Armageddon - Leon Uris

Sean faced his own astonished men and with an expression warned them to keep their mouths shut.

“I should like to see the commanding general of this district,” he said to the Russian.

“He is not available.”

“I should like his name and information on where, when, and how he can be reached.”

“That information is not available.”

“When you find out who and where he is, give him this medal from my government for being the first to reach the Elbe and join forces in this area.”

The Russian looked in his hand, puzzled. He studied the medal, confused, ordered the Cossacks to sing, and left the reception room quickly without excusing himself.

Two dozen bellowing Cossacks prevented too close a discussion of the situation.

“What are you going to do, Major?”

“Damned if I know.”

He drifted over to Bradbury. “Don’t take any notes and better tell Mac to keep his camera out of sight. It’s a cinch they’ll take the film.”

Nellie nodded.

A new song began with a bellowing opening verse, and stopped instantly as a heavily decorated Russian colonel entered the foyer.

“I am Antonov, the colonel general’s aide. I thank you for the decoration.”

“Now that we have warmly welcomed each other, Colonel, I should like to proceed to Berlin.”

“But!” Antonov said with an expression of shock, “we have many more songs prepared and we must have some toasts.”

Sean looked at his watch. “I’m sorry, Colonel.”

“A moment,” he said huffily, “and we will get your orders cleared.”

The moment stretched to ten and then twenty. Accordions and balalaikas continued a history of Russian folk song. The Americans stood around stiffly, embarrassed. Forty minutes later Antonov returned and took Sean into a side office.

“I am most regretful,” he said, “that you cannot proceed to Berlin with your present complement. It is in direct violation of the Brandenburg Agreement.”

“Colonel, I am impressed by the warmth of your welcome and I am moved by the magnificence of your artists. However, as one soldier to another, my orders are to bring my convoy to Berlin with all possible speed. I am unaware of the existence of the Brandenburg Agreement.”

“So? Well, I see. The agreement drawn up by your government and mine puts numerical limitations on all convoys moving through Democratic Germany. You are not permitted with a convoy of more than twenty vehicles, twenty officers, and forty enlisted men. The agreement specifically states that the men may not be combat troops, but I will overlook this technicality.”

“Just when was this Brandenburg Agreement drawn up?”

“Weeks ago. I cannot assume responsibility that your government has not informed you properly.”

“Colonel Antonov,” Sean pressed unruffled, “I want to see your copy of the agreement. I am certain your government informed you well enough to send you a copy.”

Antonov looked angrily at the American whom he now recognized as an opponent who would not be bullied. He smiled, threw his hands open. Unfortunately, Major, no copy in English.”

“Russian will be fine,” Sean said.

“I see.” Antonov excused himself.

His absence stretched. Sean knew no course under the restrictions of his order but to ride it out and keep firm. The harassment was obviously deliberate and well-planned. He had left Halle in the morning certain there would be no trouble on something so routine as a convoy of G-5 personnel.

He had discussed with his people the possibility of some red tape and the natural curiosity of two distant allies seeing each other for the first time. What was happening now was the creation of an incident out of thin air.

In the foyer he could hear the singing continue. He peeked out. Vodka and some food had been brought in. The Russians were toasting to peace and friendship.

Another half hour passed before a beefy, swarthy brigadier general returned in place of Colonel Antonov.

He looked at the American major with disdain. “You are a guest of the Soviet Union,” he said abruptly. “You are under our protection. You have offended us by bringing armed troops into this zone in direct defiance of the Brandenburg Agreement.”

Sean watched the game played out. The weight of rank was designed to wear him down. The whole damned thing was childish. He contained his anger. “I question the existence of a Brandenburg Agreement,” he said.

“That is a grave provocation,” the general answered sharply.

“Nonsense. Let me refresh the General’s memory on an agreement that does exist. The United States has ceded the provinces of Thuringia and Saxony in exchange for a sector of Berlin.”

“The provinces of Thuringia and Saxony have been given us out of historic justice. The Soviet Union alone is responsible for the death of Nazism.”

Sean smiled in a way that the Russian did not like. “I understand, General, that the Russians only cover their dead with six inches of dirt and leave them unmarked.”

“I do not understand ...”

“We Americans keep an accurate count of our dead. If you will look very hard over my shoulder you will see American crosses all the way back to North Africa.”

“The capitalistic press is known for its blatant lies.”

“Take it easy, General. Two of those crosses belong to my brothers.”

The Russian paled. “The Brandenburg Agreement limits convoys on this road to...”

“Twenty trucks, twenty officers, forty enlisted men. Okay, your round. I will return half my complement to Halle. Believe me, tomorrow will be another day.”

“What did you say your name was, Major?” the Russian asked threateningly.

“Gable. Clark Gable.”

Sean walked quickly into the foyer where the Cossacks were now leaping over tables and chairs. He bellowed, ordering his men outside.

As a precaution, Sean had big Nellie send the photographer back with the group going to Halle. A Russian major sat between Sean and Bradbury to “direct” the convoy to Berlin. Bo and Blessing sat in the back seat bitching about the Russians’ behavior.

As they now suspected, they were led away from the autobahn, plunging deeper into secondary roads in the countryside. Sean alerted his people to keep their eyes sharp. At least there might be some intelligence to be gained out of the zigzag detour.

To the men in the ranks, this first meeting with the Russians ended in a semishock. Their Russian counterparts had refused to do what any man does when meeting on a distant field. They did not show pictures of wives, sweethearts, children. They did not tell where they were from, what work they did. They kept asking why the Americans were trying to commit aggression.

“This is a lousy day, Sean,” Big Nellie said. “I wanted to believe this sort of thing couldn’t be true.”

“It’s only the beginning.”

The convoy passed through dead villages and untended fields. There seemed to be no sign of German life; it was eerie.

Russian road blocks continued to bisect the most remote countryside lanes. Unlike the disciplined NKVD troops at Wittenberg, the Russian soldiers in the countryside were a scrubby, filthy, ragged lot. As often as not they showed up drunk, bogged down under sacks of loot. A dozen times the convoy was stopped. The halting was followed by demands for American cigarettes and chocolate.

They plunged deeper into detours on tortuous dirt roads on the thin excuse that the main highways were closed due to “technical difficulties.”

At evening their winding course brought them to the southern approach to Berlin, where they were once again halted in the town of Werder before the rail crossing. The accompanying Russian major exchanged words with his people, then ordered Sean to have his convoy remain in their vehicles.