Armageddon_ A Novel of Berlin - Leon Uris [4]
Why did I pick him? There was that first creeping doubt of an error in sizing the man up. Why? Because he doesn’t back down from me ... maybe. Because any kid who loves his parents and brothers and takes care of them at the expense of his personal happiness would love his country that way too.
The general pouted some more back at his desk. Even when Sean lost his brother in North Africa he pulled himself together. Women! Goddamned women. These two have nothing in common outside the bedroom. She’s seven years older and they come from different social, economic, and religious worlds.
Hell, nothing wrong with a stray piece. But like the report said—cohabitate—and forget them.
Sean’s got to get rid of that woman.
The general’s orderly, a gangly acne-marked corporal from Kentucky, announced Sean’s arrival.
“Sit down, O’Sullivan.”
Hansen picked up a document Sean recognized as a study he had completed the day before. TOP SECRET, PREROGATIVES OF MILITARY GOVERNMENT COMMANDERS IN GERMANY.
“This report was two weeks late.”
“Lot more involved than I figured.”
“What? The report?” Hansen thumbed through the pages, playing for fifteen seconds of tension-building silence, “You’ve got a real rod on against the Germans.”
“If the General will be specific.”
“The General will be specific,” he aped. He adjusted his specs for reading. “This choice morsel is on page fourteen, paragraph sixty-two. I quote Captain Sean O’Sullivan. ‘In the event the orders of the local military commander are not carried out by the civilian population, the commander is empowered to seize hostages from the German civilian population and execute them at his discretion until his will is enforced.’ ” Hansen closed the report and snatched off his specs. “That’s a hell of a thing for an American boy to write.”
“I didn’t know our function is to spread Americanism in Germany.”
“Nor is it to continue Nazism. Now by hostages, Captain O’Sullivan, I take it you mean to define between Nazis and non-Nazis.”
“If the General will tell me if the bullet that killed my brother came from a Nazi rifle or a non-Nazi rifle.”
“So in judging all Germans as being the same, you mean to take hostages who are two, three, or four years old.”
Sean balked. “Well ... perhaps we should limit hostages to Nazis.”
“There are fifteen million Nazis in Germany,” Hansen pressed.
“We’ll have room for them when we open their concentration camps!”
“Sit down, lad, and don’t get your Irish up on me. I want the explanation of the hostage paragraph.”
Sean unclenched his fists and sunk into his seat once again. Eric the Red meant business. “In my following comment I said it would never be necessary to use hostages because the Germans are orderly people and will respond to whoever represents authority. You know damned well, General, I’ve said over and over they won’t conduct guerrilla resistance. Quote Churchill. The Germans are at your throat or your feet. They’ll be at our feet when we finish with them.”
“Then why did you find it necessary to put this hostage thing in?”
“Because they’ve got their own little special missions sitting in Berlin writing their version of the same manual. You know their versions? All Germans, get under American protection at all costs where kindly GI’s will supply you with cigarettes, chocolate, and short memories. We have to put that hostage rule into the record just to let them know it’s there.”
Hansen grunted. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk. His stubby fingers produced a bottle of rye whiskey and a pair of glasses. He poured two oversized drinks and shoved one of them to Sean. He knew again why he had picked O’Sullivan for the Special Mission.
“I lost a brother too. Mark Twain Hansen. First World War. Belleau Wood. We can’t go through this with those people again. They’re sick.