Armageddon (40 page)

Sean rode in a Horsche sedan which had been unsuccessfully hidden by its former Nazi owner. Shenandoah Blessing and Bolinski, who spoke some Russian, shared the huge touring car. Nelson Goodfellow Bradbury and a photographer drove in a jeep directly behind Sean.

The convoy progressed north to Dessau, and crossed the Elbe River on a pontoon bridge built by American engineers, who left it to the Russians after they withdrew.

The first curious contact with their Russian allies was made when a Russian military policewoman of elephantine proportions signaled them to halt with a pair of traffic flags, then leaped ungracefully on the running board of Sean’s Horsche and pointed down the road. They slowed their speed as they passed beneath a flower-bedecked, newly erected archway which held portraits readily identified as comrades Lenin, Stalin, and Marx. A blaring red and white sign leaped out at them:
WELCOME TO DEMOCRATIC GERMANY!

Just beyond the “welcome” arch they came to a vicious-looking barrier on the road flanked by barbed wire and concrete emplacements.

“This looks meaner than trying to run moonshine into Kentucky,” Blessing said.

“The dawn came up like thunder,” emoted Big Nellie.

The woman MP shouted at a pair of drowsy Russian soldiers who raised the barrier. Sean swung his car to the head of the convoy and drove through. The next point of contact was a farmhouse near the roadside. A half-dozen Russians kept reserved and suspicious distance from the arrivals as a slovenly dressed officer emerged from the house, leaned into the sedan, and snarled, “You are now under the protection of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. I demand that your soldiers put their weapons away.”

Bolinski translated to Sean, then answered, “The weapons are for the purpose of protecting the convoy from German stragglers.”

“Not allowed,” the Russian answered. “Soviet territory.”

Sean recalled the specifics of his orders:
Get the convoy to Berlin without incident.
“Tell the admiral here,” he said to Bolinski, “that I will order my men to keep all weapons out of sight.”

The Russian figured that was compliance enough to suit him. He got into his own vehicle, a badly abused German auto, ordered the convoy to follow him, and turned off the four-lane
autobahn.

“This isn’t the way to Berlin,” Big Nellie said to his photographer.

In a half hour they came to the town of Wittenberg and halted at the Rathaus, which now served as Russian Headquarters for the district. The Russian quickly disappeared into the confines leaving Sean’s convoy waiting. They were being observed by Russian soldiers from a cautious distance. It was a far cry from the pictures of the brotherhood of Russians and Americans embracing on meeting at the Elbe only two months earlier.

Sean appraised the Russians. These troops were neatly uniformed, well-armed, appeared to be under good discipline. He guessed they were NKVD, political troops.

Twenty minutes went by before a new officer, a Russian lieutenant, came from the building and introduced himself in broken English. “I demand,” he said, “that you and your men come inside for an official welcome.”

Sean’s troops followed him into the typical bulky German city-hall affair, down an oil-painting-lined corridor of heroes, to a foyer which would serve as a reception room, smack into a platoon of Cossacks, who were, to a man, tall, blond, spit and polish, and obviously show troops.

The Russian lieutenant whirled around, was handed a document by a subordinate, stood ramrod before Sean, and read:

“I am pleased to welcome this, the first convoy of Americans on this route. You are privileged to join us in Berlin after the Soviet Union’s glorious victory over the Nazi aggressor. Soviet victory was inevitable, but came sooner because of your aid. You are welcome to Democratic Germany as our guests.”

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.

Big Nellie nudged Sean, pointing to the woods that ran alongside the rails. On close look one could see that the ground in the woods was pocked with thousands of holes dug out by human hands and covered with tree branches, corrugated metal, cardboard, and lumber scraps.

These holes were home for tens of thousands of liberated slave laborers and concentration-camp victims from eastern Europe. They had worked their way to Werder in an attempt to get back to Poland and Russia.

The trained eyes in the convoy sized it up quickly. There was no facility for registration, food, or medical help.

A train of some eighty open freight and cattle cars jiggled back and forth blocking the road crossing, and puffed to a stop. It was followed by an awesome sight of thousands of refugees suddenly pouring from their holes in the forest. Some held a single pack or suitcase. Some had nothing. A line of bayonet-bearing Russian soldiers held at bay this growing horde of the backwash of war.

A Russian officer blew a whistle; the guards opened their line. An insane scramble ensued as the mass of human misery swept up to the train. They shoved and kicked and clawed and screamed their way aboard. Old, young, and weak were hurled mercilessly down the rail bed. In but a moment the cars were crammed beyond capacity.

Another whistle and the line of soldiers re-formed and clubbed back with rifle butts those who did not make it. Pleas fell on deaf ears. The train chugged into motion with its bulge of misery.

The Russian in Sean’s car giggled. “See how anxious they are to get home.”

Sean and the others looked at him with revulsion. It was, in a moment, a ten-year indoctrination course.

Sean snapped on the ignition, fought to keep from shouting at the outrage. The convoy cleared the crossing, watching the unsuccessful refugees trudge back to their holes to wait for another train on another day.

Just beyond Werder they saw a now familiar sight. The bridge ahead was blocked by a pair of submachine-gun-toting Mongols who waved the convoy to halt.

Sean was blind with anger. He pressed his foot on the accelerator and beaded in on the bridge.

“That a boy, Major,” Blessing said, “frig ’em!”

The Russian began to yell,
“Nyet! nyet!”
He tried to shove his foot on the brakes. Sean jammed an elbow into his ribs and at the same moment Blessing and Big Nellie clamped him frozen.

The convoy closed up behind Sean and bore down on the bridge at seventy miles an hour!

The Mongols waved their guns threateningly! At the last split second they leaped over the bridge rail into the river and the convoy passed over.