she did appreciate that.
"Originally it was called Tsaritsyn, or 'Yellow water' in the Tartar language," he replied. "Actually, the narrow region between the two great rivers, the Don and the Volga, has been settled since ancient times. The Cimmerians were here for over a thousand years, beginning before 1800 B.C. The Scythians took over in the seventh century B.C., giving way to the Sarmatians about 200 B.C. They fragmented, and that portion known as the Alani or Alans assumed power in this region about 150 B.C. This was to remain Alan territory for more than fifteen hundred years, though they were overridden temporarily by the Huns in A.D. 400, the Avars in 550, the Khazars in 650, and so on until the Mongols or Tartars in the thirteenth century and finally the Russians in the sixteenth century." He broke off, realizing that she was staring at him. "Sorry. I'm somewhat of a scholar of the region, which I find fascinating."
"No, go on. I find your knowledge as fascinating as you find my body. But maybe it is time to penetrate to the sweet core." She smiled, having no embarrassment at all in sexual analogy.
He glanced at her, well appreciating the metaphor. "In 1920, during the Bolshevik Revolution, Joseph Stalin won a great victory over the White army here. So the city renamed itself in his honor. Perhaps flattered, he rebuilt his namesake into a model industrial city for the modern Soviet Union. More than half a million people live here now."
She smiled. "And all of them like to shop the same time I do! Now here's another question for you: why is it so hot?"
"It is August," he reminded her. "The hot season. The daily highs are rising well above a hundred degrees Fahrenheit, but it won't last, for fall will come, making the temperature fall."
"Don't give me that humor, Od! The concrete sidewalks are warping and cracking under the heat, and the asphalt roads are making waves of heat mirages. I can even see reflections in some of them. No rain has fallen in two months, and yet the humidity is stifling. Explain that."
He sighed. "You are a hard taskmistress. The humidity can be accounted for by the fact that the city lies along the steep west bank of the Volga River, so is bathed by the rising water vapor. The heat is worsened by several factors. It is the hot season, aggravated by the fact that the wind has been from the west, hot and dusty. Buildings and streets absorb the sun's heat, and there are not enough trees to alleviate it; it's a phenomenon common to many cities. But I think we also owe much to the industrial northern sector of the city. Clouds of smoke and soot belch forth from hundreds of smokestacks. That's the other face of modernization. That holds the heat in, intensifying the effect."
She sighed. "So the industry that makes the city rich enough to have broad streets, spacious parks, and gleaming white buildings in the residential sections, also makes it unlivably hot. How can we win?"
"We wait for winter."
"The Germans will be here first!"
"Not if our defenses are good."
"Well, I hope General Yeremenko sees to that."
"I hope so too."
They passed the beer factory and turned on Pushkinskaya Street. Here they were flagged down by military police. "What is your business here?" an officer demanded gruffly as they stopped.
Od showed his papers. The man looked at them, compared the picture to Od's face, and saluted. "What is your business here, sir?"
"I am conducting my wife to the general's bunker. She is to cater it, until the general's regular staff arrives."
The man looked at Melee. She smiled and handed forth her papers. "Yes, ma'am," he said after a moment, swayed by her beauty. "Park there, and a man will admit you." He gestured to a controlled parking lot.
"Thank you," Melee said, smiling again. He smiled and made another salute. It was not serious, as she was a civilian, but she knew it came from the heart. She had that effect on men, and took pride in it.
They parked and got out. Od walked beside her, and she took his elbow. The guide did not challenge this, so they continued to the heavy door of the bunker. If they let him in with her, so much the better; she knew he really wanted to meet General Andrei Yeremenko.
But they were not admitted immediately. The matter was being called in to headquarters, to be absolutely sure. When the security of a general was involved, it required more than papers. Personal recognition was better.
Soon an official vehicle screeched to a nearby stop. A driver jumped out and hurried around to open the passenger door. The officer with Od and Melee snapped to attention. So did Od. Both saluted as the senior officer approached. It was a lieutenant-general.
"Ah, so it is you, Od," the general said, returning the salute. "I did not realize that you had business here."
"My wife is to cater to General Yeremenko," Od explained. "She brought me along." Then, as General Khrushchev glanced at her: "General, this is my wife, Melee."
"So glad to meet you at last," the general said graciously. "I had heard you were beautiful; it seems the case was severely understated."
"Thank you, general." Despite herself, she was flattered and a bit flustered; Khrushchev was the man Od worked for.
The general nodded to the officer. "I'll take it from here."
"Yes, sir!" The officer saluted again, then opened the door and stood at attention beside it. Khrushchev gestured Melee in first, and followed, with Od bringing up the rear.
It led to an antechamber, and another solid door. Beyond that was a series of staggered reinforcement partitions. "The Germans will not blithely walk in here, sir," Od remarked, impressed.
"We do mean to protect the general," the officer agreed.
Steep stairs led down and down, flight after flight. "What a job it must have been to excavate this!" Melee remarked.
"It is dug into the Tsaritsa Gorge," Od explained. "Which is a two-hundred-foot-deep dried riverbed about five hundred yards from the Volga's west bank. Formidable reinforced concrete surrounds the structure. There is another entrance below, similarly protected."
"You have done your homework," Khrushchev remarked.
"As a political officer, it is my job to know such things. I am as concerned about the general's security as you are, sir. Not to mention my wife's safety."
Khrushchev laughed. "Of course."
They reached the residential portion. The interior was lavish by Russian military standards. The walls were paneled with oaken plywood, and Melee quickly ascertained that it had a kitchen and a flush toilet.
"I'll need supplies, so I can greet the general with a good meal," she said, checking the cupboards, which were bare. "And there are no sheets on the bed. No one thought he would sleep here?"
General Khrushchev opened his mouth, but didn't manage to speak. He looked amused. Obviously these details had slipped by some underling.
"This is why a woman is catering," Od murmured confidentially to him. "Women think of these details. I believe there is an errand vehicle, and a chauffeur, at the disposal of the general's aide, with adequate funds and rationing coupons, of course."
"Of course," Khrushchev agreed.
Melee smiled brilliantly, rewarding the man. This was why she had wanted Od along: he knew how to open doors without fuss. "I must go shopping immediately, while my husband verifies the security features."
Khrushchev went to the telephone. "The Lady Melee will require a vehicle and driver for a mission for our visitor, in ten minutes," he said, and hung up without waiting for an answer. Then, to her: "I shall be glad to escort you to the surface, if—"
She smiled again. "By no means. You must show my husband the features, so he can verify the security. It is his job. I can find my own way." She started up the long stairs.
Od and the general stood politely as she climbed. She knew they were admiring the increasing exposure of her legs as the angle of view shifted. This was another reward for the general's cooperation, as Od had explained to her beforehand: let them look. Nothing need ever be said, but it facilitated things marvelously. It was grease for the axles. Even when the interim officer was much higher than anticipated. She was glad to do it; she liked being admired, and it did make her job easier.
A lesser officer was waiting for her at the top landing, and a car with a driver was at the curb outside. They had probably drawn straws to decide who had the privilege. Oh, yes, this was the way to run a war.
They drove past Railroad Station Number One, which was near the city center. For months trains had passed through there, carrying refugees from other battlegrounds: Leningrad, Odessa, Kharkov, and who knew where else. The official news was that Soviet forces were winning impressive victories west of the Don, but Melee knew better because Od, as an officer in the know, knew better. Naturally she kept her pretty mouth shut, and officers assumed that no woman as lovely as she was could have any sense about the realities of warfare, so she didn't get into trouble with the censors. But she wondered whether other civilians didn't catch on, when they saw the trains coming through, with soldiers crammed into cattle cars. They would jump gratefully off as soon as the trains hit the station, hoping to barter food and water from the merchants lining the platform. She knew that many stole what they could not afford to buy: a loaf of bread or a piece of fruit. Now there were additional hordes of Stalingrad's natives, ordered with little warning to evacuate eastward. They couldn't guess that the war was not going well? Surely they suspected, but knew as well as she did when to be silent.
They passed the five story office building where officials responsible for the evacuation of the city operated. It was on one side of Red Square, lined by shrubs. Across the square was the huge post office, and the headquarters of the local edition of the newspaper Pravda, or "Truth." Truth was hardly its business, however; political correctness was. But at least it still published a daily edition, just about the only source of official news. It ran information about air raid drills, rationing, and of course the fake battle reports from the front.
Close by was the squat bulk of the University Department Store. It had once been a showplace for the latest fashions from Moscow, but now the store shelves and counters held only essential items: boots, trousers, socks, underwear, and so on. "Here, first," she said. "For sheets for that bed, and a good blanket. Maybe the general will bring his own, but I wouldn't care to gamble on that."
