Hitler's war
- Автор: Тертлдав Гарри Норман
- Серия: The War that came early #1
- Язык: английский
- Жанр: Альтернативная история
Электронная книга - «Hitler's war». Краткое содержание книги:
Now, in this thrilling, provocative, and fascinating alternate history by Harry Turtledove, another scenario is played out: What if Chamberlain had not signed the accord? What if Hitler had acted rashly, before his army was ready-would such impatience have helped him or doomed him faster? Here is an action-packed, blow-by-blow chronicle of the war that might have been-and the repercussions that might have echoed through history-had Hitler reached too far, too soon, and too fast.
Turtledove uses dozens of points of view to tell this story: from American marines serving in Japanese-occupied China to members of a Jewish German family with a proud history of war service to their nation, from ragtag volunteers fighting in the Abraham Lincoln Battalion in Spain to an American woman desperately trying to escape Nazi-occupied territory-and witnessing the war from within the belly of the beast.
A novel that reveals the human face of war while simultaneously riding the twists and turns that make up the great acts of history, Hitler's War is the beginning of an exciting new alternate history saga. Here is a tale of powerful leaders and ordinary people, of spies, soldiers, and traitors, of the shifting alliances that draw some together while tearing others apart. At once authoritative, brilliantly imaginative, and hugely entertaining, Hitler's War captures the beginning of a very different World War II-with a very different fate for our world today.
Sergeant Alistair Walsh was where he was supposed to be: on the Dyle, in central Belgium. The whole BEF was on the line of the Dyle-the whole BEF, less what the Germans had blown sky-high. If what had happened to the rest of the force was anything like what had happened to Walsh’s unit, the BEF was missing more than it should have been.
One of the soldiers in Walsh’s platoon waved to him. “What’s up, Puffin?” Walsh asked. Everybody hung that name on Charlie Casper-he was short and round and had a big red nose.
He also had news: “Bloody goddamn Dutchmen just tossed in the sponge.”
“Where’d you hear that?” Walsh demanded in angry disbelief.
“Bloody goddamn wireless.”
“But they can’t,” Walsh said, though he knew too well that they could. He went on protesting: “They just started fighting-what?-five days ago. We all just started five days ago.” Except for a few useless rounds aimed at German planes, he had yet to fire a shot.
“And now they’ve bloody well stopped,” Puffin Casper said. “Bunch of damn rotters. Said the Germans bombed the hell out of that damn Rotter place, and they couldn’t take any more of that, so they went belly-up.”
Something seemed to have gone missing there. Whatever Puffin had heard, he hadn’t got it straight. But if the big news was right-and Walsh had no reason to doubt it was-what difference did the details make? Not bloody much, as Casper would have said.
Walsh looked north. “So they’ll hit us from that way and from the east,” he said. “Just what we need.”
“Frenchies’ll help us,” Puffin said.
“Well, maybe.” Walsh didn’t argue, not right out loud. Casper was only a kid. If he had confidence in the French army, more power to him. He might even end up right. The French Seventh Army, which was in place north of the BEF-on the far side of the Scheldt-was supposed to be big and strong. Maybe it was. Or maybe the BEF would have to go it alone. Back in 1918, British forces seemed to have done that when the Kaiser’s army hit them with one haymaker after another.
(That the French would have said the same about the British had never come to Walsh’s notice. If it had, he would have called the man bold-or rash-enough to give him such news a goddamn liar.)
Artillery rumbled, off to the east. Some of those were Belgian guns, firing at the advancing Germans. And some of them were German, making sure the bastards in field-gray kept on advancing. The gunfire was getting louder, which meant it was getting closer to the Dyle. Sooner or later-probably sooner-Walsh figured he would make the Germans’ acquaintance again.
An officer came up to him. For a second, he thought the man was British. Then he saw the funny rank badges. A Belgian, he realized. Ordinary Belgian soldiers looked like Frenchmen, mostly because of the Adrian helmets they wore. But officers had British-style uniforms.
“Where is your command post?” the Belgian asked in accented but understandable English.
“Why do you want to know…sir?” The British sergeant knew he sounded suspicious, but he couldn’t help himself. The Dutch had just thrown in the towel. What if the bloody Belgies were about to do the same thing? Their king hadn’t wanted to let any Allies in till the very last instant-which was liable to be too late.
