Armageddon In Retrospect - Kurt Vonnegut [46]
There was a sharp, splintering noise, a metallic groan, and the gate sprung open. A tank stood in the opening, racing its engine, its huge treads resting against the shattered gate. George turned to face the noise, just as two Russian soldiers slid from roosts atop the tank turret, and trotted into the courtyard, their submachine guns leveled. They looked quickly from window to window, and yelled something I couldn’t understand.
“They’ll kill us if they see that gun!” I cried.
George nodded. He seemed to be stunned, in a dream. “Yeah,” he said, and he threw the gun across the room. It slithered along the bleached floorboards, coming to rest in a dark corner. “Put your hands up, Sammy,” he said. He held his hands over his head, his back to me, facing the hallway down which the Russians were stomping. “I must of been crazy drunk, Sammy. I was out of my head,” he whispered.
“Sure, George—sure you were.”
“We got to stick together through this, Sammy, you hear?”
“Stick through what?” I kept my hands at my sides. “Hey Rooskie, how the hell are you?” I shouted.
The two Russians, rough-looking teen-agers, strutted into the room, their submachine guns ready. Neither one smiled. “Put your hands up!” commanded one in German.
“Amerikaner,” I said weakly, and I put my hands up.
The two looked surprised, and began consulting in whispers, never taking their eyes off us. They scowled at first, but became more and more jovial as they talked, until they were at last beaming at us. I guess they had had to reassure each other that it was right in line with policy to be friendly with Americans.
“It’s a great day for the people,” said the one who could speak German, gravely.
“A great day,” I agreed. “George, give the boys a drink.”
They looked happily at the bottle, and rocked back and forth on their feet, nodding and snickering. They insisted politely that George take the first drink to the great day for the people. George grinned nervously. The bottle was almost to his lips before it slipped from his fingers to bang on the floor, spewing its contents over our feet.
“God, I’m sorry,” said George.
I leaned over to pick it up, but the Russians stopped me. “Vodka is better than that German poison,” said the German-speaking Russian solemnly, and he drew a large bottle from his blouse. “Roosevelt!” he said, taking a big gulp, and passing the bottle to George.
The bottle went around four times: in honor of Roosevelt, Stalin, Churchill, and of Hitler’s roasting in hell. The last toast was my idea. “Over a slow fire,” I added. The Russians thought that was pretty rich, but their laughter died instantly when an officer appeared at the gate to bellow for them. They gave us quick salutes, snatched the bottle, and rushed out of the house.
We watched them climb aboard the tank, which backed away from the gate and lumbered down the road. The two of them waved.
The vodka had made me feel fuzzy, hot, and wonderful—and, it turned out, cocky and bloodthirsty. George was almost blind drunk, swaying.
“I didn’t know what I was doing, Sammy. I was—” The sentence trailed off. He was making for the corner where his gun lay—surly, weaving, squinting.
I stepped in front of him, and pulled the tiny pistol from my trouser pocket. “Look what I found, Georgie.”
He stopped and blinked at it. “Looks like a nice one, Sammy.” He held out his hand. “Let’s have a look at it.”
I snapped off the safety catch. “Sit down, Georgie, old friend.”
He sank into the chair where I had sat at the table. “I don’t get it,” he mumbled. “You wouldn’t shoot your old buddy, would you, Sammy?” He looked at me pleadingly. “I offered you a square deal, didn’t I? Ain’t I always been—”
“You’re too bright to think I’d let you get away with this dogtag deal, aren’t you? I’m no buddy of yours, and you know it, don’t you, Georgie? The only way it’d work would be with me dead. Didn’t you figure it that way, too?”
“Everybody’s down on old George, ever since Jerry got it. I swear to God, Sammy, I never had anything to do