three

Mosca let a German porter cany his suitcases out of the plane, and he saw Eddie Cassin coming down the ramp of the airfield to meet him. They shook hands, and Eddie Cassin said in the quiet, carefully modulated voice, vibrant with a sincerity that he always used when he felt unnatural, “It's good to see you again, Walter,”

“Thanks for fixing up the job and the papers to come here,” Mosca said,

“That was nothing,” Eddie Cassin said. ‘It's worth it to me to have one of the old gang back. We had some great times together, Walter.” He picked up one of Mosca's suitcases, and Mosca took the other and the blue gym bag and they walked up the ramp, off the flying area.

“Weil go to my office and have a drink and meet some of the guys,” Eddie Cassin said. He put his free arm across Mosca's shoulder for a moment and said in a natural voice, “You old bastard, I'm really glad to see you, you know that?” And Mosca felt what he had not felt in his previous home-coming! a sense of true arrival, of reaching a final destination.

They followed a wire fence to a small brick building that stood some distance away from the other installations of the base. “Here I'm the lord and master,” Eddie said. “Civilian Personnel Office, and I'm the Assistant to the Qvilian Personnel Officer who spends all his time flying. Five hundred krauts think I'm God and a hundred mid fifty of them are women. How about that for living, Walter?”

The building was a one-story affair. There was a large outer office filled with German clerks scurrying to and fro, a patient horde of other Germans waiting to be interviewed for jobs as mechanics in the motor pool, kitchen help in the mess halls, PX attendants. There were rough-looking men, old women, young men, and a great many young girls, some very pretty. Their eyes followed Eddie as he went by.

Eddie opened the door to the inner office. Here there were two desks face to face, so that their occupants could look each other in the eye. One desk was absolutely bare except for a lettered green-and-white shingle which read, Lt. A. Forte, CPO, and a small neat bundle of papers waiting for signature. On the other desk there were two double-decked baskets overflowing with paper. Almost swamped by other papers scattered over the desk was a small shingle which read Mr. E. Cassin, Asst. CPO. In the corner of the room was a desk at which a tall and very ugly girl was typing, stopping in her work long enough to say, “Good afternoon, Mr. Cassin. The colonel called; he wants you to call him back.”

Eddie winked at Mosca and picked up the telephone. While he was speaking, Mosca lit a cigarette and tried to relax. He made himself not think of Hella and looked at Eddie. Eddie hadn't changed, he thought There was the gray, wavy hair framing the delicate, yet strong features” Hie mouth was as sensitive as a girl's, yet the nose was long and imperial, the set of his jaw determined. The eyes were hooded as if with sensuality and the grayness of his abundant hair seemed to have tinged his skin. Yet the impression was one of youthfulness, a frank warmth of expression that was almost naive. But Mosca knew that when Eddie Cassin was drunk the sensitive and delicately cut mouth twisted into an ugly line, the whole face grayed and went old and vicious. And since (hat viciousness had no real strength behind it and because men would laugh at it as Mosca often had, the viciousness, in words and physical action, was vented on the woman who was his companion or mistress of the moment. He had one set opinion of Eddie Cassin, a crazy bastard about women and a lousy drunk, but otherwise a really nice guy who would do anything for a friend. And Eddie had been smart enough never to make a pass at Hella. He wanted to ask Eddie now whether he had seen Hella or knew what had happened to her but he could not bring himself to do so.

Eddie Cassin put down the phone and opened a drawer of his desk. He took out a bottle of gin and a tin of grapefruit juice. Turning to the typist he said, “Ingeborg, go wash the glasses.” She took some glasses, empty containers of cheese spread, and left the office. Eddie Cassin went to a door that led to a smaller office behind them. “Come on, Walter, I want you to meet a couple of friends of mine.”

In the next office a short, stout, pasty-faced man in the same olive-green Eddie wore was standing by his desk, his foot on the rung of a chair and his body bent over so that his paunch rested on his thigh. He held in his hand a Fragebogen or questionnaire and was studying it. Before him, standing stiffly at attention, was a short squat German, the inevitable gray-teen Wehrmacht cap under his arm. By the window sat a long-looking American civilian with the long jaw and square small mouth of a weather-beaten American farmer, and with his air of self-centered strength.

“Wolf,” Eddie said to the pudgy man, “this is an old buddy of mine, Walter Mosca. Walter, Wolf here is our security man. He clears the krauts before they can get a job on the base.”

After they had shaken hands, Eddie went on. “That guy by the window is Gordon Middleton. He's the man without a job, so he's detailed to help out down here. The colonel is trying to get rid of him; that's why he hasn't anything special to do.” Middleton didn't get up from his chair to shake hands, so Mosca nodded, and the other waved a long scarecrow arm in acknowledgment

Wolf jerked his thumb at the door and told the German, still standing at attention, to wait outside. The German clicked his heels, bowed, and left hurriedly. Wolf laughed, threw the Fragebogen on the desk with a contemptuous gesture.

“Never in the Party, never in the SA, never in the Hitler Youth. Christ, I'm dying to meet a Nazi.”

They all laughed. Eddie shook his head wisely. “They all say the same thing. Walter here is a guy after your own heart, Wolf. A rough character with krauts when we were in Mil Gov together.”

“Is that so?” Wolf raised a sandy eyebrow. “That's the only way to be.”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, “we had a big problem in Mil Gov. The krauts would make the coal deliveries to all the German installations, but when it came time to deliver to those Jewish refugee camps up at Grohn on Saturday either the trucks would break down or the kraut coal administrator would say there was no coal left My boy solved the problem.”

