Armageddon - Leon Uris

The Englishman wiped his eyes and focused them on a pocket watch. “Oh, good Lord. I’ve missed the staff meeting.”

“The board of directors of Rombaden Ltd. reports that the situation is still crapped up.”

“How is the plumbing?”

Sean searched his weary mind. “Hank Greenberg gave me a figure in cubic meters. I can’t remember it. He says he can get the distillation plant in partial operation in about a week and triple the water ration.”

“Sewage?”

Sean shook his head. “The main generator was hit. We have no replacement parts. How goes the war here?”

Grimwood held up two crossed fingers. “We’re giving it a go.”

Sean walked to the glass separation, which looked out to a ward. “I can’t believe it yet. Death factories. Murder on an assembly-line basis.”

“It’s the children out there who break one’s heart. Poor little tykes. Most remember no life other than Schwabenwald. Just about their only contact with humanity is the fierce loyalty they have for one another ... but love is a new experience to them. Can you imagine a child of ten who doesn’t know how to smile? We may be able to mend their bodies ... but their minds? Lord knows I’ve seen enough famine in India. But this! The hand of fellow man.”

“Haven’t you heard, Doc. There was no Schwabenwald. It never really happened.”

Grimwood grunted with irony. “I should be able to deliver a memorable paper to the Royal Academy on starvation.”

Sean looked slyly at the Englishman. “How about delivering a paper on hijacking medical supplies while you’re at it?”

Grimwood nearly choked on his coffee. “What the devil ...”

“If prohibition ever comes back to the States I’m nominating you to lead a gang of bootleggers.”

“Damn it all, Major. We have three thousand desperately ill people. I can’t wait for forms in triplicate to be acted upon.”

Sean held up his hand. “Hold it. We’re on the same team. I’ve got nothing against using Kentucky windage. Only let me know what you’re doing. The surgeon general nailed me on the phone this morning.”

Grimwood huffed a laugh through his moustache. “Here I thought I was being devilishly clever.” He reached across his desk and touched Sean’s sleeve. “Major ... I’ve got grandchildren the age of some of those little tykes out there. We can’t stand on formalities.”

Sean nodded that he understood.

“And what the devil do I do about personnel? I can’t use the Germans ... even those you didn’t imprison. Doctors, indeed! So we have six doctors for three thousand dying.”

“I’m trying like hell to get you more.”

“I’ve been thinking it over,” Grimwood said coyly. “Castle Romstein is sitting empty except for that old spook Trueblood rambling about evaluating the art pieces. A hundred and twenty-two rooms. It would make a lovely rehabilitation camp.”

Sean’s eyes narrowed. Grimwood was a lousy poker player. He had not only been thinking it over, but had obviously devised a plan. “Go on.”

Grimwood cleared his throat guiltily. “Well now, there are a half-dozen American field and base hospitals simply roving around this area. American casualties haven’t been heavy enough to justify the number of medical personnel. Well now ... one of these units would adore setting up a base in Castle Romstein.”

Sean had the drift of it. “And in exchange for giving them Castle Romstein we would reach an understanding with them to press their personnel, equipment, and supplies into our situation.”

“Precisely.”

“The idea has merit, Doc. Let me sleep on it and give you an answer tomorrow.” Sean arose and stretched heartily, shook hands, and made for the door.

“Oh, Major ...”

“Yes.”

“Bye the bye. I did just happen to run into Dr. Pobirs from the Sixty-Second Field Hospital at Stuttgart. I was up there er ... to requisition for supplies ... and so forth and so forth. One thing led to another and we drove down to look over Castle Romstein ... “When are they moving in?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Grimwood. You’re a limey son of a bitch.”

“Thanks, old chap. I knew you’d agree.”

Sean threw up his hands in a gesture of “defeat.”

“Major! With their forty doctors and nurses I’ll save every man, woman, and child out there and in the cathedral.”

“You don’t have to explain, Doc.”

Chapter Twenty-five

SEAN KEPT THE CAPTURE of Klaus and Emma Stoll quiet until he had received instructions from headquarters and had prepared for a flood of journalists.

Bertrand Collier, his press and information officer, had reacted quickly to the revelations of Schwabenwald. He set up tours of the concentration camp and prepared fact sheets and south-bank living quarters for the newspapermen.

The capture was announced and they poured into Rombaden. They were allowed to see Stoll and his wife from a distance in their overly guarded cells, but no one was permitted an interview.

One of the journalists to arrive in Rombaden was Cornelia Hollingshead, a phenomenon because of her sex. She was a war correspondent for Whittsett Press and its syndicate, Global Alliance. She had built a world legion of readers.

Even beneath dungarees and battle jacket, Corney was not without obvious feminine charm—long soft hair, a well-endowed bust, and sensuous lips. Femininity notwithstanding, Corney was more than a match for her male colleagues. Her ethics were under question more than once. Moreover, Whittsett Press and Global Alliance had a well-earned reputation of sensationalism over accuracy.

The Whittsett Press and their twenty-six newspapers backed Lieutenant General Arnold Cleveland for the position of Supreme Commander of Allied Forces. General Cleveland was a top man as generals went but by the time Whittsett Press and Corney Hollingshead finished glorifying him they had jacked him up to a notch over the Almighty Himself. To make matters worse, Corney was shacked up with him and trying to get him to leave his wife.

When Eisenhower was selected over Cleveland, the Whittsett Press and Corney went off like a pair of time bombs. They went so far as to call the President and General George Marshall traitors. Had the Whittsett Press published in any other country in the middle of a war, it is doubtful that they would have survived their own venom.

Corney Hollingshead romped all over England and France and Germany, a colossal pain to the authorities who were afraid to touch the sacred cow, Whittsett Press and Global Alliance.

She arrived in Rombaden determined to do a little “creative” writing to beef up the already ghastly concentration-camp stories. Bertrand Collier personally met her, gave her a beautiful suite of apartments, and a VIP tour.

She was not satisfied. She looked over officers of the Pilot Team to see who could do her the most good. Maurice Duquesne was her candidate to get her entry where other newsmen could not tread.

Duquesne accepted Corney’s advances without particular personal pride. He knew what she was up to, and besides, he had not had a woman since France. Why not?

The Frenchman fenced brilliantly in her apartment without giving direct promises. The lure of sharing the bed made Duquesne intimate to her that she might have access to special information.

And so, they had an affair. The entire thing was annoying to Duquesne. He felt as though he had been raped. Corney was a very bad lover, aggressive and with about as much finesse as a bulldozer. It was sad for Maurice, for he had felt certain that a woman who depended on those particular talents as much as she would have done a better job developing them.

By morning their affair was done and through. She did not seem to mind much, she had been rebuffed before. What made her furious was that Duquesne left without a concession.