The Dark Arena - Mario Puzo [2]
Mosca sat up straight and other dark figures rose from the benches, one of them knocked out a candlelight as he brushed it to the floor. Mr. Gerald, still standing but not so brightly lit, said in a quiet horrified voice, “That soldier stabbed me,” and fell out of the light into the darkness of his bench.
Two men from the GI end of the car hurried down the aisle. By the light of the candles they carried, Mosca could see the glint of officer bars.
Mr. Gerald was saying over and over again, “Tve been stabbed, that soldier stabbed me.” In his voice the terror was gone, it was surprised, incredulous. Mosca could see him sitting upright on the bench and then, lit up by the full power of the three candles, could see the rent in the trouser leg, high up on the thigh, the dark stain flowing over and around it. The lieutenant bent over, holding his candle close and gave an order to die soldier with him. The soldier ran down to the other end of the car and returned with blankets and a first-aid kit. They spread the blankets on the floor and made Mr. Gerald lie down. The soldier started to cut off the trouser leg, but Mr. Gerald said, “No, roll it up; I can get it mended.” The lieutenant looked at the wound.
“It's nothing much,” the lieutenant said. ‘Wrap him in a blanket” There was no sympathy in his young, blank face or in his voice, only an impersonal kindness. “Well have an ambulance waiting in Frankfort, just in case. Ill wire at the next stop.” Then he turned to the others and asked, “Where is he?”
The drunken GI had disappeared; Mosca, peering into the darkness, saw a form huddled in the corner of the tench before him. He said nothing.
The lieutenant went to his end of the car and returned wearing his pistol belt. He threw the beam erf his flashlight around the car until he saw the huddled form. He prodded it with his flashlight, at the same time drawing his pistol and hiding it behind him. The GI didn't move.
The lieutenant poked him roughly. “Get up, Mulrooney.” The GI opened his eyes, and when Mosca saw the dumb, sullen animal glare, he felt a sudden pity.
The lieutenant kept the beam of his flashlight in the soldier's eyes, blinding him. He made Mulrooney stand up. When he saw that his hands were empty, he slipped his pistol back into its holster. Then he turned the GI around with a rough shove and searched him. He didn't find anything, so he threw the light of his flash on the bench. Mosca saw the bloodstained knife. The lieutenant picked it up and pushed the GI ahead of him to the other end of the car.
The train began to slow down and gradually came to a halt. Mosca walked to the end of the car, opened the door, and looked out. He saw the lieutenant going to the station to wire ahead for the ambulance; otherwise there was no one. The French town behind the station was dark and still.
Mosca went back to his bench. Mr. Gerald's friends were bending over him, reassuring him, and Mr. Gerald was saying impatiently, “I know it's a scratch, but why did he do it, why did he do such a crazy thing?” And when the lieutenant came back into the car and told them the ambulance would be waiting at Frankfort, Mr. Gerald said to him, “Believe me? Lieutenant, I did nothing to provoke him. Ask any of my friends. I did nothing, nothing, to make him do such a thing.”
“He's just crazy, that's all,” the lieutenant said. And then added, “You're lucky, sir, if I know Mulrooney he was aiming at your balls.”
For some reason this seemed to cheer them up, as if the seriousness of intent made the event more interesting, made the scratch on Mr. Gerald's thigh important. The lieutenant brought Ms bedroll back and fixed Mr. Gerald on it. “In a way you did me a favor. Pve been trying to get rid of Mulrooney since the first day he came into the platoon. Hell be safe for a couple of years now.”
Mosca couldn't sleep. The train had begun to move, and he walked down to the door again, rested against it, and looked at the black, shadowy countryside