The scales had dropped even lower—another cut in food ration had been ordered. How long would the energy of the people last? And when winter comes their bodies will demand hundreds more calories for heat. Sean had a foreboding that God would make this winter a severe one.
The food crisis was hastening the black market and bringing on massive prostitution. Crime and venereal disease would follow in natural course.
Sean turned into Princess Allee. Behind the half-smashed facades there were sounds of laughing men and women. It was a strange sound in Rombaden—at least the Poles and the whores had full bellies and bootleg rotgut. The competition to become an “official” Princess Allee whore was intense.
As they saw Sean O’Sullivan walking down the middle of their street they ducked into doorways. The incongruous sound of a woman singing reached his ears; it came from a makeshift cabaret in a cellar. Sean leaned against the doorframe, looked down into the rancid-smelling den. Her husky voice sang:
Du, Du liegst mir im Herzen,
Du, Du liegst mir im Sinn;
Du, Du machst mir viel Schmerzen,
Weisst nicht, wie gut ich dir bin.
A bit of sentimental tripe from another age:
You, you live in my heart,
You, you live in my soul,
You, you cause me great sorrow,
You don’t know how good I am for you.
A resounding chorus of men and women’s voices picked up the song and they thumped mugs on the heavy oaken tables and sang Ja! Ja! Ja! Ja! Everything came to a terrified halt as they saw Sean. He shook his head and walked out quickly.
Sean stood musing in the great square ... from the Romans to the jackboots. He glanced up to his office and to the statue of Berwin and Helga, and across the square to the cathedral. The statue of Mary had been repaired. Tomorrow the cathedral would be returned to the people as a place of worship as the last of the Schwabenwald inmates had been moved to the field hospital in Castle Romstein.
The bell tolled the hour. Berwin and Helga ... Christ and Mary. Would Christ, the Son of God, ever emerge over Berwin, Son of the King of the Gods, in the souls of the people?
Chapter Thirty-three
ANDREW JACKSON HANSEN TOSSED and turned. Sean’s words pounded through his drowsy brain. He snapped the night lamp on. “Goddamned stubborn Irish son of a bitch!”
He fished for his specs, focused on the clock. Three in the morning. Sean’s time was up. He would be reporting in by noon. No sir, that hardheaded Irish son of a bitch wouldn’t change his mind. He’d march in, walk the thirteen steps, lay his neck on the chopping block, and wham!
Hansen turned off the lamp and tried to settle down, grumbling at the overheated discomfort caused by the heavy German down comforter. He made a mental note to get a couple of army blankets issued.
“General Hansen. I have sat here, day in, day out, week after week listening to one German after another repeat the same story like broken records. They say ... we were only following orders ...just following orders ... just following orders. I’m not going to commit murder in the name of my country for you or anyone else just because orders are orders ... I’ll take full responsibility for my decision ...I’m sorry, I believed in you ...”
The light went on again. Hansen kicked off the comforter and stared sullenly at his knobby big toes. In a moment a chaw of tobacco was tucked deeply into his jaw and he sighted in on the spittoon at bedside.
Sean was a rare officer. He had emerged from personal tragedy, assumed a vital command, performed with near brilliance. In this Army ... no, in this whole goddam world ...there are so few men who have the courage of their convictions ...it’s so easy to pass the buck, as he, Hansen, knew he was trying to do. That one rare man in ten thousand who says with quiet simplicity, I’ll take the responsibility ... that’s it! Smack on the button. No buck passing, no wishy-washy whining.
What had happened when Sean fired Dante Arosa? General Hansen never knew. Sean merely said, once again ... I’ll take the responsibility. Those two were close friends. What made Arosa resign from the Army? It takes guts to punish a friend ... and even more guts to defend an enemy.
What the hell ... didn’t Sean know there are times when every man must bend a little?
And what the hell was the use of trying to rationalize? Hansen knew, in his heart, that Sean O’Sullivan had made a great decision. It was that type of decision a man makes alone when all well-meaning advice is to the contrary. It is a decision in which the maker leaves himself knowingly open to scorn and danger. There were so precious few men capable of making a great decision that it was an awesome thing to know such a man.
“Okay, you son of a bitch,” he grumbled, “we go down together.” Hansen snatched the phone. A half-dozing operator answered. “Find Nelson Goodfellow Bradbury and have him report to my quarters immediately.”
With that he dressed, went to his writing desk, and began the first of many drafts of Proclamation 26.
It was two full hours before Big Nellie could be located in Wiesbaden at the tail end of a serious drinking bout with the Air Corps. He had to be pried loose and sobered enough to comply with the unusual summons. When he arrived he was in a suspended state of silliness.
“Got here as soon’s I could, General. What’s up?”
“This,” Hansen snapped, handing him a paper.
Nellie’s great paws lined the paper up for reading.
PROCLAMATION #26 MILITARY GOVERNMENT HEADQUARTERS, FRANKFURT A/M
Upon complete re-examination and reconsideration it is deemed that PROCLAMATION #22 (calling for special tribunals) is inconsistent with democratic ideals, the vision of our founding fathers, and the meaning of the American Republic. Even suspected Nazi war criminals are entitled to due process of law as we understand it. Therefore, PROCLAMATION #22 is hereby null, void, and rescinded.
A. J. Hansen, Major Gen. United States Army
“Jesus H. Christ! When did you people decide all this?”
“We people didn’t decide nothing. I decided. Frankly, I don’t even know if I have the authority. However, lad, you are going to see to it that this is on the front page of every AP newspaper in America by their morning editions simultaneous with its being sent through channels here. So, if it isn’t official, you make it official.”
Big Nellie knew what he had to do. There was not much time. He folded the proclamation and put it into his breast pocket. “You’re an ace, General Hansen,” he said, and left.
It was about noontime of the following day, two hours after Proclamation 22 was nailed dead, that Sean maneuvered his jeep through the streets of another German rubble pile. This one was called Frankfurt. Supreme Headquarters for Germany had been established in the I. G. Farben building, formerly the heart of the world chemical cartel. The fact that the building stood intact while nearly everything around it had been leveled was an irony of war. The building was a gargantuan affair comparable in miles of halls and millions of square feet and numbers of elevators to the Pentagon and the Chicago Merchandise Mart
Sean O’Sullivan, a mere major, was lost in the flood of silver oak leaves, eagles, and stars. Everyone here walked with a chipper air. None of that tired drag of the combat man. Each man felt that he carried in his briefcase the most important problem in Germany ... if not the world.
After much ado, Sean was able to ascertain where General Hansen’s office was located.
He stepped into one of those odd, open-faced, one-man elevators that move continually on a vertical conveyor belt so that stepping in and out through the open shafts on each floor called for correct timing, particularly when one was juggling one’s briefcase.