"Of course," the officer agreed. She had the feeling that he was enjoying this, and not just because he was getting to be seen in public with a strikingly pretty woman. Maybe he liked seeing someone do what no military man could do: second-guess the arrangements of a general.
There was a delay in getting a suitable blanket. It seemed that the reserve stocks in the basement warehouse had sunk to an alarming level. She had to settle for a slightly discolored army blanket. So she got a flower-pattern bedspread to cover it. The officer kept a straight face.
She also bought a pair of furry bedroom slippers. The only ones available had daisies painted on the toes. "His feet will be tired, and no one will be seeing him there," she explained. The officer nodded. Oh, he would have a story to tell his comrades, in the privacy of the barracks.
They returned to the car with their booty, and drove on past the Gorki Theater at the south end of the square. The theater was a bastion of culture for those residents who resented the city's reputation as a manufacturing town. She had been inside its Corinthian-columned hall where the philharmonic orchestra played. The seats had velvet backs, and there were crystal chandeliers. In there, one could almost forget what the real world was like.
They shopped for groceries. The assortment wasn't much, but she knew how to make do. She bought potatoes, cabbage, lettuce, chicken, peppers, some canned fruits, dark bread, butter, and a small jug of quality wine. She would have a good meal for the general. She did not know his tastes, but he would surely appreciate the civilian flavor of it.
They returned to the bunker, and the officer carried in her purchases. "I can handle it," she offered.
"By no means, lady. It is my pleasure." And she was sure it was. For an hour he could imagine himself married to a woman like her. It would be a high point in his grim tour of duty, and the envy of his comrades.
Od and General Khrushchev had evidently completed their review of the security measures. She got busy in the bunker's kitchen, while Od unpacked cans and vegetables and put them in the cupboards and refrigerator. "Oh, I almost forgot!" she exclaimed. "I must make the bed."
Od made no move, remaining purposely busy.
"I shall be glad to assist," the general said.
"Thank you so much."
They went to the bedroom together. She stood across the bed from him, and leaned forward to tuck in the sheets. Of course her decolletage dropped, showing her breasts. The general pretended not to notice, but he, too, would have a fond memory for his evening fancies. It was another reward for his continued cooperation. She knew he was married, but his wife was surely far from the front.
They completed the bed, and she set the slippers at its foot. "His feet will be tired," she repeated for the benefit of this man. "This was the only pair I could get. At least they match the bedspread."
"Of course." Again that tacit amusement. Yes, he was enjoying this.
She returned to the kitchen and resumed activity. Khrushchev took his leave and mounted the stairs. He surely had pressing business elsewhere, and could dally no longer. He had after all seen as much as he was going to.
"Very nice," Od remarked when they were safely alone. "I got an excellent briefing, and he—" He glanced at her.
"Yes, I bent low to make the bed," she said.
"I thought you might. General Khrushchev is by far better as a friend than as an enemy, even for those not in his command. His attendance here was a fortunate break."
"We work well together," she said. "You open some doors, I open others."
"Yes. General Yeremenko will be here within the hour. He is flying in, and will be met by a car sent by General Khrushchev. I will be allowed to meet him. Then I will probably be dismissed. I will return for you when the call comes."
"That will do." She continued working. "Set the table for the general. There is genuine silverware in the drawer by the sink."
"Yes, sir," he muttered, smiling, getting on it.
Within the hour, the generals arrived. Melee and Od, warned by the phone, went up to meet them. Everyone was standing at rigid attention as the command car drew to a halt by the street door.
The generals emerged: Khrushchev and Yeremenko. They came to stand before Od and Melee. "This is my man Major Od," Khrushchev said. "Thoroughly versed in the political situation. And his lovely wife, Melee, who is catering until your household staff arrives."
Yeremenko nodded. "A pleasure. Now we must get to work. I need a thorough and rapid briefing, and a bite to eat."
"My staff is at your command."
Yeremenko's eyes narrowed slightly. "Staff? Major Od?"
"No, sir. He is here only to—"
"He and his wife will suffice, for this hour. I will call you."
Melee knew that Od was startled. This was an unexpected development.
"Yes, sir." Khrushchev saluted, perhaps disgruntled, and returned to the limousine.
"I never liked arranged presentations," Yeremenko said. "They tend to tell me what I want to hear, which is not what I want to hear. I hope you are competent, major."
"He is, sir," Melee said before Od could speak. "He knows everything."
"Sir, I never—"
"Show the way," the general said gruffly to Od. He did look tired. Melee had heard that he had been wounded, and was still recovering. He had been pressed back into service because he was one of Russia's most competent commanders, and the situation was desperate.
Od opened the bunker door and stepped inside, holding it for the general. Yeremenko entered. When he was out of sight of the street, he wavered a bit on his feet. Yes, he had been hiding physical weakness, and needed to rest.
Melee stepped up to his side. "There are long steps," she murmured. "If you will brace against me, sir—"
"No need." But as he passed the baffles and saw the endless stairs, he changed his mind. "Perhaps so."
She stood close, and guided his arm around her body. She knew it was her proximity as much as her steadiness that gave him strength. It was one of the effects she had on men, learned from her friend Avalanche. She could not have supported him if he had put any real weight on her. She matched him step for step, and they followed Od down.
"Thank you," the general said as he eased onto the chair at the table. He glanced at Od. "Now what do we have to work with, major?"
"Not enough, sir. As you know, the command is divided between the Southeast Front and the Stalingrad Front."
"I know." He glanced up. "Is your wife discreet?"
"She will repeat nothing she may overhear," Od assured him.
"Good, because I am too tired to maintain the protocol at the moment. If some of what I say sounds radical, blame it on fatigue. We are all loyal Communists."
"Yes, sir."
"You have a map?"
Od brought a map and spread it across the table. "The Stalingrad Front, commanded this week by General Gordov, extends from the town of Kalach, by the Don river basin forty miles west, to this command post. The new Southeast Front runs south of that line."
"Divided fronts? This is idiocy!"
"Sir?"
"It's an impossible situation, created by Stalin's meddling, instead of letting professionals handle it. No wonder we're losing the war!"
Melee brought a steaming platter and set it before the general. "You must eat, sir."
"Bless you, maiden! I'm famished."
"And wine," she said, bringing a full glass.
"Your wife is an angel," Yeremenko said to Od.
"I know, sir. Now the Germans have taken Kotelnikovo, here, seventy-three miles to the south, two days ago. That city controls the main road to Stalingrad, and the German line of approach is obvious: through Chileko, where the Siberian 208th Division has just been decimated by the Luftwaffe. Then on to Krugliakov and Abganerovo, here."
"These contour lines are interesting. They indicate hills rising two hundred to three hundred feet, following the road for twenty miles until it reaches the suburbs of Stalingrad. And they are cut across by deep ravines running from east to west. Here perhaps we can slow the German advance, though I suspect it will not be enough. Eventually we shall have to defend the city block by block."
"I fear so, sir."
They continued to discuss the prospects for defense, and Od provided positions and figures for the available troops for this purpose. Melee was silent, but she heard everything. The Germans were much closer than the official pronouncements claimed, and the city was in dire peril.
The general finished his meal and stood. "I must find the bathroom," he said, and walked into the bedroom. From there his voice came back. "Soft slippers! Just what my worn-out feet need. Let me get these damn tight boots off."
Melee breathed a silent sigh of relief. She had guessed right.
Early in the morning, Heath was up and ready to go. Talena got up with him, making sure of everything. It hurt him to see her eagerness to please him, her quiet pain. She was afraid he would die on the front, and he couldn't honestly reassure her that he wouldn't.
She drove him to Railroad Station Number One, for she and the others needed the car. He kissed her as they parted, and she clung to him. "I love you," she said.
And he couldn't say it back. He did love her, but more in the manner of a sister, for all that she had borne him six daughters. "If the evacuation order comes—obey it," he said. "I want you and the girls safe."
She nodded bravely. He kissed her again, got out, and waved her off. He felt a lump in his throat. Why hadn't he said he loved her? He would be devastated if anything happened to her. Now she was gone, disappointed, and he would regret it until he saw her again.
He swung his duffel bag to his shoulder and marched into the station. The train was there, and the men were already being loaded. They were being returned to their units in the sixty-second Army beyond the river Don. In July the order had been to save men first and equipment second, in the face of the threat of encirclement. But on July 28, Premier Stalin had made a radio broadcast ordering the armies to hold at all costs. "Not one step back!" So they had to try to hold, and there were likely to be heavy casualties. That's why Heath was needed at the front. With limited medical supplies and a desperate strategic situation, this was likely to be ugly.
