Armageddon_ A Novel of Berlin - Leon Uris [261]
He crossed the Wilhelmstrasse to the flower-studded colonnade, which began with a statue of Bismarck. On one side was the Opera House and on the other a park and fountains. As airmen and their girls passed him, he began to feel lonely.
Clint hummed, “Sunday in the Park.” Christ, he hated Sunday in the park in New York; it was like a ghetto boxed in by sheer walls of high buildings.
He was drawn toward the end of the colonnade by the sound of the Air Force band playing a Sunday concert before the Kurhaus.
AQUIS MATTIACIS read the carved lettering above six columns supporting the domed roof of the Kurhaus. The original Roman name of the city and the site of the springs with curative powers held a building rumored to have been built by twenty-six millionaires each having put up huge sums.
The Kurhaus had been requisitioned as the Eagle Club to serve American families. Ping-pong tables stood on marble floors and a soda fountain was installed in one end of a dining room. The German books were gone from the oriental-carpeted library and replaced by English tomes.
Behind the Kurhaus stretched a magnificent park of lakes and little bridges and riding trails and tennis courts, once patronized by arrogant monocled barons, slash-cheeked steel kings, and their hourglass-figured ladies.
He could hear the band playing “William Tell Overture.” Why the hell did all bands play “William Tell Overture”? Maybe it wasn’t a good idea having a day off.
Clint caught a taxi and drove up the hills to the Neroberg Officers’ Club. The great hotel was in a lush setting, a forest on a foothill of the Taunus Mountains looking down on Wiesbaden and the Rhine. Clint sat at the bar, listened to Egon at the piano.
There were mostly USAFE people around and even though they didn’t give a damn what was happening at Erding and Rhein/Main and Obie they could not escape the Airlift. Along with the gossip and complaints of how tough it was to live off the German economy, there was tension. There was a lot of talk about wanting to get dependents out of Germany before the Berlin thing blew up.
Clint looked around in growing desperation for a face from Headquarters. He bought Egon a round; the German played, “This Love of Mine,” which he and Judy thought of as “their” song.
He bummed a bathing suit, took a drive down to the Opelbad, a luxurious pool set in the woods and vineyards over the city. He studied the women at pool side with a practiced eye, but none of them was as voluptuous as Judy....Screw it, Clint thought.
“Where to, sir?” the taxi driver asked.
“Airlift Headquarters.”
Clint sighed with relief as he entered Taunusstrasse 11. He went first to the Control Center and chatted with the duty control officer, who gave him a capsule briefing, then went upstairs to Operations and made his own hasty calculation that they would set down three thousand tons.
He went to his office, put the hot plate on for coffee, took off his blouse, and began to read over the preliminary agreement drawn up with the British for the joint operation of bases at Celle and Fassberg. He dialed General Stonebraker’s office.
The general’s secretary answered.
“This is Colonel Loveless. General in for me?”
“Hello.”
“Clint Loveless, sir.”
“Yes, Clint.”
“How’s your ... indigestion, sir.”
“Fine.”
“I’m working over the agreement with the British. I’ll try to have it on your desk tomorrow afternoon before I shove off for Burtonwood.”
“I thought I gave you the day off.”
“You did, sir. I don’t know what to do with a day off.”
“Well, long as you’re here, have the agreement on my desk this afternoon.”
Clint clenched his teeth for a long second. “Yes, sir. By the way, General, did you see the memo on how the British are getting the sparrows off the Gatow airfield?”
“No.”
“Seems like one of their airmen used to train falcons for hunting. They