The Dark Arena - Mario Puzo [51]
Mosca lit a cigarette. He was still tense. “Hell, I knew it was an act. I got to hand it to you, Wolf, you put on a hell of a show.”
Wolf said in a satisfied voice, “Experience, boy. Some of our officers were too chicken to use real pressure on prisoners. So we had to use the scare technique. And you looked real mean there on the wall.”
“I was surprised,” Mosca said, “When that big guy pushed you and the old dame was so snotty, I figured a trap. Then I was mad Christ, don't they know some of these GIs would butcher the whole crew for a stunt like that?”
Wolf said slowly, “I'll tell you how people are, Walter. This old dame, she thinks she's clever. And she has this big giant and ill these officers and GIs treat her with respect because she can make their fortune. Now get this. She forgets. She forgets what it is to be afraid. That one stroke she got was the key. Remember that. Without that one stroke she couldn't be afraid. People are like that.”
They went across the bridge and into the Bremen town. In a few minutes they were before the billet
They smoked a cigarette together in the parked jeep.
Wolf said, “In a week or so we make the most important contacts. Well have to stay out most of the night. So be ready for a call any time. Okay?” He dapped Mosca on the back.
Mosca stepped out of the jeep, took a last puff on his cigarette. “You think she'll squawk to her friends?”
Wolf shook his head. “This m the one thing I know about. She'll never open her mouth to anybody.” He grinned at Mosca. “She'll never forget that stripe she wears on her back.”
eleven
Walter Mosca, dressed in civvies, stared out of the window of the Civilian Personnel Office. He watched the people of the base going by, the airplane mechanics in their green fatigues and fur-lined leather jackets, natty flying officers in dark greens and violet overcoats, the German laborers in their old clothing, all hunched against the sharp November wind. Behind him Eddie Cassin said, “Walter.” Mosca turned around.
Eddie Cassin leaned back in his chair. “I got a job for you. I had an idea and the lieutenant thinks it's pretty good. We're having a food conservation drive all over the European Theater, you know, try to tell the chowhounds that they shouldn't eat themselves sick. Not to starve but not to load up their trays, then leave a lot of stuff that has to be thrown out. Now here's the idea. We want a picture of a GI with a big heaping tray of food and caption it ‘Stop This.’ Next to it we want a photo of two little German kids sniping butts in the street and the caption, “And You Stop This.’ How does it sound?”
“It sounds like real shit to me,” Mosca said.
Eddie grinned at Mm, “All right, But it looks clever as hell. Real public-relations stuff. Headquarters will eat it up. Maybe Stars and Stripes will print it Who knows? It could turn out big.”
“For Christ's sake,” Mosca said.
“Okay,” Eddie Cassin said, a little annoyed. “Just get a picture of kids sniping butts. The jeep is outside and you can pick up that photographer, the corporal, at the lab.”
“Okay,” Mosca said. He went out and watched the afternoon flight from Wiesbaden come down out of the sky, as if appearing by magic from nothing but air. Then he got into the jeep.
It was late afternoon before he drove the jeep over the bridge into Bremen proper. The corporal had been goofing around the hangars, and it had taken Mosca an hour to frack him down.
The streets of the city were full oi hurrying Germans and the Strassenbahns clanged their way through dense traffic, passengers hanging onto the step poles. Mosca parked the jeep in front of the Glocke.
In the gray workaday afternoon all was still. The front of the Red Cross Club was empty of beggars, streetwalkers, and children; activity would begin after the supper hour. Two German policewomen strolled slowly up and down the sidewalk, slowly, as if bemused by the melodious clanging of streetcar bells,
Mosca and the corporal waited in their jeep for some begging children