As an officer, he rated seating in a passenger car instead of a cattle car. So few were going west that he had the car almost to himself. This was not reassuring. A massive transfusion of men and equipment might save the front, but it was apparent that most men had managed to avoid getting sent back. There were stringent measures against desertion, but when even the officers were trying to escape apparent doom, enforcement was mixed.
He rode to Chir Station across the Don, then was trucked north to Kalach. This was where the road crossed the river and bore east to Stalingrad; it had to be held, or the Germans would have easy access to the city.
He reported to the makeshift field hospital west of Kalach. It was jammed with the wounded and dying. He was put in charge of triage for the incoming casualties: to determine almost instantly which had minor injuries and could be returned to their units after spot treatment; which had serious injuries that could be expeditiously treated; and which were too serious to merit treatment, as they would soon die anyway. The men were not to be told which category they fell into, but directed into one of three tents. Heath hated the process, but understood its necessity. This was war.
He worked until the light was insufficient. They could not use artificial lights, because fuel was scarce and they served as a magnet for German attention. He had dutifully classified all the cases, and was by then doing spot surgery to remove bullets and shrapnel. There was no proper anesthetic; vodka was it.
He ate at the officer's field mess and dropped onto his assigned bunk in a house in the town. His uniform was blood spattered, but there was little point in trying to clean it. Tomorrow would just make it worse.
The next day was August 6. When he reported to the field hospital, he learned that he was assigned to another hospital farther west. A supply truck took him there. It was worse; there were more wounded, worse off, and fewer medics. Many could have been saved, in better circumstances, but as it was, there was no hope.
Heath got to work. For some victims, water and vodka was the best he could offer. They knew they were in the dying tent. But there were difficult choices even between those who could be saved. Should he take an hour to shore up one salvageable case, when in that time he could save three others with simpler conditions? He had to try for the greatest good for the greatest number, cruel as the decision was. At least he was gaining on the backlog, for the front was for the moment quiet. Maybe the Germans had supply problems, so were resting.
In the evening, dead tired, he ate and dropped onto a bunk in the hospital. He slept amidst the groans of the suffering.
Next morning was trouble. They heard the sound of aircraft, and from the west, which meant the dread Luftwaffe. Stukas and JU-88's attacked the forward emplacements and the artillery positions of the Sixty-second Army. The blasts shook the ground, and dark smoke coiled up into the sky. Close behind came shells from German tanks. It was a major attack.
Heath sent a man to the local HQ to find out what the instructions were for the field hospital. The man returned with grim news: "Sir, the line is dead. The officers have fled to Stalingrad. No one is in command."
"The officers deserted their posts?" Heath asked, unwilling to credit it.
"Yes, sir. You are the ranking remaining officer at this site. You will have to make the decision."
"I am an officer only by courtesy. I'm a doctor. I know nothing of command."
The man just stood there. Heath realized that he didn't feel free to contradict an officer, but still needed an answer. "Fetch the ranking noncommissioned officer."
"Yes, sir." The man saluted and left.
Heath stared across the hospital tent. He could see that several of his patients had died overnight, and several more were getting there. A number could not be moved without severe threat to their lives. But with the Germans attacking, they could not remain here. What was he to do?
A sergeant approached. He saluted. "Sir."
Heath returned the salute. "Are you the ranking noncom here?"
"Yes, sir."
"And am I the ranking officer here?"
"Yes, sir."
"In your opinion, is our situation salvageable?"
"No, sir."
"Then I think we shall have to surrender to the Germans."
"Sir?"
"It is my understanding that they treat prisoners reasonably well, sending them back to work camps in Germany. My patients here can't flee, so may have a chance. Spread the word that this hospital will surrender when the Germans come, and that those associated will be part of that decision. Since this is not in accordance with our directives, any who wish to go to join other units toward the rear will be allowed to go." He paused. "This includes you, sergeant. Spread the word, then do as you decide."
The man swallowed. "Yes, sir." He saluted again and departed. Heath had just given him and the other men leave to retreat without being charged with desertion.
The sound of the enemy shells seemed to become loud.
Heath saw to his patients as well as he could, bringing them water and vodka. The food had run out, and no more would be coming in. His directive had seen to that.
An hour later, the sergeant returned with a number of men. "How can we help, sir?"
Heath was surprised. "I thought not to see you again, sergeant."
"Leaving you alone here felt more like desertion than staying with you to surrender, sir. You know you face court-martial if ever returned to Russia."
"I know. But I will be the only one. The rest of you will be obeying my orders. You may disagree with them, but must nevertheless obey. This is the way it will be recorded. So you will not be punished."
"We understand, sir. It is a brave thing you do."
"It is a desperate thing I do. I can't leave my patients."
"We approve your decision, sir."
That was gratifying. "Distribute our remaining supplies to those patients who can best use them. Raise a white flag over the tent. Stack your weapons and raise your hands when you see the advance enemy units."
"Yes, sir."
"This is a gamble. We know the Germans are capable of atrocities." Heath raised his voice. "Any of you who wish to depart now, to rejoin units farther back, are free to do so. It is a course I recommend."
Several men did reconsider and depart. The rest kept working.
Too soon, the supplies were gone. There was nothing to do but wait. "I think it is still possible for you to escape," Heath said to the men. "There are risks in remaining here."
No one answered.
"I treated some partisans who had fought behind enemy lines last year during the German drive on Moscow," Heath said. "They had seen firsthand the brutality of which the Nazis are capable. One saw a young schoolteacher who tried to resist rape cut limb from limb, and then her torso was ripped open from crotch to naval with a bayonet." He looked around. "If any of you were partisans who might be identified by the Germans, you had better leave."
"We have heard the stories, too, sir," the sergeant said. "Russian prisoners and civilians were shot, stabbed, burned by flame throwers, or marched across minefields. The Gestapo tortured some to death on racks or with wires run into their orifices. One had his hands tied to the tail of a horse, and then they spooked the horse, so that he was dragged through the snow of a forest. But regular German army troops are better. They are more likely to treat us fairly."
Heath nodded. "I hope so."
By day's end, the German advance guard appeared. Heath stood outside the tent, carrying a white flag. Several rifles were trained on him, and a German beckoned him forward. He obeyed, his hands raised.
"Sprechen sie Deutsch?" the German soldier demanded.
"Yes, I speak German," Heath said in that language. "I am Major Heath, and this is my field hospital. Our situation is hopeless, and we are surrendering. "
In a moment a German officer came. "Tell your men to put their hands on their heads and sit on the ground."
Heath walked back to the tent and relayed the directive in Russian. The men did it.
The Germans quickly checked the tent. There was no doubt of its nature. "We will do what we can for your wounded," the officer said. "But we must tend to our own casualties first. You understand."
"I understand," Heath agreed.
"Your men will be shipped to work camps in the Fatherland."
"Yes."
"But you are an officer. You must be sent back to headquarters for interrogation."
"I understand."
"Will you give your word as an officer to obey all directives and take no hostile action against Germans?"
Heath nodded. "I give my word."
The officer in turn nodded. The guns that had been trained on him were put away. This was a good sign, and not merely because they had ceased threatening him with instant death. It meant that these were indeed regular military units, with normal standards of honor. The men and the patients would be treated according to the international protocols of war. There would be no unwarranted brutality.
He was taken to a truck. He rode in back with several injured German soldiers. "I am a doctor," he said to the sergeant in charge. "Do you wish me to look at your men's wounds?"
The man considered. Then he nodded. But he kept his hand close to his pistol.
Heath lifted the stained arm of the nearest man. He peeled away the material of the shredded shirt. "It is a clean wound," he said. "The bullet passed through. But loss of blood is a danger. Is there material for a bandage?"
The sergeant indicated a blanket. That wasn't good, but it was better than nothing. "Are there heavy scissors?"
The sergeant shook his head.
"A knife, then. A bayonet will do."
The sergeant brought out his bayonet blade.
"Cut a length of a meter, eight centimeters broad," Heath said.
The sergeant sliced a section of approximately those dimensions. Heath wrapped it carefully and snugly around the man's arm. "That will stanch the bleeding, and allow clotting," he said. "Until you reach a hospital."
He turned to the next. This one had a head wound. Blood was streaking down his face. "I must clean this, to see what it is," he said. "Is there water?"
