Armageddon - Leon Uris

Dale Hickman, my food man, says there’s enough stores m reserve for about six weeks at a minimum ration of 1200 calories per day. The main source of food is in the District but he suspects there will be a poor harvest. Even in the best of times this area could not support itself in food production. I have delayed issuing food-ration cards until we open the concentration camp. I feel the inmates there rate a priority on the food. For now, we have soup kitchens. But, the food situation must get worse before it improves. The specter of starvation is real.

We are just too damned busy heading off disaster here to think of either the minds of the German people or any golden futures. I hear that things are about the same all over Germany. I have kept my promise and have not sought either personal vengeance or used brutality. But, on the other hand, I feel neither pity, sorrow nor compassion.

Faithfully,

Sean O’Sullivan

Chapter Sixteen

SEAN LIFTED THE RECEIVER. “Major O’Sullivan speaking.”

“One minute, please, Major. We’ve been able to reach Colonel Dundee.”

“Good.”

“Hello ... Dundee speaking.”

“Hello, Colonel. This is Major O’Sullivan. What’s going on over there?”

“We’ve got most of the district cleared, however these bastards are fanatics. I wouldn’t cross over yet.”

“How long?”

“Well, we think we have the last of them trapped at the Schwabenwald Concentration Camp. They’re using the prisoners as shields. We’ve got to go slow.”

“Where can I reach you?”

“Ludwigsdorf. The village is in our hands now. What’s the news?”

“They say Patton has hit the Czech border and the British are about ready to break in to Hamburg. Won’t be long now.”

“Son of a bitch. I wanted to hit the Austrian-Swiss border before Patton got to Czechoslovakia. How are the krauts behaving over there?”

“They’re real peaceful.”

‘Talk to you later.”

O’Toole entered as Sean hung up. “Couple krauts outside want to talk to you, Major.”

“No more personal interviews today.”

O’Toole handed Sean a pair of calling cards. One read: Graf Ludwig Von Romstein, Chancellor, Romstein Landkreis. The second card introduced Baron Sigmund Von Romstein, Oberburgermeister, City of Rombaden.

“Well, well. The mayor’s welcoming committee. Have them wait. Round up Duquesne and Dante Arosa.”

Dante Arosa and the Frenchman flanked Sean on either side of his desk. O’Toole was told to bring the Germans in. The expressions of the three men deliberately concealed their anxiety at finding the centuries-old ruling family of the area. Sean knew them instantly from their identification photos.

Count Ludwig Von Romstein was a German’s German complete with dueling scar. Tall, Teutonic crew-cut blond ... pin-striped ... ramrod ... a grace that belied his fifty years ... a study in German nobility ... the head of the Von Romstein family, the chancellor.

The short, fat, nervous one walked behind him. He was Sigmund, the mayor of Rombaden. Sean now sat in his chair.

They stopped before the desk, the count remaining a step ahead of his brother. He waited for several seconds for the officers to rise and shake hands. Sean neither stood nor did he offer the Germans chairs. Count Ludwig understood that the slight was deliberate, but hid any trace of having noticed it.

“Graf Ludwig Von Romstein,” he said in a clipped, immaculate English, “and my brother, Baron Sigmund Von Romstein.”

“O’Sullivan, Allied Military Governor. My aides, Captain Duquesne and Lieutenant Arosa.”

Count Ludwig nodded his head three times, once in the direction of each. His brother made three deep bows. The little fat one was nervous; he wrung his hands as though he were washing them.

“I should have, reported here earlier,” Ludwig said, obviously speaking for the two of them. “The military capitulation of Rombaden found us across the river at Castle Romstein. It was not until a few hours ago that I was able to get back here.”

Sean said that he understood and considered the delay reasonable.

“I am at your service,” Ludwig said, with a meaningless acceptance of the status quo. His brother, the mayor, had nothing to say.

Intelligence reports were correct. Ludwig completely dominated the family. The baron was not only washing his hands but began sweating profusely.

“Your brother Kurt Von Romstein was Nazi Gauleiter of this district. Is that not so?” Duquesne asked.

“It is correct.”

“He has committed suicide.”

“I have been so informed,” Ludwig said, with a passionless abruptness that startled them. “Now that Ludwigsdorf has fallen, I should like to have my brother’s body transferred to the church there, which has been the traditional family burial ...”

“That can wait,” Sean said.

The German nodded acceptance, showing neither anger nor emotion. Dante handed Sean a thick folder. The photos matched their subjects very well. Sean flipped page after page, scanning the known activities that told a sordid story. He closed it abruptly, having made a sudden decision.

He undipped a single sheet of white paper, glanced at it, slid it to the front of the desk. “This constitutes notification that your lands and property are confiscated and all your known assets are frozen.”

If Ludwig was annoyed he did nothing to show it. He did not so much as look at the document. “I should like to be informed of my legal recourses,” he said.

“You have none,” Sean answered. “Baron,” he continued—the short fat one stepped forward and bowed—“you are to continue as mayor of Rombaden under my directions. Your principal function is to see to it that the civilian population carries out our orders speedily.”

“Yes ... yes ... I shall be honored ...”

“As for you, Count Von Romstein. The position of chancellor is suspended. I have made no final disposition of your case. In the meanwhile I would like your voluntary cooperation.”

“I have placed myself at your service.”

“Lieutenant Arosa will be conducting extensive interrogations.”

“Of course. I have nothing to hide.”

“You’ve got a lot to explain. I am putting you on your honor not to leave the environs of Rombaden. Do you have a residence in the city?”

“The house of my late brother, Kurt, will be suitable.”

“Clear out of Castle Romstein immediately with your family. Take only what personal possessions you can carry in two handbags. Report your address to the clerk outside. You are dismissed.”

Graf Ludwig Von Romstein smiled thinly at the three men before him, conveying the obvious message that the inferior pigs who sat in judgment constituted a temporary situation. His fat brother bowed his way out of the door backwards.

“Well,” Duquesne said, “how do you like the Germans now?”

Dante Arosa blew a long breath and peeled the wrapper off a cigar he had bummed from Colonel Dundee. “You shouldn’t have let them go, Sean. Both of them are right on top of the Blacklist.”

“They’re not going anywhere,” Sean said.

“You don’t sit sixty miles from the border and not have an escape route mapped out. They’ve probably got half their holdings in Switzerland.”

“No, Dante,” Duquesne said, “Sean is correct. The holdings that make them powerful are right here. The land ... the factory. If they had meant to leave the country they would have done so before now. It is a simple matter to escape to Switzerland. He has made his decision to stay here and gamble for his estate. He was prepared for all the consequences when he walked into this office.”

“Lock him up,” Dante insisted.