Read Online The War That Came Early: The Big Switch by Harry Turtledove - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Harry Turtledove
Tags: Fiction, General, World War; 1939-1945, War & Military, Alternative History, Alternative histories (Fiction)
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the nickname through windows, doors, walls.…
And Sergei didn’t want to say that Ivan conversed almost entirely in
mat
, the Russian sublanguage of ingenious obscenity. Sergei didn’t even think the bomb-dropper had been a
zek
before the draft got him. If ever a man was made for
mat
, Ivan Kuchkov was that man.
Since he didn’t want to say any of those things, he asked, “How did you become a flyer?”
“Oh, the usual way,” Federov replied. “I was in
Osoaviakhim
when I was a kid, and I did well enough that they kept me at it after I got called up.”
Yaroslavsky nodded. His own story wasn’t much different. Nominally,
Osoaviakhim
was the national organization that trained civilian pilots. The skills a civilian pilot needed, of course, were the same as the ones flying a fighter or bomber required. No one ever said that out loud, which made it no less true. The Germans had used the same dodge to slide around the Treaty of Versailles’ ban on military aviation.
As Sergei had unpleasant reason to know,
Luftwaffe
pilots and bombardiers were mostly excellent. As he also had unpleasant reason to know, his own country’s standards were rather lower.
“How’s the plane?” Vladimir Federov asked. “This’ll be the first time I’ve been in an SB-2.”
That news disappointed Sergei without surprising him. Experienced copilots like Mouradian were getting planes of their own. Inexperienced men were getting experience instead.
And what do I get?
Yaroslavsky wondered. He silently answered his own question:
I get to be a nursemaid, that’s what
.
Aloud, he said, “When we supported the Spanish Republic, people called the SB-2 the fighting bomber—it was faster in the air than any of the fighters the Fascists were using.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that,” Federov answered.
“Well, forget it,” Sergei said bluntly. “It was true when we were going up against biplanes. It sure as hell isn’t true any more. German Messerschmitts are like sharks against mackerel. Even the Polish PZLs will out-fly us and outshoot us. What we do when fighters are around is, we run. Otherwise, it’s
dos vidanya, Rodina.
”
“ ‘So long, Motherland,’ ” Federov echoed. “So when do we get bombers that
can
hold their own against enemy fighters?”
“Probably never,” Sergei replied, which made his new copilot give him a long, slow blink. He explained: “Bombers bomb. Fighters shoot bombers down. Sounds obvious, doesn’t it? But it’s not just obvious. It’s true. Bombers carry more weight, they’re less maneuverable, and they have fewer guns pointing forward. We do our best to hold off fighters, but we can’t play their game. We play our own game instead.”
Lieutenant Federov blinked again, the same way. It was an odd, stagy expression. Sergei wondered what lay behind it. Was Federov an NKVD man building a case against him because he had the gall to point out a plain truth? Too late to worry about it now.
“Come on,” Sergei said. “You want to see the plane? I’ll show you.”
The SB-2 sat in a revetment. A white sheet hid it from prying eyes—and from Nazi reconnaissance aircraft. In the shadow cast by the sheet, a mechanic worked on the starboard engine. He sketched a salute for Sergei and gave Vladimir Federov a curious look: word that Mouradian had been transferred hadn’t got to everybody.
Ivan Kuchkov was sitting in the pilot’s seat when Sergei led Federov into the cockpit. The two men who didn’t know each other stared. “Who are you?” Federov asked, at the same time as Kuchkov belligerently demanded, “Who the fuck are you?”
“That should be ‘Who the fuck are you, sir?’ ” Sergei said, and made the introductions. The Chimp looked at Federov as if to say Red Air Force standards were lower than he’d thought. The new copilot looked at Kuchkov as if to say he hadn’t expected to see one like this outside of a zoo. As meetings went, it wasn’t a success. Sergei could see that
And Sergei didn’t want to say that Ivan conversed almost entirely in
mat
, the Russian sublanguage of ingenious obscenity. Sergei didn’t even think the bomb-dropper had been a
zek
before the draft got him. If ever a man was made for
mat
, Ivan Kuchkov was that man.
Since he didn’t want to say any of those things, he asked, “How did you become a flyer?”
“Oh, the usual way,” Federov replied. “I was in
Osoaviakhim
when I was a kid, and I did well enough that they kept me at it after I got called up.”
Yaroslavsky nodded. His own story wasn’t much different. Nominally,
Osoaviakhim
was the national organization that trained civilian pilots. The skills a civilian pilot needed, of course, were the same as the ones flying a fighter or bomber required. No one ever said that out loud, which made it no less true. The Germans had used the same dodge to slide around the Treaty of Versailles’ ban on military aviation.
As Sergei had unpleasant reason to know,
Luftwaffe
pilots and bombardiers were mostly excellent. As he also had unpleasant reason to know, his own country’s standards were rather lower.
“How’s the plane?” Vladimir Federov asked. “This’ll be the first time I’ve been in an SB-2.”
That news disappointed Sergei without surprising him. Experienced copilots like Mouradian were getting planes of their own. Inexperienced men were getting experience instead.
And what do I get?
Yaroslavsky wondered. He silently answered his own question:
I get to be a nursemaid, that’s what
.
Aloud, he said, “When we supported the Spanish Republic, people called the SB-2 the fighting bomber—it was faster in the air than any of the fighters the Fascists were using.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that,” Federov answered.
“Well, forget it,” Sergei said bluntly. “It was true when we were going up against biplanes. It sure as hell isn’t true any more. German Messerschmitts are like sharks against mackerel. Even the Polish PZLs will out-fly us and outshoot us. What we do when fighters are around is, we run. Otherwise, it’s
dos vidanya, Rodina.
”
“ ‘So long, Motherland,’ ” Federov echoed. “So when do we get bombers that
can
hold their own against enemy fighters?”
“Probably never,” Sergei replied, which made his new copilot give him a long, slow blink. He explained: “Bombers bomb. Fighters shoot bombers down. Sounds obvious, doesn’t it? But it’s not just obvious. It’s true. Bombers carry more weight, they’re less maneuverable, and they have fewer guns pointing forward. We do our best to hold off fighters, but we can’t play their game. We play our own game instead.”
Lieutenant Federov blinked again, the same way. It was an odd, stagy expression. Sergei wondered what lay behind it. Was Federov an NKVD man building a case against him because he had the gall to point out a plain truth? Too late to worry about it now.
“Come on,” Sergei said. “You want to see the plane? I’ll show you.”
The SB-2 sat in a revetment. A white sheet hid it from prying eyes—and from Nazi reconnaissance aircraft. In the shadow cast by the sheet, a mechanic worked on the starboard engine. He sketched a salute for Sergei and gave Vladimir Federov a curious look: word that Mouradian had been transferred hadn’t got to everybody.
Ivan Kuchkov was sitting in the pilot’s seat when Sergei led Federov into the cockpit. The two men who didn’t know each other stared. “Who are you?” Federov asked, at the same time as Kuchkov belligerently demanded, “Who the fuck are you?”
“That should be ‘Who the fuck are you, sir?’ ” Sergei said, and made the introductions. The Chimp looked at Federov as if to say Red Air Force standards were lower than he’d thought. The new copilot looked at Kuchkov as if to say he hadn’t expected to see one like this outside of a zoo. As meetings went, it wasn’t a success. Sergei could see that
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