The sergeant lifted his canteen. Following Heath's directions, he cut a section of blanket about the size of a washcloth and wet it down. Then Heath used it to wipe the blood away from the matted scalp. "You are lucky," he said as he bandaged it. "It is superficial. Get rest and sleep, and it will mend."
But the next case was more serious. "There is shrapnel in your gut. You must get to a hospital promptly, before it poisons you."
"Take it out!" the man gasped.
"Even if I had surgical equipment with me, it would be dangerous, in a bouncing truck, in septic conditions. And you will need anesthetic."
"Take it out!" the man repeated.
The sergeant spoke. "We are six hours from a hospital. Are you competent?"
"In a hospital, with proper equipment, I would be. I am a surgeon. But even were I not an enemy captive, this is dangerous."
"Will he live six hours untreated?"
"I can't answer that. It depends on many factors."
"What chances?"
"Perhaps fifty per cent. It's a serious injury."
"Then take it out," the sergeant said.
"But I could kill him!"
"And I could kill you," the sergeant said, touching his pistol.
And they would call it an attempt to fight or escape, and there would be no investigation. Also, the man did need prompt attention. "Then I will need strong spirits," Heath said. "For my hands, to sterilize them, and for him to drink, in lieu of anesthetic. Also a knife. Cloth. A man to assist me. Two more to hold his arms, and one his legs. This will not be pretty."
"We know," the sergeant said grimly. He gave orders, and the men Heath had already treated were drafted as his assistant and "holder," along with others who could manage.
They produced a bottle of vodka someone had liberated from Russian territory. The sergeant handed over his bayonet, then withdrew and drew his pistol. He did not point it at Heath, but his meaning was plain. That bayonet would be used only on the patient, or there would be a bullet through the doctor's head.
The patient drank vodka while Heath cleaned the wound. He thought it was operable, but couldn't be sure until he tried.
"The truck must stop moving," he said. "If it swerves or bounces while I use the bayonet—"
They understood. The sergeant pounded on the back of the cab. The truck pulled over and stopped. "He what?" the driver demanded.
"This man will die," the sergeant said. "I have seen it before. The shrapnel must come out. The doctor can do it."
And so Heath operated with the point of a bayonet, while others held the half-drunk soldier down. He probed with the point, and found the shrapnel. It was not too deep. He had done similar work before, successfully.
"Your hands," he said to the designated assistant. The man held them out, and Heath poured vodka on them. "Now hold his belly open, like this," he said, demonstrating. The man gulped, and did so.
The patient writhed, then fainted. Several of the other soldiers looked squeamish. They had seen wounds before, but not surgery.
Carefully Heath worked the metal loose, while the man writhed. It was not too ragged, another blessing. The internal damage was not as bad as it could have been.
He got it out, then closed the wound and bound layers of blanket over it. "There will be internal bleeding," he said. "But he should live until he reaches the hospital. Keep him flat and quiet. Give him more vodka if he wants it."
Grimly, they nodded.
He wiped off the bayonet and returned it to the sergeant. The sergeant accepted it, then holstered his pistol. The men returned to their places in the truck, and it resumed its journey.
The patient woke. "Is it out?"
"It is out," Heath reassured him. "But you must rest. You are not out of danger, because of sepsis and bleeding."
"I will make it," the man said, and lapsed back into unconsciousness.
"Now I will see to the others," Heath said. He got busy, doing minor repairs, until all had been treated to the extent possible. In several cases it was mainly reassurance that their wounds were not lethal.
After that, the Germans were more affable. They shared their rations with Heath, and chatted about civilian life. Heath relaxed, and caught up on sleep. He had been short of it for the past couple of days.
They finally reached the German hospital facility, and the serious case was unloaded on a stretcher. The others went afoot. Heath was taken to a detainment area for interrogation. He did not look forward to it; the Gestapo and SS had some cynical notions about the rights of prisoners of war. But he had done what he had to do, to protect the welfare of the patients in the field hospital. It was possible that the Germans would kill them, but he hoped that they would merely intern them and let them recover.
For several days he waited, one of several officers who had been captured. They were treated reasonably well, considering. Their accommodations were Spartan, but they were fed regularly, and there were no cruel games, such as pretending to execute one of them. From the others, and from jubilant guards, he learned that the Russian attempt to hold the line at the river Don had been a disaster. In four days the Germans overran it, taking more than 50,000 prisoners and 1,000 tanks. The only bright spot was that the Germans halted their advance west of the Don, pausing to secure their lines and prepare for the river crossing. Heath knew that every day of the delay was crucial for the defensive preparations of Stalingrad.
Then they came for him. He went with his chin high, but he feared what he was about to encounter. He was not supposed to give military information, but was not at all sure how he would stand up to torture.
He was surprised to be ushered to an office with a lone thin man whose uniform showed him to be a doctor. What was this?
"You are Dr. Heath," the man said briskly.
"Yes, sir."
"I am Dr. Ottmar Kohler, of the Reich sixtieth Motorized Division. I have been associated with it since its formation in 1939. Have you heard of me?"
"No, sir."
"Then allow me to provide you with a capsule summary culled from the gossip of associates. I am notorious for my brilliance, acerbic attitude, and occasional wildness. I care little for the chain of command or the niceties of regulations. My first priority is the effectiveness of my medical treatment, and I spare no effort to enhance it." He gave Heath a straight look. "Do you have a problem with any of this?"
"Only with the freeness with which you describe yourself to an enemy prisoner, sir. If you are warning me that you are a dangerous man to oppose, I can believe it. But I don't see why you bother, since I have no power to interfere with you anyway."
Kohler did not answer directly. "Is it true that you did abdominal surgery on a German soldier, with a bayonet, in a moving truck, thereby saving his life?"
"Approximately, sir. They had to stop the truck while I extracted shrapnel. I am glad to learn that he survived."
"An enemy national? Are you not loyal to your country?"
"Of course, sir. But he was a man in need. Actually, I tried to demur, as it was a very chancy operation, but the sergeant insisted."
"You could have killed him without anyone suspecting."
"I was afraid he might die," Heath agreed. Then he caught the thrust of the remark. "Sir, I would never deliberately harm a person medically. I am a doctor."
"Precisely. And it seems a good one." Kohler considered. "Heath, I want you with me."
"Sir?"
"For months I have been preparing a plan for medical personnel to treat the wounded within minutes of their being hit, rather than waiting hours for them to be evacuated to rear echelon hospitals. But I am balked by the inanities of regulation and the shortage of competent personnel. Men are dying while I struggle with the bureaucrats. I need a competent doctor who answers only to me. I believe you are that man, Heath."
"But I am a prisoner being routed to a work camp. A Russian."
"And an excellent surgeon and honest man. I can take you from that routing to the work camp, which I assure you, you would not enjoy. I want you to swear loyalty to my purpose, treating German casualties promptly and well. In return I will allow you to treat Russian prisoners also, as the occasion permits. You will thus save lives of your countrymen who would otherwise die."
"But the German authorities would never allow—"
"They need not know. You will be my private aide. You will have to wear a German uniform, but that is only for your own protection. You will have freedom of the unit, and will be well cared for. It will be a far, far better life than the alternative that awaits you."
"But to labor in the support of Germany—"
"And what were you doing when you treated German soldiers on the truck?"
"They were people in need."
"As will be all future cases. It is not Germany you will labor for, but the lives of individual men who are caught up in the endless folly of war. Germans must serve just as Russians must, and give their lives, however pointlessly."
It was a fair case. Yet Heath was doubtful. "I don't see how I can agree to such service, kind as the offer is."
"I will sweeten the offer. Serve me, and I will serve you."
"Sir?"
"When we get to Stalingrad, where I believe your family is, I will release you. You will not serve in a work camp, and you will be free. To save your daughters."
The man had done his homework! Heath had to return to save his wife and children if he possibly could. Dr. Kohler had made an offer he could not decline.
"Then I must agree to serve you," Heath said. "Until Stalingrad."
"Excellent." Kohler stood and came around the desk, proffering his hand. They shook hands, sealing the deal.
The two women gazed at him with wary expectation as he set down the phone. "Yes," Od said heavily. "It has been confirmed that Heath was captured by the Germans. He refused to leave the wounded men in a field hospital, who couldn't be moved. All the other officers of the region fell back, but he remained. He sent all available men back to rear units, and waited with his patients."
"He would," Talena said, turning away to hide her tears.
"But that doesn't mean he's dead, does it?" Melee asked quickly. "Just that he's being sent back to Germany."
"That's right. He is probably well, but we are unlikely to see him again until after the war is over."
"That will have to do," Talena said. "As long as he's alive."
"What do we tell the children?" Melee asked.
