Armageddon (18 page)

It has been substantiated by irrefutable sources that Emma Stoll personally went to the bone-crushing machines to inspect new batches of skulls daily. She hand-picked the most suitable samples.

These skulls were used to carve the handles on her silverware ...

Before Cornelia Hollingshead’s story could be confirmed, denied, or investigated it was accepted by a world now ready to believe anything coming out of Germany’s horror camps.

Dull, stupid Emma Stoll had gained eternal infamy as the queen of ghouls. Emma Stoll’s name would become symbolic of the universal monster. Indeed! Human skulls for silverware handles! Belatedly, the world cried for her head to roll!

The big American was passed by the guards to the south-bank mansion occupied by the commander of Pilot Team G-5. He used the front door knocker. Alfred Oberdorfer opened it in behalf of his new master.

“Sir?” inquired the servant

“Spraechen sie
English?”

“Nein, bitte.”

The big American grunted and continued the conversation in a sort of German. “Tell Major O’Sullivan that Nelson Goodfellow Bradbury has arrived from places beyond the horizon with a duffel bag filled with scotch, dirty laundry, and cigarettes for the black market.”

Good butler Oberdorfer was puzzled. “A moment, please,” he said, bowed, and then walked to Sean’s study and knocked. “There is an American outside, sir, speaking of dirty laundry and whiskey. His name is Goodfellow.”

“Big Nellie!”

Alfred Oberdorfer watched the two men embrace and pound each other’s backs. “You ugly son of a bitch!”

Alfred was disgusted. The Americans were strange people. In the old days such displays never took place in these halls. Things were proper when Herr Schoof was the master. God be hopeful Herr Schoof will return someday.

“Some layout you’ve got here lad.”

“Joint belonged to the publisher of the newspaper. One of Von Romstein’s relatives. Heidi!”

Alfred’s wife answered the call in a trot, tying on her maid’s apron as she ran. She bowed.

“Get these bags up to one of the guest rooms. See to it Herr Bradbury’s clothes are all in order by tomorrow ... and make us some dinner.”

The husband and wife reacted to the terse commands, struggling with Big Nellie’s bottle-loaded officer’s bags.

During the dinner he related to Sean his adventures with Patton’s Third Army when it broke into Czechoslovakia. “Patton almost broke down and cried when they ordered him back. He was dying to take Prague. When he finished crying he started cursing. He went on for an hour without repeating himself. I think we should have let him take Prague ...”

As he spoke he saw signs of fatigue in Sean. Sean’s mind seemed to react slowly, spending words as though he had to think them over three or four times before they took hold.

Something else seemed to be missing from Sean too. Tim had been the wild one, Sean was even keeled, had a quality of gentleness. He watched the near brutal harshness with which he ordered his servants about; the phone calls were taken with crackling anger; his expression of hatred of Germans was barely disguised. And, the whiskey hit Sean too fast.

“Been rough?” Big Nellie asked.

“Only on my soul,” Sean answered. “I’m sorry. After sixteen hours in the boiler factory I’ve got to drink it under. The commander drinks alone and spills his guts to no one.”

“Hi ho the dairio, the commander drinks alone.”

“How in the hell could they do it!”

“Schwabenwald, Dachau, Buchenwald? I hear they’ve found some in Poland that make these look like resorts.”

“So I get potted at night. General Hansen told me once about the beauty of military government. To most soldiers the enemy is an abstract thing, unseen, unheard. Neither Tim nor Liam ever saw him face to face or knew the hand of the man who killed them. Maybe the general was right. Maybe it is too much for me to live among my brothers’ murderers. I swear I’ve tried to be fair!”

“Sean, I saw General Hansen before I came here. He’s got it clear up to his eyeballs. Without his pilot team ...”

“I know. Thank God I’ve got Ulrich Falkenstein. Trouble is, there aren’t many Falkensteins in Germany.”

“And your team?”

“When we were in England looking at maps, talking in abstract problems, planning like a bunch of advertising executives, Rombaden was a kind of game. In France it was a blast. We came as liberators. Maurice Duquesne spoke the language. No problem. But now ... I’m forced to fight my own people ... and to live alone ... and defend Germans. And what’s more I miss Nan Milford. I’m sick for missing her. I’ve been at the point of begging back a dozen times.”

