That’s when Burke’s Nebraska farm boy pride kicked in. “All right, that’s it.” He rolled up his sleeves, revealing tatted forearms and muscles like bridge cables.
His opponent was Corporal Wojtek Górski, who Torres recognized as a tank loader from one of the Polish tank companies. He had a similar build, and a similar quiet confidence.
They locked hands. The pub fell silent.
“
The table creaked. Both men’s faces reddened with effort. Neither arm moved.
“Come on, Burke!” Munoz shouted.
“
Thirty seconds passed. Then a minute. Sweat beaded on both faces. Then, incrementally, Burke’s arm began to bend until he couldn’t hold it anymore.
The Poles erupted. Money changed hands. Górski slapped Burke on the shoulder, then both men grinned and shook hands.
“Good match,” Górski said simply.
“Rematch when we get back,” Burke promised.
“Sure, I’ll gladly take more of your American dollars from you,” Górski muttered with a grin, then quickly raised his glass. “But tonight, we are here!”
More vodka appeared. Torres tried to pace himself, but the Poles were insistent. Every toast meant something — to fallen comrades who had volunteered to fight in Ukraine or Afghanistan, to NATO, to someone’s grandmother who’d killed three Nazis with a pitchfork during the Second World War.
“You have family?” Nowicki asked Torres during a lull.
“Wife. Four kids.” Torres pulled out his phone, showing a photo.
“Beautiful family. I have two daughters.” Nowicki shared his own photos. “They think I drive tank to work like normal job. Don’t understand why Daddy sometimes gone for months.”
“Mine are starting to understand,” Torres admitted. “I’m not sure if that’s better or worse.”
“Worse,” Kowals interjected. “When they understand, they worry. When they worry, you worry. Better they think we play with big toys.”
Staff Sergeant Granger appeared at Torres’s elbow. “Sergeant, you might want to check on your loader. He’s not looking so good.”
Torres glanced over and shook his head. Munoz was doing shots with three Polish privates, and appeared increasingly green.
“Munoz! Time to switch to water.”
“I’m good, Sarge!” Munoz protested, then hiccupped.
“That’s not a suggestion, Private.”
The Poles good-naturedly switched to beer, saving Munoz’s dignity as they passed him a bottle of water. Torres made a mental note to have Gatorade ready in the morning.
“Your lieutenant,” Major Kowalski observed, “he reminds me of myself when young. All theory, no practice.”
Torres watched Novak deep in conversation with a pair of Polish officers, hands moving as they discussed maneuver warfare.
“He’ll learn. They all do eventually.”
“In Belarus, perhaps.” Kowalski’s expression darkened. “You’ve seen the intelligence?”
“Some of it,” Torres replied. “I’m just a Sergeant First Class — not an officer like yourself.”
“It’s OK. I share with you. Across the border, we face the Russian First Guard’s Tank Army and Chinese 81st Group Army — easily six hundred main battle tanks and enough artillery to level Warsaw.” He knocked back another shot. “They call it exercise. We call it preparation.”
“Wow, that’s a lot of tanks. I guess that’s why we’re here, Major. We can’t let you Pols have all the fun if things kick off,” joked Torres.
“Yes. The famous American deterrence.” Kowalski smiled sadly, brushing off his joke. “You know what we call American military strategy? ‘Fight to last European.’”
Torres winced. He didn’t have a good answer for that. He changed the subject and started talking sports. It gave him a chance to brag about his son, a future baseball star.
As the night wore on, someone produced an accordion — because
“Gory, gory, what a helluva way to die!” they sang, mangling the pronunciation but nailing the sentiment.
Torres found himself at a table with Kowals and a few other Polish NCOs, the universal brotherhood of sergeants transcending language barriers.
“Tell me,” Kowals said, vodka making his English looser. “Why you do this? Could make more money in civilian world, yes? No one shooting at you.”
Torres thought about the question before responding. “I was dirt poor when I joined. The Army gave me a chance to do something with myself, and besides, I come from a long line of soldiers in my family. In fact, a Torres has served in uniform since the days of the Republic of Texas. My great grandfather served in World War II, my grandfather in Vietnam, my big brother in Iraq, and now me. After sixteen years of this, it’s who I am. I can’t imagine doing anything else.”
“Hmm, same.” Kowals nodded. “My son says I’m crazy. Says I should drive truck for Amazon. Better pay, he says. But Amazon doesn’t stop Russians.”
“To crazy men who stop Russians.” Torres raised his glass.
“And Chinese,” another sergeant added. “Don’t forget Chinese.”