"That their father is away at war." He smiled a trifle grimly. "That will satisfy their need to know."
"For a while," Talena said.
"Who will take me to the office?" he asked.
There was a pause. The two women exchanged glances. Then they seemed to come to a silent understanding.
"I have to shop," Talena said. "I'll do it."
"Get more potatoes," Melee told her. "And some peppers."
"Yes, dear." Talena kissed her on the mouth, patted her rear, and took the keys.
Od had to smile. They were acting as if they were the couple, making a joke of it. In the building tension of the threat to the city, humor helped. He was glad the women got along so well. They were the same age, but their underlying temperaments differed like day and night.
It was the morning of August 13, 1942. The German advance seemed inexorable, but so far the city of Stalingrad didn't know it. Children and dogs were out on the streets, running errands and enjoying the air before the daily heat became unbearable.
Talena drove, so they wouldn't have to exchange places when he got off. "Is there any other news on Heath?" she asked, her voice artificially light.
"No. I wish there were. But the Germans treat officers more carefully, just as we do, so he should be all right."
"I hope so. The girls adore him."
"As if you don't?"
She was silent, and he realized that he had said something inappropriate. "I didn't mean to imply—"
"You don't know, do you, Od."
Something was amiss. "I apologize for any offense I may have given. I thought I was speaking humorously."
"Heath doesn't love me."
Od was caught flat-footed by the statement. Talena would never joke about that. The tension had to be getting to her. "I don't understand. You are the perfect couple."
"He loves Melee."
Od stared at her. "You and Heath never even quarrel! And you get along so well with Melee. This doesn't make sense."
"I wish I had let him have her, instead of making her go with you. Then at least he would have had some joy of her before he got captured and lost the chance."
"Heath would never cheat on you!" he protested.
"That's right. He never would. That's why I had to make the decision, to make it possible. And I didn't. I was selfish. And now he's gone."
Od's head was spinning. He had never anticipated anything like this. "He can return after the war."
"By which time she may be dead."
Then he came at another aspect. "Are you saying I should not have married Melee? I thought we were agreed."
"We were. It was so convenient, to put the odd man with the odd woman, no pun. But we should have realized it was too pat."
"Melee is a fine woman! She—"
"Do you love her?"
"What kind of a question is that?"
"I'm not trying to insult you. As we know, you married her from friendship, and to take care of her, in memory of Dillon. None of us spoke of love."
"I think in time—she is the most exciting woman I've known."
"And Heath is the best man I've known. But he longs for Melee, and she longs for him."
"How can you know that?"
"We talked, she and I. And Avalanche."
"Even then? Before they died on the German front last year?"
"Even then. And now we have talked again. We have—similar marriages."
There was vastly more here than he could assimilate at the moment. "Are you saying that you should have broken your marriage, to give your husband to another woman?"
"That is what I am saying. I love Heath, and I want him to be happy. That would have done it."
"Talena, why are you saying this to me?"
She faced him for a moment, and he saw the tears on her face. "Because I made a mistake, out of misbegotten selfishness, and I should correct it if I ever have the chance. If Heath returns, I want to tell him to take Melee. But that affects you, obviously. I don't have the right to steal your woman for my man."
"She's really not my woman. I wouldn't try to tell her what to do." But he was shaken. Melee had filled in so well for Avalanche, even emulating some of her mannerisms, that sometimes he forgot about the intervening tragedy. "But she never said—never hinted—"
"She wouldn't cheat either. That's why you would have to release her."
"If she had ever spoken—"
"And if we freed them, you would be left with me. Could you stand that, Od?"
His amazement grew. "You are—you are offering yourself to me?"
"I suppose I am, Od. The true love is between Heath and Melee. We are the leftovers. I know you to be a fine man, and I think I would be as well off with you as with Heath. Setting aside the issue of love, which I seem destined not to have."
Od struggled to get the concept organized. "You are suggesting that we each release our spouses to be with the other. And that you and I become a couple. On the theory that neither of us is loved by our present partner, so we don't have much to lose."
"Yes. At least two people would be happy, instead of none."
"What of the children?"
"That's part of why I asked. They do come with the territory. I will not give them up."
"What would they think, if the couples realigned?"
"Heath is a fine man, and he does try, but the truth is, you are better with the children, Od. You have such a ready way with incidental information. You teach them while making them laugh. They would accept you. I would be completely candid with them. I think they would understand. The question is you. Is this a thing you can contemplate? Because if it isn't, I will neither do it nor bring it up again."
"Let me think," he said, disturbed.
She was silent, and he turned his mind to the problem, as if it were something apart from himself. Man B loved Woman A, but was married to Woman B. Could Man A accept Woman B? It seemed no more arbitrary than the original coupling of Man A and Woman A. Intellectually he could accept it. Woman A was a beautiful, passionate, dynamic creature, a joy to be with, but it was clear now that something was missing. Woman B was less lovely, but by no means unattractive, and had qualities to be admired. He had known her many years, and though he had never thought of her as a romantic possibility, she was an almost perfect friend.
But there was another question, and it was vital. "If you will bear with me, there is something I would like to do, and a question I must ask. Then perhaps I can answer."
She steered the car to the side of the road, in a section where no one was close. She turned to him. She had anticipated his thought. She knew him as well as he knew her.
He took her upper section in his arms as well as was feasible, and brought his face to hers. He kissed her.
And she kissed him back. Suddenly he was aware of her as a woman just as passionate as those he had known, and completely desirable. She was nobody's leftover.
The kiss was long, much longer than he had intended. It didn't want to be over. Finally he broke. "I think I have my answer."
"Yes, I could love you," she said, answering the unasked question. "In time."
"And I could love you. In less time."
"We are after all right for each other. In the long term."
"Yes. As other than friends."
She started the car and pulled back onto the street. "Thank you, Od. If Heath returns—"
"Yes. Tell him. But talk to Melee first."
"I have. She did not want to broach this with you. So we agreed that I would do it. To explore a possible realignment. But Heath also must be broached. Until then—"
"We are as we were. It must be agreed by all parties, before any action is taken."
"Agreed."
They reached the office building on Red Square. Talena stopped by the curb, and Od got out. "You have given me much to think about," he said.
"I have been thinking about it for a year," she said. "It is a relief to share it." Then she drove on, heading for her shopping.
He entered the building. He showed his papers, but the guard hardly glanced at them; Od was known by sight. He went upstairs almost unconsciously. What Talena had said—she had dropped a mortar shell on him, and he was only beginning to experience its fallout. To exchange partners—he had never thought of such a thing, yet it made eerie sense. He was well satisfied with Melee, but she had never said she loved him, and he had never said he loved her. Both were survivors of lost partners; they understood that about each other perfectly, and knew why they were together. Melee was a sexual delight, and excellent cook. But they had not yet even tried to form a long-term emotional commitment. Their losses were too close behind, and the war was too close ahead. He had thought that was the whole of it; now he knew it was barely the half of it.
Could he make it with Talena? He remembered when he had first seen her, a girl of thirteen but already nubile. She had gone after Heath even then, and gotten him despite her age. Now she was twenty-two, the same as Melee, whom he had known even longer. But Talena was a mother, many times over, and that provided her with a seeming maturity. He found that he liked the idea of sharing her family and her nights. She was a comfortable woman, and her daughters were well behaved. The eldest, Telita, better known as Lita, was a remarkably responsible eight-year-old. Yes, they were all familiar and nice. It was just the realignment of relationships that made him dizzy.
"Stalin has come to his senses," Nikita Khrushchev said as Od entered the office. "General Gordov has been demoted, and General Yeremenko is being given complete control of Stalingrad's defense. Get over there and see if he needs any help."
Od was actually a glorified messenger these days, because constant liaison was essential, and they trusted neither the phone system nor written messages. So Od passed back and forth between the offices, keeping this as constant as was feasible. He worked for Khrushchev, but had been on good terms with Yeremenko since Melee had served the general his first local meal. Regular personnel had taken over now, but Melee's radiance evidently still imbued Od in the general's eyes.
He got a car and driver, and took a circuitous route to the bunker. This was for two reasons: they did not want any more direct traffic there than necessary, lest German spies catch on and report the location for targeting for an enemy barrage; and it was best to survey the city regularly so as to know what was what. This time they looped through the western suburbs. The civilian population seemed confident and unafraid, perhaps because of its lack of accurate information. That was just as well, because panic would be no help at all. There were crude signs on trees and buildings promising DEATH TO THE INVADER.
But in the military, discipline and order were breaking down. Od could tell there was trouble just by driving the streets. The city garrison was in disorder, and military traffic was snarled and disorganized. Vehicles were wandering around as if lost, and an accident was blocking traffic.