“You’ll get turned down, Sean. Spare yourself that.”

Sean nodded and croaked, “I know.” He drank long and hard from his glass, and made another drink as his servants cleared the table. Sean looked at them with anger.

“Look at these two krauts, Nellie. Steady folks. Been here for years.
Wie lange haben sie hier gearbitet?”

“Zwei und zwangig jahre.”

“Twenty-two years, Nellie. Hasn’t got a mean bone in his body. These two got a dachshund. They treat that little dog like it was a baby. Alfred and Heidi wouldn’t think of eating until they go through the left-overs and pick out the best for their dog. And man, you ought to see them with their grandchildren. Sentimental, loving. Germans wouldn’t go hurting little kids, would they Alfred?”

The butler, not understanding, merely bowed.

“Schwabenwald war schlecht, nicht wahr?”

Alfred clasped his hands together and wrung them in horror in agreement that the concentration camp was a terrible place. The wife became uneasy at Sean’s whiskey-inspired prodding.

Nellie watched the scene with fascination.

“Their cottage out back got a hit. Busted down the wall on one side. You should see these two on their off hours. He drags rubble from across the river to patch up the wall and momma here is getting all the window boxes painted and planted and neat. Petunias and pansies.”

The table was cleared. The servants stood at attention.

“Yes sir, a kindly folk. Love their dogs, love their kids and gardens. Love their forests and poetry and music. They told me so, themselves. Lost one of their sons on the Russian front. They told me something else too. They told me people shouldn’t kill each other. How about it, Alfred. People shouldn’t kill people’s brothers, should they?”

The bewildered man shrugged.

“Whiskey, ice, soda and
raus,”
Sean snapped. “The former occupant, Herr Schoof, published the newspaper. Nazi ... but a special sort of Nazi. The party was full of thugs and bums so they liked to get rich elite boys like Schoof. He’s locked up in Schwabenwald, indignant as hell. He was truly anti-Nazi. He told me so. Nobody knows nothing. I’ve got two hundred SS guards from Schwabenwald who didn’t even know there was an extermination center there. How about that? Tomorrow,” Sean continued, filling Nellie’s glass, “I’ll give you the commander’s personal tour of Schwabenwald.”

“Thanks anyhow. I got my baptism at a guest home for political prisoners on the ancestral estates of the Count of Dachau. Any truth about Corney Hollingshead’s story?”

“I dunno. I’ve sent samples to Switzerland, the States, and Sweden for analysis. I wish I could send Corney there too. She’s planning to give us the pleasure of her company for fifteen more articles and she’s getting nasty about an interview with Emma Stoll.”

“To Corney. A credit to my noble profession. O’Sullivan, I am about to give you the antidote to Hollingshead poison. Try this on her tomorrow ...”

Cornelia Hollingshead was outraged!

“I am not accustomed,” she said in a husky voice, “to being kept waiting in the anteroom of junior officers. I demand to know why I was locked out of my apartment and why my press credentials were revoked.”

“Despite my lowly rank, I am at liberty to determine and act upon undesirable elements in my district.”

“Dammit, I said I want to know why!”

“You filed an unauthorized and unconfirmed story having grave consequences.”

“Don’t go pulling that Little Lord Fauntleroy crap on me, buster. People want atrocity stories and that’s what they’re going to get.”

“In this district freedom of the press is not extended to pathological liars. If you aren’t out of Romstein Landkreis in two hours, you’re going to get jailed.”

Corney leaned over his desk and began to laugh and snarl at the same time. “Major, you’re begging for it. I use little boys like you to wash my panties. Maybe you don’t know who I am and what I’m going to do to you. You’re going to get run right out of this Army, buster.”

“I’m snowed under with work, Miss Hollingshead. I would appreciate your departure without further rhetoric.”

“All right, but make sure you read the Whittsett Press tomorrow. America is going to be reading about the Black Major.”

“Really? What about the Black Major?”

Corney’s yellow journalistic imagination came into play.

“Did the Black Major experiment with the Schwabenwald gas chambers, using German prisoners of war as guinea pigs?

