The Dark Arena [antikvár]

CHAPTER ONEWalter Mosca felt a sense of excitement and the last ovet-whelming loneliness before a homecoming. The few ruinsIt'loutside of Paris were remembered and familiar landmarks, and;now on the last leg of his journey he could hardly wait to come to his final destination, the heart of the ruined continent,1|the destroyed city that he had never thought he would see again. The landmarks leading into Germany were more familiar to him than the approaches to his own land, his own city.The train rocked with speed. It was a troop train with replacements for the Frankfort garrison, but half the car was taken by civilian employees recruited from the States. Mosca touched his silk tie and smiled. It felt strange to him. He would feel more at home with the GIs at the other end, and, he thought, so would most of the twenty or so civilians with him.There were two dim lights, one at each end of the car. The windows were boarded up, as if the car had been built so that its occupants would not be able to see the vast ruins through which they would travel. The seats were long wooden benches, leaving only one very narrow aisle along one side.Mosca stretched out on his bench and put the blue gym bag under his head for a pillow. In the bad light he could hardly recognize the other civilians.They had all travelled on the same Army ship together and, like himself, they all seemed excited and eager to reach Frankfort. They talked loudly to be heard over the roar of the train, and Mosca could hear Mr Gerald's voice dominating the rest. Mr Gerald was the highest-ranking civilian in the shipment. He had with him a set of golf clubs, and on board the ship had