Od stopped, and approached an NKVD "Green Hat." "Major Od, with Khrushchev," he said, showing his papers. "What's going on here?"
"Sir, the commander of the city garrison disappeared, and soldiers are deserting. They are fleeing across the Volga. We are doing our best, but we need better support."
"You shall have it," Od said. He got moving, cutting short his impromptu tour. The general needed to be informed about this.
General Yeremenko was indeed interested. "Things are falling apart," he muttered. "Too many leaks; too many troops back from the front who know better than the propaganda in the paper." He got on the phone, acting quickly to restore order and discipline to his command. Then he ordered a pontoon bridge to be built across the Volga, to speed up the process of reinforcement and supply.
The developments of the front were alarming. The German Sixth Army, commanded by General Paulus, was moving in from the west, ready to cross the river Don. But worse was the Fourth Panzer Army, under the aggressive General "Papa" Hoth. This force was moving along well-built roads, and had no rivers or rough terrain to cross. The units dug into the hills around Abganerovo were in short supply and had little heavy support. Already much of the Russian Sixty-Fourth Army was in retreat from the German tanks. Casualties were high, both from combat and fatigue. The troops were disillusioned and desperate, fighting among themselves for scraps of food and water.
Especially water. The Kalmucks, natives of the steppes south of the city, were ardent anti-Communists. They had poisoned most of the few water holes that existed in that arid countryside. Yeremenko arranged to send all the support he could muster, to slow the German advance. That was fifty-nine tanks. They were enough for nothing much other than a suicide attack. If they were lucky, it would delay the German advance one more day.
Od winced. Fifty-nine tanks and their crews sent to their doom, not with any hope of victory, but merely to slow the inevitable by a single day. The price of time was blood. Would the widows appreciate the need?
And the civilians were to be told nothing. There was no point in inciting panic in the streets. But how long could this go on, before further concealment was impossible?
It was a long day, and it was late when Od called home to be picked up. This time it was Melee who drove. "She said she talked to you," she said.
"She did." No need to ask who. Od re-oriented on the novel personal situation. Maybe it would ease the burden of his knowledge of the disaster closing in on the city. Life was becoming increasingly precious, as his awareness of its uncertainty intensified.
"She said you agreed."
"I said I would, if Heath does."
"He will."
"And if you do."
"I do. No offense to you, Od. If you decline, I will too. But I do want him."
Obviously so. "She surprised me. I had not had any idea."
"She surprised me too. I knew she knew, but I never thought she would give Heath up."
"It's just a notion for the future. You must talk with Heath."
"Od, we are at war. We don't have time. We have to do what we do when we can."
He glanced at her. "You act as if it has been decided."
"Will you let me go?"
"I never had any right to hold you. You have been wonderful, but—"
"You can have her tonight."
"What?"
"Let me go. Take her. If you are willing. She is."
"You really want this," he said, surprised despite what Talena had said, and what Melee had just said.
"Yes. I suppressed it before, thinking there was no chance. I was willing to try with you, Od. There has been no failure in you. You are the best of men. But now I know Talena is willing, I want it. I could love him."
"Then I will not stand in your way."
"I knew you wouldn't. But are you willing? I mean, not because of duty or decency, but because you might have a woman who is better for you than I am."
"That is hard to imagine. You have been a dream. But I always wanted more than beauty or passion. I wanted enduring love. I didn't have that with Avalanche, and couldn't have it with you. If Talena can give me that, she will be better for me."
"She can give you that."
"Regardless, you are free to do what you choose." He still found it hard to believe that the women had agreed to such a change.
Her mouth firmed. "Not until I know you are satisfied."
"But she is Heath's wife! I can't just—"
"And if he never returns?"
He pondered that. "I would be forsaking you for a widow. Making you the real widow. That hardly seems decent."
"Let me gamble on that. I want to take him the moment he returns. I know he will agree. He has always desired me. Free me. Take her tonight."
She was actually urging it on him. "I free you. I won't necessarily take her."
"They go together. If you are not in her bed, you must be in mine."
"She may not be ready." But again his awareness of the likely brevity of their life in Stalingrad influenced him. He wanted very much to be comforted and loved, this night. Melee was a great lover, but not a great comforter.
"She is ready."
"I feel as if I am on a truck being driven by a madman."
She smiled. "A car driven by a madwoman. Is it that you still desire me?"
"I'll always desire you, Melee. You are the world's most desirable woman. But it's the larger picture that concerns me. You must give me time."
"Then join her, and do no more than you wish. I will take care of the children."
"Agreed." That was a fair compromise, given the situation. He could sleep beside Talena and let her sleep.
They arrived home. "We talked," Melee said, and went to see about supper.
Talena looked at him.
"I will share the bedroom with you," Od said. "It need go no farther than that."
She nodded, and returned to the children.
One thing about this: it distracted him from the looming horror of the German advance.
When the children were asleep, Od went to join Talena. They lay beside each other in the darkness. "We agreed there would be nothing, until Heath returned," he said. "But Melee says she wants it settled before then, so she is free."
"Yes. Were he here, we could discuss it openly. But I know him. Once he knows the others agree, he will too. He would prefer that it be already decided, so that he has no complicity."
Od had had every intention of letting her be. But her very presence was compelling. He had known her so long as a friend, but never as a lover. He was rapidly coming to see her in that new light. "So it is between us. Do you wish me to touch you?"
He expected a demurral, or a counter question. But she answered directly. "Yes."
"Are you being honest with me?"
"I have seen a better course for us all, and want to confirm it. But I do need my sleep. I can't sleep until I know. Touch me."
He reached out and found her hand. Then he turned on his side, lifted his head, and kissed her lips. "What I want may not be what you care to provide."
"I can't be forward, the way she is," she said. "Tell me what you want."
He laughed uncomfortably. "I want to be at ease." That was an understatement. He wanted someone to cradle his head and reassure him that everything in the city would be all right, and make him believe it.
She laughed too. "All this time we have known each other, and it's as if we just met. We don't know what to do."
"Should we pretend we are two other people?"
"Heath and Melee!"
He liked that. "Hello, Melee."
"It's been decided. Od is with Talena. I'm with you now, Heath."
"But I know nothing of this!"
She turned into him and caught him with a fierce kiss. "You are mine at last, Heath!"
"But Melee—"
She pushed him down and straddled him with arms and legs. "I have stored up this passion for you for ten years. Now I will express it."
"But you were only twelve."
"If you had even looked at me, I would have done this." She kissed him, and ran her tongue into his mouth. "And this." She tore at his pajamas.
"But I wouldn't have dared do this." He slid his hands up under her nightie, finding her hanging breasts.
"And I wouldn't have dared do this." She slid a hand down and found his stiffening penis.
"But now you are not twelve, so it is all right for me to do this." He moved his hands down and around, cupping her buttocks and stroking her genital region.
"I am not twelve," she agreed, guiding his member into her. For a moment he was startled, because that was exactly the way Melee did do it, and the way Avalanche had done it. Evidently it was a trick all women knew, when they wished to facilitate things. And she did so wish, for she was warm and wet. He had seen the real Melee lubricate herself with saliva, and knew it was because she was not sexually excited. She did the job she meant to do, and did it well—very well!—but it was not desire. This time there was desire.
"Talena!" he said.
She lifted her head, and he felt her body stiffen. "Did I offend you? I'm sorry."
"No! It's that I want it to be you, not Melee. You and me only. No games."
"Of course." She did not relax.
He had to explain. "You truly desire me."
"Yes." She was still waiting for the rejection.
"You don't have to be anybody else. You don't have to justify it. I want—I want a woman who wants me."
Now she relaxed somewhat. "I want you."
"And I want you. Kiss me."
She pressed against him, all cotton and softness, and found his mouth with hers. No tongue, just lips and passion. He felt her vagina squeeze rhythmically, responsive to the kiss. He stroked her back with one hand, and her hair with the other, drawing her in closer, pressing her against him, feeling her breathing. He swelled and flowed into her, softly yet with the force of years of longing, and felt her yielding reception. She wanted so much to love and be loved, exactly as he did. How was it that they had never found each other before?
Finally they had to break the kiss, and come apart. "I think I must always have wanted you," he said. "But never thought to have you."
"I think I was a fool."
"No, Heath was a better prospect. That was always clear."
"What is clear is not always true."
He said it before he realized: "Talena, I love you."
She did not answer immediately. Then she said: "Let me wait until the light of day, to know for sure, before I reply. A decade's illusion is not cast off in an hour."
