The Dark Arena - Mario Puzo [12]
And now from the many archways and descending the rubbled walls, rescuers began to fill the courtyard. Army doctors from the base hospitals, still in their dress pinks; GIs; German litter bearers and laborers to dig the bodies out. Mosca crawled back through the archway.
In the street the air was pure. Ambulances were drawn up in a long line, and opposite them the German fire engines stood in readiness. Laborers were already clearing the entrances leading into the courtyard, the rubble being loaded onto waiting trucks. On the sidewalk opposite the building a table had been set up as a command post and he saw his colonel standing there waiting patiently, a group of his junior officers around him. Mosca noticed with amusement that they were all wearing steel helmets. One of the officers beckoned to him.
“Go up and guard our Intelligence office,” he said. He handed Mosca his pistol belt “If there's another explosion get out of there as quick as you can.”
Mosca went in the building through the main entrance. The stairway was a hill of ruins and he climbed it slowly, gingerly. He walked down the corridor with one eye on the ceiling, taking care not to pass under places where it sagged.
The Intelligence office was halfway down the corridor, and opening the door he saw that now it was only half a room, the other half part of the rubble in the courtyard. There was nothing left to guard, only one locked file cabinet. But he had a fine view of the drama being played beneath him.
Settling comfortably in a chair, he pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it. His foot struck something on the floor and looking down he saw with surprise two bottles of beer lying on their sides. He picked one up; it was crusted with mortar and bits of brick. Mosca opened the bottle on the door lock and settled in his chair again.
Below him in the courtyard the scene was static, and in the dust-laden air, almost dreamlike. Beside the body be had found, the German laborers were now picking away bricks carefully in slow motion. Looming above them an American officer stood patiently still, his pink trousers and green blouse turning white with dust. By his side stood a sergeant, holding in his hands before him the round cylinder containing blood plasma. Arid this scene had been copied all over the courtyard, as if from a master print. Over them all the dust from the pulverized concrete hung in the sunlit air, then fell gently to dye their hair and clothing white,
Mosca drank his beer and smoked his cigar. He heard someone stumbling along the corridor and went out of the room.
Down the long hall which ended and disappeared where floor and ceiling almost met, staggering out of the dark, inner recesses of the building, came a small file of German men and women. They went past him, not seeing him, blind and weak with shock and terror. The last one in the file was a slight girl in khaki ski pants and woolen blouse. She stumbled and fell and when none of the others turned to help her, Mosca stepped from the room and raised her to her feet. She would have gone on but Mosca stretched out his arm, the bottle of beer at the end of it, and stopped her.
She lifted her head and Mosca saw that her face, her neck, were dead white and her eyes dilated with shock. She said in German, tearfully, “Please let me get out, please.” Mosca let his ami fall and she went past him down the corridor. But she went only a few steps and crumpled against the wall.
Mosca bent over and saw that her eyes were open. Not knowing what else to do, he put the bottle of beer