Armageddon (9 page)

To think that from Erin and thee I must part;”

“How in the hell can you remain so impersonal to a war that’s taken our brother! ...We were coming over German land ... I almost always saw Liam’s face outside the window ...and then ... I would visualize Liam’s grave ... I wanted to fly so low I could chop them up with my propellers.”

“Stop carrying the flag, Tim.”

“Oh God! Why does the wrong brother have to die! ...Liam could have brought us honor.”

“It may be for years, and it may be forever;

Then why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart?”

“Your father is a very sick man, Sean. It will take months of rest and care for him to recover from this attack and he will never be the same as before.”

“Poppa, you’re not to worry about anything. I’ll take care of the family.”

Private Liam O’Sullivan, a poet. A gentle boy. Dead. Age twenty-two. Kasserine Pass, North Africa. Died as quietly as he lived.

First Lieutenant Timothy O’Sullivan. Rebel. Age twenty-five. He died somewhere over Germany in a flaming pyre ... as violently as he lived.

“It may be for years, and it may be forever;

Then why are thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen?”

“Sean. It’s me, Dante. You can’t keep sitting like this in the darkness. Sean, for God’s sake break down and cry. Curse, hit the wall, get drunk. Sean, please answer me. Sean, you can’t keep sitting in the darkness ... Sean ... Sean ...”

He blinked his eyes open and licked his dry lips. Father O’Brien slowly came into focus. “You’ve been locked in here for five days. Tim has made his way to heaven. The living must be served.”

He came to a sitting position slowly, sipped some water, and lit a cigarette. He was weak and haggard and dizzy. “Father,” he croaked hoarsely, “I don’t want to listen to any Jesuit double-talk.”

“The spiritual aspects can be explored later. I’m thinking of something more practical, like eating a decent meal. If you don’t come out of here you’re going to be taken to the hospital and fed intravenously.”

Sean flopped back on the bed again and returned to his reverie.

“It would be a lot better for you if you sent your brother off in good Irish style. Let’s go out and get drunk and split open a couple of heads.”

“Father O’Brien, go to hell.” Sean trembled awesomely. For the first time, a tear fell down his cheek. “Oh Timmy! Timmy! This will kill Momma and Poppa.”

The priest sat beside him quickly. “You’ve lost your belief in God, haven’t you? We’ve all waged that struggle, Sean. Even Jesus.”

“I believe in God all right, but he is not a loving God. He’s a monster. He allowed His only son to get lynched and now He keeps killing those who love Him the most. God has destroyed my family.”

“This murder that was committed in God’s name is not His doing. It is the folly of men who wrongly claim to do murder in His name.”

“Why didn’t I die instead of Liam and Tim!”

“Sean! So long as you lie flat on your back, you debase the memory of your brothers. Stand up, Sean!”

General Hansen was distressed at the weary appearance of Sean. After days of harrowing grief he looked like a combat soldier who had just waged a terrible battle.

“I’m ready to return to my command. I’m ... sorry I put such a burden on everyone.”

“There is a matter that has to be thrashed out. Are you up to it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are the sole survivor of three brothers. Your family has given more than its share.”

“I don’t want to go back to the States.”

“The matter is out of your hands. It is up to your parents. You realize that they have this right.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I contacted an old buddy of mine who is stationed at the Presidio in San Francisco. I asked him to call on your parents and explain the position.”

“How are they ...”

“As well as can be expected.”

“What ... did they decide?”

“I don’t know. Your father wrote a letter. It was flown here and handed to me by personal courier.” The general held the envelope. Sean read his name spelled in a tired and shaky hand. “Will you abide by your father’s decision in peace?”

“Yes, sir ... would ... would the General please read it to me?”

“Very well.” Hansen adjusted his specs, bent close to the uneven writing, and cleared his throat.

My Beloved Son:

My heart cries out for you in this time of your great need! I am so sorry I am not close by to comfort you. It is needless to say that a terrible darkness has fallen upon this house. I have always been honest with you, Sean. I will not lie now. The truth is that I do not know if either your mother or I can live long after this.