"I am not sure of that." For he had just done it.
"Neither am I. I think I know what I will say. But now—must we separate to sleep?"
"And you like to sleep close," he said, relishing the discovery. "Be forever close." He hesitated, then finally said it: "Comfort me." That was something Melee simply did not understand. Did Talena?
"In a moment." She rolled off him, and did some quick cleaning up. Then she returned, and he embraced her, and kissed her hair.
"You mean it?" she asked. "About comfort?"
"Oh, yes. Does that embarrass you?"
"Oh, no." She reached up and caught his head between her hands. She drew it in to her warm bosom.
He listened to the cadence of her gently beating heart, and drifted into a sleep that seemed like heaven.
Talena woke as the telephone rang. Od got it; he was being routed out of sleep increasingly often, these recent days. Soon he returned to her in the darkness of the bedroom. "I must go in to the bunker. Hell is breaking loose."
"I'll take you," she said, scrambling up.
"Yes." He was getting efficiently dressed. They had all had to learn how to do such things without light, because of the blackouts.
Melee appeared, a dusky shadow. "Is it bad?"
"Keep the children close, and stay in range of the phone," he said tersely.
They bundled out to the car, and Talena took the wheel. The city traffic had diminished in the past week, and this early hour decreased it farther, which was a blessing. It meant that they could proceed fairly quickly.
"You aren't supposed to ask, and I'm not supposed to tell," Od said. "But I think you had better know. Promise not to spread this about."
"I promise." She was more than curious, because in the ten days since they had first made love and discovered love, he had grown increasingly nervous and harried, and she was sure it wasn't because of her. It had to be the war.
"The Germans have crossed the Don and are racing toward Stalingrad from the northwest, west, and south. They are within twenty-five miles of the city, executing a classic pincers movement. Hitler has decreed that the city must fall by August twenty-fifth."
"But that's the day after tomorrow!"
"General Paulus' Sixth Army is moving to block the Russian retreat, as tank columns bear south and the Fourth Panzer Army moves from the south. We probably can't stop them. We must either retreat immediately across the Volga, under the fire of the German guns and bombers, or try to stand and fight. Stalin will not allow retreat, so that's out. So we must prepare to defend the city block by block. We are trying to deploy our scant remaining forces along a thirty-one-mile perimeter to the northwest. These are internal security troops who lack heavy weapons, but they are all we have. When the Germans come, our best hope is that they aren't as good at street fighting as they are in open battle. But it will be ugly."
"And soon!" Talena said. "Two days!"
"Maybe longer. The fact that Hitler wants it doesn't mean Hitler will get it. But we can expect hell on earth here, as early as today. You must take the children and go. Take the ferry across the Volga. Don't speak to anyone else, just quietly go."
"But the neighbors! They must be warned."
He looked soberly at her. "Two things: if you tell, you will be breaking my word, making me eligible for court-martial. And the neighborhood will panic. They can't all evacuate today; there are not enough ferries. Maybe the pontoon bridge we are just now completing will help. But there is nothing but mischief in telling the neighbors."
She realized that it was true. "We will take the children and go. Better some than none."
"Better some than none," he agreed grimly.
But she hated it. "War is hell."
"I will check back on you if I can. But don't wait for me. You and Melee and the children must get out. I will contact you across the river, in due course. It may be days."
"I understand." They were arriving at the building.
"I love you, Talena."
She stopped at the curb. "I love you, Od." She leaned over to kiss him.
He got out, and she drove on. She had her orders.
But before she was halfway home, she bumped over a rough spot and the car's motor sputtered and died. Oh, no! Not this! Not now! She tried to start it again, but it was dead.
Od could have fixed it, as he was endlessly handy with all things mechanical. But she had no idea what to do. She would have to walk on home, and see if they could get a neighbor to work on it.
She got out and started walking. But this was not simple, because now people were appearing on the street, and she knew that she could not depend on civilized behavior. As a young woman alone, she could quickly get in trouble. So she detoured to take a street that was not much used, and detoured again when she saw anything suspicious. As a result, it took her much longer to get home than she liked.
Melee met her at the door. "What kept you?"
"The car broke down. We've got to get it fixed right away."
"For sure. Maybe Tourette's folks can help."
Talena considered. Tourette was a sixteen-year-old girl with an unfortunate behavioral syndrome, but she was a really nice person, and her family was competent. "I'll ask them."
"No. You're already tired from walking. Lita can go. It's not far, and she's a savvy girl."
Reluctantly, Talena agreed. She told her daughter where the car was, and what its symptoms were. "Tell them the matter is urgent," she said.
"I will!" Lita ran off, glad to be doing something useful.
"Now tell me what else you are so tight about," Melee said.
"It's secret. Od told me, but—"
"I understand. No broadcasting."
"The Germans are within twenty-five miles of the city, and coming fast. They mean to take it within two days. We've got to get out today, with the children, and we can't tell the neighbors."
Melee whistled. "I thought it was bad, but this is worse. Of all times for the car to go!" Then she thought of another aspect. "If Tourette's folks fix our car, we'll have to tell them."
She was right. They couldn't beg a life-saving favor of a neighbor, and leave that neighbor to the mercy of the Nazis. The Nazis made folk like Tourette disappear. "Them only."
They organized the children for an early departure. Whatever food they had was distributed in bags, so that if they missed a meal, the children would have something to eat. They were cautioned to stay in the house and be ready to get in the car promptly when it came. They behaved; it was clear that something extremely serious was afoot.
Lita came back with Tourette. Tourette was a rather pretty girl, brown of hair and eye, mature and discreet. Her malady had taught her discretion early. "My father knows about cars," she said. "But he's away on business. My mother Crenelle asks if she can help."
This wasn't good. "If she is handy with motors, yes. But it's not safe for a woman to be on the streets."
"They won't know," Tourette said. Now Talena realized that the girl was in baggy male overalls, with her long brown hair bound back and hidden under her cap. She was well developed, but at the moment she looked like a boy. "Then I can take her there," Talena decided. "I'll change too." The girls departed, and Talena got into some of Od's clothing. Fortunately she was thin enough in the derriere to jam in to his jeans. There was no problem with the heavy shirt; it was sufficiently loose on her.
Melee helped her fasten her hair back. "You look perfect, Mister Tal. Don't go ogling any pretty girls."
The girls and Crenelle, Tourette's mother, arrived. The woman carried a tool box and looked like a factory worker. "Tourette can stay in our house, if you wish," Talena said.
"No, I'm coming along," Tourette said.
"So am I!" Lita cried.
Talena opened her mouth, but the woman stayed her with a glance.
"Please."
They were doing a favor; they deserved respect. "Stay out of mischief," Talena told her daughter.
"I will."
They started out. "We resemble three youths and a child," Crenelle said. "In case there is trouble, I must advise you that we are armed."
"Armed!"
"The city has bad elements, and order is breaking down. You are evacuating?"
"Yes. You must also. Today."
"But there has been no general evacuation order."
"I am not free to speak. But evacuate now."
"I understand." The woman knew that Od was a political officer, with sources of information.
They passed a man. He frowned disapprovingly, perhaps suspecting these juveniles of mischief, but walked on by.
They reached the car much more quickly than Talena had taken to reach the house, because they took no detours.
Crenelle immediately lifted the hood. She poked around the motor. "Now try it."
Talena tried the starter. The motor came to life. "You fixed it!" she cried, overjoyed.
"The distributor cap had been jogged loose. I had hoped it would be that. The description sounded like it."
They piled in, and Talena drove them back to the house, greatly relieved. "I don't know how I can ever thank you," she said.
"Oh, I think you have done so."
Talena thought of something. "Do you have a car?"
"My husband has it." And the woman had never hinted at the difficulty they faced, without transportation.
"Then you can't conveniently evacuate. You must come with us."
"That would be crowded."
The car held five adults. With the two of them, it would be ten people. The smaller children could double up, but it was still too much. "We'll make two trips to the ferry."
"Then we thank you, and will come."
"Get your things, and I will return for you and Lita." For Melee would have to go on the first trip, to handle the younger children. Talena would return alone.
They bundled Talena's five younger daughters and the little boy into the car. That was another thing they would have to work out: would Avan stay with Melee, or come to Talena? He was Od's son, and Od was changing families. At present he seemed to have two mothers, but that couldn't last forever. Well, it wasn't worth worrying about right now.
Talena drove, and Melee sat in back, holding Avan on her lap and half buried in four giggling little girls. The seven-year-old rode up front.
