"Beats me," Ludwig answered. "Stay ready for anything. It's liable to be some kind of trick."

"Don't worry. My asshole's puckered good and tight," the driver said. Ludwig laughed. Then he wondered why. If you hadn't shit yourself or come close, you hadn't really been in combat.

A Czech officer with a flag of truce came out from behind a battered house. He was an older man, old enough to have started out in the Austro-Hungarian army. He walked toward Ludwig's panzer, probably because it was the closest vehicle with a German cross on it. "Will you take me back to your commanders?" he called. Sure as hell, his German had a cloyingly sweet Vienna accent, with Slavic palatals under that.

"I will, sir, but what for?" Ludwig asked.

"I have come to arrange the surrender of Prague." No matter how sugary his accent, the Czech sounded infinitely bitter. "You've murdered enough innocent civilians. We can't stand it any more. I hope you're satisfied."

"I just want to get out of this in one piece," Ludwig said.

The Czech looked at him. "Ja, you go where they tell you and do what they tell you. You're nothing but a little cog in the machine-but it's a big machine, and it's slaughtered us. Will you give me a ride?"

"Of course, sir, if you can clamber on up. Not much room inside here, but you can ride on top of the turret. I'll take you back to Regimental HQ, and they'll know what to do with you…Theo!"

"What is it?" the radioman asked.

"Get on the horn with the regiment. Tell 'em I'm bringing back a Czech colonel-I think he's a colonel-with a surrender offer for Prague. Tell 'em it looks like we've got a cease-fire up here for the time being, too."

"Nobody tells me anything," Theo grumbled. Sitting there at the back of the fighting compartment, he was the last to know, all right.

"I'm telling you now," Ludwig said.

He gave the Czech officer a hand. The man might not be young, but he was spry-he didn't really need the help. He might-he undoubtedly did-hate everything the German stood for, but he stayed polite about it. What did the diplomats call that? Correct-that was the word. Ludwig held out a pack of cigarettes. The Czech took one. "Thank you," he said again. "Have you also got a blindfold for me?"

The accent that made Ludwig think of strudel didn't go well with the cynical question. Trying to stay polite himself, the panzer commander said, "Your men fought well."

"We are still fighting well," the Czech said proudly. "This surrender offer is for Prague, perhaps for Bohemia, but not for all of Czechoslovakia. The war goes on in the east."

Ludwig didn't think his superiors would like that. He shrugged. He was only a sergeant. It wasn't his worry. From the bowels of the panzer, Theo said, "Regiment says to bring him in. And they say the truce here can hold, as far as they're concerned."

"In the last war, we did not have communications like these," the Czech officer said. "Do all of your panzers have radio sets?"

He sounded casual-so casual, he made Ludwig wary. "Sir, I'd better not talk about that. Security, you know," the German said. He spoke into the tube that let him talk to the driver: "Back to HQ, Fritz."

"Right, Sergeant." The Panzer II turned nimbly and headed back toward the east. The Czech officer seemed to be taking mental notes. If he was coming in to surrender, it might not matter. Ludwig sure hoped it wouldn't. FIGHTERS DUELED OVER THE EBRO. Chaim Weinberg watched the new French machines mixing it up with the 109s. Now that France and Germany were at war, the supply spigot to Spain finally got turned on. The Republic had seen more new equipment the past two weeks than in the two years before.

Just because it was new didn't mean it was good. A French fighter spun out of control, trailing smoke. The Messerschmitt that downed it sought fresh prey.

Chaim wasn't the only guy from the International Brigades who swore. In how many tongues did those curses rise? He'd thought-everybody'd thought-enough stuff would come from France to let the Republic settle the Nationalists' hash in nothing flat. There was more, but there wasn't that much more. And Sanjurjo's bastards still seemed to be getting stuff from Germany and Italy. That shouldn't have happened, either.

England had the biggest navy in the world, didn't she? And the French had lots of ships, too. So why weren't they doing a better job of closing down Sanjurjo's supply lines? The only answer he could think of was that they didn't give a damn.

Then he stopped worrying about their strategic options. A couple of those Messerschmitts dove for the deck. They weren't running from the French planes. They were going to shoot up the Republican trenches.

Bullets kicked up spurts of dust, closer and closer. Chaim was too far from a dugout to dive into one. He folded himself into a ball to make as small a target as he could. The roar of the powerful engine and the hammering guns filled his world.

The 109 was overhead, so low that he imagined he felt the wind of its passage-or maybe it wasn't his imagination. Then the plane was gone. But even if the wind was imagination, he didn't want to unfold. He had to will himself into doing it.

Somebody not far away was groaning. That got him moving. You did for a buddy, because you wanted to be sure a buddy would do for you, too.

That big blond guy wasn't an American. Chaim thought Gyula was from Hungary. Gyula spoke several languages, including English. In every damn one of them, he sounded like the guy who played Dracula. What he said now wasn't in any language Chaim knew. It sounded impressive as hell, though.

"Wow," he said. "What's that mean?"

Gyula looked at him. The Hungarian had a mashed foot-no wonder he was groaning. He'd be lucky to keep it. "A horse's cock up your ass," he said in English.

For a second, Chaim thought the other guy was cussing at him. Then he realized Gyula was just answering his question. "Let me bandage you up," Chaim said. He yelled for stretcher-bearers in English and Spanish. His own accent was god-awful, but people would understand that.

"You better cut my shoe off," Gyula said. "Don't try to yank it over the wound. I kill you if you do that."

With that damn Bela Lugosi voice, he should have sounded silly. He should have-and no doubt he would have, if he didn't so obviously mean it. Clumsily, Chaim took the bayonet off his rifle. At least it had a blade; it wasn't one of the damn spears the French liked.

Gyula's boot was falling apart anyway. That made things easier. Chaim winced when he got a good look at the wound. The Hungarian's instep was smashed all to hell. Yeah, he'd lose most of the foot if not all of it.

He saw the same thing. As Chaim wrapped a puttee around the wound to slow the bleeding, he said, "I can go home now. Admiral Horthy won't draft me."

"Mazel tov," Chaim said dryly. "He'll shoot you instead, and not in the foot." Gyula was close to forty. He'd fought in the last war, and for Bela Kun in Hungary's short-lived Communist revolution. If he went back to Budapest, he'd be about as welcome as the smallpox.

"Right now, I wouldn't mind. Hurts like a motherfucker," Gyula said. "Got any morphine?"

Chaim shook his head. "Sorry. Wish I did." He meant that. He could have got nailed as easily as Gyula. Dumb luck, one way or the other.

The stretcher-bearers showed up then. They were Internationals, too. That was good-or Chaim thought so. They'd be gentler with Gyula as they took him away. Spaniards faced their own pain with stolid indifference…and they were even more indifferent when somebody else got hurt.

Away they went. They wore Red Cross smocks and armbands. That might keep the Nationalists from shooting at them. On the other hand, it might not. This was a rough old war. You really didn't want to let the other side capture you, no matter which side you were on.