How’s that for a starter? Why did the Black Major desecrate the Marienkirche Cathedral and jail an anti-Nazi priest? Does the Black Major have brothels in Rombaden so his troops can bypass the nonfraternization laws? Has the Black Major opened Swiss bank accounts? Are you getting the idea, buster? Now you hear this!
You arrange that interview with Emma Stoll!”

Sean could not believe the venom coming from this wrathful creature. “It has just occurred to me,” he said, “that you are the first American I have ever met with pure Nazi mentality.”

Cornelia Hollingshead’s lips thinned and her teeth gnashed as she stomped for the door.

“Miss Hollingshead! Would you care to venture a guess as to what well-known lady war correspondent gave a dose of clap to what well-known major general in Paris ...”

She stopped in her tracks and spun around. “You son of a bitch!”

“Shame on you. Gonorrhea at your age. Let’s understand each other. The account of your ... er ... indiscretion in Paris has been written by a correspondent who has an audience as large as yours and twice as discriminating. I have it in my desk and am free to file it at will. Questions?”

The blackmailer had been blackmailed. She became amused ... beaten badly at her own game. There was but one weapon left in her arsenal. Smiling, she walked toward him. ...

“Have a nice trip, Corney. Besides, I hear you’re a lousy lay.”

Chapter Twenty-six

TO: COMMANDING OFFICER, G-5, FRANKFURT

FROM: MILITARY COMMANDER, PILOT TEAM G-5. ROMBADEN/ROMSTEIN

SUBJECT
: Hollingshead, Cornelia. Correspondent accredited to Whittsett Press/Global Alliance News Syndicate.

The presence of the above named journalist is, in my opinion, detrimental to the best interests of the function of military government in this district.

I have, therefore, in accordance with my authority, suspended press credentials and ordered same from my district.

Sean O’Sullivan, Major

Commander, Pilot Team G-5

Andrew Jackson Hansen damned near had apoplexy when he read the terse report. One did not give the shaft to Corney without dire consequences.

Headquarters in Frankfurt stood by for the cyclone to blow in from Rombaden. To their chagrin, Corney came in meekly and filed a story that “her” war was over in Europe and she was off to the Pacific and battlefields yet unconquered.

Although there was a simultaneous sigh of relief, no one felt that even the Marines deserved Corney.

A few days later, when Nelson Goodfellow Bradbury arrived, Hansen sniffed a rat and tried to pump him.

“General,” Big Nellie purred, “one of these days ask General Borof Roth why he couldn’t attend the liberation ceremonies in Paris.”

And that’s about all he would say.

Hansen watched the reports flow in from Rombaden with obvious pride. O’Sullivan’s performance vindicated his judgment. Rombaden was weeks, even months ahead of most cities.

May 1. Enough rubble has been cleared so we have one-way traffic, at least, on all major thoroughfares.

May 2. 60% of all known former Nazis have been purged from civic positions and are on rubble-cleaning details.

May 3. We have restored enough power for Allied use, hospitals, and certain emergencies.

May 4. Captain Greenberg has located a generator in Munich similar to the main generator for the sewage-processing plant. He horse-traded for enough parts to improvise the rebuilding of the Rombaden generator.

May 5. All liberated Poles, Jews, and other displaced persons in the area are registered, housed, and those capable have been assigned to useful employment.

May 5. The eastern bridge over the Landau has been restored to operation.

May 6. The water-distillation plant is 20% in operation. We are therefore able to raise the water ration to six buckets per day per family.

May 7. Barge works partly reopened.

May 8. Three small factories partly reopened. All factories will use rubble as their basic raw material.

a.
Hümpelmeyer Plant formerly making steel helmets now converted to pots, pans, kitchen utensils, etc.

b.
Struger Factory formerly making hand grenades now returned to traditional toy and puppet making.

c.
Landau Works, formerly making stock handles for rifles now returned to furniture refinishing.

May 11. Leather factory reopened.

May 13. We now have seven full labor battalions on rubble clearance, demolition, and public works. Two battalions consist of ex-Nazis, two of prisoners of war; the rest, civilians.

May 14. We are happy to report that the entire population has received multiple shots for typhus and typhoid and has been vaccinated. We have completed 70% of the delousing procedures as an antityphus precaution.

May 18. Telephone and telegraph service for Allied use has been restored.