But this fellow said, “The better to arrange cooperation between your forces and mine. You are a sergeant, is it not so?”
What do you think you’re doing, asking me questions? was what he meant. Walsh didn’t think he could get in much trouble for slowing up a wog, but he didn’t want to find out the hard way he was wrong. He pointed north. “Go that way, oh, three hundred yards, and you’ll see the regimental tent.”
“Yards?” The Belgian officer scratched his head.
“Yes, sir.” Alistair Walsh felt like scratching his, too. Then he figured out what had to be wrong. Stupid foreigners with their idiot measures. “Uh, three hundred meters.” Close enough.
The Belgian nodded. “Ah. Thank you.” Off he went, happy as a ram in clover.
“What do you want to bet they’re the next ones out?” Puffin Casper said dolefully.
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Walsh agreed. “They’ll tear a nasty hole in our lines if they do bugger off, though.”
“They’ll care a lot about that, they will,” Puffin said.
More Belgian soldiers came back over the Dyle. Some of them still looked ready to fight. They were just blokes doing their jobs. Others had done all the work they aimed to do for a while. They slipped back toward the rear first chance they saw. Still others were walking wounded. Some of them seemed angry. Others seemed weary and in pain, as they no doubt were. Still others might have been relieved. They’d fought, they’d got hurt, and they were still alive. Nobody could expect them to do anything more.
Englishmen would have reacted the same way. The idea that foreigners could act just like ordinary people never failed to surprise Walsh.
And then, with the throb of airplane engines overhead, the only foreigners he cared about were the Germans. He ran for the closest trench and jumped in.
These weren’t dive-bombers, anyway. They stayed high overhead and let their bombs rain down on the general area of their targets. The whistles as the bombs fell weren’t quite so bad as the screaming sirens on those vulture-winged diving bastards. They sure as hell weren’t good, though.
When the bombs burst, it seemed as if a million of them were going off at once. Blast threw Walsh around. Blast could kill all by itself without fragments. It could tear lungs to shreds without leaving a mark on a body. Walsh had already seen that. He wished he hadn’t chosen this exact moment to remember it.
Engines of a different note made him look up. Fighters were tearing into the bomber formations. He let out a whoop. Somebody else sprawled in the trench said, “Blimey, there really is an RAF!” The soldier sounded astonished.
Walsh didn’t blame him. He hadn’t seen many British planes himself. But they were there now. Two broad-winged bombers tumbled out of the air, wrapped in smoke and fire. Parachutes sprouted in the sky. Walsh waited for the British pilots-he assumed they were his countrymen, though they might have been French-to machine-gun the descending German airmen. But they didn’t. He wondered why not. Not sporting? Were he hanging helpless from a silk half-bubble, he didn’t suppose he would have wanted a German blazing away at him.
“Blimey!” the other soldier said again. “That bugger’s going to come down right on our ‘eads, ‘e is.”
He didn’t quite. But he landed no more than fifty yards away. Walsh aimed his rifle at him. “Give up right now, you fucking bastard!” he bawled.
The German paid no attention to him. The fellow sprawled on the ground, clutching his ankle and howling like a dog with its tail caught under a rocking chair. The parachute flapped and billowed like a live thing, threatening to drag him away.
“Easiest prisoner I ever took,” Walsh said. “If he hasn’t broken that, I’m a Belgian myself.”
“But do you want to go out there and get ‘im?” the other British soldier asked. “What if more bombers come over?”
“Urr,” said Walsh, who hadn’t thought of that. Letting the German flyer’s countrymen blow him to pieces was a distinctly unattractive notion. But so was listening to him.
When Walsh said so, the other man replied, “Then shoot ‘im. Or if you don’t care to, I will.”
“No,” Walsh said. If he were lying there with a broken ankle, he would want a German to take him prisoner. And he thought there was a pretty good chance some German would. The bastards in field-gray fought hard. They’d fought hard even when they knew the game was up in 1918. They mostly fought fair, though. Of what army could you say more?
That made up his mind for him. He scrambled out of his hole and trotted toward the downed Luftwaffe man. The German saw his rifle and held up his hands. He gabbled something in his own language. If that wasn’t I give up!, Walsh really was a Belgian.
He pointed to the pistol on the flyer’s belt. “Throw that damn thing away, and make it snappy!” he said.