Armageddon_ A Novel of Berlin - Leon Uris [279]
In the middle of the morning the Western governors, the Berlin commandants, and the German political leaders floundered without course. Popov and the Russians had trapped them. There was no choice but to wait and see.
General Trepovitch was selected to read the proclamation on People’s Radio the next day.
“There is no blockade of Berlin! The Soviet Union can no longer stand by idly and watch the Airlift aggression bring further suffering to the workers of Berlin. Your Soviet brothers hold out their open arms.
“Beginning Monday the people in the so-called American borough of Neukölln may cross to their brothers at the borough town hall of Treptow in the Soviet Sector and turn in your illegal ration cards and B marks. You will be issued a new ration book guaranteed by the Soviet Union giving you five hundred more calories of food a day. Your illegal B marks will be exchanged for regular marks at the rate of one to one.”
An awesome moment of decision had come! Every man and woman had to search deeply and alone to find his own answer. Face starvation in the winter; if you survive the winter ... what then? Continue to live in fear of another Russian onslaught of another kind? Perhaps direct invasion ... like the last one.
Would it not be better then to simply submit to survive and accept the Russian offer as the only way out of an impossible trap. The revenge would be horrible if the Russians were rejected.
The procedure was simple. On given days, citizens of a Western borough were to go to a neighboring Russian borough and exchange ration books and currency. There were over two million people in the Western Sector. The Soviets figured if only half of them crossed over initially the shaky city administration would collapse and the West would be hopelessly deluged by Russian marks.
In the Russian boroughs of Treptow, Freidrichshain, Pankow, Mitte, and Prenzlauer Berg they staffed for the onslaught!
The week of great decision came and went with no change in the life of Berlin. Two per cent of the people in Western Sectors changed to Russian rations.
Chapter Twenty-five
CLINT LOVELESS STUDIED THE list for repair or replacement of equipment. The top priority read: starters, landing lights, harnesses, inverters, indicator master gyro fluxgate compasses, ammeters, indicator gyro horizons, and on down to windshield wipers, transmitter oil pressure, propellers.
The general had had him at Erding to break the spare-parts repair bottleneck.
There was a knock on his door.
“Come in.”
Scott Davidson entered. “Hello, Scott.”
“I had to come to Headquarters on some other business and wondered if I could see you for a few minutes.”
“Sure.”
He pushed his paperwork aside and rubbed his eyes. Scott studied his office curiously. It was a wonderland of charts and maps.
MAJOR PROBLEM AREAS
PRIORITY PROJECTS
CAUSES OF PILOT FATIGUE
Scott had always seen the colonel as a guy on the general’s coattails, always looking green when he left the plane in Berlin. This first sight of his office gave him a sudden new respect.
“Sir,” Scott said, “I’ve just finished this report and wanted you to have a look at it.”
Clint took the folio. The cover read: THUNDERSTORM FLYING by Captain Scott Davidson, Chief Pilot, Airlift Wing, Provisional.
Clint made a sour face. “This is out of my line. All I know about it is that I hate it.”
“That’s just the point, Colonel. Before I submit it to the chief pilot here, I’d kind of like a layman’s opinion.”
Clint shrugged, put the folio on a stack of papers, and said he’d read it.
“Colonel, long as I happen to be here, I just happened to remember something else. You are in a hell of a position to do me a favor.”
“So?”
“Shall I get to the point?”
“By all means,” Clint said, handing him back the report on thunderstorm flying.
Scott smiled. “Sir ... I’d like an introduction to your housekeeper.”
“No.”
“But ...”
“I don’t want any of you crushed-hat bastards knocking her up. She’s too good a maid.”
“Colonel, I don’t have that in mind at all.”
“Then you must be queer.