Free Armageddon by Leon Uris

Tim’s eyes searched wildly for those places beyond the horizon where adventures waited, not only in daydreams. “Read from O’Casey, Liam!”
    “You and your Irish patriots make me sick,” Sean said.
“Mavourneen, Mavourneen, my sad tears are falling,
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