They weren't soldiers; they were civilians, and not young ones, either.
Most of them carried their jacket over their arm and a brief case in their free hand and there were some with gray in their hair and many with no hair at all.
One thing about them caught my eye. None of them were smiling, not even when they spoke to one another in the small groups they immediately formed on the sidewalk in front of the bus.
Why should they smile, I asked myself bitterly.
They had nothing to smile about. They were all dodoes like me.
I took out a cigarette and struck a match. The breeze from the circulating fan blew it out.
I struck another, turning away from the fan and shielding the cigarette in my cupped hands.
"Herr Cord! This is indeed a surprise!
What are you doing here?" I looked up at Herr Strassmer.
"I just delivered a new plane," I said, holding out my hand. "But what are you doing out here?
I thought you were in New York."
He shook my hand in that peculiarly European way of his.
The smile left his eyes.
"We, too, made a delivery. And now we go back."
"You were with that group outside?"
He nodded. He looked out through the window at them and a troubled look came into his eyes.
"Yes," he said slowly. "We all came together in one plane but we are going back on separate flights.
Three years we worked together but now the job is finished.
Soon I go back to California."
"I hope so," I laughed. "We sure could use you in the plant but I'm afraid it'll be some time yet.
The war in Europe may be over but if Tarawa and Okinawa are any indication, we're good for at least six months to a year before Japan quits."
He didn't answer.
I looked up and suddenly I remembered. These Europeans were very touchy about manners.
"Excuse me, Herr Strassmer," I said quickly. "Won't you join me in some coffee?"
"I have not the time." There was a curiously hesitant look to his eyes. "Do you have an office here as you do everywhere else?"
"Sure," I said, looking up at him. I'd passed the door marked Men on my way over.
"It's in the back of this building."
"I will meet you there in five minutes," he said and hurried out.
Through the window, I watched him join one of the groups and begin to talk with them.
I wondered if the old boy was going crackers.
You couldn't tell, but maybe he had been working too hard and thought he was back in Nazi Germany.
There certainly wasn't any reason for him to be so secretive about being seen talking to me. After all, we were on the same side.
I ground my cigarette into an ash tray and sauntered out.
He never even glanced up as I walked past his group on my way to the john.
He came into the room a moment after I had got there.
His eyes darted nervously toward the booths.
"Are we alone?"
"I think so," I said, looking at him. I wondered what you did to get a doctor around here if there were any signs of his cracking up.
He walked over to the booths, opened the doors and looked.
Satisfied, he turned back to me.
His face was tense and pale and there were small beads of perspiration across his forehead.
I thought I'd begun to recognize the symptoms.
Too much of this Nevada sun is murder if you're not used to it.
His first words convinced me I was right.
"Herr Cord," he whispered hoarsely. "The war will not be over in six months."
"Of course not," I said soothingly.
From what I had heard, the first thing to do was agree with them, try to calm them down.
I wished I could remember the second thing.
I turned to the sink.
"Here, let me get you a glass of- "