The Losing Role Read Online Free PDF Page B

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materiel was arriving at a steady clip. Trains rolled in carrying
vehicles covered with tarps. Underneath were US Army jeeps, a few
trucks and a couple tanks, but mostly jeeps. The vehicles’ olive
drab paint and white stars were a shocking sight but one they’d
have to get used to quickly, Captain Pielau assured them.
    The captain assigned Max and Felix Menning to a
warehouse that was open, on one end, to the stinging November air.
The concrete under their feet was colder than the ice on the
windows and the snow drifted in, swirling and gathering into small
white dunes that refused to melt. The warehouse had rows of long
tables, like in a beer hall. At one table, Max and Felix sorted the
American tunics that had been delivered, accidentally, with POW
triangles painted on the backs. Pielau had ordered them to try to
scrape off the paint. They scrubbed and scraped, bent over the
tables, their backs tightening up, aching. Sweat rolled down
Felix’s face despite the cold. The paint would not give way. (After
all, it was meant to stay on forever.) It was thankless work, yet
far better than cleaning up the “dog tags” of dead American
soldiers. Pielau was doing Max a good turn once again.
    Captain Pielau paced the warehouse with a clipboard,
checking stocks and making notes. A couple tables over, their Quartiermeister , a former clothing designer (who’d worked in
New York’s Garment District), was hunched over a new shipment of
uniforms diverted from the Red Cross by no small degree of
trickery. The Quartiermeister called Captain Pielau over.
Pielau held up a pair of trousers, huffed at them, threw them down,
and then threw up his hands. He scratched at his clipboard and
paced the warehouse muttering. All went back to work. Max kept an
eye on the captain. Over in a corner, Pielau threw his clipboard
across the concrete floor.
    He ended up at Max’s table, his jowls reddening.
“Kaspar, you know what is happening here, don’t you? Can’t you see
it?” Beside Max, Felix slowed his scraping to listen. “Those
trousers over there? All British. Here we go and swindle the Red
Cross for Ami uniforms, and we get British. Well, we can’t
use that, can we?”
    “I wouldn’t know, sir.” Max added a smile.
    “And see all that—and that?” Pielau went on, his
voice growing shrill. He pointed around the warehouse at the crates
and boxes and the tables piled with mismatched gear. Men looked up
woodenly as if they were being complained about. “And that there?
We have not nearly enough. We need belts, ammo cases, helmets, and
more overcoats. We have no helmets.”
    “Helmets would be good, sir.”
    Pielau slumped against the table, whispering now.
“ Mein Gott , Kaspar, you know Doktor Solar is not going to
like this.” He glared at Felix, who resumed his scraping.
    Max stepped sideways, closer to Pielau. He
whispered, “Look, you have to relax. Tell you what—go on to your
officers’ mess, get yourself a coffee with two fingers of corn
schnapps in it. That’ll make you feel better.”
    “You don’t understand,” Pielau said. “I mean, what
will people think?”
    Pielau often took weekend trips to Nuremberg. He had
friends and girlfriends there. If he were boasting of great things,
Max could not know about it. He gave the captain a long, hard
stare. “Sir, people are not supposed to think anything—let alone be
aware of it,” he said.
    Pielau stiffened as if at attention. “You’re right
as always. Thank you.” He lit a cigarette, patted Max’s shoulder,
and strode off into the cold and gray afternoon.
    Max and Felix scraped on. As they worked, four
sailors two tables over began laughing at them. The four had been
merchant sailors before the war. Their American English could be
clumsy, and thick with accent, yet they knew all the slang and
could say what they needed. Max heard them now.
    One nodded at Felix and said what sounded like:
“Piece a’ chicken.” Another pointed and said,