Armageddon_ A Novel of Berlin - Leon Uris [143]
Russians wept out songs of the motherland, Cossacks made great leaps, Mickey Mouse watches became a gift of the proof of lasting friendship.
Sean and Blessing had helped launch a new Russian junior officers’ club. Halfway through uncountable litres of vodka and gallons of beer, past innumerable songs and toasts, the light heavyweight champion of a Russian division issued a challenge to any man in the room regardless of weight or nationality. The offer proved irresistible to Sean.
A British lieutenant gave them both lengthy discourses on fair play, and in a makeshift ring Sean dazzled everyone with his dancing-master tactics—until his vodka-rubbered legs left him open for a wild hook that knocked him flat on his back.
Sean decided upon arising, no more fancy work. He cold-cocked the Russian in forty-six seconds, collecting for his backers numerous watches and great denominations of occupation currency.
Shortly thereafter it came to light that Shenandoah Blessing had once been a wrestler, working his way through college under the nom de plume of the “Mad Russian.”
The frivolity continued as he threw six Russians, an Englishman, two Americans, and a Frenchman in succession. Finally motorcycle escorts brought in a 300-pound Siberian with a handlebar moustache. Blessing was rather tired and he was dethroned. But, by this time, the Russian officers were cleaned of a month’s pay and their new club a shambles.
The party broke up at six in the morning with the Russians serenading their guests farewell and declaring them the salt of the earth.
Sean and Bolinski unloaded their burden on a bed never meant to absorb the shock of so large a falling body. Bed and occupant crashed to the floor and there they let him lie.
“Come on into my room,” Bo said. “I’ve got some coffee warmed up.”
Sean flopped into a big chair and began laughing. “Haven’t done that since I was a kid at a couple of Irish wakes.” He pulled out large wads of occupation currency from every pocket. “Got to send some of this crap back to the Russkies tomorrow to help pay to repair their club.”
Bo Bolinski watched the major with a bit of fascination. Sean was always proper, at times somewhat pompous. Bo counted a black eye, ten scraped knuckles, buttons off his shirt, saw a mellow drunk with a cigar stub entrenched in his jaw.
“What the hell you doing up this time of the morning?” Sean asked as he sipped the coffee.
“Colonel Hazzard asked me to study these regulations for the four-power occupation. He wants an opinion on them today.”
“They stink,” Sean said.
“Looks like you’ve made a private peace tonight with the Russians, anyhow,” Bo said.
“We’re under orders to play up this brotherhood crap and con each other for information. Once the Russkies loosen up, they’re not too hard to take. Anyhow, they’re not Germans.”
Sean stood up, dispensed with the cigar, walked into Bo’s bathroom, and rinsed his mouth out. There was coldness between the men. In all the time they worked together Sean knew little of Bo except the statistics; lawyer, Notre Dame, married and two children, Chicago. Not that Bo hadn’t been loyal and efficient.
“Bo, you pissed at me because I pulled you out of Rombaden and brought you to Berlin?”
“No one forced me into G-5, Major.”
“What’s wrong?” Sean said abruptly.
“I can’t hate Germans like you do, Major. I get sick when I see kids digging through our garbage cans. I get sick every time I drive into Berlin.”
Sean did not answer.
“Morning, O’Sullivan,” Hansen smirked at his hungover officer. “I understand you and your fat friend tried to annihilate the Russian officer corps last night.”
“All in the spirit of brotherhood, sir.”
“Were you able to get any information on this V.V. Azov?”
“They clam up the minute his name is mentioned. It’s my guess that he’s the signal caller.”
“It’s starting to add up that way.”
“Sir, I want to bring up these rules governing the Berlin occupation.”
“Shoot.”
“We’re in trouble if we accept them.”
“Neal Hazzard put you up to this?”
“We’ve discussed it.”
“For a so-called fighting soldier, Hazzard