The Dark Arena (11 page)

Then, in the very early morning light, they would ride out together to the forest. During the morning breaks, the prisoners would scatter around on the grass munching pieces of bread they had saved from breakfast. Mosca gave his crew more time than was usual. Fritz sat with him on a pile of shells.

“Not too bad a life, eh, Fritz?” Mosca asked.

“It could be worse,” the German said; “it's peaceful here.” Mosca nodded. He liked the German though he never took the trouble to remember his real name. They were friendly, but it was impossible to forget the relation-ship of the conqueror and conquered. Even now Mosca held his carbine in his hand as a symbol. There was never a bullet in the chamber and sometimes he forgot to put a magazine in its slot

The German was in one of his depressed moods. Suddenly he began to pour out a flooding speech in his native tongue which Mosca understood imperfectly.

“Isn't it queer that you stand here, seeing that we do not move as we wish? What a duty for human beings. And how we kill each other and hurt each other. And for what? Tell me, if Germany had kept Africa and France, would I personally have earned another penny thereby? Me, myself, do I help myself if Germany conquers the world?

Even if we win, I win only a uniform for the rest of my life. When we were children how it used to thrill us to read of our country's golden age, how France or Germany or Spain ruled Europe and the world. They build statues to men who give death to millions of their fellows. How is this? We hate each other, we kill each other. I could understand if we gained something. If afterward they said, ‘Here, here is an extra piece of land we took from the French, everyone gets a little piece of cake.’ And you, we already know you are the winners. And do you think you will win anything?”

In the warm sun the other prisoners rolled on their backs, slept in the cool grass. Mosca listened only half understanding, vaguely displeased, not reached. The German spoke as one of the vanquished, without authority. He had walked the streets of Paris and Prague, the cities in Scandinavia, with cheerful pride; a sense of justice came only behind barbed wire.

For the first time the German put his hand on Mosca's arm. “My friend,” he said, “people like you and me meet face to face and kill each other. Our enemies are behind us.” He let his hand fall. “Our enemies are behind us,” he repeated bitterly, “and commit the crimes for which we die.”

But most of the time the German was cheerful. He had shown Mosca a picture of his wife and two children, and a picture of himself taken with comrades outside the factory in which they had worked. And he would talk about women.

“Aha,” the German would say with an almost wistful zest. “When I was in Italy,” or “When I was in France, the women they were wonderful. I must admit it, I like them better than German women, let the
Fiihrer
say what he likes. Women never let politics interfere with more important things. It's been that way through the centuries.” His blue eyes twinkled in the lined, old-young face. Tm always sorry we did not get to America. Those beautiful jprls with the long legs, like marzipan the color. Really unbelievable. I remember them from your movies and magazines. Yes it is too bad.”

And Mosca playing the game would say, “They wouldn't even look at you krautheads.”

The German would shake his head slowly but with decision. “Women are hardheaded,” he would say. “Do you think they starve because they should notjuse their bodies with the enemy. In these things women think clearly. They have more fundamental values. Ah
_f
yes, occupation duty in New York would have been wonderful.”

Mosca and the German would grin at each other and then Mosca would say, “Get the rest of the Fritzes to work.”

On the final evening, when the recall whistle blew, the prisoners milled together quickly from all over the clearing in which they were working, and the trucks were loaded in a few minutes. The drivers started their motors.

Mosca almost fell for the ruse. Mechanically his eyes looked for Fritz. Still unsuspecting, he took a few steps toward the nearest of the three vehicles and then seeing the strained look on some of the prisoners’ faces sensed immediately what had happened.

He ran to the beginning of the dirt road and signaled the drivers out of the cabs of their trucks. As he ran he worked the bolt of the carbine, throwing a cartridge into the chamber. Then taking from his pocket the whistle he had never used, he blew six short blasts. He waited a moment mid blew six more.

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 in a low voice, “A good bluff always works. Watch this.”

He let them dig for a short time more, then he called a halt. “Does anyone here wish to speak?” He gave them a grim smile.

No one answered.

“Okay” The sergeant waved an arm. “Keep digging.’

One of the Germans let his shovel fall. He was young and rosy cheeked. “Please,” he said. “I wish to tell you something.” He walked away from his fellow prisoners into the open space that separated him from the guards.

“Spit it out,” the sergeant said.

The German stood there wordless. He looked back TOt-easily at his fellow prisoners. The sergeant understood. He took the German by the arm and led him over to the jeep. They stood there talking earnestly in low voices, watcfed by prisoners and guards alike. The sergeant listened with his head thrust forward intently, his great body bent over,
one arm thrown familiarly over the prisoner's shoulder. Then he nodded. He motioned the informer into the jeep.

