The butler, not understanding, merely bowed.
“Schwabenwald war schlecht, nicht wahr?”
Alfred clasped his hands together and wrung them in horror in agreement that the concentration camp was a terrible place. The wife became uneasy at Sean’s whiskey-inspired prodding.
Nellie watched the scene with fascination.
“Their cottage out back got a hit. Busted down the wall on one side. You should see these two on their off hours. He drags rubble from across the river to patch up the wall and momma here is getting all the window boxes painted and planted and neat. Petunias and pansies.”
The table was cleared. The servants stood at attention.
“Yes sir, a kindly folk. Love their dogs, love their kids and gardens. Love their forests and poetry and music. They told me so, themselves. Lost one of their sons on the Russian front. They told me something else too. They told me people shouldn’t kill each other. How about it, Alfred. People shouldn’t kill people’s brothers, should they?”
The bewildered man shrugged.
“Whiskey, ice, soda and raus,” Sean snapped. “The former occupant, Herr Schoof, published the newspaper. Nazi ... but a special sort of Nazi. The party was full of thugs and bums so they liked to get rich elite boys like Schoof. He’s locked up in Schwabenwald, indignant as hell. He was truly anti-Nazi. He told me so. Nobody knows nothing. I’ve got two hundred SS guards from Schwabenwald who didn’t even know there was an extermination center there. How about that? Tomorrow,” Sean continued, filling Nellie’s glass, “I’ll give you the commander’s personal tour of Schwabenwald.”
“Thanks anyhow. I got my baptism at a guest home for political prisoners on the ancestral estates of the Count of Dachau. Any truth about Corney Hollingshead’s story?”
“I dunno. I’ve sent samples to Switzerland, the States, and Sweden for analysis. I wish I could send Corney there too. She’s planning to give us the pleasure of her company for fifteen more articles and she’s getting nasty about an interview with Emma Stoll.”
“To Corney. A credit to my noble profession. O’Sullivan, I am about to give you the antidote to Hollingshead poison. Try this on her tomorrow ...”
Cornelia Hollingshead was outraged!
“I am not accustomed,” she said in a husky voice, “to being kept waiting in the anteroom of junior officers. I demand to know why I was locked out of my apartment and why my press credentials were revoked.”
“Despite my lowly rank, I am at liberty to determine and act upon undesirable elements in my district.”
“Dammit, I said I want to know why!”
“You filed an unauthorized and unconfirmed story having grave consequences.”
“Don’t go pulling that Little Lord Fauntleroy crap on me, buster. People want atrocity stories and that’s what they’re going to get.”
“In this district freedom of the press is not extended to pathological liars. If you aren’t out of Romstein Landkreis in two hours, you’re going to get jailed.”
Corney leaned over his desk and began to laugh and snarl at the same time. “Major, you’re begging for it. I use little boys like you to wash my panties. Maybe you don’t know who I am and what I’m going to do to you. You’re going to get run right out of this Army, buster.”
“I’m snowed under with work, Miss Hollingshead. I would appreciate your departure without further rhetoric.”
“All right, but make sure you read the Whittsett Press tomorrow. America is going to be reading about the Black Major.”
“Really? What about the Black Major?”
Corney’s yellow journalistic imagination came into play.
“Did the Black Major experiment with the Schwabenwald gas chambers, using German prisoners of war as guinea pigs?
How’s that for a starter? Why did the Black Major desecrate the Marienkirche Cathedral and jail an anti-Nazi priest? Does the Black Major have brothels in Rombaden so his troops can bypass the nonfraternization laws? Has the Black Major opened Swiss bank accounts? Are you getting the idea, buster? Now you hear this! You arrange that interview with Emma Stoll!”
Sean could not believe the venom coming from this wrathful creature. “It has just occurred to me,” he said, “that you are the first American I have ever met with pure Nazi mentality.”
Cornelia Hollingshead’s lips thinned and her teeth gnashed as she stomped for the door.
“Miss Hollingshead! Would you care to venture a guess as to what well-known lady war correspondent gave a dose of clap to what well-known major general in Paris ...”
She stopped in her tracks and spun around. “You son of a bitch!”
“Shame on you. Gonorrhea at your age. Let’s understand each other. The account of your ... er ... indiscretion in Paris has been written by a correspondent who has an audience as large as yours and twice as discriminating. I have it in my desk and am free to file it at will. Questions?”
The blackmailer had been blackmailed. She became amused ... beaten badly at her own game. There was but one weapon left in her arsenal. Smiling, she walked toward him. ...
“Have a nice trip, Corney. Besides, I hear you’re a lousy lay.”
Chapter Twenty-six
TO: COMMANDING OFFICER, G-5, FRANKFURT
FROM: MILITARY COMMANDER, PILOT TEAM G-5. ROMBADEN/ROMSTEIN
SUBJECT: Hollingshead, Cornelia. Correspondent accredited to Whittsett Press/Global Alliance News Syndicate.
The presence of the above named journalist is, in my opinion, detrimental to the best interests of the function of military government in this district.
I have, therefore, in accordance with my authority, suspended press credentials and ordered same from my district.
Sean O’Sullivan, Major
Commander, Pilot Team G-5
Andrew Jackson Hansen damned near had apoplexy when he read the terse report. One did not give the shaft to Corney without dire consequences.
Headquarters in Frankfurt stood by for the cyclone to blow in from Rombaden. To their chagrin, Corney came in meekly and filed a story that “her” war was over in Europe and she was off to the Pacific and battlefields yet unconquered.
Although there was a simultaneous sigh of relief, no one felt that even the Marines deserved Corney.
A few days later, when Nelson Goodfellow Bradbury arrived, Hansen sniffed a rat and tried to pump him.
“General,” Big Nellie purred, “one of these days ask General Borof Roth why he couldn’t attend the liberation ceremonies in Paris.”
And that’s about all he would say.
Hansen watched the reports flow in from Rombaden with obvious pride. O’Sullivan’s performance vindicated his judgment. Rombaden was weeks, even months ahead of most cities.
May 1. Enough rubble has been cleared so we have one-way traffic, at least, on all major thoroughfares.
May 2. 60% of all known former Nazis have been purged from civic positions and are on rubble-cleaning details.
May 3. We have restored enough power for Allied use, hospitals, and certain emergencies.
May 4. Captain Greenberg has located a generator in Munich similar to the main generator for the sewage-processing plant. He horse-traded for enough parts to improvise the rebuilding of the Rombaden generator.
May 5. All liberated Poles, Jews, and other displaced persons in the area are registered, housed, and those capable have been assigned to useful employment.
May 5. The eastern bridge over the Landau has been restored to operation.
May 6. The water-distillation plant is 20% in operation. We are therefore able to raise the water ration to six buckets per day per family.