“This I'd like to hear,” Wolf said. He had an easy, UH gradating way of speaking that was almost oily and had a trick of nodding his head up and down to assure the speaker of his complete comprehension.

Ingeborg brought in the glasses, the bottle, and the fruit juice. Eddie fixed four drinks but one without gin. He gave this to Gordon Middleton, “The only guy in the occupation who doesn't gamble, drink, or chase women. That's why the colonel wants to get rid of him. He gives the krauts a bad impression.”

“Let's hear the story,” Gordon said. IBs low, drawling voice was a reproach but a gentle one; patient

“Well,” Eddie said, “it got so that Mosca would have to ride way the hell out to the camp every Saturday to makesore the coal got there. One Saturday he was In a crap game and let the trucks go alone. No coal. He really got chewed out. Ill never forget. I drove him out to where die trucks had broken down and he gave the drivers a little speech”

Mosca rested against the desk, lit a cigar, and puffed on it nervously. He remembered the incident and knew the kind of story Eddie would make out of it. Build him up to be a real hard guy and it hadn't been that way at all. He had told the drivers that if they did not wish to drive he would see to their release without prejudice. But if they wanted to stay on the job they had better get the coal to the DP camp even if they had to carry it on their backs. One driver had quit, and Mosca had taken his name and passed cigarettes all around. Eddie was making it sound as if he had knocked the hell out of six of them in a free-for-all.

“Then he went to the coal administrator's house and had a little talk in English that I understood. That kraut was really shitting when he got through. After that he shot crap Saturday afternoon and the coal got to the camp. A real executive.” Eddie shook his head admiringly.

Wolf kept nodding his head up and down with understanding and approbation. “That's the kind of stuff we need around here,” he said. “These krauts get away with murder.”

“You couldn't do that now, Walter,” Eddie said.

“Yeah, we're teaching the krauts democracy,” Wolf said, so wryly that Mosca and Eddie laughed, and even Middleton smiled.

They sipped their drinks, and then Eddie got up to look out the window at a woman passing by on her way to the exit gate. “There's some nice gash,” he said; “how would you like to cut a piece of that?”

“That's a question for the Fragebogen” Wolf said, and as he was about to add something else, the door leading to the corridor was flung open and a tall, blond boy was shoved into the room. His wrists were handcuffed and he was crying. Behind him were two short men in dark sack suits. One of the men stepped forward

“Herr Dolman,” he said, “we have the person who has been stealing the soap.” Wolf burst out laughing.

“The soap bandit,” he explained to Eddie and Mosca. “We've been missing a lot of Red Cross soap bars we were supposed to give the German kids. These men are detectives from the city.”

One qf the two men started to unlock the handcuffs. He held his forefinger under the boy's nose, the gesture almost fatherly, and said, “No dumb tricks, eh?” The boy nodded his head.

“Leave them on,” Wolf said sharply. The detective stepped back.

Wolf walked close to the boy and shoved the blond head up with his hand. “Did you know this soap was for German children?”

The boy let his head fall and didn't answer.

“You worked here, you were trusted … You'll never work for the Americans again. However, if you'll sign a papa” admitting what you've done, we will not prosecute. Do you agree to that?’

The boy nodded his head.

“Ingeborg,” Wolf called. The German typist came in. Wolf nodded to the two men. “Take him in there to the other office; the girl knows what to do.” He turned to Eddie and Mosca. “Too easy,” and smiled his friendly smile. “But it saves everybody a lot of trouble and the kid will get his six months.”

Mosca, not really caring, said, “Hell, you promised to let him off.”

Wolf shrugged. “Right, but the German cops get him for making a black market The chief of police in Bremen is an old friend of mine, and we co-operate.”

“Justice at work,” Eddie murmured. “So what if the kid stole some soap; give him a break.”

Wolf said briskly, “Caft't do it; they'd steal us blind.” He put on his cap. “Well, Fve got a busy night ahead of me. Have to make a full-scale search on all the kitchen workers before they leave the base. There's something.”

He grinned at them. “We get a woman cop from Bremen to search die female workers and she comes out with a big pair of rubber gloves and a bar of GI soap. You should see where those women hide a stick of butter. Phew.” He spit “I hope I never get that hungry.”

When Wolf had left, Gordon Middleton stood up and said in his deep, laconic voice, “The colonel likes him.” He smiled at Mosca, good-naturedly, as if it were something that amused him and which he did not resent Before he left the office he said to Eddie, “I think I'll catch an early bus home,” and to Mosca, simply and in a friendly tone, “See you around, Walter.”

It was the end of the working day. Through the windows Mosca could see the German laborers massing at the exit gate, waiting to be searched and checked by the military police before they could leave the air base. Eddie went to the window and stood beside him.

“I guess you want to get to town and look for your girl,” Eddie said and smiled, a smile almost womanly in its sweetness, in the hesitancy of the delicately cut mouth. “That's the reason I took all the trouble to fix a job here when you wrote. I figured it had to be the girl. Right?”

“I don't know,” Mosca said. “Partly, I guess.”

“Do you want to fix up about your billet in town first and then look her up? Or go see her now?”

“Let's fix up the billet first,” Mosca said.

Eddie laughed outright “If you go now you'll catch her home. By the time the billet is arranged you won't get to her until at least eight. Maybe shell be out by then.” He watched Mosca carefully when he said this.

“My tough luck,” Mosca said.

They each picked up a suitcase and went out of the building to where Eddie had parked his jeep. Before Eddie started the motor he turned to Mosca and said, “You won't ask, but Til tell you anyway. I've never seen her around the officer or enlisted-men clubs or with any GIs. I've never even seen her.” After a pause he added slyly, “And I didn't think you'd want me to look her up.”