Armageddon_ A Novel of Berlin - Leon Uris [28]
Dundee reckoned he could shuttle a battalion of men across the river under cover of darkness. Morning would find Rombaden cut off. Furthermore, he could move part of his men to the Schwabenwald Concentration Camp to engage the expected resistance from the Waffen SS.
Sean returned to the bivouac to check his team. They had been living off the countryside since they had passed through the Siegfried Line. Blessing’s men had already rounded up enough local livestock and three-in-one ration for a decent meal. Shelter halves had been set. The older men on the team—Tidings, Trueblood, Collier, Duquesne—were given the back of the trucks to sleep in. Geoffrey Grimwood qualified by age, but his long military service made him proudly refuse; he slept on the ground.
Sean went to the edge of the forest. There were only waterlogged shadows ahead. The Landau River could not be seen on the horizon, gray on gray. Rombaden was out there somewhere. The colors of the earth had been turned sallow, muck and mud alive and moving with infantrymen.
The perimeter was an open field close to the suburbs of Rombaden, interlaced with crudely dug foxholes and trenches of riflemen, mortars, and machine guns.
By nightfall the rain had stopped. In their forest bivouac the wind blew down endless sheets of water from the leaves, keeping everyone in a state of soggy discomfort.
But by now weariness had overcome the men of Pilot Team G-5. They had reached that state of delicious numbness when all pain and misery ceased, when one could hardly remember living without mud. They had devoured a pig and a half-dozen German chickens, so life was not without its redemptions; and then they slept. They slept except for the commander, for when others sleep, the commander ponders.
The Long Tom cannons and the tanks flashed up lights every few seconds as their muzzles spewed gunflame. Up forward the heavy mortars hissed and the red tracers of machine-gun bullets darted toward Rombaden.
Sean leaned against a tree at the edge of the forest. O’Toole hovered a few yards away, hands on his carbine, alert for intruders.
Well Tim, Sean thought, I have seen the Germans. I did not see them through the window of a streaking airplane, scrambling like ants from a stream of hot water. I saw them herded by the acre, dull-eyed and beaten. I saw them limp along in endless lines with their hands over their heads. I saw them slurp water from our canteens with trembling hands, and dive for our cigarette butts. I saw them too weary and disgusted to care about the disgrace of capture.
A sudden burst of fire in Rombaden revealed the outline of some buildings. Sean watched it until the flames flickered and began to fade.
It was strange seeing Germans. I didn’t hate them. No desire to punch them, trample them ... to say, “Which one of you pulled the trigger that killed Liam?” They were abstract hulks. These creatures could not have been the jack-booted, goose-stepping, hysterical Sieg Heilers. They were nothing ... nothing.
Liam ... Liam, you never got to see them at all. Maybe it is better that way. Have it quick and be done. I’ve got to live with them ... and think about you and Tim.
Greenberg. What was he thinking when we entered Mannheim and he stood before a house and said that this was where he was born?
Oh God, Nan. I’ve been so damned lonely for you. Why were my letters returned? Why was the phone never answered? You’re a cold-blooded bitch but I still love you. I love you now. That terrible moment of humiliation. At the theater on the arm of a British colonel. Nan was back to her own kind. She looked correct on his arm ... like he was G. Donald Milford. Just a nod of the head, that’s all she had for me, and the one final sentence, “It won’t work, Sean. I don’t want a scene, now or ever. ...”
Well, they’ll be breaking open the oflag with G. Donald Milford in it pretty soon now.
All his thoughts began to run together ... the landing in Southern France ... the battle up the Rhone Valley ... the breaking of the Siegfried