The prisoners were loaded onto the three trucks and the caravan moved through the now-deserted forest, the other roads crossing theirs empty of life. In the jeep bringing up the rear the sergeant drove, his long mustaches waving in the breeze. They left the forest, and as they entered the open countryside it was strange to see the familiar land bathed in a different light, the riper and reddish sun of late afternoon.

Turning his head for a moment the sergeant spoke to Mosca. “Your buddy planned this for a long time. But he's out of luck.”

“Where is he?” Mosca asked.

“In town. I know the house.”

The caravan entered the camp, and then the two jeeps swung in a wide arc away from the trucks and raced toward the town. Then close together, as if coupled, they went down the main street, and on the corner on which stood the church, turned right. They halted by a small stone house. Mosca and the sergeant went to the front door. Two of the men in the other jeep moved slowly to the rear of the house. The other men stayed in the jeeps.

The door was opened before they could knock. Fritz stood there before them. He wore old, crumpled blue serge trousers, a white collarless shirt, and a dark jacket. He gave them an uncertain smile. “The rest are upstairs,” he said. “They are afraid to come down.”

“Call them,” the sergeant said. “Go up and tell them they won't be hurt.”

Fritz went to the foot of the stairs and called up in German. “All is in order. Come down. Don't be afraid.”

They heard a door open above them, and the three other prisoners came slowly down the stairs. They were dressed in ragged civilian clothes. On their faces was a sheepish, almost guilty look.

“Go out to the jeeps,” the sergeant said. Then he asked Fritz, ‘Whose house is this?”

Hie German raised his eyes. For the first time he looked
at Mosca. “A woman I used to know. Let her go, she did it for—you know—she was lonely. It has nothing to do with the war.”

“Get out there,” the sergeant said.

They all left. The sergeant whistled for the two men behind the house. As the jeeps pulled away, a woman came down the street carrying a large bundle in brown wrapping paper. She saw the prisoners in the jeep, turned, and walked back in the direction from which she had come. The sergeant gave Mosca a sour grin. “Goddamn women,” he said.

On a lonely stretch of road nearly halfway back to camp the sergeant's lead jeep pulled to the side and stopped. The other jeep halted dose behind. On one side of the road was a rough stony pasture leading into the dark line of the forest two hundred yards away.

“Gct those men out of the jeeps,” the sergeant said. They all dismounted and stood awkwardly, ill at ease in the deserted road. The sergeant stood for, some moments, deep in thought. He felt his mustaches and said, “A couple of you guys can bring these krauts back to camp. Empty the tools out of that trailer and bring it back.” He pointed to Fritz. “You stay here.”

“I'll go back,” Mosca said quickly.

The sergeant looked him up and down, slowly, with insolent contempt. “Listen, you son of a bitch, you're staying here. If it wasn't for me your ass'd be up in the line. By Christ, Fm not going to chase krauts all over the country whenever they get a bug up their ass. You stay here.”

Two of the guards moved off silently with the three prisoners. They got into the jeep and disappeared down the road. Fritz turned his head to watch them go.

The four men in their olive drab stood facing the lone German and the stony pasture beyond him. The sergeant stroked his mustache. TTie German's face was gray, but he stood stiffly, as if at attention.

“Start running,” the sergeant said. He pointed across the pasture to the forest

TTie German did not move. The sergeant gave him a
shove. “Run,” he said, “well give you a good start.” He pushed the German onto the pasture grass, spinning him so that he faced the forest. Hie sun was gone, and there was no color on the earth, only the grayness of falling twilight The forest was a long dark wall, far away.

The German turned, facing them again. His hand went to his collarless shirt as if searching for some dignity. He looked at Mosca, then at the others. He took a step toward them, off the grass and stone. His legs trembled, and his body wavered for a moment, but his voice was steady. He said, “HerrMosca,
Ich hab’ eineFrau undKinder”

On the sergeant's face came a look of rage and hatred. “Run, you bastard, run.” He rushed to the German and struck him in the face. As the German began to fall he lifted him and shoved him toward the pasture. “Run, you kraut bastard.” He shouted it three or four times.

The German fell and rose and turned to face them again, and again he said, not pleading this time but as if in explanation,
“Ich hob’ erne Frau und Kinder”
One of the guards stepped forward quickly and struck him in the groin with the butt of his carbine and then, letting the weapon dangle in one hand, smashed the German's face with the other.