As they passed Red Square, the loudspeakers were blaring, warning of an air raid. They had done that often before, and nobody paid any attention. But this time, Talena knew, the wolf really was coming. Maybe not this hour or this day, but soon. She felt guilty, sneaking out of town like this, leaving others to suffer their fate. Yet she could not risk the children; that overrode all else.
She reached the river and looked out over the cliff to the water. They could see the new pontoon bridge. That would help a lot, as cars could drive right across it instead of having to wait for the ferry. They would soon be across, and she could return to tell the others the good news.
But as she made her way toward it, she found the road cordoned off. Military personnel were gesturing cars on by, denying the access to the turnoff to the bridge. "What's the matter?" Talena asked as she stopped.
"The pontoon bridge is being destroyed," the man informed her.
"But it was just finished!"
He rolled his eyes. "Don't I know it. The order came from General Yeremenko himself. It is to be destroyed unused."
Stunned, she drove on. "Why would they build it, and do that?" she asked.
"To keep it from falling into enemy hands," Melee said. And that meant that the ten days it had taken to build the bridge had been too long. They expected the Germans to arrive at any moment, so didn't dare leave something they could use to forge on beyond the river. That was the most chilling signal yet.
She drove on to the ferry. "We'll wait for you," Melee said.
"No, don't wait! Cross as soon as you can. We'll take the next one." Melee nodded. They could not say more, because of the children. Talena watched the woman walking down to the ferry station, carrying one, leading the next youngest by the hand, and with the other four girls linking hands and following closely. There was something touching about the scene. A beautiful young woman with six children, going to the river. But she couldn't dawdle. It was already late afternoon; somehow the day had passed unnoticed. She drove on back. She had to detour, because militia men wearing white armbands were blocking off some streets. They must be preparing for street resistance. This did not look good at all.
The loudspeakers in Red Square blared into life again. "Attention! Attention! Citizens, we have an air raid! We have an air raid!"
Talena drove as fast as she dared. But almost immediately the warning was followed by the loud bang of antiaircraft guns. People came out of their houses and stared at the sky, and Talena looked too. Where was the threat? Were German planes actually coming? All she could see were the gray puffs of the Russian flak.
But then, all too soon, came the lead group of German planes. She recognized the types, from long worried studies of the pictures. They were Stukas and JU-88s, flying in perfect V formations. The planes tipped sideways as they reached the downtown residential area, falling into their bombing dives. She saw the bombs falling, like tiny beads from the sky, as the planes zoomed on overhead and beyond.
She focused desperately on her driving. No bombs were falling on her street yet, but she heard the explosions as they struck other areas. Red Square, by the sound of it, and by the rising smoke. She had to get through while she could.
She reached her house and screeched to a stop. Tourette came out. She started to speak, as Talena got out of the car and hurried to the house, but didn't. Her face worked, and her arms twitched, but there was no sound.
Talena realized that the girl was having one of her fits. They could be triggered by tension, but usually passed quickly. She went up and put her arms around the girl, comforting her. She had always been good at that.
In a moment Tourette recovered control. "They are at our house. Lita wanted to help Mother, so I stayed here to watch for you. Then the bombs fell."
The bombs were still falling. "Get in the car," Talena said tersely. "We'll get them from there."
They got in and drove down along the block. And saw to their horror that Tourette's house had been hit. The front had collapsed, and dust and smoke were rising from it.
Appalled, they got out of the car and stood there staring.
Then Tourette spoke. "The front was hit. The back is intact. They could be there."
It was a straw well worth grasping. Talena stepped as close to the house as she dared. "Lita! Lita!"
Tourette went to the side. "Mother!"
There was a faint answer. It was Lita's shrill voice. "Mom!"
They oriented on the girl. She did indeed seem to be near the back. "Are you all right?"
"We are all right," Crenelle called. "But trapped. Debris fell across the hall."
They must have hidden in a closet or under a stout bed when they heard the bombs. That was just as well. "We'll get you out," Talena called.
They made their way around the house to the back door. It was intact, but there was debris beyond it. They pried and pulled at it, and heard the other two doing the same thing from beyond. It was nervous business, because they were afraid the fading bombers might return, and that the house might collapse worse because of their efforts. But before long they opened a twisted passage for the others to wriggle through.
They got into the car with their scant salvaged belongings, and Talena drove back across town. But now the roads were much worse, both because of the bombing and the desperate people coming out. They had to detour, and detour again, trying to pick their way through. As a result, a drive that should have been done in half an hour took over twice as long, and it was dark by the time they reached the ferry port.
There they found thousands of frightened civilians pressing impatiently against the lines of NKVD police who were trying to keep them under control. It was clear that many were leaving loved ones either dead or missing in the city; others, like themselves, were leaving family members in the militia or regular army. All of them were desperate to find space on the heavily loaded tugs and steamers being pressed into duty as evacuation craft. News of the proximity of the German front line might have been suppressed, but the bombing raid had gotten the message through: it was past time to leave the city.
Worse, there were German recognizance planes keeping tabs on them from above. The Germans knew exactly what was happening, and could strike at any moment.
They looked for Melee and the children, but couldn't see them. They walked among the refugees, inquiring, looking. They asked the NKVD personnel. Finally they found one who knew. "Beautiful woman with six children? She got the last ferry out."
She had made it! "Thank you, sir," Talena said.
"It's all right, lad." He turned away, distracted by some trouble farther along.
For a moment Talena was startled. Then she remembered that she was dressed as a male youth, as were Crenelle, Tourette, and Lita. Their struggle with the collapsed house had further mussed them. That was just as well, considering.
Now they just had to wait their turn. They walked away in the darkness, to find a private spot where they could squat and urinate. It would not be smart to advertise that they were four females ranging in age from eight to thirty-eight or so. Then they returned to the ferry port and settled down with the others to wait out the night. They nibbled on their limited food, not sharing it with strangers. That bothered Talena too, but not enough to override her common sense.
They slept on the ground below the cliff wall, on the level section between that and the river. They formed a square, each of them with her head on the lap of another. It was far from ideal, but better than nothing. All night the boats came, picking up passengers. Talena could tell by their lights and sounds. The crowd of refugees shifted somewhat as each load went out, so that the remaining folk got closer to the front. But there were so many waiting that the boats seemed pitifully inadequate.
Talena realized that the boats were as heavily laden coming in as going out. They were bringing in reinforcements. That was encouraging. She heard some of the men grousing as they passed: it seemed they had expected to be deployed in the southern suburbs, but were instead being sent north to gird the lines around the northern factories. Naturally the brass cared more for the industry than the people! But at least they were defending the city.
In the morning there seemed to be just as many people as before, and more were arriving. But Talena, Crenelle, Tourette, and Lita were significantly farther toward the boats than they had been. They should make it out by the end of the day.
Then the German bombers reappeared. People screamed and fled as Stukas dropped bombs on the landing and launched strafing runs. The refugees were alternately driven against the cliff walls and toward the water as they tried to escape. The planes also targeted the boats, and managed to score on some. Talena saw blood and oil frothing in the churning waters of the river.
"This is no good," Crenelle said. "Even if we board a boat, it may be sunk."
Talena had to agree. Evacuation was no longer a feasible option.
They left, and made their way back to the parked car. They were lucky; it had not been touched. They got in and drove back across town. It was slow, of course, and Talena feared her petrol would run out, but they made it.
They entered the house, and Talena found something to eat. They fell into chairs and tried to relax. "You must remain here with us, of course," she told Crenelle. "I'm sorry we didn't get you evacuated."
"You tried. We have supplies we can bring and share. We girded for possible calamity long ago. Maybe the Germans will be turned back."
"Maybe." It was a forlorn hope, but they did not want the girls to be alarmed.
Then there was someone at the door. It was a man, with a large bag. "What is this?" Talena demanded.
"Get out of my way, boy. I'm cleaning out this house while I can."
"You're a looter!" she cried, outraged.
"Move!" He shoved her roughly against the wall.
"Get out!" Crenelle snapped.
The man paused. Then he backed away. "Yeah, sure, boy."
Amazed, Talena looked at the woman. She was holding a pistol.
"I told you we were armed," she said.
So she had. "The girl too?"
Tourette opened her heavy shirt, showing a sheathed knife on one side, under her bra, and a small holstered pistol on the other side.
Talena took a deep breath. "Maybe you're right. Lita and I had better get weapons too."
"We have spare weapons at our house," Crenelle said. "We can show you how to conceal them."
They really had prepared for emergency! "Let's fetch them now. And spare food, if you have it. We may have to endure for some time."
"We may indeed," Crenelle agreed.
And what would they do when the Germans came? Talena hardly dared think about that.