Hitler's War by Harry Turtledove

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 Germanywere 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