The Dark Arena - Mario Puzo [36]
While he waited he made all the prisoners dismount from the truck and sit in a close-packed circle on the grass. He stood a distance away, watching them, though he knew none would try to escape.
The security jeep came directly through the woods, and he could hear it crashing through the underbrush before it entered the clearing. The sergeant in it had long, handlebar mustaches in the English style and was very big and heavy. When he saw the orderly scene he left the jeep slowly and walked over to Mosca. The other two GIs sauntered to opposite sides of the clearing. The driver took his submachine gun from its jeep scabbard and sat behind the wheel, one foot dangling out of the vehicle and touching the ground.
The sergeant stood before Mosca, waiting. Mosca said, “There's one guy missing that I know about. My straw boss. I didn't make a count.”
The sergeant was in natty ODs and wore a pistol and webbed cartridge belt around his broad middle. He moved among the prisoners and ordered them to form in ranks of ten. There were five ranks and two men for an incomplete sixth. The two men who formed their own rank had an air of guilt, as if they were to blame for the missing men.
“What does that make it?” the sergeant asked Mosca.
“Four missing, altogether,” Mosca said.
The sergeant looked down on him. “A nice trick your ass-hole buddy pulled.” And for the first time since he had learned of the escape Mosca felt a sense of shame and some fear. But he could not feel angry.
The sergeant sighed. “Weil it was a good racket while it lasted. There'll be a hell of a shake-up, the chicken shit will really fly.” He said to Mosca in a gentler voice, “Your assll be back up in the line, you know that?” They both stood there thinking of the easy life they had led, no reveille, no formation, no inspections, no fear—almost civilian.
The sergeant straightened angrily. “Lefs see what we can do with these bastards. Achtung” he shouted, and walked up and down in front of the Germans standing rigidly at attention. He said nothing for a few minutes and then began to speak to them quietly in English.
“All right. We know where we stand. The honeymoon is over. You men were all treated well. You were given good food, a good place to sleep. Did we ever work you too hard? You didn't feel well we let you stay in barracks. Who has a complaint? Step forward any man.” The sergeant paused as if one of them might really do so, then went on. “Okay, let's see if you appreciate it Some of you know when these men left and where they went. Speak up. Well remember it Well appreciate it” The sergeant stopped walking up and down and faced them. He waited as they murmured among themselves, some explaining to the others what the sergeant had said. But after they were still, none of the green-twilled prisoners stepped forward.
The sergeant said in a different tone, “All right, yon bastards.” He turned to the jeep and said to the driver, “Go back to the barracks and draw twenty picks and twenty shovels. Get four men and another jeep. K no officer hears about this we might get through. And if tha” jerky supply sergeant squawks about the shovels tell him I'll come in and break his goddamn head.” He motioned the driver on his way.
Then he signaled the prisoners to sit on the grass.
When the jeeps returned with the extra men and a trailer loaded with tools, the sergeant lined up the prisoners in two ranks facing each other. He issued the tools and since there were not enough to go around he made the extra men go to the other side of the clearing and lie in the grass on their faces.
No one spoke. The prisoners worked steadily digging the long trench. The rank with picks would hack at the earth, then rest. The men with shovels lifted the loose dirt away. They worked very slowly. ‘The giftrds around the clearing leaned against the trees, seemingly indifferent and unalert
The sergeant winked at Mosca and said