It is for you I sorrow now for you must go on living. You are the last of our seed. You are the one who will either carry our name on beyond us or forever put it to rest.

Your mother and I have no tears left. Our pain can be no deeper. I cannot in all honesty say that the death of three sons can be more terrible than the death of two. If you must join them, then you must.

I would give my life to embrace you once more, my son. I have sat for many hours to put upon paper the words that will force you to come back to us safely. Yet, I cannot do this thing. I have tried to teach you all your life that you must follow your own conscience. I cannot deny you that pursuit now. You cannot live for Tim and Liam. You must live for Sean.

You have served our name longer and more faithfully than a boy ought to. You have denied yourself for us so long ... you have worked for us, so hard.

You are free.

I beg you, Sean, do not be consumed with hatred for it will destroy you as it did Tim. And remember, we have done all we have set out to do. I am but an immigrant laborer and I have lived to see my three sons graduate from college.

Hansen gave the letter to Sean. “What a fine man,” the general said. “Sean, I want to use you in here with me as my adjutant. I want you to give up your command.”

“Give up my command?”

“You’re asking too much of yourself. After what has happened I don’t think you or anyone else could be placed in a position of direct contact with Germans. Your judgment would be too clouded now.”

A familiar rumble outside had been building up in intensity ever since Sean entered the office. Suddenly it became overwhelming. The roar made further conversation impossible; the windows rattled and the building trembled at its moorings. Sean and General Hansen went to the window—for once the London sky was clear. Wave after wave of Liberator bombers lumbered like flying whales toward the coast. The invasion of Europe could not be far off now.

“General Hansen,” Sean said. “I want my command.”

Chapter Twelve

N
AN
M
ILFORD FLUNG THE
door open. Andrew Jackson Hansen stood before her. Her expression changed from anticipation to obvious disappointment.

“I am General Hansen,” he said. “May I come in?”

“Of course.”

All the trappings of a reunion were in evidence: a magnificent woman in an attractive hostess gown; a candlelit table in the alcove; music from the gramophone, and dim lights. He trailed her into the living room. She was, indeed, beautiful, but ice and anger too.

“Major O’Sullivan had to leave for Shrivenham unexpectedly.”

“At your personal arrangement?”

“May I sit down?”

“By all means.”

“Mrs. Milford. We have some unpleasant things to say to each other. I’d like a drink.” Nan coldly poured him one. He did not like the situation. He would rather have taken on anyone than an angry woman.

“As long as we are going to be candid,” Nan said, “I should like to know just how far your command extends into the personal lives of your men.”

“Mrs. Milford ...”

“And I should like to know why you have deliberately kept me from him at a time like this. Even my phone calls were stopped.”

“Because, this is the time you should have been kept from him.”

“I do not understand your ideas of compassion, General.”

“That boy is so badly hurt he even denies his God.”

“He’s needed me, General.”

“Yes, he has. Needing you is bad enough when he is sound. What if he crawls to you now and throws himself into your merciful arms?”

“Isn’t love to be given when it is most needed?”

“Yes,
Mrs.
Milford, but you cannot give it ... you can merely lend it.”

Nan paled.

“You are offering a crutch to a wounded man. I would like to see him healed. Either prepare to go through with this all the way, divorce, remarriage, the works ... or let him live his own life, without you.”

Nan arched her back and fought back the tears forming in her eyes. “He thinks the world of you, General Hansen. It borders on worship.”

“He is worshiped, too. This boy took over the command of older, wiser men who had already cut their niches as talented specialists and he has molded them together. Since this tragedy his team has all but disintegrated. Now, all of us who love Sean O’Sullivan must give that love in the way it will help him the most. His men will give it to him through dedication. His father gave it to him through the gift of manhood, by allowing him to pursue the dictates of his conscience. I have let him know I believe in him. I have returned him to his command ...”

“And I ...”

“You know what you have to do, Mrs. Milford.”

“Has it been ghastly for him?”

“I have seldom seen a human being suffer so deeply.”

“My poor Sean ... my poor darling.”

Nan pressed her folded hands tightly, drew a deep breath, and shook her head quickly. It was over just like that! In the end, which she had always known would come, Nan reverted to her breeding. The dreaded loneliness, the fear of time stretching endlessly before her suddenly vanished in a well of compassion for Sean. General Hansen knew why Sean loved her so ...why he needed her and why she could not have him now.

“I shall be leaving in the morning for Plimlington East to see my children. I have been thinking that a holiday for just the three of us would be a wonderful tonic. We could disappear somewhere up in Scotland. I know of places where they don’t even have a telephone.”

Hansen set his glass down, walked to her, and took her hand.

“Will he forget me?”

“No, but he’ll get over you.”

She nodded. “That’s it then, isn’t it? ...”

“You do love him very much.”

“General,” her voice cracked, “please go ...”

Chapter Thirteen

April 20,1945

I
T WAS EVENING.
M
AJOR
Sean O’Sullivan sped down a German country road, second in line in the convoy of jeeps, command cars, and trucks making up Pilot Team G-5. Sean always took the second jeep, Maurice Duquesne the first. The Frenchman drove like a maniac; no one dared drive with him on his tail.

The cobblestone road was rain-slick and jarring. They passed through never ending forests, birch trees adding dark and eerie patterns to the miserable rain-soaked road. Sean hunched closer to the windshield.

Dr. Geoffrey Grimwood grimaced alongside Sean. From time to time low mumbles emerged through his moustache protesting the monstrous construction of the jeep.

In the back seat, Sean’s orderly, Private O’Toole, attempted to dismember three sticks of chewing gum. The massive Shenandoah Blessing slept, crushing O’Toole against the side of the jeep. His moon face rolled loosely on his neck and fell on O’Toole’s shoulder. The son of a bitch sleeps anywhere, O’Toole thought ... through the Siegfried Line, across the Rhine, anywhere. Look at the ugly son of a bitch sleep with the rain leaking in and falling down his ugly neck. O’Toole shouldered Blessing’s head off him and tried to displace the limp body. It all rolled back on him.

A roadblock loomed ahead. The convoy drew to a halt before a submachine-gun-toting corporal. Sean got out, drew his poncho about him, and approached the guard.

“Password.”

“Wishing well,” Sean said, using the pair of “w’s” designed to twist the most willing German tongue.

One of these days I’m going to say “vishing vell” and scare the hell out of one of these guards, O’Toole thought.

“Glenn Miller,” said the guard.

“ ‘Moonlight Serenade,’ ” Sean answered.

“Hit me again.”

“ ‘Tuxedo Junction,’ ‘Little Brown Jug,’ ‘Pennsylvania Six Five Thousand.’ ” Sean imparted distinctive Americanisms.

“Pershing Square.”

“Queers.”

Silly damned game, Grimwood thought. The Americans go to ridiculous extremes to identify each other.

The guard was convinced the convoy was not German infiltrators. He advised Sean they were at the end of the line and a regimental headquarters was in a farmhouse in a clearing a few hundred yards removed.

“All right. Pull the convoy over. Put on a guard. Set up a bivouac.”

Sean, followed by his watchdog, O’Toole, slushed his way to the clearing and the farmhouse. Colonel Dundee welcomed them grumpily. “Dandy” Dundee, a self-made soldier, attempted to live up to his legend. His ulcer was killing him. He scratched his stubble jaw. “You guys from Military Government are always up my back.”

“Matter of fact, Colonel, we’ve been waiting to get to Rombaden for almost a year.”

“Ever drink this crap? Steinhager.”

Sean accepted the bottle, took a belt, passed it to O’Toole.

Dundee brought him up to date. He had sent a patrol into Rombaden and it had gotten clobbered. He drew back, dug in, and brought up two battalions of Long Toms and a battalion of tanks. They were now getting into position in the forest. Heavy mortars were pushed up forward so they could at least reach the suburbs. Dundee meant to hit Rombaden throughout the night with everything that would reach the city. In the morning a hundred air sorties were promised. Dundee belched the belch of a man whose stomach was in constant rebellion. Then he looked at Sean devilishly, as though he were about to impart a monumental secret. “Major,” he said with solemnity, “I’m going to cross the Landau tonight, two miles downstream.”